Down to the Sea

by William R. Forstchen

  “Withdraw them up the Mississippi?”

  Andrew turned and looked at the map above the display case. The river was a deep-channel all the way up to the Inland Sea; back home, more like the Hudson than the Mississippi. Would they pursue? Undoubtedly. From Cromwell’s report, one of their main ships of the line could lay off the mouth of the Neiper and shell Suzdal to pieces.

  No, there’d have to be a blockade set up. The narrows below Cartha would be the best place, but it would take time, weeks, more like months to build the proper fortifications, lay in the guns, and build up a garrison that could resist a ground-based attack.

  “For the moment I’ll let Bullfinch think about the response. That’s what we’re supposed to be paying him for anyhow. Hell, I was a line officer. Things with ships I could never quite understand.”

  “Fort Hancock,” Pat muttered.

  Andrew looked back, wondering if there was a mild rebuke there. In that debacle the Bantag had successfully launched a surprise amphibious attack and cut off Pat’s army on the Shenandoah River.

  No, he was just remembering.

  “What about the Bantag?” Pat asked.

  Andrew sighed, still gazing at the map.

  “They’ll join. If the Kazan land on the coast south of them, and they come with what Cromwell says they have, the Bantag will join. Hell, if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you?”

  “Punitive strike now, Andrew.”

  “What?”

  “We could mobilize a hundred thousand men within a week and move them to the frontier. We have over two hundred aerosteamers and five hundred land ironclads. Throw that force at them now, drive a wedge between them and the sea.”

  “Oh, damn,” Andrew sighed, and he slowly shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “What did you just tell me ten minutes ago about how people will react to what Cromwell said? Pat, I can’t preemptively start a war with the Bantag based upon a sole report.”

  “And Hawthorne’s report, what about that?”

  “The same there, It’s merely a surmise, a reading of intent. We have no proof other than a single revolver. I can’t go to war over that.”

  “Then provoke them.”

  He thought about that. It could be done, but wouldn’t Jurak figure out as well what Andrew was trying to do? He was no fool, and he had a million square miles to fall back into. A band of a few thousand Bantag, fighting in their own territory, could run rings around the fresh recruits the army now had.

  Too many variables were beginning to close in, and now, after the first rush of excitement over what Cromwell had reported, a cooler voice was whispering to him.

  I’m overreacting, he thought. Perhaps the boy is wrong after all. There could even be a plot within a plot, that he was deliberately let go to provoke us into a first move.

  The first move, that was the problem here. If we are wrong, the Separatists’ Movement will have a golden opportunity; they could even bring on another constitutional crisis. The Chin would use any pretext to attack the Bantag and, if let loose, it would be a debacle. The Greeks might very well ally with the Chin in order to leave the Republic, and then everything fractures.

  Yet to wait, to do nothing, was repugnant to his nature. He had a window here, a month perhaps, six weeks at most before the onslaught hit, according to what Cromwell had said. And yet all that was based upon a lone report.

  “Damn,” he sighed, clenching his fist, looking back at Pat.

  “We’re stuck. I can’t order an unprovoked attack on the Bantag without clear evidence that they actually are allying with the Kazan.

  “As for the Kazan, we know nothing. Absolutely nothing. We have one report from a pilot to whom I’d give anything if he had changed his name, and on that, our fate might rest in the weeks to come.”

  Andrew stood up, returning to the window. The stock market was still at it. A scribe was furiously running back and forth on the catwalk above the Cannon Tavern, writing the latest prices on the huge chalkboard that ran the entire length of the building. A jade merchant with a particularly annoying whine, who had leased a crucial corner directly in front of the White House, was chanting about the beauty of his stones. Off in the distance, beyond the smoke billowing from the steel mill stacks, he caught a glimpse of an aerosteamer lazily circling, then turning, cutting figure eights in the sky, a student learning his art.

  “Pat, nothing is to be said as of yet. Nothing.”

  “How long do you plan to keep the lid on?”

