William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

“Believe all cruisers of fleet destroyed,” and a gasp swept through the bridge. “Action last night five miles south of Three Sisters, Minoan Shoals. Four enemy battleships and numerous other ships engaged. One battleship believed sunk. Three of our frigates following astern. End message.”

Petronius, face pale, turned and looked around at his staff, shaking his head.

“Ask him about Bullfinch.”

Again the clattering and a quick reply.

“Believe dead. Antietam sunk.”

“Position of enemy fleet,” Petronius asked, making no comment on the reported death of his old friend.

“Last sighted steaming west, five miles south of Minoan Shoals. Believe they will attack Constantine by late afternoon. Am ordering remains of fleet to withdraw up Mississippi. Your orders?”

Petronius walked back into the shelter of the enclosed bridge and sat down in his chair. A gesture to a midshipman resulted in a steaming mug of tea, which Petronius slipped in silence for several minutes.

He finally looked up at the officers gathered round.

“Fight or withdraw.”

There was silence, finally the first officer spoke up.

“ Malvern Hill is shot to pieces, we can see that. Admiral Bullfinch is gone. If we put our backs against Constantine we’ll be pinned and shot to pieces as well, sir. Captain Ustasha over in Malvern Hill is right, let’s come about. The Mississippi is only two hours behind us. Pull back up the river.”

There were nods of agreement, finally Petronius’s gaze settled on Adam.

“The air corps has transferred nearly everything they have down to Constantine. They won’t pull out without a fight, sir. They will launch a strike,” Adam said. “We need to support it.”

“In this wind?” the first officer replied. “It must be gusting to thirty knots.”

“It will flatten by the end of the day.”

“If that battle was fought last evening they will be off the coast of Constantine by three this afternoon at the latest,” and as he spoke, he pointed forward, for the city was now less than five hours sailing time away at full speed.

Petronius looked from the first officer back to Adam and all fell silent.

“I’m with young Mr. Rosovich here,” Petronius replied softly. “I’ve never turned my back on a fight, and I’ll be damned if we do it now.”

Adam looked over at him, obviously surprised by the response.

“But, sir,” the first officer replied heatedly, “if Admiral Bullfinch and our entire fleet couldn’t stop them and got annihilated trying, then what the hell can we do. We don’t have a gun on this ship, just a bunch of crates that can barely fly.”

“We can die trying,” Petronius said, then paused, looking around at the group. “But we’ll do it with some intelligence, gentlemen, some intelligence.”

For a wonderful, blessed moment, the high scattered clouds cast a shadow over the butte. Abe crawled out from under his shelter half, Togo calling to him.

He tried to walk erect, but his head was swimming. Feet like lead, he shuffled slowly, kicking up dust, a broken arrow, spent cartridges. He squatted down by the sergeant’s side.

Togo was pointing toward the ravine to the north and offered his glasses. Several Bantag were out of the ravine, one of them holding a bucket, pouring water over the others. They paused, as if knowing they were being watched, and waved.

“Should I try a shot, Lieutenant? Arrogant bastards.”

Abe shook his head.

“Save what we got,” he croaked.

It had been a ghastly night, followed by an even worse dawn. Three times the Bantag had tried to scale the butte, the last fight hand-to-hand along the eastern rim. The dead from both sides lay where they fell; it was beyond asking the men to scratch holes in the hard ground, or to expend what energy they had left dragging the Bantag bodies off to push over the side. The one benefit of the charge was that nine of the Bantag dead had water sacks on them, enough so that a small cupful could be doled out to each man with enough left over for two cups for the surviving wounded.

Just before dawn the suicides started. Three men shot themselves in quick succession, while two simply stood up and charged over the rim. Abe had managed to stop two more, one by sitting and talking with the trooper until the boy broke down into sobs until he fell asleep, the second one with a fistfight that had sapped what little energy he had left.

Abe looked around at his perimeter. Maybe fifty men left who could fight, another forty or so wounded, dying, or beyond caring, lying comatose.

“Lieutenant,” Togo whispered. “Your speech was all mighty fine, but if we don’t get water and food, well, it’ll be over with by the end of the day.”

Abe wearily nodded.

“We wait till dark. You and the sergeant major,” and he nodded to the old man who was dozing in the shade of a blanket propped up with several Bantag spears, “break out down the west slope. Maybe some of you can get into those ravines and find a way out.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay here with the wounded.”

“A lot of good that will do, Lieutenant. This isn’t the time to get sentimental or play some heroic game. You stay here, you die, and it won’t be pleasant. Those buggers take you alive and figure out who you are, it’ll be a slow death.” Abe shook his head.

“I don’t think so, and they won’t take me alive.”

“Then I stay, too.”

“No. If anyone can lead these men out, it’s you.”

Togo sighed and finally nodded in agreement.

“You know none of us will make it. They’ll expect this.”

“I know.”

Togo laughed.

“Rice wine. A gallon of it, that’s what I’ll have when I get to where I’m going.”

“Lieutenant!”

He got up and half crawled to where a trooper on the west side was calling, pointing.

Abe could see it, mounted Bantag in the ravine. “Sergeant major! Round up ten men, get them over here.”

A hundred riders swept up out of the ravine and came forward at the charge.

“Wait for it,” Abe said. “Sergeant major, pass out the reserve ammunition one round at a time!”

The riders crossed the first four hundred yards without a shot being fired.

The last two hundred yards they swept in as before, low in the saddles. The Bantag dug in at the fallen redoubt resumed their harassing fire of launching arrows nearly straight up, shafts clattering down, striking ground. A trooper cursed as one caught him in the calf.

Measured shots snapped off, dropping several of the riders. Most of them dismounted, scurrying up to the wall and dodging in amongst the boulders and rocks. A few raced forward, coming up the slope, but were dropped by carefully placed shots.

The fight slacked off.

Several of the men looked at Abe, not sure of what was to come next.

“Just to see if we still had some fight in us,” he announced. He didn’t add that the reinforcements meant that any hope of breaking out had been sealed shut. The Bantag wanted to make sure that no one escaped.

“Sir?”

It was Togo, kneeling up and pointing.

He saw it too, and within seconds so did the others. There was a feeble shout, then men stood up, waving.

High up, half a dozen miles off, a dot was moving across the sky, slowly floating along…a flyer.

Men started shouting, taking off hats, waving, ignoring the flurry of sniper shots fired from the ravines. But the flyer continued on its way, never swerving from its course, tracking off to the northwest, growing smaller and yet smaller until it disappeared.

Abe knew that whatever faint hope still lingered with his men had finally broken at that moment. If a flyer had patrolled out this way and not seen them, it would not search there again. There were ten thousand square miles or more of ground where they might be lost, and that was assuming that the courier he had sent off had even made it back to the regiment.