Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War (43 page)

Buckle and the others stood in silence as the Russian airship fell to earth. Such was the end for so many zeppelineers. Buckle did not fear it, but it was difficult to watch. It was just difficult to watch. The fiery wreck dropped behind a mountain ridge and disappeared from view.

Why had the captain of the Russian sky vessel believed that his mission to New Berlin was so urgent that he would gamble that his flame-engulfed zeppelin might last long enough to reach the harbor?

“This does not bode well,” Smelt said slowly. “We must contact Spartak with absolute haste. We must find out what is going on.”

“Agreed!” Washington blustered.

“I fear the Founders already may have pounced, Chancellor,” Buckle said.

“Messenger pigeon!” Sabrina shouted, her eye still pressed to her telescope. “Messenger pigeon coming in!”

Buckle swung his glass back to the sky. It was not necessary—the flapping V shape of the pigeon was already close at hand, not three hundred yards off, approaching from the direction of the now-destroyed airship. The bird had a red-and-black Spartak flash on its belly and the red ribbon of a loaded scroll case rippling at its leg, a last message scribbled from the hand of a Russian zeppelineer now dead.

MESSAGE FROM A DEAD MAN

“T
HE BIRD IS IN
,” B
UCKLE
said, watching the distant parapet as a pair of handlers under a homing target immediately scooped up the bird. The handlers’ signal lamp was already burning, the edges of its case spilling a phosphorous glow; they started sending signals almost immediately.

“Founders invasion,” Albard said slowly as he read the coded flashes of light, standing on the signals platform with his binoculars. “Rostov overrun.”

Rostov overrun, Buckle repeated in his head. Rostov was the Spartak clan’s southernmost stronghold, a port, and a big, well-fortified one. If the Founders had actually taken it, then this was no skirmish.

“Grand Boyar Ryzhakov requesting immediate Imperial assistance,” Albard continued. He lowered his binoculars, looking to Jannick. “Acknowledge, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Captain,” Jannick answered nervously, flipping the operating handle of his signal lamp, the casing issuing a hot stink as the shutters snapped up and down.

“There you have it,” Bismarck muttered. “The war has begun.”

War.
The word shuddered down Buckle’s spine. The inevitable had happened. He felt a surge of apprehension, followed
by nervous exhilaration. He looked at Sabrina, whose face was soft but profoundly solemn as she looked back at him. Buckle smiled at Sabrina; he wanted it to be a reassuring smile, but he feared it might be rather grim.

“But, Spartak appealing to us?” Albard questioned. “We have been in a skirmish war with them for more than a decade.”

“By invading Spartak, the Founders have driven the Russians to you,” Buckle said.

“Yes,” Smelt replied. “But our fleet is not yet ready for war.”

“We can send a vanguard, a token of our support,” Valkyrie offered. “The
Pneumatic Tirpitz
is on its way and will be here within the half hour. We can send her.”

“And the
Lucerne
is bunkering,” Colonel Rainer said. “On an accelerated schedule, she can be up in an hour.”

“I cannot send two of our war zeppelins off and leave New Berlin exposed,” Smelt said. “We could well be in for a Founders visit ourselves.”

“Especially since we sent Leopold Goethe home with his toes and fingers in a bag,” Bismarck added, winking at Buckle.

“We can recall the
Beowulf
, but she is patrolling the northern approaches,” Rainer said. “She is more than two days away at best speed.”

“Send for her immediate recall,” Smelt ordered.

“The
Pneumatic Zeppelin
is rigged and ready,” Buckle said. “We can be away immediately.”

Smelt gave Buckle a hard look. “Spartak has requested Imperial support, Captain Buckle. The Crankshafts are not compelled to act.”

“I believe we are, Chancellor,” Buckle replied.

“Do you speak for the Crankshaft clan, Captain Buckle?” Smelt asked, turning his eyes from Buckle to Washington.

Washington stepped forward. “Captain Buckle does not, but I do. The captain has the right instinct. We are with the Imperial clan, and where you must fight, so must we. Our combined presence shall also surely impress the boyars of Spartak, and secure their willing participation in the Grand Alliance.”

Smelt made no effort to hide his relief. “Very well. It seems, as it always does in diplomacy, that external events are making many of our decisions for us.”

“May I play the devil’s advocate a moment, Chancellor?” Rainer said. “We must also consider that possibility that this is a trap. If Spartak has gone over to the Founders, sir, then this frantic call for assistance is a perfect trap.”

“No, Colonel,” Smelt replied. “I know Vladik Ryzhakov. Well, I knew him a long time ago. That old bear would never submit willingly to the Founders, not to mention sacrifice one of his aircrews in a sham.”

Valkyrie stepped forward. “We must go.”

“Father, give me the
Cartouche
,” Bismarck said. “With her I can get to Muscovy well ahead of the warships. It is imperative that Spartak knows we are with her as quickly as possible.”

“Very well,” Smelt said. “Tell Captain Snyder to assemble the
Cartouche
’s crew and make his way with all best speed to Muscovy. I shall send the
Pneumatic Tirpitz
after you, once she arrives here. But I cannot spare more, for I fear New Berlin may soon be under attack from the Founders as well.”

“The Russians have plenty of war zeppelins,” Washington said. “What they wish is to confirm your support.”

Bismarck hugged Valkyrie, and she kissed his cheek. “Be careful, sister.”

