Why that? he wondered. His hand rested on his chest, feeling the quiet beat. Steady now, not the hollow drifting sense that came too often. Emil kept talking about the need to take it easy. Old Emil, God just how old was he? Must be well over seventy. Hard to keep track of the years, real years as counted back home.
The clock quietly ticked, his thoughts drifted, and he knew there would be no sleep tonight. Far too much to think of, not of what would come … but rather of what had once been.
Jurak sifted through the reports, carefully reading the roughly printed Rus letters taken down by the Chinese telegraphers. All lines south of the Green Mountains had been cut by airship attacks.
That was not the concern of the moment, though. It was the airships that were troubling him. Along the entire Capua Front there was only one airship.
It was supposed to represent ten ships, and it was the clumsy deception that gave it away. The humans had taken to the use of symbols which were known to be numbers in their English language. Observers along the front were given the strictest of orders to note down such symbols when they reported sightings. The same ten numbers kept appearing for the last seven days but it was only this afternoon that one of his warriors, a lowly commander of ten, had been allowed into his presence, claiming that he was convinced there were not ten ships but only one. When questioned he said he remembered the one particular ship since it had almost killed him during the river battle and that it had a slight stain along the underside of its left wing and a triangle-shaped patch not much more than a hand-span across on the right wing. All of the supposed ten ships now had the identical stain and patch.
With that Jurak had made it a point to observe the ship as it flew over twice during the day and the commander of ten (who was now commander of a hundred) was right. They were pasting different numbers on the ship. It was an old trick, and the fact that the humans resorted to it must mean that their airships were all somewhere else.
He had already sent faster riders southwest from the nearest garrison to the breaks in the line, demanding a full report. News, though, would be a day old.
In the morning he thought he had a clear grasp of the plan. Now he wasn’t sure. Such an operation would not require every airship of the Yankee fleet. There were several scenarios possible, a couple within the capability of what the humans knew of war. There were several beyond them, or had they realized that airships could be used for more than just reconnaissance and bombing?
He felt a cold shiver at that thought and called for a guard to summon Zartak.
Chapter Eight
“Hans, time we got moving.”
It was Ketswana, his towering bulk filling the doorframe. First light was tracing the horizon, dawn still more than an hour off. Engines were already warming up on the airstrip, distant voices echoing.
“Come on, Vincent, let’s roll.”
The boy was fast asleep, curled up on the coat, his oversize riding boots still on, making him look even more like a child who had insisted upon falling asleep in his play uniform. Vincent stirred, and then was bolt upright, a brief instant of panic until he realized where he was. Hans said nothing, understanding. Old instincts from the field. “Everything all right?” Vincent asked a bit too loudly.
“Just that it’s time.”
“Right.”
Ketswana came back into the room carrying a wooden plank. Two steaming tins of tea were on it, along with pieces of hardtack topped off with slabs of cold salt pork. Hans blew on the rim of the cup between gulps of the scalding brew, then quickly consumed the cold breakfast.
Vincent was up, eating a bit more slowly. Gregory Timokin came in.
“Everything’s ready, sir,” he announced to Vincent. “We better get up to the front.”
Vincent nodded and started for the door, taking his cup of tea with him. He stopped by Hans’s side.
“Not much at sentimental good-byes, Hans.”
“Nor I.”
Vincent chuckled. “Sure, Hans. See you in a week.”
“You too, son. Gregory, don’t let him bang his head.” Gregory smiled and offered Hans his hand. Hans took it gently, and even then Gregory grimaced from the pain.
“Wish you were coming along, too. It’d be like the Ebro all over again,” he said, forcing a smile.
“Once was enough,” Hans lied. “Besides, I like flying."
Vincent started out the door, then stopped.
“Save a little glory for me, will you?” he asked light-heartedly.
Hans laughed softly.
“And for God’s sake please come back.” And now there was a note of concern in his voice. Before Hans could reply, he was gone.
“Everyone seems to think we’re going to get killed, my friend,” Hans said to Ketswana.
“Not us, we’re immortal. As long as I’m with you, you’re safe.”
Finishing his tea, Hans left the cup in the hut, stepped outside to relieve himself, then started for the flight line. More and yet more engines were turning over, warming up. Crews were loading into the cargo compartments, and Ketswana mentioned that nine men, after the flight over from Suzdal, absolutely refused to get back in. Volunteers from the ground crews had replaced them.
All around them was a bustle of activity. They passed several Hornets revving up their engines, a crew chief shouting obscenities in Rus. A wagon clattered past, again the smell of kerosene. With a thousand men working as ground crews, most of them pressed into service and only given a couple of days training, it was a near miracle, Hans realized, that the entire place hadn’t exploded with some darn fool having smuggled in a box of matches for a smoke, or from the accidental discharge of a gun.
They passed an Eagle, the ten Chin gathered in front of it, squatting around a bucket of steaming grits and a smaller bucket of tea. They didn’t even notice their commander passing, and continued to chatter in their singsong voices. A ground crew trotted past, carrying coils of ropes, and then several boys darted around Hans, lugging skins filled with water to be loaded on board a ship.
“The training pays off here,” Hans said. “There was part of me thought Varinna mad to think it could be pulled off, but here it is. Men, equipment, fuel, food, ammunition, all of it coming together in this place.”
“They know it’s this or defeat,” Ketswana replied. “We know as well that this is something special, a new thing, something we will always remember.”
It was hard to sort out which flier was which in the darkness, and finally they had to grab one of the ground crews to guide them to Jack’s ship. As they approached the aero-steamer, Hans was glad to see that Gates’s Illustrated had finally been put to a good use, enough copies had indeed been found to paper over the front and sides of the cargo compartments to block out the wind.
Ketswana started for the crew compartment under Jack’s ship.
“I thought you were on number thirty-nine,” Jack observed.
“Didn’t like the pilot.”
“Suppose something happens to me,” Hans interjected. “You’re to take over, remember?”
Ketswana laughed.
“And suppose something happened to me on the other ship. Where would you be? No, I stay with you, my friend.”
Hans wanted to argue but he could see Jack standing by the ladder to the forward compartment, arms folded, grinning.
“Kinda logical actually,” Jack announced. “I’ll get you in. Besides, the boys know what to do; the company commanders are all briefed.”
“All right, go on, get in,” Hans said, and Ketswana gave a final wave before ducking under the airship and climbing aboard.
“How is everything?” Hans asked.