Never Sound Retreat

by William R. Forstchen

  "It's Keane, it's Keane!" The cry was repeated over the shouts, screams, yells, the crackling of rifle fire, pistol shots, grunts of pain, and the rising ululation of the Bantag Horde pressing in around them.

  He heard the shriek of a train whistle, the rumbling clang of train wheels nearby, and suddenly he was lifted, other hands reaching out to grab him and an instant later he felt the vibration of the train wheels beneath him as the last car shifted through a switch.

  "I'm all right, damn it!" he roared, and the men holding on to him let go. Wiping his jacket sleeve across his glasses while they were still on, he looked back. Several of his staff, who had been carrying him, were staggering alongside the car.

  More than a hundred men, having jumped off the disabled train, now surged around the back of the last train out of Junction City as it slowly started to pick up speed.

  Andrew went down on his knees, reaching out, grabbing one of his orderlies by the hand, pulling him up. Horrified, he realized that the boy's skin was peeling off as he jerked him on board. Dimly he could see the boy's scalded face and realized that the boy was screaming.

  Rifle fire was erupting on all sides, men running by the side of the train, staggering, dropping, and seconds later disappearing into the dark horde that was in pursuit.

  Andrew, still kneeling, reached back out, grabbing someone by the shoulder. The soldier lost his footing, fell, and Andrew felt as if he was going to slip off the flatcar. Other hands reached out, grabbing the soldier, hoisting him on board . . . and then suddenly there was no longer anyone running alongside.

  A man standing above Andrew grunted, doubled over, and pitched headfirst off the car. Someone else collapsed over Andrew, screaming, his rifle going over the side. Rifle fire was sweeping the car from three directions. Andrew tried to stand up but two men were instantly on top of him, swearing, holding him down, one of them falling silent an instant later, his blood splattering over Andrew's face.

  Clearing the yard and the final switch which turned the train northeast and back toward Port Lincoln, they continued to pick up speed. Several shells shrieked in, one of them exploding directly overhead so that more men on the car went down.

  Rifle fire continued to snap past, faring up again as the train thundered past an advance element of Bantag who had tried to sprint over the hills northeast of town and back down to the track ahead of the train. Finally they were clear, and Andrew regained to his feet.

  Horrified, he looked around. Nearly every man on the flat car was dead or wounded. To his amazement the boy on his staff whom he had pulled on board was by his side, strips of his skin dangling from his hands.

  "Sir, are you all right?" he asked.

  Andrew motioned for him to sit down.

  "You scared the hell out of us, sir. We didn't think we'd get you out."

  "Just be still, son."

  The boy was obviously in shock, and Andrew eased him back down onto the flatcar bed. The boy's face was swelling, his breathing labored.

  "Feels funny inside, sir," he gasped. "Think I breathed in the steam. Feels funny inside."

  "Just lie still."

  For the first time Andrew realized that he had indeed been scalded, his hand ached, the left side of his face swollen and tender.

  The boy started to shake, and Andrew drew him into his grasp, cradled the boy's head against his chest, and held him, crying silently as the boy slipped away into silence . . . and the train continued eastward into the night.

  Ignoring the warnings of his staff that the exploding ammunition made the town dangerous, Ha'ark walked up the main street of the town, guards nervously clustered around him, holding shields aloft to ward off the debris pelting down around them.

  The heat from the fires was intense, and he pulled his cloak about his face to shield himself.

  He had hoped to capture the place intact, it would have supplied his army for days, perhaps even weeks. Now he would be forced to rely on ships making the long run back to Xi'an. Reaching the stalled locomotive he looked around at the slaughter, nodding approvingly. Several hundred dead at least, his warriors already butchering the dead. A few wounded, still alive, were bound together, looking about in terror. Ha'ark approached them.

  "I'll spare the life of any of you that will talk," he said slowly, stumbling over the Rus words.

  One of the humans, who looked to be not much older than a boy, wearing what Ha'ark recognized as a handsomely cut uniform, glared defiance.

