Down to the Sea

SEVENTEEN

“To go in harm’s way.”

“Did you say something, Admiral?”

Bullfinch looked over at his young staff officer and smiled. “No, nothing.”

He stepped out of the armored cupola and, leaning forward, grabbed the railing of the open bridge. Two observers, glasses raised, struggled vainly to maintain their positions, sweeping the horizon.

A squall line of rain slashed in, driven on the thirty-knot wind, stinging as it hit. A gust swept off Bullfinch’s oilskin nor’easter hat. It spun across the bridge and went over the railing, disappearing into the foaming sea.

The bow of his flagship surged onto the crest of a fifteen-foot wave, foam spraying up, tons of water cascading over the deck as the ship corkscrewed down into a trough and then started the climb onto the next wave.

The sailor to his right lowered his glasses, leaned over the railing, unceremoniously vomited, then raised his glasses again. Bullfinch actually felt pity for the boy. In spite of the warm tropical air, he was actually trembling from sickness and most likely from fear.

“Anything, sailor?” Bullfinch shouted.

The boy lowered his glasses and looked over, features a pale shade of green. “Not since we saw that frigate, sir.”

“Well keep a sharp watch. They are out there, I can feel it, you can smell it.”

The boy nodded weakly and resumed his watch.

In fact, they actually had smelled them. A heavy line of squalls had battered the ships throughout the afternoon as they approached the Minoan Shoals. The fleet had moved in line astern of the flagship as they struggled through the Three Sisters, a mile-wide passage that cut through the middle of a chain of islands and sandbars that stretched for more than forty miles.

With his flagship Antietam leading the way, several of the lookouts had reported that they had smelled coal smoke on the wind, and several minutes later two of them claimed to have seen a frigate-size ship, with an unusual silhouette, sailing two or three miles off, and then disappeared as the next line of rain closed in.

That was a half an hour ago.

Turning his back to the wind, Bullfinch reached under his sealskin coat and pulled out his pocket watch. An hour till sunset, but already he could feel the light beginning to fade.

Five miles past the shoals to leeward, not a good position to ride out a storm at night.

He leaned over the railing and looked aft. The fleet was still running astern. The last of them had to be through the Three Sisters.

Come about? Put the Shoals between us and them during the night?

He felt a terrible loneliness. Suppose they aren’t here? Andrew said they might make a run for the Bantag coast. But nothing was there other than a bunch of savages. No, all doctrine ran toward hitting your opponent’s main base first by surprise, bottling him up, smashing him. Then they’d have the sea and could do as they pleased. If they were coming to Constantine, they would make for these shoals first, and get their bearing, rather than go blundering along an unknown coastline and then give the Republic warning.

For that matter, had they even arrived yet? Cromwell had said ten knots. Suppose, though, it was eight knots. Bullfinch thought. That would put them a good hundred miles still out. Or twelve knots, then they might very well have rounded the shoals this morning, we sailed straight past each other and even now they are closing to bombard Constantine.

He had sent scout frigates out at full steam to cover the flanks of each end of the shoals, but no reports. But then again, that could mean that they were already at the bottom of the sea, destroyed before they could return.

He knew he was tearing himself apart with all the variables and chance errors and decisions that made up a battle at sea. Make the plan as best you can, he realized, then stick to it until you get a solid fact that changes things. You figured they’d run first to the Shoals, perhaps slow there for at least a few hours to bring their fleet together, perhaps even weather the night here, then move along its length to gain a bearing, finally rounding it either to the east or west. We come in through the middle and hopefully hit them by surprise, then get the hell out.

So it’s here. But where the hell are they? In this storm they could be five miles off to port or starboard. Perhaps they’d already gained the shoals and had turned, running east or west to round them, moving cautiously to avoid running aground.

He looked back again at his own fleet, less than half of it visible. All of them were running now on engines, all sails furled as they plowed into the teeth of the storm.

What next, damn it, what next?

With the light beginning to fade, he had but two choices. Either come about, get to leeward of the shoals, and sit out the night; moving to pounce before dawn. If I do that, it will be a fifty-fifty chance-we either run east or west. Or we move straight on here into the night, gain about ten miles out, then turn either east or west and try to come in from behind.

Best possible choice, I’ve got to run with that.

