Never Sound Retreat Part 3

"I was thinking about that myself. From the report that you telegraphed in I was working up some estimates. The gas cells just don't seem to add up to provide enough lift. The wings are lifting surfaces, we know that, they make it more maneuverable as well in turns. I think they've put on engines d.a.m.n near as good as ours; in fact I'd be willing to bet they stripped an engine off one of our downed machines and copied it. Anyhow, I think they actually have to get the thing moving forward at twenty miles an hour or more on the ground till the wings provide enough lift, then it takes off and flies."

As he talked Chuck pulled out a sheaf of drafting paper and unrolled it across his desk, using his cup of tea to hold down one side.

"By doing that they cut down on the bulk of the actual airship, there's less drag. It means they can't hover unless flying into a significant head wind, but it also means they can go a h.e.l.l of a lot faster. You also mentioned that you saw what looked like flaps on the end of the wings."

Jack, reaching into his haversack, pulled out his own drawings and pointed them out.

"You said you saw the flaps moving, then the ship banked over and turned?"

"Yup. They don't turn in a flat circle; they bank over and turn." As he spoke Jack held up his hands, tilted them, and moved them through a turn.

Warming to his subject, Chuck picked up a pencil and jotted a quick sketch into the corner of his own drawings.

"That allows tighter turns. They don't just use a rudder to turn. d.a.m.n, I never thought of that. It'd be easy enough to put those flaps on our wings and run cables back to a control stick. I've been thinking about that engine on the wing arrangement as well. It cuts down drag with fuel tanks inside the wings.

"The length of the wings is rather long, how about if we tried this?" And yet again his pencil scribbled out a change in design, Jack leaning over the table, watching.

"Cut the wings in half and put one on top of the other?"

"Strange-looking I know, but with support struts going between the two wings it will make them stiffer, a biwing design. I even thought of another change." He pointed to the bow of the ship.

"Pilot up front and forward?" Jack asked.

"With the old design, the gondola car underneath, you had a 360-degree view, but it was underneath. If we put you up forward in the bow, you'd have a 360-degree view forward, up, and down. You'd also have a forward view down as you did before. We'd put a second person in what I'd call a turret directly under the wings. He'd be a gunner and could also drop bombs. We'd put a third person, a gunner, topside and aft on the tail. You'd all be hooked together by speaker hoses, and I even thought of a small access tunnel that your bomb dropper could use to get up to the forward cab. With this arrangement there isn't a blind spot on the entire ship."

"How long before we get them?"

"That's the problem." Chuck sighed. "Three weeks, maybe a month for the smaller test model, three months or more for ships with the range ofFlying Cloud.My suggestion is that we sc.r.a.p those currently under production and take the material to refit for this new design."

"That leaves us with no ships at all."

Chuck nodded. "MoreFlying Cloudmodels would be nothing but sitting ducks, even with the wings I was putting on. I want to take one of the smaller two-engine models, refit it, use it as a test. Then startturning out two-engine models like the Bantag's, and then some of these."

He pulled out another sheet of paper and unrolled it. Jack could feel a rush of desire, as if Chuck had unrolled a copy of one of the racy lithographs that someone had been mysteriously producing in the last couple of months and which had become so popular with the soldiers.

"Four engines, 120-foot wingspan but with only half the gas ofFlying Cloud.I figure it can do nearly sixty miles an hour, maybe seventy. It should be able to carry half a ton of bombs six hundred miles."

"How many can you make?"

"I want sixty of the smaller ones as escorts," Chuck replied, "and twenty of these big ones by next spring."

Amazed, Jack shook his head.

"I know, seems impossible, but I think this war will be decided by airships. I don't want them fed in piecemeal. I convinced Colonel Keane on that score. Build them and unleash them all at once, have one all-out pitched battle and destroy their airship facilities on the ground. We struck a deal with the Cartha, paying a pretty penny, but with them as the middlemen we're buying every st.i.tch of silk to be had."

"The Cartha?"

"Yeah, I know, the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are playing both sides."

