Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  "And?"

  "It's a diversion."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "Logistics, Andrew. Before they cut off Nippon we knew that if they were working on a rail line at all in that direction, it was at least two hundred miles back from what would be the front. When I was a prisoner we were making rails in the factories and they had to be going someplace, since the line to Xi'an was completed, so I figured it was for a northern track. But even if they were up to laying a mile of track a day, they'd still be two hundred or more miles short of what has started as the front line. If they did attack that way, they'd face the same problem the Tugars and Merki faced when they hit us from the west, and that was funneling everything they had through one road in the forest while all the time we were falling back on our base of supplies."

  "But it's the only way to get at us," Hawthorne interjected, "at least as long as we control the sea. The force coming up between the two oceans is even farther from supplies. As long as we blockade Xi'an and patrol farther south, there's no way they'll get supplies out to either front."

  "But will we?" Hans asked. "We know they were building ships, and we've been blind for two weeks now. So there's no telling what they've marshaled at Xi'an."

  Andrew could sense the slightest tone of accusation in Hans's voice. Ever since Hans was rescued he had been pressing for a cutting-out raid back on Xi'an, volunteering to lead it himself in order to destroy the construction yards and ships anchored there. Of course the idea was suicidal, throwing an ill-trained force eighty miles up a river into what was a fortified camp of the enemy. There simply weren't enough ships or trained men to do the job. Bullfinch had successfully pressed for the creation of a marine division, but it'd be a year before such a unit was ready for action.

  "So you think there'll be a second blow then?" Andrew replied.

  Andrew half listened as Hans and Vincent launched into a debate and looked back again at the map, though after studying it for so many long months it was etched into his memory.

  Andrew finally turned to look back at Hans.

  "I want you down on the southern front by tomorrow," Andrew said.

  "I thought Marcus would be in charge there?"

  Andrew nodded. "I've changed my mind. The assignment was made before we got you back. I want experience. Marcus is damn good on a straight defense, but we might need some flexible thinking there if what you're worried about comes to pass."

  "He might be upset with this, sir," Vincent announced. "Most of the units down there are Roum."

  "He's a soldier," Andrew said, "and a damn good one at that. He'll understand, and besides, Tenth Corps is in reserve in Roum. I'll want him to supervise bringing them up if things get hot."

  Hans grinned.

  "You seem happy about this, Hans."

  "I want Ha'ark, and I half suspect that's where he'll turn up."

  Ha'ark the Redeemer stirred in his sleep and sat up. Strange, the image was so clear. Again it was

  Schuder walking in his dreams, but this time it was as if Schuder was seeking him out rather than the other way around. Good, if that was what the human wanted, he would provide for it.

  Standing, he stretched and stepped out into the moonlight. The guards who flanked his yurt were instantly alert, weapons snapping into place, and he saw his staff, who had been up through the night overseeing the deployment, waiting expectantly, ready to dash off and fulfill his slightest whim. He motioned for them to be still, to leave him alone, and he walked off toward the low rise of ground that looked out over the sea.

  A gentle cooling breeze was blowing down from the north, the first harbinger of the autumn. How he loathed this climate, missing the bracing snow-laden air of home. Perhaps when this war was done he would move his capital northward into what had once been the Tugar realms, thus escaping the hot desert winds and dank tropical forests of the south.

  A strange ocean this, he thought, no salt, the birds different, no crashing surf. Several miles out he could see the line of Yankee ships riding at anchor for the night, silhouetted by the light of the twin moons, not having moved since sunset. Perfect.

  To his left, coming down into the bay, yet still invisible to the ships at sea, was the vanguard of his flotilla. Already the first of his surprises should be moving into position, ready to strike just before the first light of dawn. One of his staff approached and stood respectfully to one side.

  "What is it?"

  "My Qar Qarth. You ordered me to awake you when the signal was received that the first attack ships had deployed."

  Ha'ark looked down again toward the sea and saw a bobbing flicker of light flashing on and off.