He could sense that everyone inside the cupola was peeking out through the narrow view slit, watching him, knowing he was trying to sort out all the different elements, to come to a conclusion. They most likely knew his every idiosyncrasy, the way he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his scarred face and eyepatch when he was lost in thought. He realized he was doing that, and turned the gesture into wiping the rain from his face.

Another wave cascaded over the bow, sending up spray bits of spindrift flying back, sweeping the bridge.

He turned his back to it, saw the men peering at him through the viewing slit.

“Signal the fleet. Line abreast, storm formation.”

As he stepped back into the cupola, the signal flags went up. He doubted if the ships astern could see them since the wind was running almost due fore and aft so that the flags would appear edgewise to those astern.

The command, however, also went up to the signals officer in the enclosed maintop. The shutter telegraph would relay the order as well.

He felt the pounding vibration of the engines ease off slightly. Captain Nagama, who was in direct command of the ship, had passed the word to ease back to half speed. Behind them the other cruisers would surge forward, breaking in an alternating pattern to port and starboard of the flagship. Each cruiser would assume a position six hundred yards to either flank, while the frigates, running at flank speed, would cut through the line to assume a forward position half a mile farther out.

“Gentlemen,” Bullfinch shouted, trying to be heard above the whistling of the wind, which cried with a demented moan as it cut through the cupola, “we’ll head in line abreast till dark. That will sweep us ten miles out beyond the Shoals. We’ll rig for night running, hooded lanterns fore and aft. Then we turn, still maintaining line abreast, and cut speed to four knots. Once night falls, half the crew can stand down from battle stations to get some food and rest. We then alternate battle stations watch till an hour before dawn.”

“The heading, east or west?” Nagama asked.

“Which way is the wind bearing?”

“South, southwest. It’s beginning to back around to westerly.”

Running slowly with a following sea would be deadly, water crashing over the stems, driving the ships, pushing them in toward the shoals. If the Kazan were out here, he reasoned, they would be running into the storm as well.

“West.”

Nagama nodded in agreement.

He looked past Nagama and could see the Spotsylvania coming up at flank speed, maneuvering to take position.

Then several things seemed to happen at once. One of the lookouts on the bridge, the boy along the starboard railing, turned, glasses dangling around his neck. With his hands cupped, he screamed something unintelligible. A speaking tube shrieked, the one from the foretop lookout. The communications officer uncapped it, leaning over to listen, eyes suddenly going wide…and a geyser of spray erupted a hundred yards off the Spotsylvania’s port bow. It almost seemed like an illusion, a column of water shooting up nearly a hundred feet, then gone an instant later, whipped away by the wind.

Everyone seemed frozen in a tableau as the words of the forward lookout drifted over them.

“Ship off starboard bow. Range one mile!”

Bullfinch pushed his way past Nagama, ducking through the hatchway and out onto the open bridge. The lookout was pointing directly forward. “See ’em, see ’em” he was screaming.

With one eye gone, his vision was not the best. Bullfinch squinted until he saw them. Three ships, starting to turn to the west, bow wakes planing up. They seemed to have simply materialized out of the mist. He could see smoke boiling away from the first ship to fire. There was another flash, a brilliant hot light, then another.

Bullfinch turned back to the cupola. “Signal hold course! Close for action!”

He felt the engines going up to flank speed. The forward turret with its massive fourteen-inch gun fired with a thunderous report, and smoke completely blanketed his view for several seconds.

A high whistling shriek cut overhead, went astern, and detonated two hundred yards aft in the foaming wake of the Spotsylvania. The two forward below-deck guns, one of them a five-inch breechloader, went off, creating more smoke.

He could see other ships emerging from the mist. Frightfully, the ones appearing now were bigger, vaster than anything he had ever seen afloat, with a huge tower perched forward rather than a mast. The forward guns of the monster fired. Scant seconds later he heard their thunderous roar and actually caught a brief glimpse of a streak of darkness, one of the shells, clipping a wave crest off his port side, tumbled end over end, howling like a banshee.

Looking past the shell, he saw where another of his cruisers was maneuvering in alongside, the Atlanta, its forward gun firing.

His charge pressed in. The enemy’s forward cruisers were making ninety-degree turns, and for the next few minutes he was at a disadvantage. The enemy was crossing his T, able to bring all guns to bear, fore and aft, while only his forward guns could fire.

