Men of War

Chapter Six

Andrew slowed as they rode past the station, reining in his horse for a moment to let the long string of ambulances pass. The hospital trains had been coming in throughout the night, more than three thousand men over the last week, and with each casualty unloaded a new story was blurted out about the disaster at Capua.

In the predawn darkness he knew no one would recognize him. In the past he would have stopped to talk with the wounded as they were off-loaded, offer encouragement, but not this morning. On this of all mornings there were other things to be done before the sun rose.

Hans, riding beside him, bit off a chew and passed the plug over to Andrew, who nodded his thanks and took a bite of the bitter tobacco.

They rode in silence. Hans, slumped comfortably in the saddle, carbine cradled in one arm. Andrew looked over at him, wondering, wanting to say so much but not sure how to say it.

“Hans?”

“Yes?”

He sounded so relaxed.

“Are you afraid?” Andrew whispered.

Hans smiled.

“A slave doesn’t have the luxury to be afraid. Remember, I was a slave, and then I was freed, at least in body. I wonder if this is how Lazarus felt, having seen what was beyond and then returning.”

He shook his head, as if the dark thoughts of the years of imprisonment weighed him down.

“Every day I’ve had since has been a gift. Now it’s time to pay for the gift.”

“I wish it was different.”

“I know, son. It’s all right, though,” Hans said soothingly. “You were the one that had to make the decision to do this and now bear the responsibility for our lives. This might very well be the hardest command decision you’ve ever made.”

Andrew nodded.

“Once we take off, the commotion will certainly be noticed. and you’ll have to tell Congress. If we lose”-and he chuckled-“well, there goes the last hope I guess.” Andrew didn’t want to think of that alternative yet. It would mean every single airship and ironclad was gone. Without them, Jurak would slice through the Capua line like a hot knife through butter. As it stood now, if he second-guessed what was truly up, he might do it anyhow.

“Damn tough decision,” Hans said, “and here you were worried if you’d lost your nerve.”

“Just before we went in at Capua, I lied to you, Hans.”

Hans chuckled and spat. “You mean about willingly sacrificing me if it meant victory.”

“Yes, I’ve sacrificed too many. I still think I should go on this one, not you.”

“Can you speak Chin?” Hans asked. “How about the Bantag slave dialect, or even Bantag for that matter?” Andrew sighed and shook his head.

“Well that kind of settles it, doesn’t it?”

“I know.”

“Andrew. Sometimes it’s the staying behind and doing nothing that’s the hardest thing of all.”

They stopped as a diminutive switching engine, one of the old 4-4-0 models wheezed past them, pushing a flatcar loaded with two freshly made ten-pound breechloaders. “I’ve been thinking on that, too,” Andrew said.

“What?”

“The doing nothing.”

Hans chuckled. “Actually, my friend, given my choice, I’m glad I’m going rather than staying here and dealing with this snake pit of politics.”

Andrew could not help but smile as they urged their mounts forward after the train passed.

Once clear of the yard they rode up through the rows of roughly made brick homes that housed the thousands of workers who labored down in the valley of the Vina River.

Past one of the burial mounds of the Tugars they continued their climb up the hill, Hans stopping for a moment to watch the inferno of steam and smoke cascading up from the foundry as a new batch of molten iron was released from its cauldron.

“It’s almost beautiful,” Hans exclaimed, pointing to the towering clouds of smoke caught and illuminated by the first light of early dawn. Andrew found himself in agreement. It made him think of the school of artists back on the old world, who worshiped the beauty of nature and painted the scenery of the Hudson River valley.

The smoke and steam had the same quality as the billowing afternoon cumulus, cloaking a mountaintop, but this mountain was man-made, the clouds man-made as well. The lighting, however, was unworldly, the deep morning reds unique to this world.

He smiled at the thought of the word unworldly, unworldly for home, but then this was home now, after all these years the sunlight normal, the twin moons normal, the lighter feel when one walked normal as well.

“I take it yesterday’s session with the Senate was bad?” Hans asked.

Andrew nodded. “It’s deadlock. Kal is nowhere out of the woods yet. Flavius refuses to step in as acting president since it would mean that a pro-peace man would take his place, and Bugarin is badgering to sign the agreement presented by the Chin ambassadors.”

“Well, in an hour I’ll be beyond it all,” Hans announced.

“I know,” Andrew whispered.

“Maybe by doing nothing at all you might be doing the best thing possible,” Hans said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll figure it out.”

Hans chuckled, and Andrew knew his friend had presented him with a little something to dwell on and was not about to say anything more on the subject.

