William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

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.”