Down to the Sea

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 with 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.”

He looked at Abe, his gaze cool and penetrating.

“You don’t like that word, cattle. None of your race does.”

“It is a reminder of a time that is gone.”

“Gone to you who were born after it, but alive in the memory of many of my people, and still dreamed of by those cubs. If I whistled to them now, ordered them to drop their game and slay you, they would do it.”

“You are their Qar Qarth. Of course they would obey.”

“No, Keane, they would do it because they wanted to. And beyond that, they would devour you upon this very spot and do so with glee, do it while you are still alive and screaming, as they have heard their fathers describe it done.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Abe replied, voice edged with anger. “So that I can hate you? I was trained as a soldier of the Republic. I know of every battle, of all that happened before. I know that at Hispania and at Roum our men executed prisoners, tortured and mutilated some. Atrocities are committed in the heat and madness of battle.”

“But you never felt them,” Jurak said sharply. “You don’t know war. I do. I guess that’s always been the way of it. The generation that fought a war looks at its young, not imagining they too could do the barbarities required.

“Those cubs, look at them carefully, Keane. The next time you see them, they will be coming to kill you.”

“Is this what you truly want?” Abe asked.

“No, damn you,” Jurak snarled with a deep throaty growl. “I know where this will end, as do you.”

“Then stop it.”

“How?”

“Just stop it.”

Jurak laughed. “Perhaps your father will be a victim of the very sense of justice he is famous for. If you had slain us all twenty years back, this would not now be happening.”

“But we didn’t. Shouldn’t that sway your thinking now?”

“Blood. It is about blood and race. I wish it was different.” His voice trailed off, but the look in his eyes told Abe that there was nothing more to be said.

“Then this is where we part, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

He nodded. Reaching down to the side of his saddle, he pulled out a scimitar that was still in its scabbard and handed it over to Abe.

“A present in parting, Abraham Keane. It was forged for a cub and thus should fit your hand well.”

Abe took the present and unsheathed it. The fine wavery lines from the forging of the blade shimmered in the morning sunlight. He held it aloft, feeling its balance, then slowly resheathed it, nodding his thanks, unable to speak. “Strange as it sounds, I hope it protects you well.”

“I have no such gift to offer in reply.”

“Nor was one expected, young man. It’s a present to your father as well in a way, to protect that which he cares for. Call it a small repayment of the debt I owe to a human who was your father’s closest friend.”

Abe smiled sadly and then, on impulse, extended his right hand.

Jurak hesitated, then finally extended his own hand, taking Abe’s in his. “I hope we don’t meet again, Abraham Keane, for you know what that would mean.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Ride with the wind. I will let no one pursue you. That should give you fifteen leagues or more. Avoid the Gilwana Pass. That’s the grazing grounds of the Black Speckled Clan. They more than most have no love for you. Nearly all their warriors died in the Chin Rebellion.”

“And what shall I tell my father?”

Jurak smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. His message was clear enough.”

“Farewell, Qar Qarth Jurak.”

““Then farewell, Keane.”

The Qar Qarth picked up his reins and spurred his mount, which leapt forward with a start.

Abe held his own reins in tight, his mount shying as Jurak’s stallion surged forward. So it’s war, Abe thought coldly. Strange, I half want to see it, to understand it as my father did. And yet he found it difficult to hold back tears as he watched Jurak ride back to the Bantag encampment.

The train, pulling a single car, glided to a stop at the station, out of which descended a woman, followed by several of her assistants.

“Varinnia, how are you today?” Andrew asked, coming forward to take her hand.

Richard immediately recognized her. Varinnia Ferguson had often lectured at the academy to senior year cadets on applied engineering. She was, of course, yet another legend of the war, and that legend stilled any comments when she had first come into a classroom. Her face had been horribly burned, she was barely able to write with one wilted hand, but the flames, if they had touched her mind, had done so in a different way, making her seem as if she would burst into fire from sheer energy and passion for her subject. By the end of her first lecture all had forgotten how she looked, and there wasn’t a cadet who wouldn’t thrash anyone who dared to make a crude joke about her appearance.