He turned back, facing the cupola, and cupped his hands.

“Signal all ships. Fire on largest target!”

As he turned back, he instinctively flinched at another howl. A huge plume of water surged up less than fifty yards off the port side amidships.

Another shell passed, this one high, disappearing. His own ship was frustratingly silent. The crews were still reloading. Even in the best conditions it would take the massive muzzle loader another five minutes. Finally, the breechloader fired again. He looked forward and roared with delight when the shot slammed into the side of one of their cruisers, at a range of less than fifteen hundred yards. Seconds later great gouts of smoke cascaded out of the cruiser’s aft smoke stack.

The great ships, screened by the cruisers, were turning as well. He counted four of them now, two thousand yards farther back than the cruisers. If not for their bulk they would be all but invisible in the rain and deepening twilight.

One of his own frigates, running at flank speed, sailed between him and the Spotsylvania, inching forward, its rapid-fire three-inch gun pumping out a round every twenty seconds.

As more shells came in, the battle spread out. His own cruisers were maneuvering, trying to form a line, but looked instead like an inverted V, with the flagship in the fore, while to the south two great lines were forming. Between the lines frigates were coming forward as if charging.

Shot was flying in both directions. Already he could tell that they were at a severe disadvantage. Not only were they completely outgunned, but the rate of fire of the Kazan’s heavier weapons was superior as well. The only thing that seemed to be saving them so far was the violence of the sea. The fifteen-foot swells made it all but impossible to fire at an even keel.

So instead everyone just seemed to be madly firing, trying to let off their individual guns as best they could, and the air was alive with fire.

At eight hundred yards he saw another shot hit an enemy cruiser. Cursing, he looked back again at the command cupola, shouting for them to repeat the order to concentrate on the largest ships.

There was a brilliant flash to his right. It was the Spotsylvania. A heavy shell had detonated just forward of its bridge, directly into the topside turret. The shell had penetrated the armor and blown inside the narrow confines of the five-inch armor surrounding the heavy gun. It burst asunder, the massive bulk of the fourteen-inch barrel half lifting out of its mount, fragments of armor hurdling a hundred feet into the air. He ducked as another shell came in, clipping through the masts overhead, severing the mainmast just above the maintop. The impact caused the shell to explode with a thunderclap, and fragments slashed outward in every direction, causing sparks to fly off the cupola directly behind him.

A different sound erupted. Looking back forward, he saw that the two forward gatlings had opened up. Their tracers arced out across the stormy sea. The stream of fire rose and fell as the gunners tried to compensate for the roll of the ship, walking the stream of fire across the water and straight into the nearest enemy cruiser, which was now less than a quarter mile away.

The range was insanely close, what he had hoped for, but now that it was here he struggled to control his terror. As admiral there was little more that he could do. He had brought the fleet, and he had given the final orders to close. Now it was up to the individual captains to fight their ships.

The battle had not played out as he hoped. If luck had held, they might have culled one or two of the enemy’s capital ships in the darkness and smashed them at close range. It was obvious now that they had been anticipated and spotted first as well. As they steamed southward at flank speed, more and yet more enemy ships were coming into view. Flashes of light rippled across the sea from the dozens of guns firing. The roar commingled into a maelstrom of sound that nearly rivaled that of the storm’s.

The Atlanta died first. He was looking over at her when a shell slammed directly into the bridge, crushing the command cupola. Fire blazed out in every direction. Several seconds later another round splashed into the water but a few feet off her bow. The blow was close enough, however, to lift the ship half out of the water, shaking it the way a terrier would shake a rat.

The water around the Atlanta was lashed to a foam as half a dozen more rounds of various calibers impacted. An enemy frigate, having rushed through the line of cruisers, came straight in, passing between the Atlanta and his own ship, all guns firing. Gatling gunners on the Republic’s cruisers stitched the frigate, and sparks detonated where the explosive rounds slammed into their target.

Suddenly the Atlanta was lifted out of the water by a massive explosion erupting just aft of the bridge. The back of the cruiser was broken, bow and stern ends instantly settling.

He looked forward again. The line of enemy cruisers was less than two hundred yards off, Nagama steering straight between two of them. For a few brief seconds he had the advantage. The heavy ships beyond dared not fire for fear of hitting their own, while only half of the cruisers’ guns could be brought to bear.

