Battle Hymn (32 page)

"Alexi!"

"Here." The engineer came forward from the train.

Hans stepped away from the track and looked back. The plumes of smoke were closer now, maybe only five or six miles, ten to fifteen minutes at most.

"Are you going to run our train back at him and take the new one?" Alexi asked.

Hans shook his head. "We'd be trading a faster train for a slower one. He'd most likely pull the same trick as last time. Reverse, match speed, then catch it. Once he did that, he could run us down."

"What about cutting a rail in front of our train?" Alexi proposed. "We back our engine up, run it forward, derail it. That would block them."

Hans thought for a moment, then shook his head. "That'd still mean packing two hundred or more people onto three flat cars. There's another camp to get through yet. If they see us coming that way, it might get them stirred up, and again, we'd be trading a faster engine for a slower one."

Alexi nodded his head and cursed. "Try to tear up a rail behind us, then. I'll give you five minutes. I'm going forward to run the next train. Maybe we can reverse them at the next switchoff."

Alexi saluted and returned to his train. Hans could not help but grin. Some of the old military rituals were surfacing. It felt good to be saluted again.

He sprinted down the track toward the engine they had just captured. The human operators were cowering in the cab, one of Gregory's men standing with rifle aimed at them. Hans ignored them and examined the engine.

"Do you know who we are?" Hans snapped in Bantag.

The two shook their heads in unison, both of them trembling with fear.

"We've started a war against the Bantag. I'm a soldier of the Republic."

At the mention of the word "Republic" the two began to talk excitedly, one of them pointing at his own chest and then at his comrade's.

"Cartha," he announced emphatically.

Yet another prisoner sold by the Merki to help build the Bantag war machine.

"Take us," the fireman stuttered, obviously still terrified by what he had seen—cattle slaughtering Bantag. Hans slapped him on the shoulder and then jumped off the cab and started back to his train.

"Hans!" Gregory was on the first flatcar, tearing the tarp back. "In the name of Perm, look at this!"

Hans scrambled onto the car and stood, slack-jawed in amazement.

"What is it?" Gregory asked.

Hans shook his head. Lifting the tarp, he moved to the front. The entire thing was covered in iron plate, the sheets bolted together. At the front there was an opening more than big enough to stick his head through, and he peered inside. All was darkness within. There was the smell of grease and coal.

"They're getting closer!"

Hans pulled his head out and stepped back. Ketswana was by the side of the car.

Hans nodded. "Gregory, get a dozen of your people up to this train with me. Ketswana, you're still on the second train. Let's get going."

The pursuing trains were now less than two miles away. Hans saw a flash of light.

He stood silently, watching Gregory and his unit sprint up and pile into the tender. Alexi leaned out from his cab and waved. Hans motioned to the Cartha engineer, who gave two short blasts and then eased the throttle in. Hans was still silently counting when he finally heard it, the scream of a shell coming in. A detonation erupted a hundred yards behind the second train.

He stepped up into the cab as they started to crawl forward.

"Alexi said they bent a section of track. With luck the bastards might run up on it and derail," Gregory said.

"I doubt it," Hans said quietly.

Hans looked back at the tarp-covered load behind him. There was a gun in it. Whatever it was, it would be worth taking in spite of the extra weight.

Another shot screamed past, but he did not even bother to turn around as they continued to race westward.

His hand shaking, Andrew put the telegram down on the desk and looked up at Pat, who stood before him, loudly blowing his nose.

Hans … alive! Emotion swept him like a torrent, and he lowered his head. The door behind him burst open.

"Is it true?" Emil cried.

"'Tis true," Pat replied, still choked with emotion. "Petracci just landed at the defensive line air base. Lord knows how he did it in the dark."

"So what is this? A damn wake?" Emil laughed, slapping Andrew on the shoulder.

"You damn Irishman, give me that flask," Emil demanded. Uncorking it, he held it aloft. "For Hans, God bless 'im."

Emil tilted his head back for a long gulp and then passed the flask to Andrew, who smiled and took a drink himself.