She had another side as well, for as the wife of Chuck Ferguson, she had worked not only as an engineer and inventor but also as a political revolutionary, bringing about the amendment for women to vote and, at the same time, creating a tradition in the young Republic for women to go into medicine and engineering.

At her approach, Richard instinctively came to attention. She nodded to William Webster, secretary of the treasury, then turned to look appraisingly at Cromwell.

“Young Lieutenant Cromwell, I understand you are the reason for all this excitement.”

“Commander Cromwell as of this morning,” Andrew interjected with a smile.

Stunned, Richard turned to the President.

“Sir. I hardly think-”

“No self-deprecating comments, Commander. Admiral Bullfinch was an admiral at the age of twenty-two. Age doesn’t matter in this country. It’s wisdom, guts, and more than a little luck that counts.”

Cromwell was silent.

“Besides, you need the rank to do some of the things expected of you. Plus, it’s a statement on my part as well.”

“A statement, sir?”

“That he believes you,” Varinnia said. “When word of this becomes public, your promotion will make a statement.” She looked back at Andrew. “I assume Gates will be pulled in to do the proper articles on him, and on everything else.”

“I’ve already talked to him. That’s why you don’t see any newspaper scribblers following us down here this morning. He agreed to hold off on the story.”

“Oh, really?”

“Either that or I shut down his papers for a few days and he loses thousands. There’s a fine line between censorship and a nation’s security. I convinced Gates it was the latter rather than the former.”

She nodded approvingly. “Let’s get to work.”

She led the way from the station, which was empty on this Sunday morning, down to the naval dockyard on the Neiper, fifteen miles south of the city.

As the procession headed out, Cromwell noticed that Adam Rosovich was one of her assistants, and he fell in beside his old acquaintance from the academy. After offering a smiling salute, Adam extended his hand.

“On the train ride down here Ferguson told us a bit about what happened to you,” Adam whispered. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Is it true that the Gettysburg was lost with all hands?” Richard nodded.

“Damn, I had a couple of friends on her. Poor O’Donald, he was a good man.”

“Yes,” Richard sighed, “a good man.”

“You look like hell, Richard, like you took the worst end of a brawl at the Roaring Mouse.”

Richard smiled. “If only it had been that easy. So how is it with your plush and comfortable job at the ordnance design office?”

Adam sighed. “Boring. I wanted to fly, but I’ve been up exactly once, to test.” He fell silent and gave him a conspiratorial smile. “But that’s supposed to be a secret. Anyhow, even then I just rode in the backseat. There’s a lot of good ideas floating around. I’ve been trying to push that pet project we talked about at the academy.”

“The aerosteamer carrier?”

“Exactly, but you should hear the old admirals howl. I thought Admiral Petronius was going to have my head when I presented a paper on it a couple of weeks back. ‘It goes against all doctrine,’ he roared. ‘We need more guns, not buzzing gnats,’ were his exact words.”

Richard nodded. He’d seen the exact same type of ship Adam was dreaming about riding at anchor in the harbor of Kazan.

“I keep trying to tell them that with the new weapon we’re developing, aerosteamer carriers will become crucial. We’ll no longer just use them for scouting. But they’ll have none of it. I think Dr. Ferguson agrees, but the rest of the board moves like a snail in a snowstorm.”

The group slowed as they approached the main gate of the shipyard, and the two fell silent.

Nothing stirred in the early morning except for a few surprised sentries guarding the entry gate, through which hundreds of workers flowed during the regular work week. One of two guards accompanying Andrew went over to the sentries and quietly but forcefully began to impress upon them that the president had never been here. A nervous lieutenant, coming out of the guardhouse inside the gate was turned back and taken inside.

Andrew walked through the gate, Varinnia on one side, Webster on the other. Richard and Adam followed. Just inside the gate Richard recognized the stooped-shouldered form of Theodor Theodovich, head engineer of the Republic Aerosteamer Company, chief contractor for all airships built for the Republic. Beside him stood a tall gray-haired naval officer, still slender in spite of his obvious sixty years or more of age.

“Admiral Petronius,” Adam whispered.

