“Ya.” Gerta’s eyes narrowed. “The question is, do the Santies realize that?”
Kurt looked at the flimsy again. “Not many details. I wonder how they got through the minefields? And those howitzers in the fort, they should take care of any ships.”
“Should. But—”
Another messenger. “Sir. The Air Service scout airship Guthavok reports it is under attack from Santander heavier-than-air pursuit planes.”
They both looked south by reflex. “At night?” Kurt Wallers said incredulously.
Fire blossomed in the night, five thousand feet up and miles to the south.
Wallers began to bark orders. Gerta turned on her heel and trotted back to her scout car, vaulting up the fixed ladder and then into the open compartment with one hand on the rim. Her son was already peering south through the heavy rail-mounted glasses. Gerta looked around; the wireless was fired up and ready, and the vehicle had pressure and was ready to move.
“Signals,” she said. The operator looked up, earphones on and hand poised over the signal key. “To regional HQ in Salini. Fort under heavy attack from Santander seaborne forces, including battleships and amphibious element of unknown strength. Stop. As representative of the General Staff I order repeat order immediate mobilization all available forces and their concentration on this point. Stop. Brigadier Gerta Hosten. Stop. Send until acknowledged.”
The signals technician was sending before Gerta had finished the first sentence. Johann turned to her; by now he’d learned enough to merely raise his brows.
“Ya. If that was wrong, I will be lucky to command a one-company garrison post guarding a bridge,” she said. “But I’d rather risk being a damned fool.”
To the driver: “Get us out of here. Out on the north road, then east towards Salini.”
She pulled the machine-carbine out of its clamps over her seat, checked the flat drum magazine, and reached for the helmet that hung beside it. With a chuff of waste steam, the car pulled out through the growing chaos of the half-built fort.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Aren’t you getting a little senior for commanding from the front?” Admiral Maurice Farr asked quietly.
Jeffrey grinned at his father. “I notice you’re here, sir, and not back in Dubuk.”
Farr shrugged. “An admiral has to command from a ship.”
“And a general has to be where there’s some chance of getting useful information in timely fashion,” Jeffrey replied reasonably. He drew himself up and saluted. “Admiral.”
“General,” the elder Farr replied. “Good hunting, and we’ll give all the support we can.”
Jeffrey turned, swung over the rail, and scrambled down the rope ladder. A young aide tried to assist him as he jumped down into the waiting steam launch.
“I’m not quite decrepit yet, Seimore,” Jeffrey said dryly, and took a swig from his canteen. “We’re better off than the rest of the force, here.”
The men were climbing down netting hung on the sides of the transports and into the waiting flat-bottomed motor barges, or waiting crammed shoulder to shoulder and probably seasick in similar vessels that had sailed with the fleet from Dubuk. The Gut was calm tonight, but the flat-bottomed barges would pitch and sway in a bathtub.
“Let’s go,” Jeffrey said quietly.
The launch swung in towards the shore; it was low and sandy here, in contrast to the cliffs that marked most of this section of the Gut’s northern shore. Low and sandy on either side of the fort that was their objective. The first wave of troops would be going ashore right now, and from the lack of noise, meeting little or no resistance. Well, they’d expected that.
Jeffrey looked at his watch. 0500 hours, nearly dawn. Right about now they should—
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM—
The big guns of the fleet cut loose, firing from west to east in a long, slightly curved line. The great bottle-shaped muzzle flashes lit the scene with a continuous strobing illumination that was brighter than the false dawn. It was still dark enough for the red-glowing dots of the shells to be visible with their own heat, arching up into the sky to fall towards the Chosen.
* * *
Dust filtered down onto Kurt Wallers’ head. The gun position shook as twelve- and eight-inch shells landed on the surface above, or hammered deep into the soft limestone of the cliffs.