  “No one knows that Cromwell has reported here other than the admiral and the crew of the ship that brought him in, and Bullfinch wisely had them quarantined. We have a couple of days before the rumors begin to circulate. I want you to line up senators you can rely on, Gracchus, Petronius, Valincovich, and Hamilcar.”

  “Alexandrovich,” Pat added, “he’s an old vet, we can count on him.”

  “To keep his mouth shut?”

  Pat hesitated. “I’ll threaten to break his arms if he breathes a word.” .

  “All right then. The speaker and the vice president are not to know. They’d spill it out in a heartbeat.”

  “They’ll be furious when they find out.”

  “Let them. I’ll have Vincent call a mobilization drill. It was slated for next month anyhow. We can use the excuse that it was getting too routine.”

  “The stock market boys, the factory owners, will scream. Their schedules are planned around losing their men four weeks from now.”

  “Let them scream. I’ll make some statement about it being a realistic drill this time. We shift the maneuver area to our grounds on the Chin territory.”

  Pat started to shake his head. “Gods, Andrew. The Chin will read into that. Hell, one of them breaks wind, and they spend days reading into it. They’ll think our holding maneuvers on their territory is a veiled threat.”

  “Let them think what they want.”

  “I want a meeting with Webster, Varinnia Ferguson, and a few people she trusts first thing in the morning. We’re going over everything Cromwell told us—in fact, I want him here, too. We have precious little time, but we have to start thinking about counters to everything he says they have.”

  Pat smiled.

  “What is it?”

  “A bit like the old days again.”

  “I’d prefer something different.”

  Pat solemnly nodded. “Yes, Andrew, I agree.”

  Andrew returned to his desk and looked at the calendar page set to one side. “Damn. There’s a dinner tonight with some Chin congressmen. I can’t cancel that. Then a play.”

  “Better go. Besides, I heard it’s a good one. The Yankee and the Boyar’s Daughter.”

  “Oh, God, not another one.”

  Pat smiled. “Complete with tableau of the historic victory at the First Battle of Suzdal. Performed in English, no less, with Dimitri Vasiliovich as the Yankee.”

  “It sounds like you actually enjoyed it.”

  “Oh, I did. Rare fine good acting it was.”

  Andrew groaned. He was bored to death with the utter silliness of patriotic plays, which had become the rage of late, all but taking Shakespeare off of Players Row. But if he did not attend, the more astute might read something into it, put it together with the change in the summer mobilization rehearsal. No, he would have to attend and listen to Dimitri’s hysterical overacting.

  “All right, then. Tomorrow I’ll clear my schedule. You get word to Webster and Ferguson, make it first thing in the morning. I think our focus at the start should be the navy, what we can do there within the next couple of weeks. Let’s plan to meet at the shipyard.”

  His tone indicated that the conversation was at an end, and that bothered him. This was Pat, after all, not someone who had to be eased out of the office so that the next appointment could be kept.

  “Andrew?”

  He nodded, already knowing what was to be asked. “Let’s just keep the word about your boy between us for right n
ow. Cromwell kept it till he could meet with you. I trust he’ll continue to keep it. Perhaps he was wrong after all.”

  Pat smiled. “I don’t believe it for a minute, Andrew. Do you?”

  “No,” Andrew lied, “of course not.”

  TEN

  The sun was rising as Abraham Keane, riding alone, crested the ridgeline. Before him the encampment of the Golden Yurt was spread out across the open plains, the early morning light casting long shadows, the steppe to the west disappearing into a dark blue horizon.

  A shaman’s chants drifted on the hot wind. Smoke curled from campfires. Some cubs, engaged in a passionately fought game, rode in swirling knots, sweeping down to reach for the ball. Not so long ago he knew that the bag would have contained a human head. Now it was just stuffed with old felt rags—at least he hoped that was the case.

  He saw the Qar Qarth riding out from behind his yurt, mounted on his favorite stallion, a magnificent white animal. The two of them were a striking sight. The horse pranced, legs raised high, and Jurak was obviously enjoying the ride, knowing that all eyes were upon him.