Their path led them through what had once been the grove where he had first admitted to Kathleen that he loved her, long since gone and replaced with warehouses and yet more brick homes. Finally, they crested the road leading along the banks of the reservoir and were out of the new city of Suzdal. The waters of the lake were still, a mirror surface reflecting the morning sky, a soft welcome relief.

Directly ahead were several low clapboard buildings covered with camouflage netting and painted a dark green and brown. Lights still glowed in the windows and there was a bustle of activity inside. Out around the building dozens were racing back and forth.

Riding up, the two dismounted and hitched their horses. Varinna stood in the open doorway, and it was obvious she had been up all night, as she wearily came down to greet the two.

Since the decision to launch the mission all of her people had worked at a frenzied pace, made more difficult because of Andrew’s decision to clamp down a tight lid of security on the whole operation. It was a near-impossible thing to contain, with the city only a couple of miles away but by some miracle no one in Congress had found out, most likely because they were too preoccupied with their own squabbles to notice the round-the-clock insanity up at the aero-steamer field.

As for the dozens of messages sent to the front and to Roum, ordering the redeployment of aerosteamers and the remaining regiment of land ironclads, that had all been done using a book code. Admiral Bullfinch had personally overseen loading the ironclads during the night. The two ships carrying the machines and a transport hauling hydrogen vats, ammunition, and ground crews had all sailed under cover of night. If everything was going according to plan, they should have arrived during the night at Tyre and also alerted Stan Bamberg that things were suddenly going to get very hot.

Varinna smiled and extended her hand.

“Everything’s ready,” she announced. “Any word from Roum?”

“Nothing. The front’s quiet.”

“Good.”

Andrew took her hand and squeezed it, pleased by the light that seemed to sparkle in her eyes. This effort had triggered something within her, and he felt a surge of confidence that she was the mastermind who had conceived so many of the details. The death of Chuck had deeply shaken him, so much so that he had failed to realize the capabilities that were alive in her.

“Let’s go to the field.” And leading the way, she walked down the slope and out onto the flat open landing field. Crews were dragging out the last of the airships from the hangars, and engines were beginning to turn over.

He was awed by the panoramic sight laid out before him. Sixteen Eagle airships were lined up wingtip to wingtip. Twelve of them brand-new, four having come back from the front for repairs and engine replacements. In the shadowy light they looked ghostly, giants out of some forgotten age of the past, or a foretaste of the world to come.

The men chosen for the mission were already lining up beside their machines, ten to each airship in addition to the crews. Nearly all of them were Hans’s old companions, survivors of his liberation last year, or the winter flanking assault down into the valley of the Ebro.

Three hundred of their comrades from the Chin brigade had been loaded on trains the morning after the decision was made to launch the assault and sent by express to Roum, there to take transports to Tyre. With them went equipment to refit the twenty-eight Eagles and thirty Hornets that would fly from Capua to Roum, and from there down to Tyre as well. If all went according to plan there, those airships would lift off shortly before midday.

“You know, Varinna, you were holding out on me,” Andrew said, looking over at her and trying to appear cross.

“The airships? Some needed repairs, the rest, well there were problems, adjustments, and several were finished ahead of schedule.”

“They could have made a difference at Capua.”

“I don’t think so. If Chuck had been alive, he would have told you not to do it and then done the same thing I did.”

“So that justified holding back on these Eagles?”

“No sir, but you are glad now that I did.”

Andrew could not argue with her on that point. And he knew eight, twenty, fifty airships would not have made a difference that day.

The morning silence was shattered as more engines turned over, stuttering up to a humming throb.

He saw Jack Petracci slowly walking toward them, moving stiffly. Andrew motioned for him to stand at ease.

“Everything ready?”

Jack laughed softly.

“I guess so, sir.”

Andrew said nothing. With most men he would have torn into them over such a lackadaisical air, but there were some, especially those like Jack, who danced so closely with death for so long, that one had to understand their fey attitude, especially at a moment like this.

“Numbers forty-seven and fifty-two, we should check them both off the list. I think forty-seven is leaking too much gas; the inboard starboard engine on fifty-two is shot.”

Jack looked over at Varinna, who shook her head.

“Everyone goes,” Andrew said. “Order those two to hug the coast as long as possible but everyone goes.”

“What I figured, sir. I already told them that.”

“These new pilots, you think they have the ability?” Andrew asked.

Jack again chuckled softly. “Well, sir, as long as there’s no storms, the sky is clear, we don’t get jumped by any of the Bantag aerosteamers. I sort of figure half of them will be dead within the week anyhow, even if this doesn’t work, but that goes with the job.”

“All right, Jack,” Andrew said quietly, but his tone conveyed that Jack’s fatalism shouldn’t be pushed too far.

Andrew looked around at the assembled group, then put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and led him off so the two could talk alone.

“I haven’t had a chance to talk with you about this plan.”

