“Oh, I see them!” Octavian cried.
“Then watch them, damn it, and tell me if they’re closing.”
Igor sat hunched over the chart board, pencil flying as he wrote down numbers and quickly drew tiny figures across the bottom of the paper. After several minutes he pushed the board down into its rack, unclipped and scrambled up into the topside gunner’s position.
“They’re closing on us,” Octavian shouted. “I think they’re faster, can climb better.”
Cromwell eased the nose even higher, watching as the altimeter gauge slowly rose through eight thousand feet. Then they were into the clouds, the world going white. He added an extra two hundred feet, sweating out the two minutes it took to climb.
Now he was flying blind, watching the compass, the bank indicator, and airspeed. The plane bumped and surged, rising up, then dropping so that for a moment they popped out of the clouds, then back again.
Had they been spotted? Did the bastards now have a bead on them?
As the surging continued, he felt a cold lump in his gut.
If the enemy scout planes don’t get us, he realized, this weather will. Looking at the fuel gauges, he wondered if they could stretch it to get home. Going higher, climbing into the heart of the turbulence, was out of the question now.
He said nothing, flying straight on as best he could.
Igor slipped down beside him, picked up his chart, looked at the gauges, then over at Richard, and he was silent as well.
“So they’ve spotted us.”
Startled, Sean O’Donald looked over at Hazin, who had quietly come up behind him. All he could do was nod.
The entire fleet had sprung into action. All ships had gone to battle positions, smoke belching from stacks so that a thick haze swirled about them in the following wind. Scout planes from the lead battleship had been launched to join the pursuit, and two more had gone aloft from the second ship of the line to maintain a watch above the fleet.
The precision of the operation, the practiced ease of the crew, which went about its duties as if they were routine, only reinforced to Sean what seemed inevitable: in the forthcoming battle the empire would sweep the seas.
“Interesting that they had a patrol plane this far out,” Hazin said. “Tell me, is that normal?”
“Not really. I don’t know where we are, though, so I cannot judge.”
“One hundred and ninety leagues from the Constantine coast, according to our navigator. He’s the emperor’s best, but he has been known to be wrong.”
“Then we are inside the treaty line.”
Hazin nodded.
“So they know. They must have been looking for us.”
Sean turned to look back to the northwest. The plane had disappeared into the clouds. It had been barely more than a speck in the sky. He wondered who the pilot was.
“I would think it was Cromwell,” Hazin said.
Though he had tried to get used to these insights, nevertheless they continued to startle him. Never could he be sure if it was simply an uncanny ability to read subtle indicators, or was it truly the ability to step into another mind.
“The emperor, I can imagine, will be all astir. He had hoped to gain their coast and launch the first attack without their notice.” He laughed softly, turned, and walked away.
SIXTEEN
Shaking the fatigue, Richard lined up on the landing field as Igor called off the airspeed. Buffeted, the plane rolled onto its portside wing. Both of them strained on the rudder pedals and crossed the controls to keep the wing down and crab in.
He felt the wheels touch, they bounced lightly, came back down, and held the ground. Turning, Igor pulled the quick release to drop the little remaining hydrogen left in the aft bag. In the stormy twilight, ground crews came running in from either side to grab the wings. They rolled to a stop, and Richard collapsed back in his chair. The side hatch popped open, and a ladder was extended up. He tried to get out, but his legs refused to cooperate. Finally a crew chief had to climb in and help him down. Reaching the wet grass, he sat on it heavily, gladly accepting the flask of vodka. Igor plopped down beside him.
The ground crew took over the massive plane, rolling it toward its hangar. Richard saw a horse-drawn carriage bumping across the field. Carefully he came to his feet, glad for the help of a ground crewman with unbuttoning his flight coveralls.
The carriage rolled up and stopped, portly Admiral Bullfinch stepping down.
“Your buzzing over my headquarters leads me to believe you spotted them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me.”