"I never did believe him dead," Andrew said.

The door opened, and an orderly entered, holding a long sheet of paper.

"Latest report from Petracci," he announced excitedly.

Andrew grabbed the sheet and started to read, Pat and Emil crowding around to look over his shoulder.

Sighing, Andrew took off his glasses and leaned back in his chair. Thoughts of Hans fled for the moment.

So it was war, as he had always feared. They had trains and flyers of a new design, were building what looked to be ironclads, had troops with rifles. It was a mobilization undreamed of, and he silently cursed all the mistakes he had allowed to happen over the last four years. If only we had pushed forward more aggressively, had put more effort into improving airships, had built up the fleet of the Great Sea and pushed patrols up the river.

"See that copies of this are immediately sent to the president," Andrew snapped to the orderly.

"He'll shit," Pat said with a sad chuckle.

Andrew glared at Pat. "He's the president, damn it. Remember, we're on the same side."

"But, Andrew."

Andrew held up his hand. "The differences are buried as of right now. We're already at war again, and remember, damn it, we answer to the president, not the other way around."

The room fell silent. Sighing, Andrew stood up and went to the window. The shock would have been a bitter blow to start with, but that could wait. Now there was Hans.

He felt numb, as if a ghost he had almost managed to finally bury had come back. And I did not find you, my friend. I did not look hard enough. A wave of shame coursed through him, that he had allowed himself to believe what the Merki said and ignored the instinct that told him somehow Hans had survived. How can I face him after that? he wondered.

"Andrew, this looks bad," Pat finally said.

Andrew turned. "Escaping by train, still two hundred miles from the river. Then this fort Jack mentions. Seize that and hope we can get up river?"

Pat shook his head and put the telegram down.

"We get him out. I don't care what it takes, we get him out."

"But how?" Emil interjected.

Andrew walked back over to the desk and picked up the two telegrams, studying them intently. Then he went to the door and pulled it open.

"Get the latest deployment reports from Bullfinch, and ratings for all ships in the Second Fleet," he shouted, sending two of his staffers in the next room scurrying.

He sat down and waited in silence, drumming the table with his fingers. A minute later an orderly burst into the room, bearing the daily reports and a leather-bound reference book listing all the ships of the navy and their designs.

Andrew looked at Pat.

"Vicksburg is the only one on station. Woodensided steam and wind-powered sloop."

He shook his head. "It'd be tom apart in the river by the rams."

"Petersburg might do it if we can locate her."

"Are you going to try and run the river?" Emil asked.

"What else can we do? It's the only way to get them out."

"Talk about a provocation for war," Pat sighed. "It'd be a violation of the president's orders. He'd have Congress down his throat."

"I'll worry about that later."

He tore through the ratings book, pausing for a second on the Vicksburg. Four guns, fifty-pound rifles, wooden-sided. He shook his head and kept going to find the Petersburg, the one ironclad now deployed. It carried one of the hundred-pound Parrott guns forward and eight broadside five-inch rifles. Displacing only six feet, the side-wheeler carried two inches of armor backed with oak.

He closed his eyes. The ship was still on shakedown with Bullfinch on board. They weren't even sure where it was at the moment; its orders were to cruise southward but to remain out of sight of land. The Franklin was the one other possibility, a four-gun propeller-driven ship based on the original designs used in the Cartha War. But that was still docked for final fitting out. Even if it could sail this instant, at best speed it would take at least two and a half days just to get to the mouth of the river, and it drew nearly ten feet.

There were half a dozen light sloops, good for patrolling but useless for running up the river against resistance.

He sat in silence, listening to the clock ticking in the comer. From the next room he could hear the telegrapher sending the repeat of the dispatch to Kal. It was impossible to imagine that Kal would not approve the operation to bring their friend out. But there was always Congress. Running the river would be an open act of war, and he could well imagine that some in that chamber would want to debate the issue. Kal could order the rescue attempt in any case, but he might very well want to consult the leaders and Marcus before proceeding. Time—it would be a waste of precious time.