The two offered their salutes, which Petronius answered without comment.

When Richard looked over at Theodor, he smiled.

“Old Jack Petracci told me you were a damn good pilot,” he said, extending his hand.

Richard, who normally fought at all times to contain any display of emotion, could not help but be impressed and gladly took the hand.

“Later today I want to sit down with you and go over every detail you can remember of their flying machines. I read the notes you jotted down. They show good technical judgment, Cromwell.”

“I just wish I could have brought the plane all the way in.”

“You’re lucky you made it as far as you did and spotted that ship. That was damn near good enough.”

“You once flew with General Petracci, didn’t you?”

Theodor grinned. “Scared the hell out of me. After the war I swore I’d never go up with him again, and I’ve kept that promise.”

Richard looked at him admiringly. He and Petracci were the only two flyers from the Great War who were still alive.

Clearing the gate, the small entourage maneuvered through the railyard, weaving around flatcars loaded with steel plates, keels, beams, masts, and all the thousand other ship parts cast in the foundries north of the city. All was silent, and a cool fog was drifting in from the river, heavy with the less than pleasant smells that drifted down from the teeming city to the north.

The naval yard had been constructed after the war, a massive project that had taken five years and required the movement of millions of tons of earth and rock to construct a dry dock, slips and ways, piers and workyards.

Tied off at the main piers were the almost complete cruisers Shiloh, Perryville, and Wilderness. The decks were still flush, since turrets, superstructures and masts had yet to be added. All three of the ships had been launched only within the last month and then tied off for final completion.

Along the next dock were five frigates in various stages of completion. Nothing new was in development, because the eight ships represented all of the budget allocations Andrew had run through at the start of his second term. Some of the southern members of Congress were arguing that all further ship building should take place at Constantine. It seemed a natural choice, being directly on the sea. Continuing the work at Suzdal was seen as a maneuver to keep money inside Rus and away from the shipbuilders of the southern states, who had far more experience. The only argument against it was the threat from cyclones.

“What’s the deepest draft we can get in here?” Varinnia asked, looking back at one of her assistants.

“Thirty-three feet in the main channel and from slip number one. The others are all at twenty-five feet.”

She led the group over to where Shiloh was tied off. She was one of the Gettysburg class, three hundred and fifty feet in length and drawing nearly five thousand tons.

“Compare that to what you saw, Cromwell,” she said, pointing at the ship.

“It wouldn’t last ten minutes in a fight with their ships of the line.”

Andrew and several others of the group shifted uncomfortably.

“Why?”

“Their largest ship had breechloading guns that I estimated were ten inches, perhaps even twelve. I spotted six turrets on several of them, two forward, two aft, and two amidships.”

“The amidships guns, how do they bear?” she asked.

“They’re positioned so that they can fire directly forward or aft. Therefore, it would have four guns for a bow or stern chase, and five guns for a broadside. I think I spotted a number of secondary guns of lighter caliber as well.

“In the night fight, I think I saw a couple of ships that had three guns forward and one or two aft. It looked like several different designs, but all of them were heavy, twelve thousand tons, maybe as high as eighteen or twenty.”

“Did you see these guns fire?” Petronius asked.

“Only in a night action. The one we spotted.”

“We?” Petronius asked. “Who was your spotter?”

Richard hesitated for the briefest instant, noticing that the president was watching him carefully.

“It was Lieutenant Sean O’Donald, sir.”

“And what happened to him in this action of yours?”

“He didn’t come back,” Richard said slowly, hoping that Petronius would interpret his words in the way he wanted. The admiral simply nodded.

“Range on these guns?”

“That’s the interesting thing,” Richard replied. “Like our fourteen incher, I believe their guns must have a range of ten thousand yards or more. The question is hitting at that range. It looked as if most of the action was taking place at a mile or less.”

“Could that be because it was a night battle?” Theodor asked.

Richard shook his head.

“No, sir. I heard later that the battle had started in late afternoon. The ship that…” He hesitated, looking at Andrew, who shook his head. “The ship carrying the rival to the throne was hit early in the action, at a range of nearly a league, which all considered to be remarkable luck.”

