Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  The air fleet pressed forward, spreading out.

  “Damn! They are not concentrating!” Hanaga cried, looking over at his signals officer. “Can’t you order them to concentrate on the flagship!”

  “My lord, in all this confusion, they’ll never see the signal flags!”

  “Try, damn it, try!”

  Ignoring the danger, he stepped out of the aft hatch of the cupola and came around to the forward bridge. Part of the railing was gone, scorched black, and he noticed a greasy smear, what appeared to be the charred remnant of a leg that had slammed into the side of the cupola and lay broken and flattened on the deck.

  - The aerosteamers continued forward and then, to his stunned disbelief, the first airship dropped its bomb a good mile short of the enemy fleet. It pulled up sharply and banked away. One after another the aerosteamers unloaded. Forming up after their leader, the airships started to climb, moving clear of the battle.

  Only a handful of the airships pressed in, and all of them were torn apart by the firepower of the Red fleet’s steam machine guns.

  Hanaga stood silent, glasses trained on the lead airship. He thought he could almost see the pilot, the master of his air fleet, and wondered if he was laughing.

  “Your brother most likely got to him,” Hazin sighed. “I tried to warn you about that.”

  “Masterful,” Hanaga whispered. “He must have reached him moons ago. A plan within a plan.”

  “You would have done the same.”

  Hanaga nodded, and then, letting his glasses drop, he slammed a fist against the side of the cupola. “But those were my airships!” he cried. “I’ll have the air master’s head on a spike for this!”

  “If we survive,” Hazin whispered. “My lord, we are already outnumbered by the Red fleet alone. The air strike was your main hope. That is finished.”

  Hanaga waved him to silence. If they had turned traitor, why not bomb his own ships? That was curious. Most likely the air master could not get the pilots to agree to a full betrayal and instead simply went for neutrality. Damn them all.

  “Signals officer. Order all battle cruisers to turn straight into the enemy line!”

  He looked back toward the armored cupola. The officer stood within, wide eyed. All had seen the betrayal of the air fleet and, with it, the dashing of their hopes for this day. With Asaga gone, the odds were now three to two against them, and on the distant horizon to the southeast the dark smudge of smoke, marking the advance of Sar’s fleet, was spreading out. Most likely the fleet was already in view from the upper gunnery control tower.

  The officer still hesitated.

  “Do it!” Hanaga roared.

  The terrified face of the signals officer disappeared. Seconds later, a small top hatch on the cupola opened and the flags raced up on a halyard, catching the breeze, snapping out as they reached the base of the gunnery tower a hundred feet above the bridge.

  A heavy shell came screaming in, the wind of it nearly knocking Hanaga over. It slammed into the water barely a hundred yards off the starboard rail. The shock of the explosion washed over him. He ignored it, his glasses trained on the enemy battle line.

  The helm, responding to his command, sent the eighteen thousand tons of ship into a sharp, graceful turn, water slicing up from the bow, deck heeling over. As they straightened out, the forward turrets fired, the smoke temporarily blinding him.

  Yellow gray clouds whipped past, and looking to port, he saw that all but one of his surviving battle cruisers had followed orders and were turning straight into the enemy fleet.

  The maneuver had cut his effective strength nearly in half for now only the forward and middle turrets could bear on a target, while his enemy’s stem turrets could continue to fire. The maneuver had, at least for the moment, thrown their aim off, for the next salvo of shells arced high overhead, crashing down a half mile astern, and hitting where the fleet would have been if they had continued on their parallel course.

  The battle of the light cruisers was almost directly ahead. The ships were slashing at one another at ranges of less than a thousand yards. A Red fleet cruiser disappeared in a monumental explosion. One of Hanaga’s frigates rammed another, blowing off the ship’s stem. The frigate actually survived the blow, backing off, its secondary bow intact.

  A high shriek came roaring down from above.

  Hanaga flung himself to the deck. The shell struck the flagship just aft of the bridge, detonating on top of the portside, a midships turret, blowing it apart. A shower of debris and choking black smoke blew forward. The only thing that saved his life was the heavy bulk of the cupola between him and the explosion.