He felt the ship surging beneath him, wondering for a second if the engine had been hit, then realized that Nagama, in a mad, audacious move, had ordered all engines backed, to slow down and give the gunners maximum opportunity to hit their targets.

The topside forward turret containing the fourteen-inch gun began to turn, lining up on a target to starboard that was presenting its stern, normally the most vulnerable part of a ship. The range was ridiculously close, less than one hundred yards. He could almost sense the gun commander in the turret shouting, standing to one side, hand on lanyard, judging the roll, waiting for the precise moment on an upward sweep when the target appeared to be just above the sight.

A brilliant flash of light snapped out from the turret, and the concussion flattened the water. The round slammed into the stern just at the waterline and blew. The entire aft end of the enemy cruiser seemed to disappear in boiling smoke and flames.

A wild cheer echoed through the ship. The other two heavy guns below deck fired seconds later. Another round struck the superstructure. The three guns aft fired as well, scoring yet another hit, which tore into where the first round had hit.

He could feel the engines starting up again. The flagship was heeling back, digging in. Then the entire vessel seemed to jerk sideways, as if struck by a giant hand.

Bullfinch was knocked off his feet. He cracked his forehead against the railing and it split open. He lay there stunned for a moment, then pulled himself back up. Black smoke and flame poured up through the aft vents and ventilation hoods. Something must have struck them through the hull, exploding inside and astern.

He looked back at the cupola. Nagama was on his feet, leaning over, shouting into a speaking tube. A tracer slashed past, and then another. He looked to his right and saw an enemy frigate barely two hundred yards off, heeling hard over to swing in alongside them. As he saw a forward gatling firing, the thought struck him that the gunners were aiming at him personally.

Another tracer, ricocheting off the cupola, passed within inches of his face.

He ducked down and then saw that the lookout by his side was dead, a fist size hole in his back, face looking up, still a shade of green from the seasickness.

Another explosion overhead sheared off the foremast. Heavy debris rained down, forcing him to run to the shelter of the cupola. He ducked inside as steel and wood slammed into the deck.

Nagama barely spared him a glance. “Still forward?” he asked.

Bullfinch took a deep breath. They were in the middle of a fight now. To even get signals out in all the confusion with the fore gone and the main signal station in the maintop most likely gone as well was impossible. If he tried to turn out, the other ships might see, might think that the flagship was out of control, or worse yet, running.

“Forward!” Bullfinch cried. “Close with that big bastard directly ahead.”

The big bastard, as he called it, was less than a thousand yards off.

Even as he looked at it, the ship’s forward gun fired, followed several seconds later by one of its aft guns.

Some instinct told him they were aimed straight at him, and a couple of seconds later, even inside the cupola, he heard the shriek as the round came in. The first one passed within feet of the deck, plowed into a wave cresting off the port side, and blew; close enough that fragments tore across the deck, taking out a gatling crew. The second one hit a wave just forward, failed to detonate, tumbled, and slammed into the bow, penetrating the armor, and went crashing through the main gun deck.

Through one of the speaking tubes he could hear the tearing of metal, followed almost instantly by screams of agony. Up on the deck steam vented out from a severed line.

Another blow hit and then another, slamming him to the deck. He pulled himself back up, saw Nagama kneeling, mouth a smear of blood. The captain was coughing, spitting out broken teeth, wiping his face, then standing back up. Bullfinch looked out through the viewing slit. The bow was a mass of crumpled wreckage. The steam catapult for the scout plane, which had been left behind, was standing nearly straight up and then twisted back like a bent piece of wire.

The ship was shearing off. Nagama, coughing and gagging, tried to shout orders through a speaking tube. The wheelman was down, hands over his face. The signal officer took over the helm, struggling to bring the ship back to a bearing straight at the battleship ahead, less than seven hundred yards away.

He looked to starboard and felt a swelling of pride that brought tears to his eyes. Two of his armored cruisers were still with him, the Spotsylvania and the Sumter. Both were trailing fire and smoke, Spotsylvania with all three masts shattered, forward turret a smoking ruin, Sumter its entire aft end wrapped in flames.