  He fixed the young soldier with his gaze and could sense the terror.

  "Did Keane escape?"

  A flicker of a smile showed, and the soldier spit on the ground.

  "He'll have your head on a spike," the soldier snapped. "Of course he got out, but he'll be back. And Schuder will come up from the south, and together they'll finish you."

  Ha'ark shook his head.

  "Tell me about Keane, and I'll spare your life."

  "Go to hell, you son of a bitch," the boy cried, trying to sound brave but his voice nearly breaking in terror.

  Ha'ark turned away, ignoring the screams as his warriors hacked the survivors apart.

  He walked along the side of the train, stopping before the locomotive. Scalded bodies lay alongside the engine, and, stepping over them, he examined the machine. It was an admirable piece of work, obviously far more powerful than his own. The lines of the machine were clean, the brasswork sparkling, such a contrast to the roughly built equipment he had.

  A low, throbbing rumble sounded from the other side of the still-smoking ruins, and walking around the front of the train, he watched as a land cruiser rolled forward. If only the things were faster, he thought, we could have overrun them, cut off all escape.

  And yet, he could not complain. Only one machine had been destroyed in battle. Five more had broken down in the advance, and two were mired in a streambed. He still had nineteen, and in ten days another, twenty-four would be brought from Xi'an.

  That would be the question now. Could supplies and reinforcements be moved in quickly enough to expand their hold at this crucial juncture? His airships would have a base here by the end of tomorrow and then range outward, destroying bridges, landing warriors to keep cutting the telegraph lines. With control of the air, at least we'll be able to keep them blind as to our strength and deployment.

  And Schuder was to the south—the boy had revealed that crucial bit of information. We have most of their army cut off; the drive now was to box them in and annihilate the two wings Keane had so foolishly thrown forward.

  Grinning with delight, he turned back to watch as the town burned.

  Hand stuffed into his pocket, President Kalenka walked out of the war office, head lowered against the cold, driving rain.

  "Kal?"

  He tried to smile as Kathleen approached, umbrella tilted down against the gale, offering him a little protection from the storm.

  "A lot of rumors were sweeping through the hospital; I had to find out."

  "The army's cut off." He sighed, reaching up to clutch the brim of his stovepipe hat as an eddy of wind swept across the plaza. Though it was late, well after midnight, a small crowd of women stood before the doors toGates's Illustrated Weekly.A large chalkboard was displayed in the window, where one of Gates's employees posted the latest news as it came in. The last bulletin, posted at midnight, simply stated that the telegraph lines were still down. A large map of the front hung in another window, with a red line tracing the landing and attack of Ha'ark's army against Junction City. At the sight of Kal walking nearby, the crowd broke away from the newspaper and pushed in around him, shouting for news.

  Kal shook his head.

  "All we know is that there's heavy fighting near Junction City, Fifth Corps was engaged."

  "Is it true the armies are cut off now?" someone cried.

  Kal stood silent for a moment, then finally nodded.

  "Neighbors, there's nothing you can do standing here in the rain. Please go home where you'll be safe and pra
y for our boys. I can assure you, we'll get them out."

  "Your son-in-law got out, though," an angry woman shouted. "You made sure of that."

  Kal turned slowly to face his accuser, a towering woman who stood defiant, arms folded across her chest.

  Kal walked up to her and took off his hat.

  "I have three boys with Schuder, lost two in the last war," she snapped. "But it seems yours are taken care of."

  "Madam," he began softly, "my son-in-law was ordered out by Keane. I had nothing to do with that."

  He nodded to where Kathleen stood. "Her husband ordered him out while he stayed behind with his men."

  "I don't even know why the hell we're fighting now," came the bitter reply. "It's on the other side of the world. Those heathen said they'd leave us alone if we stayed away. Why are you sending our boys out to die like this? Haven't we paid enough already?"

  A murmur of agreement echoed in the crowd.

  "Because if we don't fight them there," Kathleen interrupted, "it will be here yet again. Do you want Suzdal once again to be a battlefield?"