  He felt something hard slamming against the inside of the cupola.

  He staggered to his feet and looked inside it. Wisps of Smoke coiled out of the view ports and then cleared. He felt a shiver of fear. A fragment from the explosion must have cut through the narrow access porthole aft—either that or up through the deck below. The red-hot metal then slashed around inside like a pebble tossed back and forth inside a shaken bottle. Everyone inside was smashed to a bloody pulp.

  Another shell arced in, detonating just aft of the stern. The force of the blow raised the back end of the ship, then slapped it down. He sensed immediately that something was wrong, most likely a propeller torn off by the force of the blow or a drive shaft bent.

  “My lord, we’ve lost the fighting bridge!” Hazin shouted, trying to be heard above the explosions, firing guns and steam venting from a broken line with the shrill roar of an undead spirit.

  Hanaga nodded, still in shock from the force of the blow and the carnage that had been wrought where he had been standing only seconds before.

  “The ship will have to be steered from the engine room!”

  Hanaga still could not reply. His forward guns fired again, and, looking up, he saw that the enemy fleet was frightfully close, now less than a league away. Gunners were lowering their barrels. Soon they would be firing over open sights, and nearly every shot would tell.

  The enemy fleet was holding its line, not breaking off to run. They were accepting the challenge of the suicidal charge.

  “Your orders, sire?” Hazin cried.

  Another shell screamed in, and he ducked low, flinching as the bolt struck the bow deck. But it hit at such a low angle that its percussion head failed to strike. He saw the massive bolt skid up off the deck and go tearing out across the ocean, tumbling end over end, disappearing into the smoke.

  For twenty years I struggled to reach this moment, he thought. How many of my kin have I slain, how many assassinations, how many knives in the back and feasting cups of poison? How many treaties made to be broken, how many hundreds of thousands dead? All for the power of the Golden Throne, holding it against so many of my kin, my own brothers, till only Yasim was left to challenge me. Yasim, of all of them the weakest in moral strength, but also the most cunning. He held back until I had eliminated nearly every other rival, and then he struck.

  In a mere glimmer of a moment all had changed. The dreams of dawn were now sinking like the bloodred sun into a bloodred sea.

  And my brother will win this day. Damn his soul, he will win.

  Hanaga looked back to the southeast. Or will it be Sar, the bastard? He had to smile. Damn, in a way we are all bastards. It does not matter if our fathers took the vow of mating or not. We exist to kill or be killed, to seek the power of the throne of the Kazan Empire and, once there, to slaughter any who might dream to replace us. Birth blood is but an excuse to reach for it. All that mattered in the end was seizing the power and holding it.

  Another shell screamed in, this one striking astern, the force of the blow lifting the deck beneath his feet then slamming it down. He raised his glasses and focused it on his brother’s flagship.

  No strikes yet. Then he saw what appeared to be a hit, bits of deck soaring up…but no explosion. Why no explosion?

  We should have made a dozen hits by now. He saw one fire on an enemy battle cru
iser, and that was all.

  Why no explosions? Half their ships should be aflame or sinking by now. I have some of the best gunners in the Empire.

  “Should we signal the fleet to break off?” Hazin asked.

  Hanaga looked around. All was confusion. Several of his battle cruisers were still pressing straight in. One of them was on fire from halfway behind the bridge all the way astern, but its forward guns were still firing.

  A brilliant flash of light erupted from the enemy line. A light cruiser exploded, tearing apart from stem to stern, magazines blowing, but the ships of the main van, all of them were still in action. A feeble cheer went up from the topside gunners of his own ship. Their cries were soon drowned out as another shell tore in.

  An officer came up and saluted. “Sire, thank Tenga you are alive. Assistant gunner Sutana sent me to find you. He claims that none of our shells are exploding.”

  - “I know that. I have eyes, damn it.”

  “Sire. Assistant gunner Sutana begs to report that he ordered a shell fuse to be opened, and he discovered that the primer was bent.”