  "My Qar Qarth, the pilot boat is reporting they are in position."

  "Fine, you did your job. Now fetch me something warm to drink."

  The officer bowed and disappeared back into the night, to return a moment later with a heavy mug of steaming tea. Ha'ark sipped at it, accepting as well a cold joint of meat. In the moments since he had awakened he could sense a rising of the light. Those gathered around the smoldering fire by his tent were now visible as shadows. The eastern horizon was beginning to discolor into a deep indigo purple. Directly overhead the Wheel was no longer a sparkling brilliance, its light fading.

  Ha'ark turned to look down at the harbor. The beetlelike ships were slowly moving toward the outer bar. He knew that though he could clearly see them from his position, the Yankee ships would not be able to see their smoke rising above the spit of land enclosing the bay, but in another few minutes the light would increase enough to make them visible. The deployment was slow. All his ironclads should have been past the bar, but it was too late for that. If he delayed any longer, the first surprise would be lost.

  "Signal the attack," Ha'ark announced.

  Chapter Four

  "Sir, there's a light flickering up on the bluffs."

  Admiral Oliver Bullfinch nodded.

  "Already seen it, ensign."

  "Think it means something, sir?"

  Bullfinch did not reply. The ensign should know better than to ask a question of an admiral, but he could not bring himself to come down too hard on the boy, for only half a dozen years ago he had been an ensign himself.

  The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten. In a few more minutes it would be time to order the pick-etboat in for a closer look at the harbor on the other side of the bluff. This was always the most worrisome moment of their watch. If a sally was coming out, it would be now, the enemy ships moving down into the bay during the night. Beyond that the bastards might have run some of their galleys out under cover of darkness to lay a few torpedoes or even attempt a boarding raid.

  Bullfinch turned his attention to the lookout, who was posted on the catwalk which spanned between the twin smokestacks aft.

  "Any sign of airships?"

  "No, sir, nothing yet."

  That, at least was a relief. A wooden picketboat had been lost to them shortly after Hans was rescued, and two more damaged. The airship gunners were already up on the deck, manning the light two-pounder breechloaders which were used to keep the airships away, and as he paced the top of Petersburg's gun housing he nodded to the men who had been silhouetted by moonlight only minutes before but were now becoming visible in the pale light of early dawn.

  He returned his attention to the light up on the bluff. It was still winking on and off in a rhythmic pattern, obviously a signal, but to what?

  Down below on the gundeck he could hear the ringing of the bell signaling the end of the midnight-to-dawn watch. In a few minutes the ship would come to life, boiler pressure brought up again, gun ports thrown open to air the ship, breakfast served, then a cautious run into the edge of the enemy torpedo field for another long tedious day of waiting and hoping that something, anything, would happen to break the boredom. There were times when he actually envied Pat, Vincent, and the others for the excitement they were most likely enjoying. Everyone talked of the Battle of Hispania, but few noted
his own campaign in support of the Cartha when they rebelled against the Merki and then held back a foray by the Bantag. Without that action, the victory at Hispania might very well have been a hollow one. Except for the rescue of Hans, he had seen no action since, only endless months of patrolling.

  He walked over to the ensign. In a few more minutes it would be time to signal the other five ironclads of the fleet to start moving back in closer to shore. The ensign's back was turned, and as Bullfinch approached, the boy looked over at him and pointed off toward the starboard bow.

  "Sir, what is that?"

  Bullfinch looked to where the boy was pointing but saw nothing.

  "There, sir. Looks like a log; there's some water breaking around it."

  "I still don't see it."

  Though he would not admit it, he feared that the vision in his remaining eye was starting to slip a bit. Maybe it was time to go to Emil and see about glasses, though he hoped that wouldn't be necessary. Glasses would certainly ruin the dashing look that his black eye patch created and which made him easily recognizable to the fine young ladies when he was in port. Having to wear a monocle would certainly ruin the effect.

  "There's something out there, sir, I'm convinced of it."