Jack said nothing, leaving no opening.

“You don’t like the plan.”

Again the laugh. “Don’t like it. Well, I always figured I’d die ever since I got myself drafted into this damn fool air corps. You see, sir, I was just thinking yesterday that if I had kept my mouth shut about having flown in a balloon back on the old world, none of this would have happened.” And he waved vaguely toward the assembled ships.

“And we would have lost the war long ago. The missions you flew made the difference.”

“Sir. We’re going to die. I mean all of us. I saw the fight at Capua from a mile up. The reserves they have, the numbers. They just keep coming and coming. And I thought about all that we were taught when we were young. Remember the poems, ‘Old Ironsides,’ even that Tennyson fellow and the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade.’ We believed it was good to die the heroes’ death. But I wonder now, maybe it’s all meaningless. You die, and that’s it. So you lose.”

Andrew said nothing. Anyone with a mind had dwelled on this idea, just that it was poison when it took hold on the eve of battle.

“You ever have the feeling they had just made the bullet with your name on it?”

Andrew nodded. “Sure, plenty of times. Remember Cold Harbor. We wrote our names and pinned them on our backs before we went in? At Hispania, the morning of the third day, I knew I was going to die.”

“And the winter, at Capua?”

Andrew felt a cold shiver. No, no real premonition then, and yet it had all but killed him. Yet far too often he had seen men like Jack, the darting eyes, the inner agony, made worse by the sense of futility that seized some.

As he looked at Jack the thought came yet again about the nature of courage. Some men, those like Vincent, for some strange reason truly lacked the imagination to contemplate just how agonizing a wound or death could be. They simply went about their duty, mind at ease. Vincent had suffered a horrifying wound, yet it seemed not to have scarred his soul. The scar in that boy was different, an inner woe triggered long ago because of the conflict over his Quaker upbringing and his innate talent for leading men in battle. Vincent’s answer was to let his soul sink into a cold indifference to all suffering, his or anyone else’s.

There were others though, like Jack, who were continually tormented by their imaginations, inwardly flinching as each bullet flickered past, who awoke in the middle of the night, sheets sweat-soaked, the nightmare of what could be twisting into their fluttering hearts. As he looked at Jack he felt a surge of admiration, knowing that Jack’s type of courage was far more difficult to grasp and maintain. Every day he had to mask that terror and go out to face death yet again.

Jack, his hand trembling, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper.

“I was never much of one for being a gentleman with the girls. Remember the Oneida Society back before the war? Actually tried to join it. I did, but they said I was too young then.”

He laughed softly, and Andrew smiled.

“She’s a girl in Roum, works in Ninth Corps main hospital. Took care of me right after I crashed back in the spring. Funny, she’s suddenly very important to me now, so see that she gets this.”

Andrew solemnly took the letter, knowing it was senseless to try and talk differently at a time like this.

“Jack, I wish I could let you stand down from this one. But you’re the only one who can lead it. That’s why I asked you to fly back here. These boys are so green I was afraid they couldn’t find Tyre unless you were there to shepherd them along.”

Jack smiled weakly. “I know, and believe me, I’d take the offer if I thought I could.”

“Jack, in all honesty, is there a chance for this one? I mean Vincent seems to believe in it. Hans, well of course he’d do it. We’ve done desperate things in the past, but this is a throw in the dark.”

Jack looked at him silently, and Andrew regretted his few seconds of weakness. He had pulled Jack aside to gently tell him to brace up in front of the others, and he was asking for reassurance instead.

“As long as we limit it to what we agreed on. I know Hans wants to push it all the way, but sir, the ships simply don’t have the range. I can’t ask the boys flying the ships to go on a one-way trip with no hope of survival. Stick to the original idea, and there just might be a chance. If we had three or four times as many airships, a real fleet of a couple of hundred of them, I’d guarantee we’d do it. That’d mean we’d have a full brigade of troops rather than barely a regiment. At the very least, though, it will throw one hell of a punch into their supplies and might take the pressure off at the front.”

Andrew nodded. That had been the big fight argued out all week. Varinna’s plan called for a two-step approach, the second phase not being launched unless the first half went flawlessly and a truly secure base was seized to operate out of. The morning after the decision was made to go Hans started the argument that it had to be done all at once. Andrew could understand the argument about surprising Jurak and not giving him time to react, but he knew as Hans most certainly knew that it was suicide to try.

And yet he could sense what Hans would indeed do once he was out there. The first phase was, at best, a spoiling raid, to swoop down on the Bantag port city of Xi’an, smash things up, sink ships, and destroy supplies. Vincent’s mission was to act as bait to draw troops and better yet ironclads out of Xi’an before the air attack hit. The goal, if it could be achieved, was for Vincent to cut all the way to the Great Sea and secure a base for airships and perhaps even for oceangoing ships captured at Xi’an.