Behind them he could see several of the enemy cruisers were turning, but at least two others were aflame. One of them was listing heavily to starboard. Its railing was already below the water, and antlike figures were falling into the raging sea. Frigates, both his and the enemy’s, crisscrossed back and forth across the foaming sea, trading shots, gatlings firing, light guns flashing. The wreckage of a frigate, one of his, drifted past to port. Its fantail rose out of the water, propeller still turning; from the bow all the way up to the superstructure it was submerged. Just beyond it an enemy frigate was burning furiously and then disappeared as its magazine detonated.

“Forward gun, can it still fire?” Bullfinch shouted. Nagama looked over at him, eyes wide. Bullfinch shouted the question again, and still Nagama didn’t respond. Bullfinch realized the man was deaf, eardrums shattered by the last explosion.

He gently moved him aside, found the speaking tube to the forward turret, and uncapped it.

“Bullfinch here,” he shouted, “can you hear me?” Curses and the sound of steam vents echoed with a tinny shriek through the brass tube that snaked down from the bridge and then up into the turret.

“Here, sir.”

“Can you still fire?”

“Reloading now, but steam for the rammer is dropping.”

“Get it done and aim for the battleship straight ahead. Hold fire till I tell you to shoot.”

“We’re trying, sir.”

“Just do it!”

He left the tube uncapped, looked over at the signal officer at the helm and simply pointed ahead.

He could do nothing now but ride out the storm and pray they’d survive the next few minutes.

A drumroll of exploding shells marched across the wind-tossed seas, visibility dropping from the smoke. With the sun setting, a surreal gray-green twilight engulfed Bullfinch’s world, punctuated by brilliant thunderclaps of fire.

“Sumter!”

He didn’t know who had shouted, but turning, he saw the valiant cruiser breaking apart. A shell had torn into the burning stern and exploded, tearing off the aft end. The ship skidded around, fantail breaking off, bow beginning to rise as tons of water poured into the bowels of the ship.

He looked forward. His target’s two aft turrets fired almost in unison, and he braced for their impacts. One of the shells passed so close to the cupola that the turbulence staggered him. An instant later it felt as if the entire aft end of the ship was rising. The concussion slammed him against the side of the cupola. Stunned, he lay there for a second, trying to sense what had happened to his ship. One of the speaking tubes whistled, and he pulled himself up and uncapped it.

“Who is this?”

“Engine room. Something hit us. The plates are buckled, and we’re flooding…” The words were cut off by an explosion that he felt in the soles of his feet even as it blasted through the speaking tube. He could hear screaming and what sounded like steam venting. Even as he tried to shout a question, smoke came boiling up out of the tube.

They were losing speed and he looked over at the signal officer. He was turning the wheel, but it was no longer attached to anything. It was spinning freely.

“Can you go below and steer with the main cables?” Bullfinch shouted.

“I’ll try, sir.”

He sensed it was useless, but sent him anyhow. The ship was beginning to die, and the target was so tantalizingly close, four hundred yards off.

Another of its forward guns fired. Another geyser shot up just forward of the bow an instant later. Damn, was their gunnery that bad? But even as he wondered about it, he saw the Spotsylvania take a devastating hit amidships. The smokestack tumbled overboard, and the mid deck superstructure peeled back. The blow had detonated deep inside the ship, fire soaring upward.

“Forward gun.”

“Still here, sir.”

“Ready?”

“In another minute.”

“Shoot when you can bring it to bear. Try to hit the bastard toward the stem, get its engines and steering. Can you do that?”

“Well try, sir.”

“Good luck.”

There was no reply.

An enemy frigate cut directly in front of them, all guns firing. Tracers walked up the deck, and a round shrieked through the view slit, pinging around inside the cupola like an angry bee. Everyone ducked and cursed until it fell spent on the deck floor.

Something exploded against the side of the cupola. A heavy fragment broke off on the inside, slicing across the narrow space, smashing the wheel to splinters.

Several seconds later the forward gun fired, startling him. He looked forward, and then howled with delight as a blossom of fire ignited just above the waterline of the enemy ship, astern of its rear turret. The force of the fourteen-inch shell visibly shook the behemoth, and a secondary explosion followed several seconds later, peeling back part of the deck.

The triumph, however, was short-lived, for his wounded foe now returned fire. Its four heavy guns fired in sequence. The first two shells missed but the third one landed a devastating blow.

For a moment he wondered if he were dead. The sensation reminded him of when he was hit at the Battle of St. Gregory’s, when an explosion destroyed one eye and left him temporarily blinded in the other. The world was black. He felt a building panic.