Jack could understand the pressure they were under, the ruins of the Merki tribes hovering on their western border, the Bantag on the east. The Cartha were even supplying the Bantag with metal. Pat was calling for taking them out, or at least blockading their ports, but with the fleet stretched to its limits, literally disa.s.sembling ships from the Inland Sea fleet and shipping them by rail to the Great Sea, Bullfinch had argued that now was not the time to start a war on yet another front.

"But what about now? We're blind."

Chuck nodded. "I know but do you see any alternative? Send up the ships we're currently making, and they'd get slaughtered."

Jack realized that he should feel a sense of relief. What Chuck had told him was that he could antic.i.p.ate living till next spring. As a pilot without an airship, he was out of the war. He could stay on in Suzdal, help his friend with the design work, do some test flying, and most definitely have his pick of every lovely lady in the city. And yet, the knowledge that Keane would be fighting blind a thousand miles to the east filled him with dread.

"What else do you have?"

Chuck smiled and pulled a sketchbook out of his desk and started to thumb through it.

"Wonderful how war can unleash the creative talent," he said coldly. "Improved engine design, both for your airships and for our navy. I rather like this beauty I've got here."

Jack looked at the curious sketch.

"What the h.e.l.l is it?"

"I just took the design for an old Mississippi river-boat. Cut off all the gingerbread works, the way we did back on Earth during the war. There'll be a small armored top and that's it."

"All that just to carry one gun?"

"Ah, here's the beauty of it. It's a ship for landing troops straight on to a beach while under fire. That entire hold can carry two hundred men. The bow simple drops down and out they go, the steampowered Gatling gun I've been working on providing cover from the armored turret."

Jack was reminded of a copy he had once seen of a sketchbook belonging to Leonardo da Vinci. Hastily drawn pictures filled the pages, some just rough outlines, others expanded out with greater detail. Jack took Chuck's sketchbook from his friend and leafed through it. He paused for a moment to study an artillery piece, mounted on a strange-looking carriage so that it was pointed nearly vertical; beside it stood a man who was hunched over, looking into the middle of what appeared to be a long pipe with telescopes mounted on either side.

"Range finder," Chuck announced proudly. "Simple idea. Mount two telescopes ten feet apart, have a mirror in the middle to split the image. The gunner turns a dial which ever so slowly shifts the mirrors, and when the two images merge the dial will show him how many yards it is to the target. Simple geometry of knowing a base, and the angles of the mirror gives you the height. You then cut the fuse and fire. Any airship that wanders into range is dead."

Jack nodded, turning the page. The next one he managed to figure out quickly enough since he had heard his friend talk about it. It was a ship that was almost submerged except for a small conning tower. The ship could fire something Chuck called a torpedo, which would then be guided to its target by a rubber hose through which jets of air would be used to turn the torpedo to port or starboard.

Next came the sketches of the land cruisers which were going into production. The first land ironclad company, under the command of one of Chuck's new engineering students, was even now trying out itsfirst maneuvers with the dozen machines produced so far.

"How are these going?" Jack asked.

"Power to weight ratio is all off. At best they can only make four miles an hour, and on any type of upslope it's d.a.m.n near a crawl. There's a big fight going on as well regarding how to use them. Gregory Timokin, the engineer I a.s.signed to test them out, says they should be kept together as a strike force. The testing board is saying they should be dispersed, a couple to each corps as starters."

"And what do you think?"

"Keep them together, of course, the same way I want to see your airships learn how to fight as a unit rather than individuals. Ma.s.s; this next war will be about ma.s.s and the concentration of ma.s.s at the crucial point."

"The Bantag have sixty umens; I've heard rumors they can marshal another forty, even sixty if they coordinate with other tribes and the Merki. If it's a war of ma.s.s. They have it and we don't."

"So we outthink them, as we always have, Jack."

"I'm afraid this new leader can match us even in that. I never thought I'd see the day where their airships could fly circles around ours."

Chuck suddenly leaned forward and started to cough. His features were contorted with pain, the cough sounding like deep rumbling thunder. Gasping, he fumbled for a handkerchief and covered his mouth. Jack saw flecks of blood. Ferguson's wife was instantly through the door, kneeling by Chuck's side, looking at him anxiously until the spasm pa.s.sed. Her gaze shifted to Jack, as if he was the blame for the attack.

