“What about the heavy armor?”
“Blow it in place.”
“Sir!”
Heinrich tapped the map again. “Those monsters would be priceless if we could get them there. We can’t. They take up too much space and effort. Better to have what we can in the right spot rather than what we can’t halfway there at the crucial moment. Blow them.”
“Zum behfel, Herr General.”
“Aircraft, sir?”
“Coenraad, you and your staff get me an appreciation of how many we can shuttle back into the New Territories and refuel on the way. Blow the rest in place and assign the personnel to infantry units short of their quota of Chosen.” Of which there were quite a few.
“Now, get me New Territories HQ.”
“Sir . . . they haven’t responded to signals, for the past half hour. Last report was that insurgents had . . . emerged somehow . . . from Fourth Bureau headquarters and were attacking the administrative compound from within in conjunction with a general uprising of the animals.”
Heinrich closed his eyes for a second, then shrugged. “All right, then let’s do what we can with what we have. Next—”
The planning session went on. It was still going on when the vanguard of the last Chosen army moved north less than two hours later.
* * *
The last of her wingmates vanished in an orange globe of fire. Erika Hosten held the twin-engine biplane bomber straight and level until the last instant, then jerked on the stick. Wings screaming protest, the plane rose over the destroyer, clearing the stacks by less than six feet. Smoke and rising air buffeted at her for an instant, and then she was back on the surface, wheels almost touching the water.
A shape ahead of her. A long, flat, island superstructure to one side. Planes above it, a swarm of them—planes over the whole bowl of fire and smoke and ships that stretched to the horizon on either side, the others from the Land aircraft carriers, hundreds more on one-way trips from the Land itself. Pom-poms in gun tubs all the way along the edge of the carrier, and firing at her from behind, from the destroyer screen. Her gunner was slumped in the rear seat, and blood ran along the bottom of the cockpit and sloshed over the edges of her boots. Fabric was peeling off the wings.
“Just a little longer,” she crooned to the aircraft. “Just a little.”
Closer. Closer. Now.
She jerked the release toggle beside her seat. The biplane lurched as the torpedo released, and then again as something struck it. She yanked at the stick again, and—
Blackness.
* * *
“Welcome aboard, Admiral,” the commander of the Empire of Liberty said. “We’ve notified the fleet you’re transferring your flag.”
Maurice Farr nodded as he moved to the front of the battleship’s bridge. Forward, one of the eight-inch gun turrets was twisted wreckage. More twisted wreckage was being levered overside, the remains of a Land aircraft that had come aboard with its bombs still under the wings. That had caused surprisingly little damage, although the open-tub pom-poms on that side were silent, their barrels like surrealist sculpture.
“Status,” he said crisply, despite the oil and water stains that soaked his uniform.
“Sir. Sixteen units of BatDivOne report full or nearly full operational status.”
Two battleships lost last night to the torpedo attack and three cruisers. Three more this morning, running the gauntlet of Chosen air attacks from both sides of the Passage. That left him with an advantage of four, twice that in heavy cruisers, most of his destroyer screen still intact—less than a third of the enemy flotilla from Pillars had made it out—and with one crucial advantage. . . .
“Air?”
“Sir, we have the enemy main fleet under constant surveillance. The Saunderton is counterflooding to try and put out the fires, and the torpedo hit took out her rudder, but the Lammas and Miller’s Crossing are still ready to retrieve aircraft.”
They wouldn’t be crowded. Most of the fighters were gone.
Maurice Farr looked at the horizon. All his life had been a preparation for this moment.
“Report movement.”
“Sir, enemy destroyers are advancing at flank speed, followed by their battle line.”