The telegraph fell silent for a moment. A series of rapid clicks suddenly came back, a short reply, and then another message started. Andrew half listened, still wrapped in thought as an orderly came in bearing a fresh report. Andrew scanned it while Pat watched him intently.

"It's direct from Petracci. Says repairs on his ship should be completed by dawn. He wants clearance to fly back to check on Hans's progress."

"Permission granted," Andrew replied.

He stirred and asked Pat, "How many airships are based here at the moment?"

"Three operational."

"Get a pilot and engineer out to the field right now. I want one of them up as soon as possible."

"At night? We don't have any boys that are all that good at night flying, Andrew. Hell, they get killed just about the time they finally start getting the hang of it."

"I want one up"—he looked at the clock—"by eleven, ready to make a run."

"Whatever for?" Emil asked.

As he started to explain, Andrew almost wanted to laugh at the astonishment on his friend's faces.

Cursing soundly, Ha'ark paced the siding as his straining warriors struggled to push the engine off the track. He should have expected this. The only alternative to pushing the engine off now was to wait until dawn and thereby lose the chase altogether. The bent track at the place where Hans had obviously captured a second train had delayed them long enough for Hans to gain the next yard. There they had moved their own train forward, backed the captured locomotive around through a switchoff, then run it back through the switch, which had been set only halfway back, so that the engine derailed.

That had given them an hour's lead and now this. Without a strong headlight Ha'ark's train had moved along at barely a crawl. Three times they had stopped in time where a rail had been bent, but this trap was more cunning. All the spikes were pulled from two sections of rail and both the armored car and the engine had derailed when the track shifted.

Fuming, he looked back up the line. In the darkness he could see the smoke from nearly a dozen stacks. Jamul had pulled together a dozen trains carrying four regiments of his best infantry and two batteries of breechloaders. Schuder had but one of two alternatives when this chase finally ran down. Go into the city and try to seize a boat, or go to the citadel guarding the approach. Either one was a death trap. Unless the citadel commander was a total fool, Schuder would never gain entry, and even if he did, they would be upon him and would storm the place. If he did seize a boat, word would reach the citadel long before he got there and they would be smashed.

Ha'ark's only hope was that the kill would be delayed long enough that he would have the glory of it.

Jack stood shaking his head as Yankee Clipper touched down at the edge of the open field, landing far enough away to avoid Flying Cloud if the wind should suddenly shift. Andrew Lawrence Keane climbed out of the engineer's seat on unsteady legs and walked toward Jack, saluting the swarm of soldiers who stood in wonder even as they struggled to grab the mooring lines.

"Sir, begging your pardon, sir, but just what the hell are you trying to do?" Jack asked. "I could have been up an hour ago except for your order to wait."

"I'm going with you."

"Sorry, sir, but I don't think so."

Andrew looked down at Petracci, who still stood at attention. "Would you care to repeat that, Colonel?"

"Sir, as commander of the air corps I respectfully decline to take you with me."

"You know I could relieve you for insubordination," Andrew snapped.

A flicker of a smile crossed Jack's features, as if dismissal would almost be a relief.

"Then who would fly back out there, sir?" he finally replied.

Andrew stared straight at him, his gaze not wavering.

"Sir?"

Andrew turned to a young second lieutenant who was standing stiffly behind him, obviously nervous about interrupting the argument.

"What the hell do you want?" Andrew snapped.

"Sir. A telegram from the president, sir."

Andrew grabbed the sheet of paper, and the lieutenant hastily retreated.

Andrew. Full support of anything you order to save Hans, even if it means war. House and Senate leaders agree. It is the least we can do for someone who helped to make us free.

Kal P.S. I've ordered Petracci not to let you fly.

Andrew turned back to Jack. "So you already knew this."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He hesitated for a second. "But even without the order, I'd still refuse, sir. You're too valuable to risk up there. Can I show you something, sir?"

Andrew nodded and followed Jack to Flying Cloud. Jack walked along the bottom of the airship, which was hovering a dozen feet off the ground, more than a hundred men straining at the ropes to hold her in place.