"To bed right now."

"In a couple of minutes."

"Now!"

Chuck looked back over at Jack.

"There's not enough time for everything to be done," he whispered, still gasping for breath. "I've got to train others to do this work. It's here that the war will be won or lost." He tapped his notebook. "The new airships, the land cruisers, and heaven knows what else they have, they scare me."

"Why's that?"

"It shows me that whoever it is on the other side, this Ha'ark, he knows more than I do."

The shrill call of the pipes and the thumping rattle of the drums set Andrew's heart to pounding as the regimental bands struck up "Battle Cry of Freedom." The Thirty-fifth Maine, as befitted its privileged position as the first regiment of the Army of the Republic, led the parade through the city square of Suzdal, tattered national colors and state flag at the fore. The two flags were the most treasured of all the heirlooms of the Republic. Battle honors were inscribed in gold lettering on the red-and-white stripes of the American flag-Antietam, Fredericksburg, Chancel-lorsville, Gettysburg, Wildnerness, Spotsylvania, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, the Ford, Suzdal, Roum, St. Gregory's, Potomac, Second Ford, Hispania.

It was a belief as old as armies that the spirits of the fallen dead of a regiment, a battalion, a legion, or phalanx, forever hovered about the standard they had followed, and Andrew could sense their presence now-boys with forgotten names, who were in his company in the Cornfield and West Woods of Antietam, his own brother Johnnie lost at Gettysburg, and all the thousands who followed and stood beneath the fading silken folds, wreathed in the grey smoke of battle, facing rebel charges, the Hordes of Tugars, Merki, and now the Bantag.

As an actual fighting unit the old Thirty-fifth was In reality no more. Only a handful of those who had come through the Tunnel of Light with him still stood beneath the colors. Two-thirds of the Maine boys who boarded the transportOgunquitwere dead-Hispania alone had claimed nearly three-score of them. Those who still survived were now in command of regiments, brigades, divisions, and corps, or ran the government. The young flag bearer who had led the charge across the very square the regiment was parading across, William Webster, was now the secretary of the treasury. His financial genius somehow kept the Republic solvent. Gates ran the newspaper and a flourishing publishing business, l erguson the research and college, Morrow the Agriculture Department for the supply of food.

The ranks were filled, instead, with the best the Republic had to offer, the young men of Rus, of Roum, even a few from Erin, Asgard, refugees from Cartha, and the Chin and Zulus that Hans had brought back with him out of bondage. After two years training with the Thirty-fifth they would move on to other commands as young officers-the Thirty-fifth was now the West Point of the Republic.

There was a hushed awe as the colors went past the review stand, Andrew coming to rigid attention, tears in his eyes as he saluted the treasured colors. Sergeant Major Hans Schuder rode before them, returning the salute. Hans insisted upon retaining the t.i.tle of Sergeant Major, in the same way Andrew was still technically a colonel, even as they stood as the first- and second-in-command of the Armies of the Republic.

Father Casmar, the prelate of the Holy Orthodox Church of Suzdal raised his hands in blessing, the colors respectfully dipping low as they pa.s.sed him. Andrew wondered what some of his old comrades from New England would think of that. The curious religion of the Rus seemed to be an amalgamation of early Orthodox Christianity with a fair smattering of pagan customs still lingering. Thus G.o.d was called Perm, the ancient Slavic pagan deity, and Jesus was Kesus.

Hans rode on, the regiment parading by in perfect step. Behind them came the First Suzdal, the original regiment of the Republic of Rus, and the reverent silence of the crowd gave way to thundering cheers, for this was truly their own. In the crowd Andrew could see many a veteran of the Old First, men with empty sleeves, or leaning on crutches, standing at attention as their cherished colors floated by. Other regiments followed, the Second and Third Suzdal, the Fifth Murom, the Seventeenth and Twenty-third Roum, which had been sent west for combined training with the Rus. All these were the reserve battalions, going to the front to join the rest of their regiments already on the line.

