A flurry of shots startled Cromwell. The officer, pistol raised over his head, emptied his revolver, and the crowd quieted.
“All military personnel report to your stations,” he shouted in Greek. “All dockyard personnel report to work. The rest of you civilians go to your homes and prepare to evacuate the city.”
Cromwell shook his head at the last statement. The city would be in utter chaos within the hour.
He looked over at General Petracci who stood silent, leaning heavily on his cane. Jack had come in the evening before, transferring his headquarters to where most of his airfleet was now stationed.
Jack was ignoring the madness erupting around them, looking up at the sky.
“Lousy day for flying. Wind will be up. We better start getting ready.”
“Ship in sight!”
Adam, who had been handing a wrench up to his crew chief, heard the cry as it raced along the main deck. All work stopped, and he felt a momentary panic. If it was an enemy ship they were dead; every aerosteamer had been secured below during the storm, the first of the Falcons was just starting to go up the ramp to the flight deck.
He left his chief and went through the wooden door to the base of the bridge at a run, then scrambled up the ladder to the tower. It was a violation of etiquette to enter the admiral’s realm without being ordered, but if the fight was erupting he had to know.
The admiral ignored his presence, looking forward, glasses raised. Adam respectfully stood behind him, finally spotting the smudge of smoke and then the glint of reflected sunlight.
“One of ours,” Petronius announced, “and she looks like she’s been in a fight.”
The early morning light struck the cresting waves, and if they were not in such danger, Adam realized, it would have been a beautiful sight. With the passing of the storm front the air was freshening, shifting around to the west northwest, bringing with it a drop in humidity as the wind came sweeping down out of the mountains with a touch of coolness to it.
The storm-green sea, which had been driven inward by the southerly winds of the day before, was now a mad confusion of whitecaps and short, sharp waves, which hissed and rolled.
The minutes dragged out, Adam finally borrowing a pair of glasses from the first officer. Adjusting the focus, he finally caught sight of the ship. It was a cruiser, and Petronius was right, it had obviously been in a fight. Smoke from its stacks was swirling out, but there was smoke from several fires as well, white plumes of steam, and part of a mast leaning over drunkenly.
He caught a flicker of light winking on and off.
“She’s signaling,” Petronius announced.
The ship’s signals officer was out the door to the open bridge, glasses up, with Petronius following. Adam cautiously stepped into line behind the admiral.
The signals officer turned to the enlisted man working the shutter lamp.
“Send reply. ‘Shiloh. Wilderness and Perryville following astern. Malvern Hill, please report situation.”
Adam listened to the clatter of the lantern shutter, trying to follow the Morse code, the sailor signaling so fast it was hard to keep up.
The signaling done, Adam started to raise his glasses to watch the reply, but the first officer reclaimed his property. Stepping back, he listened as the signals officer started to read the response from the cruiser Malvern Hill.
“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.