  “What?”

  The officer lowered his head. “Sire, the primer for the shell was bent so that it would not strike the detonator on impact.”

  Hanaga looked at him, unable to speak.

  More shells thundered in, a number of them the sharp, whining cracks of the enemy fleet’s secondary batteries. One of them struck the gunnery control tower, and, with a rending crash, the tower tottered and fell to starboard. The shrieks of its crew were cut short as the tower crashed onto the deck astern, piling in with all the other battle wreckage.

  “Tell Sutana to install new fuses on all shells as they are brought up from the magazine.”

  “Sire, that will delay firing.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? Are you suggesting we fire shells that don’t explode instead?”

  “No, my lord.”

  The officer quickly withdrew, obviously terrified.

  An enemy frigate emerged from its confusing battle, which had drifted astern, but was now catching up again with the main fleets. The frigates drove straight at the flagship. The secondary guns below deck trained on this new threat. Topside machine gunners opened up, tracers snaking out across the water, aiming for the bridge.

  Hanaga stood silent, oblivious to the slaughter.

  Hazin drew close to his side. “Sire, abandon ship.”

  “What?”

  “Sire, we have been betrayed,” Hazin said forcefully, looking straight into Hanaga’s eyes.

  “Yes, betrayed.”

  Without waiting for comment, Hazin stepped over to the starboard railing, leaned over and, drawing a red pennant from beneath his tunic, he started to wave it at a frigate that had swung out of the main battle and was now running parallel and slightly astern of the flagship. Within seconds the frigate started to speed up and draw closer.

  Hanaga, barely noticing Hazin’s activities, stood silent. Always he had mastered the crisis of the moment, but this was beyond mastery. He had fallen into an elaborate trap. He finally looked over at Hazin, ready to give the order to have his heart cut out, but saw that the executioner he would have assigned was dead, his head blown off.

  Another shell detonated astern. He could feel its blast ripping below deck, screams echoing up through the ventilation shafts, followed by bursts of steam.

  Guns on both sides were fully depressed, shots angled so low that shells, when striking the water, skipped back up and screamed on. He caught a glimpse of one of his battle cruisers steaming between two of the enemy ships, all guns firing, and then it disappeared again behind the veil of smoke.

  The frigate coming in on the starboard side reversed its engines, slowing to match the speed of the dying flagship.

  Hazin was again by his side. “Follow me, my lord. Staying here now is suicide. You have to rebuild. There is still the army ashore, which can hold for weeks if need be. And remember, my Shiv will be landing on the opposite side of the island. We can hold, then negotiate with Sar or your brother later. Staying here, you die.”

  Hanaga could feel the listing of the ship beneath his feet. It was taking on water astern.

  No one was on the bridge other than he and Hazin. A forward hatch popped open, and sailors poured out, some of them horribly scalded, fur and flesh peeling off.

  He looked back again at Hazin. “I was betrayed.”

  “We have been betrayed, sire,” Hazin replied sharply. “Now, in the name of Tenga, come with me while there is still time. I can save you!”

  As he spoke, he pointed at the frigate alongside, barely a dozen feet separating the two ships. A line snaked out from the frigate, and Hazin grabbed it, securing it to the railing.

  “Sire!”

  A couple of crew members of the frigate had hold of the other end of the rope and were shouting for them to come down.

  “There will always be a tomorrow, Hanaga,” the priest said calmly. “Your legend must be rebuilt. The struggle must go on. Sar and your brother will have their reckoning, and you must position yourself to pick up the pieces afterward. Today is but a moment.”

  Even as he spoke, the priest grabbed hold of the rope and swung himself over the side. Hand over hand he went down the rope, alighting on the deck, then motioned for Hanaga to follow.

  Hanaga hesitated, but then went over the side, slipping down, burning his hands. Even as he reached the deck, the frigate turned off sharply and started to race away.

  Hanaga, stunned, looked back at his once proud flagship, victor of a dozen actions, listing heavily, explosions tearing it apart.

