* * *
Major Steven Durrison, Fifth Mountain Regiment—known familiarly in the Army of the Republic as the Resort Brigade, since so many mountain-climbing hobbyists filled its ranks—looked up the rest of the gully.
Not much of a climb, he thought. About a sixty-degree slope, the natural rock overlain with rubble. The enemy had evidently been dumping construction fill down it, since it led up to the lip of the plateau. From the way they’d cut footings into the sides, they’d probably planned to build something here. They hadn’t had time.
And they were otherwise occupied right now. More shells trundled across the sky to burst on the plateau tops above. The ships out in the Gut looked like toys at this distance, a fleet a child might sail in his bathtub. The earthquake rumble and shudder of the earth under his body showed how out of scale distance made the scene. Rock and concrete fountained over the cliffs, past the firing slits of the heavy guns, to land on the beach below. More shaking through the rock beneath him; he tried to imagine what it was like to be caught in the open up there, and failed. If that doesn’t keep their heads down, nothing will.
The mountaineer looked back over his shoulder; men were strung out down nearly to the beach, along the line of rope secured by iron stakes driven into the rock by the advance element. Most were armed with the new submachine guns, for close in work, or with pump-action shotguns, and festooned with bandoliers, satchel charges, coils of rope, and pitons.
“Lieutenant,” he called, “we’ll start to work our way across from there.”
He pointed; no climber could mistake what he meant, a long shadow slanting upward across the cliff-face to their right. “Signaller.”
The heliograph squad had set up a little way down the ravine. The sergeant in charge of the squad looked up.
“You’ve got contact with the flagship?”
“Yessir.”
Durrison nodded, hiding his relief. The alternative was colored rockets. That would work, but even with dozens of heavy shells landing up above, someone was likely to notice. Heliograph signals—light reflected off mirrors—were effectively line of sight. None of the enemy would see his going out.
“Send: ‘Am proceeding with Phase Two.'”
* * *
About bloody time, Maurice Farr thought, lowering his binoculars. The signals station were scribbling on their pads, but he could still read code himself.
The Great Republic twisted and heeled in the water as her broadside fired. Light flashed in return from the upper third of the cliffs, and three seconds later the whole eighteen-thousand-ton bulk of the battleship shuddered and rang like a giant gong struck with a sledgehammer. Farr blinked at the fountain of sparks as the shell struck her main belt armor.
“Sir!” It was Damage Control, speaking to the flagships captain. “Flooding in compartment C3. That one hit us below the waterline.”
Gridley nodded. “Get them to work on it,” he said, “Containment measures.”
That meant sealing off the affected area behind the watertight doors, hopefully not before they got the personnel out of it. C3 was unpleasantly close to the A turret magazines as well.
Those guns certainly have punch, he thought. Eight-inch, but fired with a twelve-incher’s powder charge, and an extra-long barrel. The velocity was unbelievable. Much faster and you could fire shells into orbit.
“Sir.” This time to the fleet commander. “Sir, Templedon City reports that they’ve got the fires out and stabilized by counterflooding.”
A heavy cruiser. “What speed can they make?”
“Sir, they report no more than six knots.”
“They’re to withdraw. Detach two destroyers to escort.” And to pick up survivors if they didn’t make it back to Dubuk.
Farr raised his glasses again. “I’d say it was about time we did something about this fort they were building, wouldn’t you, Gridley?” he said calmly.
“Christ yes, Admiral. If they’d got it fully operational . . .” The flagship captain’s voice faded off.
A biplane plunged past the bridge, trailing smoke. It smashed into the water and exploded not far from the bow of a destroyer; the whole thing happened too fast for him to see the national insignia. Dozens more were swarming through the air above the cloud of smoke and shellbursts that marked the surface of the fort, like flies around a piece of meat left in the sun.