William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Abe handed the cigars to Togo.

“I don’t smoke,” he announced.

Togo pocketed four of them, fumbled for a match in his haversack, and struck a light, puffing two of the cigars to life. He handed one to Abe.

“You do now.”

Abe sat on the ground, canteen in one hand and a cigar in the other and watched the sun set.

“My God, Abe, you look like hell,” Richard exclaimed as the door into the waiting room swung open and the newly decorated major slowly hobbled in.

Both Adam and Richard came to attention and saluted, the proper ceremony, regardless of rank, for a holder of the Medal of Honor.

Abe, still embarrassed with the whole routine of it all, returned the salute, and then came forward extending his hand.

“Both of you deserved it far more than me.”

“Well, we aren’t president’s sons,” Adam replied.

A hard look came to Abe’s eyes.

“Abe, just joking, that’s all.”

Abe relaxed slightly.

“I told my father I would refuse, but Hawthorne had already written it up and released the news to Gates’s papers.”

Richard Cromwell looked over to the door leading into the reception room of the White House, where a mob of senators and congressmen were gathering to be seen and photographed with the first heroes of the Kazan War. Other knots of officers and enlisted personnel nervously walked about the room: nearly all the surviving Goliath pilots, a sergeant with the 9th Cavalry who had led an action similar to Abe’s, and Rear Admiral Petronius, now admiral of the fleet.

“Look, Abe,” Richard motioned to the door. “This is the reality of it. The Republic needs heroes for this war. Sure, we turned back the first wave, but this is only the beginning. The Kazan’s industrial capability is far beyond us. Their lost battleships can be replaced in months, while it will still take us years. That’s why we’re here in this room today, waiting to get served up.”

He put his hand on Abe’s shoulder.

“I know how you feel and agree. Sergeant Togo should be here, I saw your report on him. I had a copilot,” and he paused for a moment, “well, we all had friends who paid the price for all our mistakes.”

“You of all people, though, should be wearing this,” Abe replied, and he pointed to the Medal of Honor pinned to his left breast. “You were the one who warned us and led that suicidal attack that cleared the way here for Rosovich to do his strike.”

Rosovich nodded in agreement.

“Bearers of bad tidings rarely get medals, Abe,” Richard said, and forced a smile. “There’s still a lot of questions about how I got out, about Hazin,” and the smile disappeared, “about Sean.”

“What was said in Gates’s is absurd,” Adam snapped. Cromwell stiffened slightly.

“Freedom of the press, my friend.”

“Freedom to print lies,” Abe replied forcefully. “Whoever said you abandoned him-”

Richard extended his hand, indicating that Abe should lower his voice.

“Let it rest, Abe. Let it rest.”

Richard looked past Abe and stiffened slightly as Admiral Petronius approached.

Again the ritual of saluting Abe first, and again Abe reddened.

“The Republic’s first father and son team of Medal of Honor winners. A worthy decision, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Petronius’s harsh scan swept the three and his features softened.

“Mr. Rosovich, the Gold Star for Valor looks good on you,” Petronius said, “and you, too, Mr. Cromwell.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rosovich replied, a bit embarrassed. “And congratulations on your promotion.”

Petronius shook his head.

“A damn poor way to get it. Bullfinch was the creator of our service, its traditions. A good death, but I would have preferred that stout old man to still be with us.” He sighed. “I just wish this foolishness was over, I want to get back to our command. They’re still out there.”

The battle of Constantine had actually gone into a second day, with the aerosteamer carriers launching a second attack after the retreating battleships were spotted with dozens of transports. But another storm was rolling in, contact was lost after the destruction of two transports and one more hit on a battleship. The carriers had retired back to Constantine where, in the half-destroyed wreckage of the yard, thousands of laborers were swarming over the three precious, remaining ships, refitting them under the direction of Theodor Theodorovich.

The door that Abe had come through opened again, everyone in the room stiffening as the president entered, Kathleen beside him. There was the snapping of salutes and Andrew smiled, offering one in return.

The president’s attention fixed on Petronius, and he headed straight for him. Abe, Richard, and Adam started to respectfully withdraw, but Andrew motioned for them to stay.

“You boys might as well hear this as well. Admiral, I want you to head back to Constantine within the hour, I’ll have an express waiting to take you. Mr. Cromwell, you’ll go with him and take over command of the air groups.” Adam shifted uncomfortably, wanting to speak, but afraid to do so.

Andrew looked over at the diminutive pilot and smiled. “Sorry, son. You’re grounded.”

“Grounded, sir?”

“Personal request from Varinnia Ferguson. You’re part of her team now.”

“Damn Theodor,” Adam whispered, then seeing that Kathleen had overheard, he reddened.

“My apologies, ma’am.”

She laughed softly and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve heard a lot worse from the president, Adam.”

“Mr. Cromwell, my son expressed his feelings to me, quite forcefully I should add, about you receiving the Medal of Honor. I agree with him. I think you understand the reasoning. There’re concerns, some lingering questions in spite of your correct and heroic service.”

“I understand,” Cromwell said quietly.

“I believe in you, Cromwell, I want you to know that.” Cromwell nodded, saying nothing.

Andrew’s features hardened.

“You boys might as well hear this, as well. Admiral, a flyer located part of the Bantag Horde this morning and spotted the Golden Yurt of Jurak on the coast.”

“The enemy fleet?”

Andrew nodded.

“Report of fifty or more transports off-loading troops and supplies. I want you to sortie and try and intercept. Any lingering questions about this war are gone. The Kazan have joined with the Bantag.”

“I pity Jurak,” Abe said.

Andrew looked over at him.

“He’ll get more than he bargained for.”

Andrew nodded.

“You gentlemen head in, I want a moment with Petronius.”

The three comrades turned and, as the doors to the reception room opened, went in together, side by side.

Andrew, smiling sadly, watched them go, then looked back to Petronius.

“Keep your ships alive, Admiral. It’ll be a year or more before we can bring anything new into this fight.”

“I know.”

“And Cromwell. He’s a good man, try to keep him alive. I think we’ll hear a lot more from him.”

Petronius did not reply.

“Good luck out there.”

The two shook hands, and Petronius followed the crowd into the reception hall.

Andrew looked over at Kathleen as she slipped her hand into his.

“Proud of our boy?” he asked.

“He’s changed. Quiet, far too stem, with a look in his eyes that wasn’t there before.”

“War does that,” Andrew sighed.

“Damn all war.”

“Yes, damn all war. But we’re stuck with it.”

“Andrew, can’t you keep him back, the way you did with the Rosovich boy?”

“He must take the same risks I’d ask of anyone else. I’m president, my dear, I can no longer think as his father.”