  Abe leaned back in his saddle, taking in the view, enjoying the moment. The thought of going back to the cities of the west, to the crowds, the stench, the noise, after riding patrols, after watching sunrises and sunsets on the open plains where heaven and earth met on a horizon that seemed to disappear into eternity, was impossible to contemplate. This is the place where he wanted to stay.

  Jurak drew closer, his mount kicking up plumes of dust. The cubs paused in their wild melee and bowed respectfully from the saddle, then returned to their pursuit once he had passed.

  Abe stiffened and saluted as Jurak reined in by his side.

  “The night passed well, Qar Qarth Jurak?”

  “Yes, and yours?”

  “Our circles are peaceful, as I see yours to be,” Abe replied, offering the ritual words that indicated he had come without warlike intent.

  Jurak leaned over and affectionately patted the neck of his horse.

  “You ride well,” Abe said.

  “I have to in order to survive here. I wasn’t born to it the way my people are. I’ll admit that when I first came here, I hated riding. There’s something about being atop a beast that could kill you, and who at the same time is actually rather dull of mind, that bothered me.”

  Abe laughed softly. “My father still misses his old war-horse, Mercury. He said Mercury was the only horse he ever knew that had brains.”

  “I remember that horse. The battle at what you call Rocky Hill. Your father was a magnificent sight riding along the front line, followed by his battle standard. He was the incarnation of war at that moment. I’ll never forget the way his men cheered, and I knew that as long as he lived you would never be defeated. He has my respect.”

  “I shall tell him you remember him thus. He will be honored.”

  Jurak looked away, letting go of his reins so his horse could crop the short grass.

  “There is a reason for your visit, son of Andrew Keane. The flyer that dropped the message over your camp last evening sent Hawthorne scurrying up here for one last talk, and now you have come at dawn. Hawthorne has already said his farewells. Why have you come back?”

  Abe nodded, letting go of his reins as well. “I’ve been ordered to tell you something. It is not official. It came from my father to me, and no one else knows.”

  He could see that he had Jurak’s interest.

  “Go on, then.”

  “My father conveys to you his respects.”

  “Yes, the usual formula between rulers, but what is the message?”

  “You are not to move south.”

  “I have argued this point with your General Hawthorne for over half a moon.” Jurak pointed back to the regimental encampment where even now the tents were being struck, the column forming up. “Our talks ended with no resolution. Why do you come back here alone to repeat yet again that which we could not agree upon? Does your general know you are doing this?”

  “Yes, sir. He gave his permission.”

  “Why?”

  “Sir, he said that,” and Abraham hesitated, “that you respected me because of my blood and would believe me. I asked as well to come alone.”

  Jurak laughed. “You are brave like your father.”

  “I know I have nothing to fear from you.”

  “At this moment, yet.”

  “I would like to think it would stay that way.”

  In the weeks that he had come to know Jurak, Abe felt that he had learned some of the nuances of this leader of the Bantags. He had heard Cromwell talk about it back at the academy, how when you lived with them, you learned quickly to recognize each as an individual rather than as part of a faceless horde. You knew who was more cruel than normal, who might give a favored pet an extra scrap of food, when someone was angry, happy, sad, or vengeful. In short, you learned things about them the same way you did about humans.

  He felt he had gained some knowledge of Jurak, at least a vague understanding of this alien ruler of what was to him an alien race. Jurak possessed a keen intellect, as fitted someone from the future who had been thrown into a primitive world. In a strange sort of way he thought Jurak and his father were alike. For he too bore knowledge this world had not yet come to grasp. He had led the Rus in a war undreamed of before his arrival.

  But it had been Jurak’s fate to come too late, when events were already unfolding beyond his control. Across the years afterward all he could do was brood, to maneuver for a way to survive, not just for himself but for the fallen Horde he ruled as well.