  "All I know is my boys are lost. I don't give a damn about those Nippon people, or anyone else. I just want my boys back. Ain't that what that Bantag Qarth said, that if we left them alone, they'd leave us alone?" As she blurted out the last words, her voice started to break.

  Kathleen reached out to put a consoling hand on the woman's shoulder, but the woman stepped back, shaking off the gentle touch.

  "End this damn war. Just bring our boys home and end it."

  There was a murmur of assent from the crowd.

  "It wouldn't stop with that," Kal tried to reason. "Friends, we already argued that in Congress and realized it won't stop. This Bantag devil will come for us all if we don't fight him out on the border. It's fight him there, or on our doorsteps; there is no other choice."

  "Let the Roum fight them, then. We protectedthem twice; let them do it now and keep our boys here."

  The woman turned and faced Kathleen. "Ever since you folks came, there's been nothing but war. If you'd kept your noses out of our business, we would have lost far less, and the Tugar devils and the others would be gone now."

  The crowd fell silent at her words. Stunned, Kathleen was unable to reply.

  Kal stood silent in the driving rain, hat in hand, looking up at the angry woman.

  "I'll pray for your boys tonight," he said softly. "It's late, let's go home."

  He put his hat back on and, turning, left the crowd, which broke into loud arguments among themselves.

  Kathleen fell in by his side.

  Kal looked at her.

  "Are you all right?"

  "In a way she's right, you know." Kathleen sighed.

  "More than half your people have died in the wars.

  It would have been one in ten if there had been no rebellion."

  Kal angrily shook his head. "Would you choose slavery and the Pit rather than our freedom?" "Such a cost, though,"Kathleen whispered. He could see the weary look of exhaustion in her eyes. The first of the serious casualties from the front had arrived this morning by hospital train, and she had been working on them all day.

  "There's an old saying Andrew taught me," Kal offered. "Victory has a thousand fathers, while defeat is always an orphan."

  "Have we been defeated?"

  He said nothing, silently crossing himself as he walked in front of the cathedral. Pausing, he turned and walked up the steps of the church and, taking off his hat, stepped inside, Kathleen following.

  The midnight service was in progress, Metropolitan Casmar leading the service. Crossing herself and genuflecting to the altar, Kathleen stepped to the back wall, standing by Kal's side.

  She looked over at him, unable to voice her fears. Her years with Andrew had taught her much about what some called the art of war. On many an evening she would join Andrew in his upstairs office and he would ramble out his thoughts, his plans, his fears— the elaborate game of move and countermove. She could even remember his consideration of this prospect, of Ha'ark breaking the blockade and trying to land behind one of the two armies on the eastern or southern front, but he had never seriously considered a loss of control of the sea, let alone an outright seizure of the main junction linking both fronts to the west.

  Hans had repeatedly warned of that, to expect the unexpected, and now it had come to pass.

  She knew the question was who could bring the most force to bear on that point. If Ha'ark could dig in and stay supplied, the two armies would be worn down in bloody frontal assaults. Finally out of ammunition and rations, they would be destroyed. Then nothing could stop Ha'ark from a straight-on advance to Roum . . . and from there to Suzdal and the ending of the dream.

  "You know," Kal whispered, "I was approached by several senators this evening. They asked that I consider an envoy to Ha'ark. Let our armies go, and we'll pull back to Roum and concede the rest."

  "Merciful God in heaven," Kathleen hissed, and then remembered where she was and quickly crossed herself. “Are they mad?”

  "It was one thing to fight it out here, on our doorstep, as you said. Most of the people who look at that map in Gates's window don't even understand what it is they are looking at, it's nothing but mean ingless lines and scribbles. All they see are trains disappearing east into the unknown."

  "And you?" Kathleen asked.

  Kal lowered his head. "There are times I wonder."

  "Damn it all, Kal," Kathleen snapped angrily, "I can't believe that four short months ago people were screaming for war after Hans came back, and now this? From the beginning we knew the wars were for all or nothing, that there was no compromise."