“And you, brother,” Valkyrie said. “Be cautious—the Founders will be on their way.”

“Cautious, but never faint of heart,” Bismarck replied. He turned a serious eye to Buckle. “Take good care of my sister, Captain Buckle. Our hopes and dreams lie with her.”

“I shall protect her as one of my own, sir,” Buckle answered. “You have my word.”

Bismarck smiled. Buckle glanced at Smelt, who looked like an old man in that moment, a tall, gaunt old man placing one hand on Valkyrie’s shoulder and the other on Bismarck’s. “Be brave, my children. Be brave!”

Bismarck shook his father’s hand and hurried away with Rainer at his side.

Valkyrie patted her father’s cheek, then turned to Buckle. “Let us fly,” she said, striding out the door. Buckle, Sabrina, and Washington quickly followed her down the hall of antlered elk.

Rest one more moment, my zeppelin, Buckle thought, for I am coming, coming to fire up your furnaces, run out your guns, and take you to war.

THE CAPTAIN’S TABLE

T
HE MEAL WAS OVER
,
BUT
Captain Buckle still wanted to talk. Sabrina watched him, ruddy-faced from laughter, thrice ready for the havoc of battle, an oiled cog ready to click into whatever gear was in action. His empty plate and grinning face stood in sharp contrast to the haphazard and nervous smiles worn by others at the Lion’s Table, whose visages were pinched and serious over their barely touched bully beef and potatoes. Ambassador Washington seemed the most unsettled by Buckle’s enthusiasms. Valkyrie—sitting where Max should have been—was nonplussed. Ivan, Surgeon Fogg, and Sergeant Salgado of the marines joined in Buckle’s bravado, soaking it into themselves. Howard Hampton was also present, given a plate once the serving was done, and passing most of his beef to Kellie under the table.

“What can we do now but live forever, despite ourselves?” Buckle laughed. “Lads and ladies, we have defeated the kraken. What other thing could possibly strike fear into one’s heart after one has smelled the breath of the kraken? We are immortal now.”

“Infamous is more the term I would use,” Surgeon Fogg said, grinning.

“By the skin of the dog,” the marine sergeant Salgado groaned. “I would have given my firstborn and my second to have been out there with you!”

“Perhaps the time requires a more serious approach,” Sabrina said, oddly distressed by Buckle’s upbeat mood. Even the captured steampiper helmet, a bit of a macabre centerpiece in the middle of the table—fished out of Buckle’s locker by Ivan—seemed to be suggesting a more solemn approach to the mission.

Buckle slapped Ivan’s good shoulder—Ivan was seated on his left—and Ivan spilled his grog. “A crew fights best when it is happy, Sabrina,” Buckle said. “And they are happy when their markers are paid and their stomachs are full.”

“Damn it, Romulus,” Ivan moaned, wiping rum off his chin.

Buckle laughed again. Sabrina watched him. He appeared a bit stupefied in his looseness, but he had barely touched his own glass. He was fired by a heat of expectation, and confident, for he was no captain if he did not overflow with confidence when action loomed. Buckle leaned back or lurched forward in his chair, as the conversation demanded, the great nose window of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
ablaze with the illumination of the western afternoon clouds, the sun a molten forge at his back.

“Unfortunate, though. Old Valentine will lose that leg,” Fogg said.

“Yes,” Buckle replied, somber for a moment. “But what a story he has to tell at least, eh?”

“The beastie pretty much took a piece out of each of us,” Sabrina said, poking her fork at her potatoes and turning a cold chunk over, leaving an uneven grease spot of condensation and butter on the china. “May the dead rest in peace.” She said the
last bit and she felt it, but her heart was not quite in it at the moment. They were hurtling toward Spartak at seventy knots, furnaces and propellers roaring, altitude one thousand feet, visibility excellent, a light crosswind coming south by southwest, compensating for drift. They were perhaps twenty minutes out from Muscovy, and the bridge crew should really be on the bridge.

She did not understand Buckle’s dillydallying.

“Do not fret, Sabrina,” Buckle said, reading her mind. “We are finishing up. Not a good idea to leave the junior lieutenants and midshipmen in charge on a battlefield, is it?”

“No, Captain,” Sabrina replied. “I am itching for action, is more of the matter.”

“Action, harrumph!” Washington—overcautious old Washington, the hoary legend, the stick in Buckle’s craw—complained as he cleared his throat at the same time. “Battle? This is most aggressive, coming in at full speed.”

“There is no other way to arrive, Ambassador,” Buckle answered, still grinning at Sabrina. “There may be Founders in the clouds.”

“I agree,” Sabrina offered. “If the Founders are there, then our only chance is to blast them before they blast us.”

Washington placed his knife on his plate with a loud
click
. “May I remind you, Captain Buckle and First Lieutenant Serafim, that regardless of whatever situation we find, even if there is an engagement under way, we are bound to stand off and observe until the matter is resolved.”

“Stand off and observe,” Buckle repeated with a disapproving tone. “What an unfortunate set of words.”

“Stand off and observe, yes,” Washington pressed. “The
Cartouche
is ahead of us to deliver our message of alliance. The
Pneumatic Tirpitz
is only an hour behind us. We are here to show the Crankshafts as a part of the Grand Alliance, not to fight in the Imperials’ stead.”