But it was still only half a victory. If they could actually hold Xi’an, transferring troops by sea from Vincent’s force to reinforce the captured city, Jurak would be cut off from his supplies and forced to abandon all of the Roum territory all the way back to the Great Sea. He’d have to pull back all the way to Nippon. It would be a tremendous victory … but the Bantag army would still be intact, the war machine still working and ready to come back yet again. What Hans wanted was to take it all the way, but he felt he could never order that, for such an action would surely result in the death of all those who attempted it. It could mean, as well, that in attempting to reach for everything, Jurak could counterstrike and smash the plan apart.

Andrew took Jack’s hand and grasped it tightly.

“Fly carefully.”

“The soul of caution I’ve always been. It’s how I’ve made it to twenty-eight very old years.”

Coming stiffly to attention Jack saluted. “Sir, I think it’s about time we got the show moving, so if you’ll excuse me.

Andrew returned to his small group. While he had been talking with Jack, Vincent rode in. As usual he was dressed in his “Phil Sheridan” uniform, oversize riding boots, snowy white gauntlets, uniform with a bit too much gold braiding, rakish kepi, and still the ridiculous pointed goatee and mustache.

Andrew could see the boy was eager to be returning to MEN OF WAR 117

the front. He would have preferred that Vincent stay in Suzdal, but given the assassination attempt on his father-in-law Andrew now felt that it was best to get him out of town for a while. If not the target of an assassin’s bullet, Vincent could, on the other hand, do something rash. And besides, given what he was contemplating doing, Vincent’s presence in the city simply wouldn’t fit into the plan.

It was indeed getting to the time for departure. For days he had agonized about this moment.

The engines on most of the airships were now turning over, shattering the predawn quiet as pilots revved each one up in turn, let them run full out for several minutes, then throttled them back down to idle.

Vincent was eager to be off. He had already said his good-byes to his family; it was part of his nature never to let that side of his life show anymore. There was no sense in going over the plan one more time. Vincent had conceived part of it, especially the land ironclad assault out of Tyre. He knew it far better than Andrew.

The salute was casual, as if he was leaving for morning inspection of a company.

“It’ll work, sir,” Vincent said. “I promise you that.”

Andrew nodded, and the boy was off, heading to his airship, his chosen staff following. He had abandoned his cane and walked slowly, with a pronounced limp. Now it was just Hans and Varinna and she mumbled something about going to check one of the ships and left the two alone.

Hans sighed and slowly sat down on the grass, motioning for Andrew to join him.

Hans smiled and Andrew suddenly felt a terrible longing, somehow to turn the clock back, to make it all as it once was so many years before, and to hide from the knowledge of all that would be. Hans had aged, his hair going to white, his teeth crooked, stained dark yellow, several of them gone or turned to black, his skin no longer tanned and leathery but now waxy. He had never really admitted to himself just how much the years of prison had changed Hans. In so many ways they had softened him, made him more open to saying what was in his heart, but be had lost pis tireless vitality as well. Yet, at this moment he felt as if Hans was summoning back that strength for one more effort.

“The war’s lost, Andrew. We’ve fought the good fight for God knows how many years. We’ve held three empires at bay, but now they’re closing in. But in order for them to do that they had to change, too, and that is where they are vulnerable.

“Before, it was like striking at a nest of bees. We had to cut them down one at a time until there were none left. Andrew, we’ve forced them in a way to become like us, and in so doing we now have the opening. We can reach into the nest, crush the queen, and the eggs and the nest dies.”

Hans became animated as he spoke, his eyes locked on Andrew’s.

“Don’t you think he’s figured that,” Andrew replied, “and taken the necessary precautions?”

“Surprise will be on our side. We maintain that element, and we win. The part of the plan involving Vincent seems like folly, but it will be the focus for just long enough that it will keep them off-balance. Then the rest of it goes in. He’ll suspect the air support is for Vincent. By the time he realizes, we’ll be on him.

“We’ve got to do this, Andrew; otherwise, it isn't just us who lose, it’s the Chin, it’s the entire world. Now that’s something I’m willing to risk my life for. The question is, now do you have the guts to risk it as well.”

Andrew looked over angrily at Hans.

“It isn’t a question of my courage.”

“Yes it is. The courage to let go. If it wasn’t me going, maybe it’d be easier somehow.”

He wanted to deny it. Lord knows how many he had sent to certain death going all the way back to his own brother. But Hans was different.

Andrew lowered his head.

“Yes, damn it. I think when that aerosteamer takes off that is it, I never see you again. I can deny it, say it’s the committing of our remaining air fleet to a mad venture. But it’s really you.”