  "We finally made an arrangement with the Tugars; they have forsaken their old ways, and are gone."

  "After we defeated them. There is no other choice."

  "How many boys died in your hospital today? How many amputations have you performed?"

  She looked at him coldly, and he lowered his gaze, remembering that she had once performed an amputation on him, and saved his life.

  "Andrew went back into the trap not to be a hero and die. He went back to get his comrades out, and he expects you to do everything possible to help get them out. He would rather die than surrender to Ha'ark."

  "How many will die, though?"

  "Perhaps all of us," Kathleen snapped, "and I'll poison my own children before I allow them to be slaves the way you once were."

  Suddenly ashamed, she looked up to realize that she had almost shouted the last words, interrupting the service. Casmar stood at the altar, looking at her, the congregation silent.

  He turned back to the altar, finishing the closing prayers, Kathleen lowering her head in prayer as well. As the service finished Casmar turned away from the altar and stepped down to face the congregation, holding his hands up, motioning for them to stay.

  "A final prayer, my friends," he announced, and those heading to the door stopped.

  "A prayer for victory, for there is no substitute for that in this world. This war might rage for years, and we must face that now and make the sacrifices necessary, even our own lives, for to do otherwise means death for our children."

  There was a stirring in the group, some looking back again at Kal and Kathleen.

  "And another thing. This shall be my last service here, for tomorrow I shall go up to where the fighting is and, if need be, carry a rifle with the boys who tight. I have hidden behind my robes too long. Our friend, our liberator, Andrew Keane is trapped behind enemy lines, and I shall not rest until he and all our boys who are with him are safe."

  Making the sign of blessing, he lowered his head, returned to the altar, and went down on his knees.

  Stunned, Kathleen passed through the congregation as it headed toward the door, Kal following her. Though she knew it was forbidden, she stepped up to the altar anyhow, and placed her hand on Casmar's shoulder. He looked up at her, startled, then smiled.

  "Thank you," she whispered.


  "I've heard the talk," he said, coming to his feet. "It is the least I can do."

  His gaze shifted to Kal.

  "I have never made a political suggestion before but I feel compelled to do so now."

  "And that is?"

  "It would be uncivilized to send back the heads of the Chin ambassadors, they are but trapped in this as well. But tomorrow morning, when the marketplace is filled with people, I would make quite a show of escorting them down to the first train heading east, blindfolded, humiliated, making it very clear"—he paused, looked at the altar, and smiled— "making it very clear they can go to hell."

  Kal laughed softly.

  "That certainly is a piece of advice."

  "You need a little bracing, my friend. You cannot go to the front, though I know you want to. I can! Perhaps it might embarrass some of our fat senators who've been crying peace to go as well."

  "If you got hurt though, or killed, Your Holiness."

  Casmar smiled. "I think the robes of a martyr in a holy war might fit me rather well. You can hire that young Rublev to do a painting of me. I think I'd rather enjoy that."

  "Casmar, you're getting a little old for this," Kal chided.

  "No older than Hans Schuder. Now you two go and get some rest, I have a little packing to do."

  Blessing the two of them, he retreated into the sacristy.

  Kathleen genuflected to the altar and left the church. There was still a crowd gathered outside, some on the far side of the square, waiting for a new report from Gates's, others by the church as word spread of Casmar's announcement. Several women came forward, nodding their respect to Kathleen and

  Kal, saying they were praying for Andrew. She could only nod as she took Kal by the arm and headed across the square, not even bothering to put her umbrella up. The rain was cold, refreshing, hiding her tears.

  "So we're in a fix here," Hans said, pointing to the map spread out on the lowered back gate of an artillery forge wagon. His three corps commanders and six of his nine division commanders were gathered around. He looked at each of them in turn, Bates of Second Corps and Watley of the Seventh were both Thirty-fifth Maine men, while Flavius of the Eighth was from Roum. His division commanders were a mix from the old Union Army, Rus and Roum as well. Ketswana, his comrade from the prison and escape, stood by his side, listening carefully.