“That information could be valuable to us,” Varinnia interrupted. “Very valuable, but it will take time.”

“Fire control?” Theodor asked.

“We’ve talked for years about it,” Varinnia replied. “My husband’s notes include talk about a man on the old world, the one named Babbage. When firing at long range, gunnery is a question of numerous variables too complex to solve in the necessary time. We have the theory of using optical triangulation instruments to figure out the range. Calculating from there, though, is the problem. We could have a hundred of our finest engineers and mathematicians on board a ship, give them the estimated range, and by the time they got done calculating gun elevation and powder load, both ships would be back in port and their crews on leave.”

She shook her head, but Richard could sense her excitement as she contemplated the problem.

“If we could find a way to calculate, in advance, the elevation, angle, and load of the gun, fire it, then have a new calculation within thirty seconds for the next firing, factoring in the observed hit of the previous shell, we could defeat anything afloat.”

Varinnia and Theodor launched into a heated discussion for several minutes, which Richard tried to follow. The two argued about shell flight time, relative change of distance and angle, and something called differential engines, until Andrew final interrupted with a polite clearing of his throat.

She looked over at him and smiled. Richard could sense a genuine affection between the two.

“Mister, or I should say, Commander Cromwell, tell us the number of ships in the emperor’s fleet,” Petronius asked, having stood to one side during the technical debate.

“I can’t say for sure. That shifts as alliances between families change. When I flew over the harbor, I counted eight great ships of the line, each of them easily three times the size of our Gettysburg class. Twenty or more ships of the second line, about half the size of the capital ships but still bigger than our largest vessels. I would estimate they had eight-inch guns. Finally forty, perhaps fifty smaller ships, like the one that defeated the Gettysburg, somewhat smaller than our cruisers, around the size of our frigates.”

“Speed?”

“The great ships I can’t say for certain. I saw several of their frigates maneuvering out of the harbor while I was being taken off the ship, and I would say they could reach eighteen knots, perhaps twenty.”

The group around Varinnia broke into feverish whispers. She turned to join them, occasionally looking back at him as if they were doctors conferring just outside the hearing distance of a patient who was desperately ill. Again he caught only snatches of phrases-steam turbines, cruise range, fuel storage to gross weight ratios.

He waited patiently, sensing a certain desperation on their part.

Andrew came over to join him, taking off his stovepipe hat, which one of his guards quietly took from his hand.

“An honest appraisal, Commander Cromwell,” Andrew asked softly, drawing Richard aside.

“Yes, sir.”

“Can we match them?”

Richard reluctantly shook his head. “Maybe in three years, or five. If we could capture one of their ships and tear it apart, then start making them.”

“In that time they’ll overrun us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, we have to come at it from another angle,” Andrew said, raising his voice enough so that the others could hear.

The arguing group fell silent.

“Another angle. Figure out their weakness as of this moment and attack it, at the very least to buy time so that we can then apply a long-term plan.”

“Their weakness is political,” Webster interjected. “I can figure that much from the report of this young commander.”

Richard sensed a distrust on Webster’s part. Was it because of O’Donald? he wondered. Surely that would leak out sooner or later. Had Andrew already shared that bit of information with the only member of his cabinet who was an old survivor of the 35th Maine?

“Our flyers versus theirs perhaps?” Theodor asked.

Richard gave a nod of approval. “I think we have the speed on them. The machine I flew had the range-it was made for that-but it was slow. It was built to span the long distances between their islands.”

“How you flew it for a day and a half is beyond me,” Webster said, and again Richard wondered if there was a question about the truthfulness of his report.

“I was desperate, sir,” Richard replied evenly. “That can drive a man to do most anything.”

“Basing decisions related to flyers and tactical application on a vague report regarding just one of their machines is more than a bit reckless,” Petronius interjected. “I would think that if this whole thing is even true to start with, they’d have given this young lieutenant here a worthless machine.”

Andrew let the flicker of a smile light his features and held out his hand before Richard could respond.