  The ensign started down the length of the upper deck, still pointing to starboard, and Bullfinch followed. One of the antiairship gunners was now pointing as well. Bullfinch stopped, straining to look, and at that instant a flash of light burst across the ocean.

  Startled, he turned to his right as a boiling cloud of fire erupted from the ironclad Constellation. Stunned, Bullfinch watched as the fireball expanded and a deep, rolling thunderclap washed over him. The light began to subside, and Bullfinch heard the ensign shouting, grabbing hold of his sleeve, still pointing.

  Time seemed to distort and move in slow motion. He was still mesmerized by the sight of the ironclad blowing up, wondering if it had been an infernal machine that the Bantag had laid during the night to drift into his line. He shifted his gaze back to where the ensign was pointing. There was something out there. At first glance, in the dying light of the exploding ironclad, it looked like a pole or log jutting out of the water, a thin rippling wave washing out to either side. It was moving, but moving against the breeze, coming straight at them.

  A second explosion ripped through the Constellation,this one even more violent than the first. . . The magazine was going, Bullfinch realized. The flash of the explosion illuminated the ocean, and he could see that the pole was still coming toward them . . . and was mounted on top of a dark round object which just barely jutted out of the water.

  The Hunley. It was like the Confederate submersible ship Hunley.He spared a quick glance back at the Constellation—the second explosion had broken the back of the ironclad, bow and stern rising out of the water, the sound of the explosion washing over him. Debris was raining down, shells from the magazine detonating in the air.

  Bullfinch realized that only a score of seconds had transpired since the ensign had first pointed out the strange object, and already it had drawn twenty, perhaps thirty yards closer.

  "Beat to quarters!" Bullfinch roared as he turned and raced toward the bridge. "Ensign, get a crew forward, cut the anchor!"

  The deck was still illuminated by the explosions wracking the dying ship as another light flared up. Sickened, Bullfinch saw that one of his wooden picketboats was exploding. How many of the damn things did the bastards have?

  Scrambling up the ladder to the exposed flying bridge, he shouted for the helmsman to signal the engine room for full speed astern. His executive officer came up out of the hatchway from below, shirtless and barefoot.

  "Get the guns cleared below and order the antiair-ship gunners starboard to start shooting at that submersible!"

  "What, sir?"

  "The pole, that pole out there!" Bullfinch roared. "It's a periscope for an underwater ship. They're hitting our fleet with them!"

  "Sir!"

  Bullfinch looked up to the lookout, perched twenty feet above him.

  "I think I see puffs of smoke from behind the bluff, looks like it might be from ships coming out."

  Bullfinch spared a quick glance to shore but could see nothing, his vision still dazzled from the explosions wracking Constellation and the picketboat.

  The first of the antiairship guns opened up, and Bullfinch, who had momentarily lost sight of the periscope, saw where the geyser from the shell kicked up. The shot had missed it by a dozen yards. The target was so damn small, he realized, a thin pole maybe half a foot across and ten feet high, and then what looked to be a small rounded dome maybe three feet across and only a foot or so out of the water. It most likely had a spar torpedo mounted on a pole twenty or more feet forward. A minute, maybe a minute and a half, Bullfinch realized, his stomach knotting with fear.

  The other three antiairship guns on the starboard side fired, plumes of spray erupting to either side of the submersible, but it continued to bore straight in. The deck lurched beneath his feet as the anchor line parted. A speaking tube whistled next to him, and he uncorked it.

  "Engine room here. Don't have much steam up but getting under way now, sir!"

  "Hurry, damn it, give it everything you've got, engines full astern."

  Bullfinch looked back at the periscope. Maybe eighty yards.

  "Helm hard aport!"

  "Helm hard aport it is, sir."

  He could feel the first shuddering bite of the paddle wheel as it slowly started to turn, the steam pressure barely enough to gain purchase against the weight of the wheel and the resistance of the water. Petersburg ever so slowly started to back up. On the gun deck below he could hear shouted commands as gun hatches were flung open and crews strained to run their pieces out, but he knew with a grim certainty that they could never bring their guns to bear in time.