Then he saw fire, a wall of it billowing up just outside the cupola. He started to crawl toward the hatch and caught a glimpse of Nagama, lying on the deck, clutching his shoulder, arm gone, blown clean off.

He went back, grabbed him, and pulled him toward the hatch.

The deck started to tilt, slowly but noticeably to port, helping them along.

They slid out through the hatch and he looked forward. The bow was gone, as was the forward turret. Men were scrambling up from below, many of them wounded. A number of them had reddened faces and hands. The outer skin had been boiled off from the flesh underneath by a blast of pressurized steam.

There was no need for him to order abandon ship. Everyone knew it. Everyone was scrambling for their hves.

Someone grabbed Nagama from him, dragging him down the steps to the main deck, pushing the captain over the side.

Bullfinch looked around. It was hard to make sense of what was happening. Burning ships dotted the sea. It was impossible to figure which were his, and which had been kills. His men had been magnificent, and he felt a swelling of pride. Green boys really, precious few of the veterans of the old days, but they had fought like demons to the end.

And yet he knew that their effort had been in vain. Only one of the great enemy ships was burning. The armada would roll over them and keep on going. He had played the gambit and lost.

He saw the turrets of one of the battleships turning, barrels laying flat across its deck, aiming straight at his flagship.

He barely felt the explosion that swept him and what was left of the Antietam into the embrace of the sea.

The funeral pyres of dying ships dotted the night.

Emperor Yasim sat alone in his stateroom, stunned by the violence. He had survived half a dozen major engagements, but never had death whispered so close. At one point a shell fragment had punched through a viewing slit, decapitating the bodyguard standing next to him.

The thought of the blood spraying on his face caused him to go over to the silver basin and wash yet again.

Through an open porthole above the basin he saw a flare going up and detonating. Seconds later tracers lashed the water. One of his frigates was hunting down survivors in the water.

The eastern horizon was growing light, and the storm was beginning to break, though the wind still held and the seas continued to run. Occasional glimpses of the misty horizon revealed a dim red glow.

He returned to his bed and lay down, placing a cooling cloth over his forehead. He prayed that his stomach would settle, that the seas would settle, that he could somehow sleep. A spasm of nausea hit, and he sat up in anticipation, but then it passed.

Why am I here? he suddenly wondered. This could have waited. The humans were no real threat as of yet. Why did Hazin want this?

The ferocity of the human attack had been startling. They had charged straight in regardless of loss. Thanks to the vigilance of a lead frigate, which had hurried back with the report of their approach, they had been prepared. Plus, with his uncanny sixth sense, Hazin had made the suggestion to change formation before the frigate had even reported in. If not for them, the enemy ships would have struck straight into the van of his fleet when it was spread out across half a dozen leagues.

Instead, the lead of the van had slowed, the rearmost ships had come up, and together they had cautiously advanced through the storm, striking hard. But even then, two cruisers were sunk along with three frigates. Most amazingly of all one of the battleships was out of action. Come dawn, two cruisers would begin the arduous task of towing it across the vast distances back to Kazan.

A knock at the door stirred him. He was tempted to ignore it, but he knew who it was.

He stood up, looking down at his uniform. His guards had immediately washed and changed him after the incident on the bridge, but after the long night of sickness, he wasn’t sure if he had stained himself.

Satisfied that he looked presentable, he acknowledged the knock and the door opened. It was, of course, Hazin, excited about the battle. “Sire, let me congratulate you on this victory.”

“Victory? I never expected this fight.”

“Nevertheless, it served its purpose well. Rather than have to dig them out, or worse, having them slip away and our spending months searching, they came straight to us to be slaughtered.”

“We lost two cruisers, and the Kavana is out of action. If we had been fighting a fleet of the banner, I would expect that. But against these humans? And it is so far from home. If a cyclone strikes, the Kavana will go under.”

“Sire, we know that they had eight ships that they designated as cruisers. Seven of the eight are confirmed as sunk along with eight or more of their smaller ships. That, sire, is nearly their entire fleet. They are defenseless now. Admiral Ullani informs me as well that the storm is abating.” Yasim said nothing, but silently thanked the gods. At least, around Kazan, if a storm threatened a leeward bay or shelter could be found. The vastness of this ocean was too troubling and too fraught with peril.