“Two things we must do,” Andrew said, fixing everyone with his gaze. “Long-term first. If we can buy a year, two years, what can you do?” he asked. “I need to know that now, today. You can give me the details later. I know you people have been cooking up a lot of wild ideas. That’s what you are paid to do.”

He looked over at Ferguson, who smiled conspiratorially. “I want a concise proposal on long-term development plans by this afternoon. I think I can get the support you’ve been screaming about, and which I have honestly wanted to get for you all along.

“This afternoon I will meet with several senators to let them in on this. We have to put together, at once, a proposal for a naval buildup unlike anything we’ve ever done before, then ram it through Congress before they have time to think about it, while they are still afraid. Give them time to think, and then the arguing will start and months will drag out, which we obviously can’t afford.”

“And suppose the whole thing is for naught,” Webster asked. “Six months from now, when we’ve spent millions, then what?”

“Bill, do you honestly believe that?”

Webster hesitated. “It’s a lot to gamble based on the report of one man.”

“I’d rather bet on it now than wake up one morning to hear that the Kazan fleet is steaming into Constantine, or worse, coming up the Mississippi to blow us apart. Until proven otherwise I have to assume it is correct.”

Richard stood silent, stomach knotted, wishing he was, at this moment, anywhere else.

Webster finally grumbled in agreement and fell silent. Richard looked over at Petronius, who stood with arms folded, saying nothing.

“To match their ships of the line?” Varinnia announced. “Three years at least. There isn’t a slip here big enough to support such a project. We’d need to increase the size of this facility four fold at least. We could shift frigate production over to the smaller yards at Roum and Cartha.”

“That will help get votes,” Webster replied, and Andrew nodded in agreement.

“The number of ships?” Andrew asked.

“We should do it the same way we make guns, artillery,” Varinnia replied. “I’ve always said the way we put ships together is all wrong. It is not an assembly-line process like we have for other things. Make standard design for several classes of ships, then get the factories rolling.”

She pointed at the half-completed cruisers lining the piers.

“We put these together like craftsmen, turning out only enough pieces to fit each ship. It all goes too slowly. We must have total standardization, train more workers, then start churning them out one after another.”

“But it won’t be that easy,” Petronius replied. “Consider the question of scale. Armor plating is difficult to cast, and for what you are thinking about, by the gods, we don’t know much of anything. How thick is the armor, how deep do their armor-piercing shells penetrate, how do they delay the fuses so they burst inside the target rather than on top of it? We’ve talked about steam turbines, even built small-scale models, but one big enough to move a frigate?” He threw up his hands in frustration.

“You have a few months to work that out,” Andrew announced. “Just to gear up will take time. The sheer labor needed to expand this shipyard will take months before the first keel is even laid down. Put everyone you have on the problems and come up with the designs.”

“They’re amphibious,” Richard said as the conversation paused for a moment. “I doubt if they are simply going to hit Constantine and be done. They’ll land an army. They could put thirty thousand or more ashore anywhere along the two thousand miles of our coast and in six months make it half a million. I was told, during that battle they had already placed tens of thousands of troops ashore and built landing strips for aerosteamers, all within a couple of days.” All fell silent as they digested the enormous implications of what he’d said.

“The first question is, when and where will they strike, if they are indeed coming,” Petronius interjected, breaking the silence. “Deal with that first.”

“Constantine,” several of the group said at the same time, followed by nods of agreement.

“How do they even know where Constantine is?” Webster asked.

“As I said in my report,” Richard replied, “they sent spies here years ago. They must have charts drawn up, showing our bases.”

“They know where Constantine is, and that is the first place they will head for,” Andrew stated.

“Do we order Bullfinch to pull out?” Webster asked. “No,” came the sharp reply from Andrew. “Do that and the Greeks might very well leave the Republic, and then we have a civil war on our hands. We have to fight to hold it.”

Andrew looked over at Richard. “Go on, I want to hear what you are thinking. Should we try to hold Constantine? Or should I say, can we hold Constantine?”

Richard took a deep breath. “We fight there with what we have right now, and we lose, sir. Their main ships could shell the fortifications and the naval depot to rubble. They land, encircle the town, and it is over.”

