William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

And then the bow of the ship seemed to lift, a massive column of water, several hundred feet high, a blinding flash sweeping over the deck, seconds later another explosion farther aft. As he continued to climb, he saw both battleships, sterns blazing, the farthest aft with its bow blown clear off, the ship already settling.

It had worked! By all the saints, it had worked. Now the only question left was how to get his crate home.

Yasim stood in stunned silence. Damage control parties raced past him without ceremony, dragging hoses. Flames swirled up from the foredeck, the ship all but dead in the water.

A thunderclap of fire burst across the western horizon, the battleship Yutana going up. Behind it, Motaka had rolled over, keel pointed heavenward.

“Sire.”

He stirred from his thoughts and dark contemplations. It was Admiral Ullani.

“Sire, I suggest that you transfer your flag.”

Yasim nodded, saying nothing.

“Sire, we can save this ship, but come dawn they might strike again. It would be best if you were on a vessel that can maneuver.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

He looked back to the burning city. All this to achieve what? He wondered. This contemptible place, for what?

It was time to turn about, to find Hazin, to find out the real reasons for all of this, and then to kill him.

Minutes later a cruiser slowed, lines snaking out to the stricken flagship, swinging in close so that a chair could be run across to bring the emperor over.

Word had flashed through the ship that the emperor was leaving, from his third bodyguard, to a message runner, straight to an ammunition handler in the main magazine.

Twenty years prior he had taken the Oath of the Novitiate of the Third Order, had taken his assigned task and lived it across all the years, in a dozen battles, two hundred feet aft of Yasim and forty feet below him. He had even received, from Yasim’s own hand, a commendation for heroism at Tushiva. And all that time he had waited, never knowing when the order would come or how it would come. It had arrived only the night before and only if the ship had already been hit seriously, otherwise he was to do nothing.

The ship had been hit, the emperor was fleeing, and the word had come.

He silently said the blessing of parting as he walked into the main ammunition locker. Powder bags for the great guns lined the walls, each in its own rack, sealed inside a wooden container. He had done the routine a thousand times, in drill and in battle. Lift the wooden container out of the rack and walk with it out of the powder locker room, the door guard opening and closing the barrier. An assistant loader would take the container and run it into the ammunition hoist; then he would turn, go back, and do it again.

This time he tore the lid off one of the containers, drew a concealed folding knife out from under his shirt and flicked the blade open. The hilt of the knife was cunningly made; a simple twist and a small container popped open, a simple wooden match falling into his open hand.

With the knife he slashed open the powder bag, a cascade of black powder spilling out. He pulled another lid open, did the same, and then a third. The door opened, one of the assistants putting his head in.

“Pava, what…?”

The Novitiate of the Third Order held the match up, and with his thumb flicked it to life. Smiling, he touched it to the stream of black powder pouring out of the torn bag.

Richard Cromwell sat on the beach, drunk from the wine, watching as the fireball soared a thousand feet into the air. The civilians around him had been cheering the spectacle of the air battle and its aftermath as if it had been a chariot race. The explosion sent them into a new frenzy of celebration.

He was disgusted with the whole affair and felt no qualms about relieving them of another sack of wine, which they were more than happy to provide to the hero.

The emperor was dead, and somehow he knew it was Hazin who had done it.

They came just after sunset, five aerosteamers, soaring in from the northwest.

Togo, as always, heard them first. The men around Keane began to stand up, incredulous, several of them laughing, saying it was only a hallucination.

But it was not.

The first aerosteamer, a Falcon, winged over, swooping down on the ravine to the west, stitching it with gatling fire. Men who were so parched that they had not spoken for over a day, cheered hoarsely, pointing, laughing as the tables were turned. The next two were Goliaths, flying straight toward the butte. They came in low, throttling back, and for a second Abe thought that they were going to try some mad landing.

The lead ship skimming barely a dozen feet above them started releasing bundles, the first one almost hitting Abe, the second and third dropped near the hospital area. The fourth one sailed over the edge and disappeared.

The same performance was tried by the second Goliath. The first package fell short, but the second and third and fourth landed safely.

They made three passes, the men scattering with each pass, cursing when one hit too close, but then cheering and waving.

The last two aerosteamers were Falcons as well. They swept around the butte, tracer fire pouring down. One of the Falcons broke away and started back west, engine misfiring, but holding to its course. The two Goliaths buzzed back over one last time, wagging their wings. The men cheered. The bundles were already being broken open, discipline breaking down for a moment as the men leapt upon the full canteens bundled up inside, tearing them open, then gulping down the water. Abe saw cartridge boxes, rations, and a package stamped with the green insignia of the medical corps.

The last Falcon circled back in, a small package with a red streamer tumbled down, landing in the middle of the butte. One of the troopers hobbled over, picked it up and brought it to Abe. The Falcon continued to circle.

Abe tore the red streamer off and opened the package. Inside were half a dozen cigars, weighed down with a package of forty cartridges for a revolver, and a note.

To the commander of the beleaguered force near Carvana Pass,

My sincere apologies, sir, and please consider the cigars enclosed a small token of respect. We have been searching for you for five days. The airship that passed near you this morning reported your presence, the pilot wisely refraining from coming too close out of concern that it might trigger an assault to finish you before help could arrive. I hope its flying by without notice did not adversely affect the morale of your command.

Abe chuckled and shook his head.

A relief column has been dispatched, supported by a company of land ironclads, and should arrive late tomorrow. Airship support will return at dawn and maintain watch over you and also bring in additional supplies.

I must request, sir, a reply, which I believe you will understand given the nature of the situation. If Lieutenant Abraham Schuder Keane is with your command and still alive, would you please respond by waving the red streamer attached to this package. I apologize, sir, for singling out one particular trooper for concern when so many lives are at stake, but I hope you understand my reasons.

I look forward to meeting you, sir, and to personally congratulating you for what has obviously been an heroic stand.

I remain, sir, your ob’d and humble serv’t,

General of the Armies Vincent Nathaniel Hawthorne.

Abe handed the letter to Togo and waited for him to read it.

“I’m tempted not to wave it,” he sighed.

Togo looked at him, grinned, and shook his head. He picked the streamer up from the ground and started to wave it over his head. The Falcon banked over, wagged its wings, then circled back out, turning to the west.