  Hazin put a comforting hand on Hanaga’s shoulder. “Sire, let’s retire to the captain’s cabin. You need a drink.”

  Hanaga nodded, humiliated that he had abandoned his ship, leaving loyal sailors and comrades there to die. He tried to justify it as an action any emperor would take, and yet still it cut into his soul.

  Hazin pointed at the hatchway leading into the captain’s cabin.

  “You go after me. It would seem unfitting for me to go first.”

  Hanaga nodded and stepped through.

  And there, on the other side, he saw half a dozen of the Order.

  There was a momentary flash of recognition, a realization of how all the pieces of this moment, laid out across years, had finally come to this.

  The blow from behind staggered him, propelled him forward into the cabin. He gasped, clumsily reaching toward his back, feeling Hazin’s dagger in it.

  Then those of the Order closed in to finish the ritual.

  “I trusted you once,” he gasped, looking at Hazin, friend of his youth, Second Master of the Order.

  “And that, sire, was always your mistake,” Hazin sighed, an almost wistful note in his voice.

  The blows came, one after another, daggers cutting deep, driving in.

  He no longer resisted. Weariness with life, with all its treachery, forced him to yield.

  Hazin pulled the dagger from Hanaga’s back, held it as if testing the balance, and looked down at the dying emperor.

  “The Empire,” Hanaga gasped.

  Hazin smiled. It was the last thing Emperor Hanaga of the Kazan saw—someone he had once called friend knelt down to finish the job.

  TWO

  “Sir, what the hell is it?”

  Lieutenant Richard Cromwell scrambled up through the lubber hole and out onto the fighting foretop. Squatting next to the lookout, he raised his glasses.

  The fog, which had rolled in at nightfall, was breaking up. Occasional stars and one of the two moons winked through the overcast. But that was not what interested him. It was the glow on the horizon, a dull red light that flared, waned, and flared again. Occasional flashes, like heat lightning on a summer’s night, snapped around the edge of the burning glow.

  Just before sunset the lookouts had reported a smudge of smoke on the horizon. They had taken a bearing and sailed toward it throughout the night. Now at last t
hey had something.

  “When did you first notice this?” Richard asked.

  “Just a couple of minutes ago, sir. I called you as soon as I was certain it was not my eyes playing tricks,” the lookout, a young Rus sailor, replied slowing, stumbling over his English.

  Richard nodded. The glow of one of the rising moons had more than once tricked an old hand into thinking something was out there.

  There was another flash, this one a brilliant white flare that reflected off the low-hanging clouds.

  “Good work, Vasiliy. I think I better wake the captain.”

  Richard stood, a bit unsteady. The rising seas, which had been blowing up since late afternoon, had finally laid him low. Coming up to the foretop, where the roll of the ship was accentuated, made it infinitely worse. Only a novice went down from the foretop through the lubber hole. Experienced sailors climbed out onto the shrouds and momentarily hung suspended, nearly upside down, before reaching the ratlines, then going down hand over hand. Some of the top men would simply grab hold of a sheet or halyard and, if wearing leather gloves, slide down to the deck.

  Ignominious or not, he gingerly went feet first through the lubber hole, reached the ratlines underneath, and carefully went back down to the deck, hanging on tight for a moment when a wave out of rhythm with the eight to ten foot rollers, raised the bow up high, before sending it crashing down.

  Knees wobbly, he hit the deck and made his way up to the bridge. Making sure that all buttons were properly snapped and that his collar was straight, he approached the door to the inner sanctum, the captain’s cabin, and knocked.

  “Come.”

  He stepped into the darkened cabin. “Cromwell, sir, senior officer on watch. There’s light on the horizon. Foretop lookout spotted it about ten minutes ago. I think you better come up and see it, sir.”

  The dimmed coal-oil lamp by the captain’s bunk flared to life.

  With a weary sigh, Captain Claudius Gracchi swung out of the bunk, feet going into his carpet slippers. Nightshirt barely covering his knees, he stood up, fumbling for the spectacles on the night table.