“We can’t concede to them, in the opening move, a base on our coast,” Petronius replied sharply.

“I fear, sir, that they will take it regardless.”

Richard could sense Andrew’s tension, and he wondered if he was sounding too defeatist.

“The other place they will land is on the Bantag coast,” Varinnia announced. “It’s obvious.”

Andrew nodded sadly in agreement.

“So we have two battles, on two fronts.”

“Consider the prospect that they might strike on three fronts,” Webster interjected. “They could very well venture up the Mississippi, knowing that it will blockade us, in a way, actually cut us off from our states along the coast. There’s only one rail line down there, so far, to Constantine. They know we are reliant on the river as well.”

“There is one other factor,” Richard said slowly. “For the moment, we are the desperate ones. For them this, as much as anything, is a political maneuver.”

Andrew looked over at him. “What do you mean?”

“Just that, sir. There is a game within a game and we are but pawns. It is the struggle between Hazin and the emperor for power. If we could drive a wedge there, it might buy time. Second, there is contempt for us. The Hordes quickly learned desperation. You threatened their ride, their source of food, of survival. Whether we live or die at this moment matters to the Kazan not at all.”

He fell silent, wondering if he had said too much, but the group around him were gazing at him intently.

“Go on,” Andrew said.

“The farsighted might perceive that twenty, fifty years from now there could be a conflict to the death over which race will survive on this world.”

“I always held some hope that it would be different,” Andrew replied, an infinite sadness in his voice.

“Those bastards?” Webster snapped. “The world is too small for both of us. You can dream about it, Mr. President, but those here who lived under the yoke of the Hordes know different.”

As he spoke, Varinnia’s assistant nodded in agreement. “Later, Mr. Webster, later,” Andrew sighed. “Continue, Commander.”

“In the long term, this will be a political war as well. I know that doesn’t bear on the issue at hand, but I had to mention it. I suspect that Hazin is urging the emperor to attack in order to divert him. You see, if they didn’t fight us, they’d fight among themselves. Perhaps their nobility would turn on this cult of Hazin’s and destroy it.”

“If only we could trigger that.”

“I don’t know how,” Richard replied. “I wish I did.”

“There’s one final question for this morning,” Andrew said. “Assuming we face their fleet within the next four to six weeks before the storm season strikes. What do we do?”

“Based on what he said,” Webster replied, “surrender the ships or pull out.”

Andrew looked over at Webster with a flash of anger in his eyes. “We can’t withdraw, nor will we ever surrender.”

“We fight, and they get blown apart and thousands of good men die for a hollow gesture based on political considerations.”

Richard stepped back from the two as an argument ensued. Long ago, while still a slave, he had learned that when rulers fight, the lowly should be nowhere in sight.

As he moved to the edge of the group, his attention focused on the half-completed ship.

“I always feared these were not enough.”

Varinnia was by his side, Adam behind her. He nodded, sensing it was best to say nothing.

“Beautiful ships, but the problem with the sea is, so much rides on so little. A dozen ships can decide the fate of a nation. On land, with massed armies, you can fight a battle, lose it, perhaps even lose near on to an entire army as we did several times, but with the right backing industrially, by the time your opponent advances you can have a new army in place and quickly adapt your tactics to what you’ve learned from the last fight.

“At sea it comes down to a few thousand men, a few ships. Lose that fleet, and before you have time to build a new one they are standing off your harbors, destroying the crucial yards needed to rebuild. One battle at sea, maybe two, and the issue is basically decided. Maybe in a way that is better. I’ve always dreaded the mass slaughter created by the weaponry I helped to build.”

“Admiral Bullfinch calls it the power of a fleet in existence,” Richard replied. “Says that he used to talk about it with his roommate when he was at the old Naval Academy back on earth.”

“So these ships will die if they go to face the Kazan.”

“They’ll be sunk the moment they come into range of their guns.”

She looked at Keane and Webster, who were still arguing, then turned back to Richard. “Tell me, is there a way that they can fight without having to come within range?”

As she spoke, Richard could see Adam standing behind her, ready to burst with excitement. “I think Lieutenant Rosovich has the answer to that,” he replied.