  He looked at Jurak carefully, sensing the wariness, the sudden alertness and caution. The wind stirred the mane of his horse, the plume of his helmet. The light about them was soft, diffuse, mingled with the shadows of early morning. “Is that all there is to the message?”

  “Yes, Qar Qarth Jurak, that is all that he sent directly to you. No one else, either in our government or our military, knows except for General Hawthorne.”

  “There is more, though,” Jurak pressed, leaning forward, gazing down at Abe.

  “Yes, to you personally.”

  “I am waiting.”

  “My father asked me to tell you that he knows what is about to happen.”

  Jurak looked confused for a moment and then smiled, shaking his head and laughed softly.

  “Are we playing some sort of game, Abraham Keane? You threaten me and watch how I react? If so, I thought better of your father and of you.”

  Abe, however, could tell that Jurak was troubled. Abe had yet to learn the finer points of their language, to recognize the tonal inflections for emotion, a crucial element to master since tone often influenced the exact meaning of the word. Still, he could sense the unease in Jurak’s voice.

  “Then tell me what your father speaks of when he says that he knows what is about to happen.”

  “War with the Kazan,” Abe said, almost whispering the word. “You will receive an offer from the Kazan to ally with them shortly. War will ensue within the month, and my father asks that for the good of all you stay out of it. Either stay here or move north, but do not turn south.” Jurak’s features remained impassive. “Why? Why now?”

  “I have no idea,” Abe replied. “I am only telling you what he sent to me, nothing more.”

  Jurak gazed at him thoughtfully. “I suspect you are telling the truth.”

  Abe bristled slightly. “I have never uttered a false word to you, Jurak.”

  Jurak nodded. “And is there anything else, then?”

  “Flyers will be doubled patrolling the lands to the south of here. If you should leave treaty land and move south toward the coast, it will be viewed as a hostile act.”

  “And you will attack.”

  “Yes.”

  “And to you, though? What more was there to you?”

  “My personal orders? I’ve requested a transfer to a troop assignment, and General Hawthorne has agreed. I’m to stay wit
h the 3rd Cavalry, which will take up station on the border. Sir, if you would move, I will ride with that regiment against you.”

  Abe looked straight into Jurak’s eyes.

  “So why did you tell me?”

  “I trust you.”

  Jurak leaned back in his saddle and laughed so loudly that the cubs who were playing but a hundred yards away slowed in their game to see what was so amusing.

  “Something is happening back west, or,” and Abraham paused, “or to the south. Is there an envoy in your camp, Qar Qarth Jurak? Are you expecting yet another envoy with news about the war?”

  Jurak did not react. His mask was impenetrable.

  “Don’t play the subtle envoy with me, boy. Whether I know anything or not I will never share such information with you.”

  “I understand that. I understand what divides us as well.”

  “I don’t think you fully do. In your eyes I am something strange, a remainder of an older day of glory. I fought your father, and it appeals to your sense of romance to now say that we could be friends.”

  “It is not a sense of romance,” Abe replied heatedly. “What I’ve said to you is genuine.”

  There was a moment of softness in Jurak’s eyes. “Yes, you are young enough that I believe you.” He shook his head. “Too much will forever divide us even though a few such as you will try to breech that wall. Do you know, Abraham Keane, that I have eaten human flesh?” Abraham stiffened. He could feel a cool shiver course down his back.

  “Yes, I had assumed that,” Abe finally replied.

  “That fear is primitive, instinctual. Enemies can kill each other and yet drink a cup with the sons of those whom they have slain, if the slaying is viewed as honorable. Over their cups they praise each other and speak of the glory of the old days, as you and I have done. But the eating of flesh, that is a dread beyond death. That, and the humiliation of slavery.”

  He looked back at the cubs playing their game.

  “They’re of age to be warriors. They were raised on the tales of their fathers, who fought your father, and of their grandsires, who still remember the old days of the everlasting ride to the east, the glory of the wars with the Merki and the Tugars and, yes, the harvesting of cattle.”