  The first gunner to fire on the topside antiairship gun had finished reloading, his assistant slamming the breechblock shut and stepping back. The gunner sighted down the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The gun kicked back on its friction slider, the water erupting just forward of the periscope.

  It was now less than fifty yards away, and Bullfinch realized that given the probable length of the submersible and the spar torpedo, the weapon was most likely less than thirty yards away.

  The helm was beginning to answer, Petersburg drawing away from the enemy, but the submersible was still gaining.

  The other three guns fired again, one of the rounds detonating halfway up the side of the periscope. A triumphal shout went up from the crew, and for an instant Bullfinch thought they were saved, but then saw that it was still continuing to bore in. It was down to twenty yards, then ten ... he felt a faint jarring blow.

  Time seemed to stretch into an eternity. Did the weapon have a percussion head, or was it fired from inside the submersible by a trigger? He waited, holding his breath, and as Petersburg continued to back up, he could almost sense the damn thing banging against the side of his ship . . . but still nothing happened.

  Ever so slowly the submersible seemed to rise out of the water, and Bullfinch could see that a hole had been drilled in the vessel. The shot he thought had struck too far forward had, in fact, punched clean through into the hull.

  The ship, which Bullfinch thought looked to be nothing more than a boiler with the ends covered over, rose lazily, wallowing on its port side. A hatch just aft of the periscope mount popped open and a Bantag tried to scramble out. One of the antiairship guns fired, nearly tearing him in half. The submersible slipped back beneath the water and disappeared.

  Amazed that they had survived, Bullfinch started to turn to his exec, ready to express relief, when another flash of light flared up. Sickened, he watched as Saint Gregory,a heavy monitor and the newest addition to his fleet, exploded.

  He turned away with head lowered. He had allowed the enemy to catch him by surprise. Ferguson had talked about submersibles, and was even testing one, but never had he thought that the Bantag would
have leapt ahead of them with such a thing.

  "I can see them now!" the lookout cried. "Sir, the first ship, it's a damn big thing. Looks like a monitor! Also see three, make that four airships coming up from the east, southeast."

  Bullfinch turned to his executive officer.

  "Petronius. Get a boat crew. I want you to get over to the picketboat"—he hesitated for an instant, scanning to see which of his light wooden ships was closest—"Defiant. Then you are to get the hell out of here at best possible speed and make for Port Lincoln. You are to report everything you see here. Now get going!"

  The exec hesitated.

  "Damn it, Petronius. We're going into a hell of a fight, and I've already lost a third of my ironclads. I want someone to get out with a warning now, before it's too late."

  He turned back to look at his bridge crew.

  "Signal the fleet," Bullfinch announced. "Form on the flagship, we're going in."

  Chomping on the butt of a cigar, Pat O'Donald wondered if this was how Grant felt during the Battle of the Wilderness. That had been one fight the Forty-fourth New York had sat out, for there was simply nothing to shoot at in the dense forest. Deployed to the rear at the burned-out ruins of the Chancellor House, he had spent the battle with a precious bottle of rye watching the smoke rise out of the tangled jungle where 150,000 infantry fought it out.

  It was the same now, artillery deployed to the rear, his infantry spread out in an arc, right flank on the sea, left flank curving back through five miles of forest anchoring his left on a broad stretch of bogs and swamp. It had been going on since dawn, and so far the bastards on the other side had been getting the worst of it, charging against well-dug-in troops.

  If this is the way the Horde wanted to fight its war then so be it. He estimated they were trading casualties at four, even five to one. At this rate, by the time they fell back to the Shenandoah, there wouldn't be a Bantag left standing.

  Looking up he saw an enemy airship circling several thousand feet above. Damn, if only we had a few of those, I'd know what was really going on behind their lines, he thought with bitter frustration. There was still no telling just how strong this punch was. Were there forty or more umens backed up into the steppe, or was this the ploy that Hans kept insisting it was?