Some of the men were still dressed in the old white or b.u.t.ternut uniforms of the original armies, while newer recruits proudly wore the navy blue tunic and sky-blue trousers of the new uniform, patterned after the cherished uniform of the regiment which had led them to freedom. Black slouch caps were pulled down at a jaunty angle and rubberized ground cloths were slung over the left shoulder in the old horsecollar arrangement. Black cartridge boxes bounced onthe right hip and heavy leather brogans slapped on the pavement. Trouser legs were tucked into calf-high wool socks to prevent the dust and biting insects from getting up their trousers, and, as Andrew watched them pa.s.s, he remembered the road to Gettysburg, and everything seemed to merge into an eternal oneness. He wondered, as well, how many of those marching past would soon go to join the ghosts of comrades who had marched through the June twilight so many years before and from there departed into legend.

The thought set him to wondering yet again. If this should indeed be his last campaign, what then afterward? Would his old comrades from the past- Mina, Malady, Colonel Estes, his brother John- would they be waiting upon the far sh.o.r.e, under the shade of the trees as Stonewall Jackson said upon his deathbed? And if they were, would they still be in the old union blue, gathered about a sparkling fire, laughing, telling the old stories and remembering glories past? If there is a heaven, he thought, might It not be Valhalla after all, a warrior's paradise, for he knew that in spite of his protestations and genuine desire for peace, war was part of his soul forever. Perhaps in such a paradise the good Lord allowed the fallen warriors to tramp the fields yet again, and to feel the shiver go down their spines as musketry rattled in the distance and the thump of artillery echoed across the heavenly sky.

Yet again he thought of Lee's famous statement at Fredericksburg, "It is good war is so terrible, else we would grow too fond of it," and he refocused his attention on the troops marching past.

Some of the regiments were still carrying the old Springfield pattern .58 caliber rifled musket, but most of the men now had three-banded Sharps breechloading rifles capable of four to five rounds a minute and lethal at six hundred yards.

Behind the line regiments came special detachments-led by the First and Second Sharpshooters Companies, the men armed with the deadly Whitworth rifle which fired a hexagonal bullet and was capable of dropping a target at three-quarters of a mile. It was with just such a gun that Jubadi of the Merki had been killed. The men of the sniper detachments gave Andrew a chilly sense. It was one thing to kill impersonally in battle, or even in the heat of pa.s.sion when charging or facing a charge in turn. This was a different kind of war, a stalking, a deliberate picking out and selection of who was next to die. Even though the targets were Horde riders, it still troubled him. In their cartridge boxes they also carried a new kind of bullet, yet another of Ferguson's creations, an exploding round designed to be fired at ammunition wagons and caissons, though more than one of the snipers boasted that such a round could tear a hole bigger than a man's fist in a Bantag. As the men pa.s.sed he could almost sense a cold remorselessness in them.

Behind the snipers marched the technicians of this new army: signals units, field telegraph line layers, engineers, even a pontoon bridging detachment. Most of the men in these auxiliaries units were veterans who, owing to age or injury, simply could not keep up with what was required of a rifle regiment on the line. As they pa.s.sed they looked up at Andrew with the steady gaze of old comrades, and he relaxed slightly, nodding a greeting to those who stirred a memory of what had been.

Next came the new cavalry units. The supply ofhorses for the army had at last been solved by the catastrophic defeat inflicted on the Merki. Tens of thousands of horses had been abandoned by the Horde as it retreated. The vast steppe area between Rus and Roum served as an ideal pasture and breeding ground, so that now there was more than enough transport for the artillery and nearly ten thousand mounts for a corps of cavalry. Many an old Boyar or patrician from before the wars had once again found a place where he felt he could fight with honor and ride proudly at the head of a troop or regiment. They most likely would never be a straight-out match for a Horde rider, and tactical doctrine emphasized lighting as dismounted infantry. But as a screen and for scouting the vast open stretches of steppe they were indispensable.

Finally the third branch of the combat arms came rumbling into the square, led by the old Forty-fourth New York Light Artillery, their four bronze Napoleons sparkling in the afternoon light. Though the weapons were obsolete when compared to the newer breechloading ten- and twenty-pounders, Pat would never hear of their retirement, insisting there was still a place for a good solid Napoleon delivering canister at close range. Thus the Forty-fourth would go off to war with its traditional weapon, and there might be a place for them yet, Andrew thought. Like the Thirty-fifth, the old Forty-fourth served as the training school for the Republic's artillery.