Richard gave his report standing in the middle of the landing field, with Igor laying the chart against the side of the admiral’s carriage. The driver shielded it with a poncho from the splattering rain that came down in heavy drops.
Several of Bullfinch’s staff rode up, dismounted, and joined him, taking in every word that Richard said, looking at the chart, and then back to Bullfinch.
As Richard spoke, Bullfinch looked over several times at Igor, who nodded in support, and Richard wondered if he truly believed him and needed someone else’s approval for confirmation. vHow was the weather coming back?”
“Like this, sir, getting worse all the time. Lines of storms building all the way out.”
“Not a cyclone yet,” one of the staff announced.
“Could be to our advantage, though,” Bullfinch stated. He looked at the chart again.
“How much do you think they know of our coast?” the admiral finally asked, looking back at Cromwell.
Richard realized that the true question was, how much would Sean know and tell them along with any information that might have been gleaned from other lost ships and from Malacca pirates.
“They might know of the Minoan Shoals,” Richard volunteered. “It’s a fair marker.” He pointed out the shoal waters and chain of islands on the map, which stretched east to west off the main coast just ninety miles away. “They hit that, then it’s a straight run in, no blundering around off our coast, thus giving us additional warning.” Bullfinch nodded. “That’s where we form,” he announced.
Richard looked at him with surprise. Bullfinch slowly turned and smiled.
“A comment from the commander?”
“Sir, I spotted at least five of their battleships and thirty or more support ships.”
“And?”
“We have eight armored cruisers and twenty frigates. When I left last night, I heard the aerosteamer carriers are still coming down the Mississippi.”
“And won’t be here for another day and a half. I know that.”
“The Minoans will put our air corps at extreme range for full bombing loads.”
“Look at this weather, Cromwell. Do you think your planes will be flying in it?”
“I did.”
“Well, you might be a more gifted pilot, sir. I think it’s a fair bet, though, that we are in for a bit of a blow. Not a cyclone, as they call them here, but a fair blow nevertheless. I doubt if your airships will be doing anything for the next couple of days.”
He turned and looked back at his staff.
“Ten knots they’re making, according to Mr. Cromwell. That means they’ve closed over a hundred miles since he saw them this morning. Another hundred by dawn, which could put them near the Minoans at dusk tomorrow. We’ll meet them there.
“It should be blowing, visibility will be down, and as you heard in Mr. Cromwell’s report, their guns are big but useless beyond three thousand yards. In a good storm with high seas it will be even less. We race in, slash, try to get this red flagship. Sink that and their precious emperor goes to the bottom, and we break them. I just wish to hell we had some of those self-propelled mines that the Design Board decided to waste on their aerosteamer scheme instead.”
He turned and looked back at Richard. “Any problems with that, Commander?”
Richard looked at the chart, then at the admiral. He could see in the man’s eyes that th
e plan was formed and nothing would change it.
“Better than waiting for a nice warm sunny day and a good flat sea for your aerosteamer carriers and air corps. Meanwhile, they blast my ships apart, then come and blow this town apart and take it.”
Richard had to concede the point. There was a certain audacity to the venture, an audacity which the veterans of the last war were noted for, the betting everything on a single shake of the dice.
“Good luck to you then, sir. Any orders for the air groups and carriers?”
One of Bullfinch’s staff chuckled. “Come out and bomb the wreckage when we’re done with them. The Gettysburg might have been caught by surprise, but by damn we won’t be.”
Bullfinch turned, and his withering gaze silenced the officer. He motioned for Cromwell to follow, and the two walked off a few dozen paces.
“Look, Cromwell, I must admit I do not like you.” Richard stiffened, but Bullfinch’s tone was different, almost apologetic.
“I understand, sir,” Richard finally replied.
“No, I’m not sure you do. Yes, in part it was your father, but even I will admit that in his own way, before we came here and everything got unhinged, he was a good sailor and taught me a lot that I never learned at Annapolis.