“And I am the only one that can lead it.”

Andrew finally nodded.

“Go.” He whispered.

Hans leaned out, his hand tentatively taking Andrew’s, and then he grasped it tight.

Andrew looked up to see tears in his friend’s eyes.

“You’ll do fine, son, just fine.”

Andrew started to break. What could he say, how could he say it? The words finally spilled out of him, contained for so long.

“I love you, Hans, as I loved my own father.”

Hans smiled.

“I know. We’ve always loved each other, you as the son I never had; it’s just that the way we both are, who we are, makes it impossible to say what we feel.”

The two sat in silence for a moment, eyes locked. There was such a flood of memories for Andrew, of Antietam, the lonely nights on picket, the cold winter mornings sharing a cup of coffee, the dusty marches, the moments of fear and of triumph, the pain of losing him and the indescribable joy of finding him again.

“And Hans.”

“Yeah?”

He had not breathed a word of it to anybody over the last week, but now was the true moment of letting go, of turning back the lie he had whispered at Capua. He knew what had to be done … and both of them were soldiers who understood that.

He unbuttoned the top of his uniform, reached into his breast pocket, and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Hans.

“I want you to go all the way,” Andrew whispered.

Hans, looking straight into his eyes, understanding what Andrew was asking, simply nodded.

“This is my written authorization in case Jack or anyone else disagrees. Hans, you’ve got to go all the way with this one, no half measures.”

Hans smiled. “You know I would have done it anyway.”

“I know that.” Andrew sighed.

“It’s just you wanted me to know you were behind my decision.”

Andrew nodded, unable to speak.

Hans patted Andrew on the shoulder.

/ “Like I’ve always said, I’m proud of you, son,” he said, hesitating, “and thank you. Ever since the day I escaped, leaving my comrades behind, it has haunted me. I have to do this.”

There was a moment of silence between the two, both lost in their memories.

“I think they’re waiting,” Hans said gruffly, trying to hide the emotion that threatened to overwhelm him.

Andrew finally looked over his shoulder and saw all who were waiting, standing respectfully, some with heads lowered. All was silent except for the aerosteamer engines powering up, propellers cutting the still morning air.

Andrew nodded and ever so slowly let go of Hans’s hand. Andrew tried to smile, fighting to hold on to what little control he had left.

He stood up shakily, Hans grunting as he stood as well.

“Well, they sure as hell haven’t gotten us yet. You lose an arm at Gettysburg, get your lung shot out at Roum. Hell, the Comanche couldn’t get me, a Reb sniper tries to take my leg off and a Merki arrow in the chest and then shot up again escaping. Shit, we’ll get through this one, son; there ain’t nothing left to shoot up.”

Andrew chuckled as Hans put his arm around Andrew’s side as if helping him along, two old battle-scarred warriors, hobbling along. The others waited, and Andrew felt as if all of them could sense what was exchanged between the two.

Andrew was surprised to see that Father Casmir had just ridden up and was dismounting. How the priest found out was beyond him, but then he always seemed to know everything.

He came up to Andrew and Hans, shaking their hands.

“Hawthorne told me about the plan.”

Andrew shifted silently, angry that Vincent could be so loose-tongued.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t breathed a word of it. Brilliant, it’s absolutely brilliant.”

He looked over at Varinna.

“Perhaps you should be a permanent part of our war councils.”

“Chuck would like that,” she said with a smile.

“No, you’re your own person now. Let the dead sleep, my daughter. You have a mind and a heart of your own.”

“Your Holiness, a good blessing sure would help,” Hans said, and Andrew looked over at his friend in surprise.

Hans reddened slightly. “Well, it’s never too late to get a bit of religion.”

Casmir chuckled and, reaching into his robes, pulled out a small vial filled with holy water. Uncorking it, he motioned for Hans to kneel and sprinkled a few drops over his head while softly chanting a prayer in the ancient language of the Rus, unchanged across a thousand years of exile.

The deep melodious chant rose in volume, all who were gathered around falling to their knees, even the Chin and Ketswana. Though of old Presbyterian stock, Andrew felt overwhelmed by the moment and fell to his knees as well, head lowered in prayer for his friend, for the mission, for all who were fighting or longing to be free.

Casmir turned away from Hans, holding the vial up, sprinkling the holy water over the assembly, the chant continuing, Andrew managing to understand a few words … “and for those of the old world and all those of the Diaspora in exile upon this world we beg your mercy and protection …”

The Diaspora, an ancient Greek word carried to this world. We of the Diaspora, he thought, but if we win this fight it shall no longer be thus. We will have finished our wanderings, our enslavement, our exile, and this shall forever be our home.