The program to build the newer alternating-screw breechloaders had gone nowhere near as fast as he wished. The old four-pounders with which he had first outfitted his army had long since been retired, most of them melted down to forge newer weapons. Only twelve of Ferguson's fearful bra.s.s-cartridge ten-pounders had been produced for the first of the land ironclads, while the rest of the breechloaders were still charged with a separate sh.e.l.l and powder bag. Many of the Parrott guns used at Hispania were still in service and would be for at least another year. The half dozen batteries were followed by the First and Second Rus Rocket Batteries, the forty rockets mounted on each wagon actually being dummy rounds since no one in his right mind would parade several hundred of the deadly and rather unpredictable weapons through the streets, where a single firecracker might set them off.

Behind the artillery and rockets came the new weapon that everyone in Suzdal was curious to see. Andrew had debated whether he should even allow it to be shown, but realized that security in this case came second to morale. Gates had broken the story of what the Bantags had, and it was time for the people to be rea.s.sured.

The piercing shriek of a steam whistle echoed across the plaza, counterpointed by a deep insistent rumbling as the first of the Republic's new land ironclads slowly turned the corner by the White House and started across the plaza. Billows of black coal-fired smoke puffed from the machine's stack, bits of soot swirling about in the sulfurous clouds. White clouds of steam shot out from underneath the machine as its six iron wheels, each of them six feet high and with rims four feet in diameter, crunched over the cobblestone pavement.

The ironclad's forward gun port was open, the ten-pound breechloading fieldpiece's muzzle protruding. The small turret on top was covered with canvas-that was one weapon Andrew did not yet want discussed-but the upper port atop the turret was open and the commander of the ironclad, Major Gregory Timokin, stood chest high in the opening. His uniform consisted of a heavy steel helmet and chain mail covering his face and upper body to protect them from metal flakes and bolt heads which snapped off inside the machine when it was struck by bullets and artillery rounds. The young major stood with arms crossed, obviously proud of his position, and as the machine rumbled past the reviewing stand he saluted Andrew, then made the sign of the cross as they pa.s.sed Father Casmar.

Andrew was pleased and somewhat amused to see the name"Saint Malady"emblazoned on the black armored side of the ironclad. Malady, a hard-drinking, foul-mouthed sergeant if ever there was one, had been elevated to the role of patron saint of all steam engineers after his heroic death at the siege of Suzdal, when he rammed his locomotive into an attacking column.

As the last of the units pa.s.sed, Andrew finally relaxed and looked over at President Kalenka, who had Mood next to him throughout the parade.

"Impressive, Andrew; they look d.a.m.n good."

"But not enough."

"We have twelve corps now, over two hundred thousand men. We beat the Merki with not much more than half of that at Hispania."

Andrew knew all the figures by heart. Twelve corps active, four more forming. Of the twelve corps two were on permanent duty to the west, for out on the vast steppes beyond Cartha the remnants of the defeated Merki still lingered, raiding, eager to penetrate for a killing attack if they suspected that dedefenses were down. If they ever reunited, they could field fifteen-maybe even twenty-umens. Two more corps were kept as strategic reserves garrisoned at Suzdal and Roum, ready to react either east or west, depending on the threat. That left eight for the Ban-tag front.

Then there were the eighty batteries of artillery, one corps of cavalry, a fleet of sixteen monitors and two dozen other ships, an air corps unit, various detached units, garrison troops, home guard militia armed with old smoothbores, nearly a third of a million men under arms.

Bill Webster, head of treasury and finance, was constantly pointing out it was now simply impossible to put one more man into the front line. Nearly every fit man between eighteen and thirty was in the rank or working in the factories. Close to 20 percent of the total population of the Republic was in uniform; not even the Union at the height of the war supportec much more than 5 percent of its total population in: the army at one time. The Confederacy had somehow managed to put fully 20 percent of its total population into uniform, and its economy was in a shambles by the end of the second year of fighting. Crops still had to be planted, harvests brought in, trees felled, coal and iron ore dug, uniforms and accoutrements made, track laid and repaired, telegraph wire strung, and, above all else, the daily routine of living had to go on, the raising and teaching of children, the cooking of meals, the tending to the aged, the sick, anc the wounded.

