“I suspect the Chosen are doing most of the doing right now,” John replied. “I just hope we’re not the only ones keeping our heads while all about are losing theirs.”
“If we are, they’ll blame it on us,” Jeffrey said. “I’ll bet Dad’s doing something constructive, though.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Maurice Farr stood at the head of the table in the admiral’s quarters of the Great Republic, pride of the Northern Fleet, and stared at the messenger.
The captains and commodores along either side looked up from their turtle soup, some of them spilling drops on their ceremonial summer-white uniforms. The overhead electrics blazed on the polished silver, the gold epaulets, the snowy linen of the tablecloth, and the starched jackets of the stewards serving the dinner. It would take news of real importance to interrupt this occasion.
“Gentlemen,” Farr said, quickly scanning the message, “Land forces have attacked the Sierra. Preliminary reports are sketchy, but it looks like they caught them completely flat-footed. Hundreds of transports escorted by squadrons of cruisers and destroyers have landed troops around Barclon in the Rio Arena estuary, and up and down the coast. Air assault troops are landing in Nueva Madrid, and the mountain passes on the northern and southern borders are under simultaneous attack.”
Another messenger came in and passed a flimsy to the admiral. He opened it and read: Brothers Katzenjammer have flown the coop. Stop. Never again. Stop. Love, J&J.
Farr’s shoulders kept their habitual stiffness, but he sighed imperceptibly. One less thing to worry about personally . . . and the Republic was going to need both his sons in the time ahead.
A babble of conversation had broken out around the table. “Gentlemen!” Silence fell. “Gentlemen, we knew we were at war yesterday.”
When the news of Grisson’s disaster had come through. And the politicians will blame it on him. Two modern ships and a score of relics and converted yachts against a dozen first-rate cruisers with full support. One of the Land craft had made it back to Bassin du Sud with her pumps running overtime, and several of the others had taken damage. All things considered, it was a miracle the Southern Fleet had been able to inflict that much harm before it was destroyed.
“Now we have a large target. Silence, please.”
The tension grew thicker as Maurice Farr sat with his eyes closed, gripping the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
“All right, gentlemen,” he said at last. One or two of the hardier had gone on eating their soup, and now paused with their spoons poised. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’m assuming that all of you have steam up”—you’d better went unspoken—”and we can get under way tonight.”
That raised a few brows; a night passage up the Gut would be a definite risk, even after the exercises Farr had put the Northern Fleet through after assuming command six months ago.
“Steaming at fourteen knots, that should place us”—he turned to the map behind him—”here by dawn tomorrow. Then . . .”
* * *
Admiral der See Elise Eberdorf blinked at the communications technician.
“They report what?” she said.
“Sir, the entire Santander Navy Northern Fleet is steaming down the Gut towards us at flank speed, better than fifteen knots. Distance is less than forty miles.”
Eberdorf blinked again, staring blindly out the narrow armored windows of the Grossvolk.
“Sixteen battleships, twenty-two fast protected cruisers, auxiliaries in proportion,” the man read on. “Approaching—”
That is the entire Northern Fleet, she thought. Less the Constitution, which was downlined with a warped main drive shaft according to the latest intelligence. They were approaching through the southern strait around Trois; they must have left their base last night and made maximum speed all night, ignoring the chance of grounding or mines. Which meant . . .
She looked out at the chaos that covered the waters before Barclon. The Land’s gold sunburst on black was flying over most of the city’s higher buildings, those still standing. The fires were still burning out of control in some districts, and the forts guarding the harbor mouth were ruins full of rotting flesh. The water was speckled with half the Land’s merchant fleet and about a third of its navy, many of them working shore-support and punching out enemy bunkers for the army.