“Be evening we will be off their coast. In two days’ time a harbor will be secured for the fleet while the transports can proceed to the Bantag coast.”

“Something tells me this will not go according to the plan.”

“War never does. There will be some flyers attacking today, that must be expected. We might take some small damage.”

“As much as last evening?”

“I do not know, Your Highness, but I doubt it. If the flyers were effective, they would have waited, held their fleet back and sent them all in at once. The fact that they did not indicates to me that the power of the flyers is negligible, and their admiral decided to risk all on an evening attack in the storm. Actually, an admirable move.”

“Yes, admirable and costly.”

“More so to them. It is all but finished now.”

“You truly believe so, don’t you.”

Hazin looked straight at him and smiled. “With certainty.”

Another swell rocked the ship, and Yasim turned, retreating to his bed, and lay down. The ship rocked again, and Yasim fumbled for the gold basin by the side of his bed and vomited weakly. Letting the basin drop, he laid back gasping.

Hazin went over to a side table, poured a cup of weak tea into a mug to use as a decanter, damped a towel with water, and went to the emperor’s bedside, helping him to wipe his face. The emperor sipped down the tea, then laid back.

Hazin started to withdraw, then stopped. “Sire, a suggestion.”

“And that is?”

“Let me transfer to another ship.”

“Which ship? One that is infiltrated by your people?”

“Then one of the smaller ships if you suspect such. You pick it, a cruiser.”

“Your reason?”

“The main battle has been fought and won. The transports bearing the assault troops are still a day behind us even with our delay here. I suspect your decision will be to send the main force into Constantine as planned, and let the secondary force and supplies continue on to the Bantag coast. A ship should be left here to convey that information upon their arrival.”

“Any courier can do that. Why the Grand Master?”

“You suspect duplicity, don’t you, sire?”

“With you, Hazin, it is the very air you breathe.”

“Sire, that shell that struck the bridge. It killed the man standing between you and me. Suppose it had killed both of us.”

“Then we would no longer be together, Hazin,” Yasim said dryly.

“You have an unborn child. How long would its mother live if word should return of your death?”

Yasim looked at him in surprise. “How did you know that? It was supposed to be a secret.”

“Secrets? From me?”

“Perhaps it is I who should then wait for the transports to arrive, thus sparing you such worries.”

“Sire, we both know that is impossible. The emperors of the Kazan have always led their armies into battle.”

Yasim did not respond, for another swell had rocked the ship and, grabbing up a gold basin, he shuddered, swallowed hard, then put the basin down, looking up weakly.

“Let me speak practically to you, to reveal the duplicity if I must,” said Hazin.

“Go on.”

“If you die, how long would I last? As you have had dozens of rivals, so have I within the Order. Even as we are here, they are undoubtedly plotting back home with the families of your cousins who still survive, who are out here with you even now, but who will turn on one another if you are dead. I will be one of the first to fall when you are gone.”

“So stay with me. Then if you have some premonition, you can end it swiftly.”

“Sire, I can ensure the survival of your child, your own blood. That is my guarantee if something should happen, and that is the duplicity behind the practical suggestion.”

“So noble of you, Hazin.”

“Nobility has nothing to do with it. But there is another layer within the game, sire. Let the victory be yours tomorrow. If I am aboard, there will be more than one who will whisper that it was I, Hazin, who made the decisions and but handed them to you to carry out.”

Yasim bristled.

“It is what some will say, sire, and we both know that. By transferring me, it could be even seen as your breaking away from me, leaving me behind to ensure your own place and glory and that I have fallen somewhat from favor.”

“Why so concerned for me and my glory?”

Hazin smiled. “Practicality, survival, advancement. The warriors of the Shiv will win glory enough later.”

Yasim laid back and closed his eyes. “Take the Zhiva. I can spare one more cruiser.”

“A wise decision, sire. My staff and I will transfer at dawn.”

Hazin withdrew so quietly that Yasim wasn’t even sure if he had left until he opened his eyes to check.

There had to be a scheme within a scheme here, he realized. Though all the things Hazin had cited were true, there had to be another factor. But he was too weary to think about it now, and in spite of his sickness, he soon drifted off to sleep, not aware of the fact that the warm tea Hazin had handed him was laced with a mild drug to make him compliant.