“So destroy their supplies.”
Vincent smiled, and for an instant he caused her temper to flare, the dismissive look reminiscent of ones far too many men would show when she first stepped forward to make a suggestion. The smile finally disappeared.
“Sorry, Varinna, it’s just that every damn senator and member of the cabinet, and even the president comes at me with their war-winning suggestion.”
“I’m not one of them. I was Ferguson’s wife first, then I was his assistant, then his partner, and finally in the end I did it myself, including holding him while he died.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
She lowered her head. She didn’t let it show much anymore, the memory of the pain. With an effort, she forced it aside.
“To go all the way back to your original question, I could force ten more ships into the air and have them up at the front for the offensive.”
“But you don’t want to.”
“They’ll most likely all get shot down the first day. You saw the way that boy just landed. I agree with Jack Petracci that these ships need to be used en masse. We saw that last month when forty of the Bantag machines bombed Roum and sank three supply transports in the harbor.”
And they lost half their machines in the process,” Vincent replied. “Not much of a trade-off in my book.”
“Still, it showed what could be done. But there’s no sense in having the mass if the poor dumb fools fly straight into enemy fire. After all the work it takes to build one of these, sending it up with a boy who’s got twenty, maybe twenty-five hours of flying time is suicide. Hold these machines back from this fight. Give us time to train more pilots. Twenty more Eagles and Hornets won’t make a difference.”
“I have my orders.”
“For flightworthy machines. Listen to me in this, and while you’re at it keep those bastards from Congress and their investigating committees out of my way. I’m tiling you, my friend, after the attack on Capua, these ships might be the deciding factor for this war.”
“After Capua?”
“You’ll see, Vincent. You’ll see.”
Chapter Two
Pulling aside the blanket that served as a door, Andrew stepped down into the dank confines of the bombproof that doubled as headquarters for the Capua Front.
A smoky coal oil lamp suspended over the map table by a piece of telegraph wire tied to an overhead beam provided the only illumination. He looked over at the pendulum clock tacked to the broken lid of a caisson and leaned against the opposite wall … 3:10 in the morning.
The long twilight of dawn was just beginning, and through one of the view slits he could see a tinge of scarlet to the northeast, silhouetting the Bantag earthworks on the opposite bank of the river. The fact that he had managed to get any sleep at all surprised him, but ever since the wounding near this very same spot six months ago, he found that he tired easily and needed far more rest. The ability to get through a sleepless night and then fight a daylong pitched battle was gone for him.
Going over to a smoking kettle resting atop a leaky woodstove, he poured a cup of tea and sipped the scalding drink. He looked over at Pat, Hans, and Marcus, who were huddled over the map debating some minor detail.
The fact that the three were thus engaged was a clear indicator that they were nervous. The plan had been laid over two months ago. Everyone was in place; there was no changing it now. All that was left was the one word of command that would set the complex assault into motion. He had learned ages ago that there came a point in an operation where it was best to step back and let those farther down the chain take over. A nervous commander, at such a moment, was much more a burden than a help.
Andrew put down his cup and moved to join his friends. “Anything new?”
“There was a skirmish down by the river a half hour ago, a Bantag patrol trying to slip across,” Pat announced.
“And I think they’re on to it,” Hans replied. “Not just this patrol, the whole thing; they’re on to it, they want us to try this crossing.”
“And you want me to call it all off?”
Hans said nothing.
“Damn it, Hans,” Pat replied, “we’ve been stuck on this line all spring. My God, man, if we don’t break this stalemate, we’ll be here till Judgment Day. We break his back here, today, and we end this standoff and end this damn war.”
Hans wearily shook his head and looked up at Andrew with bloodshot eyes.
“Son, you’re making this decision out of political concerns rather than for military objectives.”
“The president ordered it,” Andrew replied, his gaze fixed on Marcus.
Marcus stared straight at him and was silent. Andrew knew the Roum vice president was fully committed to this assault. The Bantag were still in possession of some of the most fertile lands of Roum, a million of his people were displaced, and he wanted the land back.
Marcus’s gaze shifted toward Hans.
“I remember Andrew once saying that war was an extension of politics.”
“My God, I’ve got a Roum proconsul quoting Clausewitz to me,” Hans groaned.
“Who the hell is Clausewitz?” Pat asked. “Does he live here?”
Andrew could not help but chuckle, then, more soberly, “This war transcends politics.”
“Maybe externally,” Marcus replied, “as far as the Bantags go. But internally, for the Republic, it has become an ever-present concern: Which one of the two states will abandon the other first?”
“Not while I’m alive,” Andrew replied, jaw firmly set, his voice gone quiet.
“Nor I, my friend, you know better than that. But the people of Roum want their land back, and this morning we’re going to get it, and drive those bastards from the field. You, I, all of us here have planned this battle for months, down to the finest detail. I fear the only thing we might be lacking here is the nerve to see it through.”
Hans stiffened and leaned forward over the table.
“I can’t believe you would think that of me,” Hans snapped.
Marcus extended his hand in a conciliatory gesture.
“I’m not doubting your courage, old friend. We’ve planned our best, now let us trust in the gods and in the courage of our men.”
Andrew swept the group with his gaze.
“It goes as planned,” he announced, and without waiting for comment he left the underground room, finding it far too claustophobic.
Ascending the steps of the bunker, he stepped onto the grassy knoll under which the headquarters was concealed. A faint breeze was stirring from the north, cool air coming down out of the hills and distant forests. Sighing, he sat down, kicking up the scent of sage with his boots. Strange smell; never knew it up in Maine, he thought. Hans had mentioned it, though, saying it reminded him of his days out on the prairie before the Civil War.
He plucked up a handful of the thick coarse grass, crushing it in his hand, letting the pungent smell fill his lungs. Leaning back, he looked up at the stars, the Great Wheel, wondering as he always did if one of the specks of light might be that of home.
So strange, home. Maine, the Republic, the memory of peace. Even in the midst of a civil war, everyone knew that there would be a day when it would come to an end, when both sides, North and South, would go home to their farms, villages, towns, and pick up the threads of their lives. Perhaps that was some of the uniqueness of America, the sense that war was an anomaly, an interruption of what was normal, a tragic third act of a play that had to be waded through so there could be the final resolution and running down of the curtain. Then the audience could get up, go home, and resume their lives.
He knew so much of the old world was not that way. Strange, though he had never been there, this place made him think of Russia. It wasn’t just the Rus, descendants of early medieval Russians, that he had found here and forged a nation out of. No, it was the land itself, the impenetrable northern forests, and out here the vast open steppes, the endless dome of the sky, the scent of sage and dried grass, or the cold driving wind of winter. This is what Russia must be like, he thought. The history, the same as well. A land of ceaseless bloodletting, of vast armies sweeping across the dusty ocean of land. War, when fought, was with implacable fury, no quarter asked or expected! Here it was the norm, the ever-present reality.