He looked over at Hans again, and it was as if a strange light was gathered about him, about all those who were leaving. He remembered now and understood, that if ever there was a cause worth dying for, this was it. It wasn’t a war to take something, or even to defend the property or country one had. Hans was right. It had been, it always would be, a war to set men free, the most noble of all causes that one could ever sacrifice oneself for. That was why Hans had to go, and that was why Andrew had to let him go.

The chant died away and there was a long drawn-out moment of silence. Andrew looked up and saw Casmir staring straight at him, smiling. The priest offered his hand, and Andrew took it, coming to his feet.

“Load ’em up!” Andrew shouted, surprised by the power of his own voice.

Hans went up to Ketswana, the two exchanged a few words, slapped each other on the back, and Ketswana started to detail off the Chin in groups of ten, pointing each group in turn to one of the machines.

With a grin Ketswana started for the machine directly behind Flying Cloud, then angled over to Andrew.

“Don’t worry, sir, I bring him back for you,” Ketswana announced. Andrew took the Zulu’s hand with a firm grasp.

“Godspeed and good luck, my friend.”

Ketswana, obviously delighted with the mission, slapped Hans on the shoulder, turned, and sprinted off.

“Other than you the closest friend I have,” Hans said.

The two went over to Jack, who was briefing the pilots gathered round, with Varinna and her assistants standing to one side.

“Remember, you have no bottom gunner now. If we do get jumped, you head right to the deck and hug it. The fake stinger might throw them off for a while, but if they ever figure it out, that’s the spot they’ll go for.”

Andrew looked over at one of the ships. The compartment which had once held the bottom gunner and bomb dropper had been removed, replaced with a wicker basket affair fifteen feet long and six feet wide. What was nothing more than half a dozen broom handles, bundled together and painted black now extended from the back of the basket. The squads of Chin soldiers were lining up by the doorway into the baskets, most of them obviously unnerved by the size of the airships, the noise of the engines, and the prospect of what they were about to do.

There had been no time, or surplus fuel to give any of them even the briefest of orientation flights; this would be their first time aloft. They chattered nervously amongst themselves, waiting their turn as the first man climbed the rope ladder into the wickerwork compartment. By the time the sixth to seventh man had climbed aboard, the airships had settled down onto their wheels and now it was not much more than a high step to board.

After the last man was aboard the ground crews passed in their carbines, which had been thoroughly checked to make sure they were empty, cartridge boxes, two blankets per man, tins filled with rations, and two five-gallon barrels of water. Slung along either side of the compartment were four boxes roped in place carrying the additional gear.

“All you have to do is stay behind me,” Jack announced, continuing his briefing. “If I should fall out, well you’ll have to navigate yourselves in. You’re divided into squadrons of four ships, so squadron leaders, it’ll be up to you. The navy’s given us good maps of the coast with all prominent landmarks, so once you hit the coast again fix your position and either head north or south into Tyre.”

He looked around at the group.

“I’ll see all of you this evening.”

, The pilots, nearly all of them not much more than twenty, grinned nervously. There was a scattering of laughter, some gallows humor, and the group stood up.

“Hold it!”

It was Gates. Andrew felt a flash of annoyance when he saw what the newspaperman wanted, but then the historian inside took hold and he nodded approval.

Gates already had the camera out of the wagon and up on its tripod. The sun was just breaking the horizon, casting long shadows.

“You'll all have to stand very still, there’s not much light.”

Gates moved the camera slightly so that he could get part of an airship in the background, then motioned for Andrew to join the group. He felt a presence to his side and saw that Hans had come back from his ship to join in the moment, followed by Ketswana and several of the Chin. Vincent strolled over and stood beside Varinna, who had a chart rolled up under her arm, with Casmir on her other side.

“Hold it now.” Gates took the cap off the lens and started to count down the seconds.

All stood silent, striking their most formal pose, Andrew realizing that as always he had turned slightly to hide the empty sleeve. From the corner of his eye he saw Hawthorne, always the young Sheridan with right hand slipped into his open jacket. Pilots stood casually in their baggy coverall pants, wool jackets open, several with their hands in their pockets. Then there was Hans, slouch cap pulled low, shading his eyes, jaw working a plug of tobacco so that his face would look blurred.

Again the moment of crystal clarity came, the realization of just how precious this all was, how this was a moment as fragile as a glass figurine.

“ ‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,’ ” he whispered, his voice carrying.

“That’s it,” Gates announced, replacing the lens cap.

Jack broke the tableau, stepping in front of the group, turning, and facing Andrew.

“With your permission, sir. Air’s heavy and still. All machines are loaded. It’s time to go.”

Andrew returned the salute.

“Good luck, son.”

Jack smiled wanly and without another word started for his machine. The group broke up, the men setting off at the run, and suddenly he was alone.