The overcast skies finally opened up, as if they hac been respectfully waiting for the parade to end, anc a chilly rain came spattering down, with big heavy drops that set the crowd in the square scattering.

Andrew looked over at Father Casmar.

"Join us for dinner, Father?"

"Why I'd be delighted, thank you."

Andrew smiled, for he never knew a clergyman to turn down the prospect of a good home-cooked meal.

"Andrew Lawrence Keane, where's your poncho?"

Andrew looked down from the reviewing stand to see Kathleen standing beneath an umbrella, looking up at him peevishly. It still thrilled him that even after the nearly seven years they had been together the mere sight of her, the look of her green eyes, the wisp of red hair peeking out from under her bonnet, could set his heart pounding. He loved, as well, that when she was upset with him or when affection took hold, a touch of her old Irish brogue came back.

She motioned for him to join her under the umbrella, but he shook his head. There was something about an umbrella that he felt was somehow undignified; a man made do with a good slouch cap and poncho or not at all. Fortunately his orderly came up and helped Andrew throw the rubberized canvas poncho over his head. It was not army regulation, fortunately; otherwise, it would barely come to his thighs. Like all armies, the belief was that one size fit all, and his first chief quartermaster, John Mina, had decreed that ponchos were to be cut for the height of an average Rus soldier, which was five-foot-six. Fortunately there was the privilege of command and Andrew had one made to cover his lanky six-foot-four-inch frame.

John . . . and Andrew found he still missed his old friend, dead in the final day of Hispania. He had briefly transferred responsibility of logistics to Ferguson, almost a punishment, for Ferguson had often been the biggest thorn in John's side. Now it fell under Pat's control, and Pat had wisely found a team of young men to handle the responsibility for him.

Though Pat might feign the role of a hard-drinking and not-too-smart Irishman, the years of war had seasoned him into a tough and proficient commander in his own right. Beneath the roaring, swearing, drinking, and bl.u.s.ter, traits which endeared him to the men of his command, he was a shrewd pragmatist with the sort of common sense that seemed capable of taking the most complex of issues and reducing them to a simple answer.

Stepping down from the podium, he fell in by Kathleen's side, joined by Kal, Father Casmar, and a moment later by Hans, who trotted up, then dismounted to lead his horse.

"The boys looked splendid," Kal announced.

"The question is, how will they fight," Hans replied. "Nearly half our men did not serve in the last war, they've never stood on a skirmish line, let alone against a Horde charge."

"They'll learn," Kal said. "Same way I did back in the beginning, same way we did at Hispania."

"Different kind of fighting now," Hans continued, and he looked over sharply at Kal.

Andrew was silent. There had been a sharp debate on the floor of Congress only the day before about the nature of the war. This, at least on the surface, did not seem like the same grim war of survival back when the Merki had overrun Rus. It was distant, remote. Over 150,000 men were now deployed a thousand miles away, and yet, to date, there had been precious little fighting-a few skirmishes on the front facing Nippon, the occasional bombing of a ship by a Bantag flyer. More men were dying of disease than of wounds. It had finally been voiced, the question of whether they were really at war. The wild enthusiasm expressed when Hans had escaped was tempered now. The economy was again on a wartime footing-anything but the most essential items was scarce, food was rationed, nearly every family had someone up at the front-but there was no fighting.

Beyond that, Ha'ark had proven to be a masterful diplomat. A steady stream of human amba.s.sadors, Chin slaves, had been coming through the lines, a.s.suring peace with the one request that the Republic withdraw its forces from the Great Sea. Kal had been busy trying to suppress a rebellion in Congress, but one was definitely simmering. To his utter astonishment the Senate had even voted to allow a formal amba.s.sador to journey to Rus, and he was now locked in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the White House, blindfolded and under guard whenever he left the Executive Mansion. Andrew could see that Hans had endured a grueling time with the Senate; the three days of hearings, discussion of strategy, the begging for yet more appropriations had taken their toll.