“It’s just that you suddenly come landing in my lap with this wild tale about the Gettysburg being lost, the Kazan, an emperor that sounds like a fool, and a religious fanatic with a race of god-like men and Horde warriors.”
Richard could not help but smile. He nodded in agreement. “I can see that now, sir.”
“And then there was Pat O’Donald’s boy. No one likes to hear that a beloved friend’s son is a traitor.”
“I never said he was a traitor, sir.”
“Well, it sure as hell sounded like it to me,” Bullfinch snapped. Then he sighed. “Look, son. Your coming back with this tale, it caught me—it caught all of us—off guard. In a way it made some of us look like fools for going along with this treaty as long as we did. Also, your tale that they could blow us out of the water, well, that is basically saying that old Admiral Bullfinch can be blown out of the water.”
“I never said anything like that, sir.”
“You’re obviously not someone who hangs around Congress,” Bullfinch replied sadly, “but believe me, that’s what will be said.”
“Sir, I was with the president and he has nothing but admiration for you. I think that’s what counts.”
“Be that as it may, you are, to many of us, a snotty lieutenant bearing a wild tale, who gets jumped in promotion, then comes back here as a special messenger from the president to tell me what to do. Do you get my drift, young man?”
Cromwell reddened. He was suddenly aware as well of just how exhausted he was. What little food he’d eaten before the twenty-hour flight had long since gone out the window. His stomach was in aching knots, the few sips of vodka had gone to his head, and all he wanted was some sleep. Everything else at the moment seemed to be drifting away. But he focused his attention, seeing the look in Bullfinch’s eye.
“Yes, sir,” he sighed, “I can well understand.”
Bullfinch hesitated and noisily cleared his throat. “And for that I apologize.”
Startled, Richard shook his head. “You’re an admiral, sir. I don’t think you need to apologize to me.”
Bullfinch laughed softly. “Well said, and from anyone else I would think that you were trying to kiss an admiral’s royal rump.”
Richard found that whatever hard feelings he’d felt had just burned out. He lowered his head. “I’m sorry as well, sir.”
“Fine, then. I want you to stay here ashore for a couple of reasons. I want you to get some rest and in the morning make a report, with drawings of the ships. Then have a courier take an express up to Suzdal. I’ll be gone by then, and dispatches also will be waiting to go, detailing my plan of operations.
“I’ve got a pretty good weather nose, Cromwell, and that young lackey of mine in the fancy uniform over there is right. There’ll be a bit of a blow tomorrow, maybe the day after as well. With luck we’ll get a punch in, maybe a couple of solid punches, and get back out under darkness and foul weather.
“Cromwell, I can’t simply stay here and do nothing, and for the next couple of days I don’t think any of you boys will be flying.”
Richard nodded, finding that he was in agreement.
“If the weather clears, you know where we’ll be. Bring in everything you have.”
“Yes, sir, but what about the aerosteamer carriers?”
“With luck, they can follow up on what is left.”
He stopped and looked off for a moment, then turned back.
“Actually, I think they might be the future, Cromwell, if we can ever figure out how to make the engines more powerful and get the speed up so your attacking a ship isn’t all but a guaranteed suicide. So for the moment I think they’re ahead of themselves, but what the hell, on this world, we’ve always been ahead of ourselves.”
Bullfinch extended his hand and Cromwell took it.
“I’ve included a personal note to the president in my dispatch. Hang on to it, and if something should happen— you know what I mean—see that he gets it.”
“I don’t plan on sending it, sir.”
Bullfinch withdrew his hand and smiled. “Son, we both know my chances. I’m sailing with my fleet. Just see that he gets it.”
Bullfinch did not even bother to wait for a reply. He walked away, shouting obscenities at his staff as he urged them to mount up and get to work.
Richard saluted him anyhow as he disappeared into the dusk.
Dawn broke wet and soggy across the broad expanse of the lower Mississippi. Theodor, with Captain Rosovich by his side, watched as the dispatch boat, which had come out from the small riverboat town, cast off from the Shiloh. Its lone occupant hoisted a small sail, which bellied out, and the boat heeled over as it started to tack back in toward shore.