He turned to say a final farewell to Hans, but his friend had already set off, falling in alongside Jack. Andrew felt a shudder of disappointment but knew instantly that Hans was right.

Hans climbed up the ladder into the forward crew compartment without looking back, followed by Jack, who pulled the rope ladder up behind him and closed the door. He could see Hans climb into the seat normally occupied by the copilot but Theodor was now the backup commander of the air corps and so was flying in the second airship.

Ground crews stepped back from their airships, crew chiefs each standing in front of his machine, right hand raised, red flag held aloft. The chief in front of Jack’s machine twirled the flag overhead in a tight circle. One after another each of the engines revved up, propellers turning to a blur, then idled back down. Stepping away to the port side of the aerosteamer, the chief waved the flag again and pointed it forward.

All engines revved, and the machine slowly lurched forward. The bi-level wings on the port side passed within a few feet of Andrew, and as it passed the twin engines kicked up a swirl of dust around him, the air heavy with the smell of burning kerosene. The second and third aero-steamers followed, engines roaring. The column, looking like ungainly birds, taxied down to the eastern end of the grass airstrip, a line of slender hydrogen-filled ships, wings seemingly added on as an afterthought.

The lead ship turned, facing into the gentle breeze stirring out of the west. The heads-on silhouette, illuminated from behind by the rising sun, caught Andrew as a stunningly beautiful sight, wings mere slivers of reflected light. The machine lurched forward, seconds later the sound of the engines coming to him.

He tensed, watching as the airship lumbered down the runway, not seeming to move at first, then ever so slowly picking up speed. Gently, gracefully, it lifted off while still a hundred yards away.

Jack expertly leveled off not a dozen feet off the ground, letting his machine build up speed before climbing. It came straight on, some of the crowd around Andrew ducking. He came to attention, saluting as the machine soared overhead, engines roaring, wind strumming the wires sounding like a harp floating in the heavens. He caught a brief glimpse of Hans, perched in the copilot’s seat, a childlike grin lighting his features. Their eyes held for a second, and in that instant it was as if all the years had stripped away and he was now the old man and Hans was the boy, embarking on some grand and glorious adventure, and then he was gone.

Nose rising up, Flying Cloud started to climb, followed by Heaven’s Fire, and Bantag’s Curse. One after another they passed, some wagging their wings in salute, others coming straight on, their pilots too nervous to try anything other than getting off the ground.

Jack led the way, spiraling heavenward, waiting for the last ship to form into a long, straggling column. Finally, he turned due east, rising up through a thousand feet, and sped off, catching the breeze aloft.

Andrew watched as their shape changed from that of slender crosses to a round indistinct blur and then a mere dot of light that finally winked from view. Around him the ground crews finally began to break up, talking softly among themselves, walking back to their hangars, some looking back longingly to the east as if wishing they could go.

“I think that was one of the hardest decisions you’ve ever made.”

Andrew turned to see Casmir by his side.

“Yes, Your Holiness, it was,” he whispered.

“I remember you once saying that in order to be a good commander you must love the army with all your soul. The paradox is that there will come a time when you must then order the very destruction of the thing that you love.”

“Yes, I said that a long time ago.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Hans believes in it.”

“But do you?”

“I don’t know. There are too many variables. The weather turns bad. The Bantag have warning and send airships up to meet them. As it is there’s barely enough fuel, if they don’t capture additional stores, or the advance position for the second wave..His voice trailed off. “Far too many things can go wrong.”

“Life is a process of things going wrong. That is how Perm made the universe. It is our challenge then to find the faith to remake them into what is right and pleasing to His eye.”

Casmir smiled and put his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “I wish I had your faith.”

“You do, it’s just hidden at the moment. Best we head back to the city. Who knows, by the time we get back there might not even be a government.”

He said it so casually but Andrew felt all the worry of that other problem returning.

Varinna, who had launched this entire effort, stood wistfully, crippled hand cupped over her brow to shade the sunlight as she continued to gaze eastward, tears streaming down her face. She sensed him looking at her, and, turning, she faced Andrew, and he knew he had to resume his strength. He forced a smile.

“Chuck dreamed it, you made it possible. It will work.”

“You think so?”

“I wouldn’t have ordered it,” Andrew said. He looked around at those gathered around him, Casmir, Varinna, Gates, the technicians and ground crews, all of them wanting to believe, and he knew that he had lost his own faith ever since the moment he had been cut down by the mortar shell. It was needed now, needed for all of them.

He smiled.

“I have faith,” he whispered. “It will work.”

“My Qarth.”

Jurak stirred, looking up at the entry to his yurt. Zartak stood in the open doorway, silhouetted by the dawning light.

“The time?” Jurak asked, embarrassed that he had slept past sunrise.

“No matter, you were up half the night. I ordered the guards not to disturb you. but this cannot wait.”

“The Yankees, they’re moving,” Jurak said even as he stretched and came to his feet.

“How did you know?” Zartak asked cautiously.

Jurak shook his head. “Don’t go running off proclaiming I have the ability of far seeing. It’s just that I had a dream. I saw Yankee airships. My back was turned, and they fell upon me by surprise.”

Zartak stared at him intently until Jurak nodded toward what he was holding. The old warrior stirred and handed him two telegrams, and Jurak scanned the contents.

“Three Yankee ships carrying land ironclads spotted late yesterday by a flyer out of Tyre patrolling the Inland Sea between Tyre and Roum. First light this morning ships seen in harbor at Tyre. New airships at Tyre already behind our lines and attacking.”

“When did this come in?”

“The second report just minutes ago. The first report the middle of the night.”

“Why the delay?” he asked angrily.

“Apparently a problem with a relay station. Then when it arrived here the Chin who transcribed it simply put it in with the other reports on train movements and supply shipments.”

“Damn all.”

“Should I have an example made of him?” Zartak asked.

Jurak thought on it for a moment, then shook his head.

“If I killed every telegrapher who made a mistake, the line would be down in a day.”

“He might have done it deliberately,” Zartak pressed.

“Tell him another such mistake and it won’t be the moon feast, it will be slow impaling,” Jurak replied.

Zartak gave a noncommittal grunt in reply.

Jurak looked around the yurt. Though it was the yurt of a Qar Qarth, piled with gold and every luxury known to this world, he still would have traded it all for running hot water, privacy when relieving himself, and music, music that could be heard at the touch of a button rather than the wailings of the chant singers and the nerve-tearing screeches of the single-string basha.

Zartak offered to help him dress, but he waved the old warrior aside as he slipped into leather trousers that felt cold and clammy, riding boots, a leather jacket, and a lightweight shirt of chain mail, nothing that would be much good in a battle but here in the rear lines was worn as a matter of course to protect against an assassin’s blade in the back.

As he did so he continued to think about the two telegrams.

“Moving their ironclads down to Tyre,” he said. “I wonder if they stripped everything off this front.”

“We could send up our airships to look behind their lines here.”

He nodded in agreement.

Why Tyre though? He walked over to a map drawn on the tanned hide of one of the great woolly giants that wandered the steppes. The map was stretched out on a wooden frame, showing the entire world from Nippon to Suzdal.

The mapmaking of the Bantag had intrigued him as soon as he had come to this world. With the endless circlings they had drawn out every step of their march, every watering hole, river ford, cattle settlement, place of good grazing, and places where the land was barren. The great scroll, when stretched end to end, measured well over two hundred paces. What hung before him was but one small part of the great fabric of this strange world that was now his home.

He stared at the map.

“From Tyre, two days of hard marching could bring them up to the head of the rail line we are running from this small port here.” He pointed at the map. Zartak nodded.

“Camagan the cattle call it,” Zartak replied.

“Our warriors at Tyre, except for a few regiments, have yet to be armed with rifles. If he flings his ironclads into them, there will be no stopping such an advance. Take our rail line, push to the Great Sea, and establish there a base to harry our supply shipments.”

“Audacious. Typical of Keane.”

Keane. Did Keane dream of this he wondered. If so, it was a desperate bid. Most likely he had stripped all his ironclads and his surviving airships for this attack. He just couldn’t send the ironclads. It would have to have infantry support, at least a umen of their troops as well.

He traced the route out on the map. Send an order to Xi’an, have them divert the next shipment of ironclads, rush the machines to Camagan. Though the distance was long, move up some airships as well, and also some airships from Capua. There were eight umens surrounding Tyre. Even with just bows that should be enough once the ironclads and airships were moved into place.

“We let them get their heads well into the trap,” Jurak announced, “make sure we don’t attack too soon. Then snap it shut and annihilate what is left of his advanced weapons.”

“Suppose that isn’t the true goal?”

“What?”

“Suppose it is something else.”

Jurak turned back to the map. The ironclads were too far south even to think of attempting a march to the northeast. From there it was nearly 150 leagues to his main supply depot at what the Yankees once called Fort Hancock.

Xi’an? Two hundred leagues southward and then east to the narrows of the Great Sea, and even there it was a mile-wide channel to cross to the eastern shore and then another hundred leagues back up to the northeast.

No. Not Xi’an.

“You dreamed of airships, my Qarth,” Zartak said, his voice barely a whisper, “not ironclads.”

“I know.”

He continued to stare at the map.

“Well, it was only a dream, my friend.”