Smoke belched from the leaky stack, whiffs of coal gas coming up from below deck where the joints where leaking, and the Shiloh started up again. A sailor came up the ladder that had been lowered over the side. Running past the two, he ducked through a hatchway into the bridge, pausing to pass a bundle of Gates’s Daily to a first mate. Men were already queuing up, handing over ten cents for the five cent paper. Theodor tossed him a coin and opened the sheet up.
The headline splashed across the top was the largest Adam had ever seen, taking up nearly a third of the paper. The banner was but a single word:
WAR?
“What the hell is Gates doing?” Theodor growled. “Of course it’s war. Look at this.”
He pointed at the left column below the headline:
FIGHTING ON BANTAG FRONTIER
Adam leaned over and grabbed the paper. “President’s son reported missing,” he read aloud.
He closed his eyes and lowered his head.
“It happens a lot,” Theodor said hurriedly. “A couple of days later they turn up. Believe me, I know. I was reported dead several times.”
“Still, it doesn’t look good. The Bantag moving to the south, that’s clear enough indication that something is up.”
“Mr. Rosovich?”
Adam saw an ensign standing in the hatchway to the bridge. 1
“The admiral wants you, sir.”
Adam looked over at Theodor, who quickly folded up the paper, stuffed it in his back pocket, and followed Adam through the hatch and up the ladder to the bridge.
It was a roughly made affair of wood, nothing more than an enclosed wooden platform made of three layers of railroad ties to at least give the illusion of protection. There was a chair for the captain, a wheel, compass, barometer, and speaker tubes lined up against the starboard side. All of it was a far cry from the original plans for the Shiloh, with a proper steel cupola and a proper captain’s quarters.
Rear Admiral Petronius was gazing balefully at a telegram, as the two came onto the bridge. “I did
not ask for you, Theodor Theodorovich.”
“I invited myself anyhow,” he replied with a smile. Adam remained silent, know that Petronius held Theodor personally responsible for what had been done to the Shiloh and the other two ships of what was supposed to be his flotilla.
“This dispatch went up to Suzdal this morning. Fortunately, the station master back there heard it on the wires”— he pointed at the town that was drifting astern—“and seeing us approach saw fit to at least make sure we heard about it as well.”
Petronius held the telegram at arm’s length in order to read.
“Kazan fleet sighted dawn yesterday, five hundred fifty miles southeast Constantine, steaming northwest ten knots. Shall sortie with entire fleet to engage. God Save the Republic. Bullfinch.”
“They went without us?” Theodor asked.
“Obviously, or am I making this dispatch up?” As he spoke he waved the sheet of paper.
“Petronius, I didn’t mean that. It’s just that if he had waited another day and a half we’d be there to support him.”
“In this weather?” Petronius snapped, indicating the line of rain squalls sweeping across the river. “If it’s this way here, it must really be cutting loose on the coast.”
“Still, it’ll pass. He should have waited.”
“Are you a sailor?” Petronius replied. “Well, if not, then don’t dare to pass a judgment on the weather.”
“I’m a flyer,” Theodor announced, his voice edged with anger. “It’ll pass. He should have waited for everything, throw everything at them at once.”
“Well, he won’t, and I wouldn’t either. Any comment, Mr. Rosovich?”
Adam swallowed and shook his head. “If Admiral Bullfinch sailed, he must have had good reason to do so, sir.” Theodor looked over at Rosovich as if he had just sold out.
“I’m tempted to tell the chief engineer down below to bring us down to half speed. The engines are barely broken in, and we’re banging them to pieces steaming at this rate. We’ll miss the fight and that’s that.”
Theodor shifted uncomfortably and looked over at Adam.
“Sir,” Adam said quietly, “our orders were to make best possible speed to Constantine to report.”
Down to the Sea Page 32
