Matt nodded. “Yes, it will, but believe me when I say it’s the only way.” He recalled his interview with the Dominion “Blood Cardinal,” Don Hernan de Devina Dicha. “Those guys are absolutely nuts . Hell, you know that. We beat them now, knock ’em back on their heels, make ‘peace’-it’ll start all over again in a decade.” He looked at Gray’s grim face. “That’s how it works,” he said. “We know. The only way to end a war forever is if somebody wins and somebody loses. .. bad.” He watched Ruth’s face as she stared at her husband. She wouldn’t speak, not yet, but she’d already considered the implications of another, future war. Matt helped Gerald come to the same conclusion. “If you don’t get right with that, wrap it around you, and wade through the awful fact that for us to win, they have to lose, one of these days, maybe when your daughter, Rebecca, is in your place, there’ll be another war; and honestly, they’re liable to win that one because they have the depth, resources, and manpower. Right now, we have a technological edge, but in ten years? Twenty?” He shook his head.
“He’s right, Your Majesty,” Jenks said. “I’ve seen their war in the west, and it’s the most savage thing you can imagine, but little more so than the fighting we saw here, at the Dueling Grounds!” He was exaggerating, but only slightly. The Dominion forces that attacked, without warning, had done so with massed artillery against civilians. “The Grik are… animals, but men would never behave as the Dominion forces did. They, their leadership, this… perverted church they worship, must be erased from the world.”
“All right,” Gerald said softly, glancing at his wife. He wouldn’t leave this mess to be faced by the daughter they thought they’d lost. “How do we beat them this time… and forever?”
Matt nodded at Harvey Jenks, who stepped to the huge map, fingering his long, braided, sun-bleached mustaches. He paused and drew his sword; a most appropriate “pointer” under the circumstances. Matt had seen the blade many times, even faced it in “practice,” but he’d never really appreciated its workmanship before. It was heavier than his own well-battered Academy sword, with a subtle curve toward the tip. Despite all the use it had seen, there were few nicks, and the bright, almost-purple steel was unmarred by rust and lovingly tended. Jenks raised the sword against an island west of New Scotland.
“First, we have New Ireland,” he said. “The enemy has captured it entire, it would seem, with the aid of Company traitors there.” He glanced at Matt. “Elsewhere, the Company is no more. It’s broken, along with its monopoly on trade, by order of the Governor-Emperor, and distributed among loyal shareholders. Those same shareholders will now become chairmen of their various new companies, and for the duration of the current hostilities, their ships are engaged as auxiliaries to the Imperial Navy, under naval regulations.” He looked back at the map. “The harbor defenses at New Dublin are not the heaviest in the Empire, not compared to those here and at New London and Portsmouth on New Britain, but they’re probably the most formidable. A sustained bombardment of the forts there is difficult because they’re on the windward side of the island and mount thirty- pound guns. We can match that and more with numbers, but with their elevation, not in range. Any ships attempting a bombardment will suffer heavily, ad any disabled vessel will likely be driven ashore.”
After this had been translated to him, Sor-Lomaak leaned forward. “My fifties will outrange their thirties,” he said confidently, “and even if we are hit, with her sweeps, Salaama-Na will not go ashore!”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Matt said, grinning.
Jenks grinned too. “Thank you, Your Excellency. You’ve just finalized Major Chack-Sab-At’s and Major Blair’s plan.” He looked smugly at Matt, and motioned the two Marines, one Lemurian-Amer-i-caan, and the other Imperial, to approach the map. They’d fought together splendidly at the Dueling Grounds and become fast friends. Blair still walked stiffly from a wound, but he was anxious to strike back at the Doms.
“Sirs,” Chack began, blinking only slight self-consciousness, “Major Blair and I believe the enemy will expect us at New Dublin, or possibly Easky in the south. We will not disappoint him.” There were murmurs, and McClain looked alarmed, but Chack continued. “A large naval force composed of the heaviest ships of the line and as many former Company ships as possible, will menace New Dublin. The Company ships will linger in sight but out of range, as though they carry troops-which they will, but not all of them by any means.” He bowed to Sor-Lomaak. “This task force will be gathered around the powerful-and ominously large- Salaama-Na, which will open a steady bombardment of the harbor defenses, supported when possible by Imperial warships. This should, ah, collect the attention of the enemy.” He grinned, showing sharp, white fangs. “The enemy may call troops from Easky or they may not, but it doesn’t matter, because Mr. Blair will land at Cork, east of there, and fortify these mountains.” He pointed at the Wiklow range that began at the northeast panhandle of New Ireland, then fishhooked back into the sea, east of Easky. “He’ll hold there until any Easky troops, or possibly some from across this other range at New Dublin, try to push him off-at which point my force, landed in the extreme north at Bray, will march down the Valley Road and slam into their flank!”
“Lovely,” muttered McClain, “and delightfully complicated. But what will it accomplish? The enemy will still hold New Dublin, and you cannot expect me to believe you’ll scale those heights behind the city and take it from behind!”
Chack looked at him with his big, amber eyes. “Why else would I do as I propose?”
“You must be mad.”
“But you believe that is my intent?”
“There can be no oth…” McClain’s jaw clamped shut.
“Indeed,” said Major Blair. “That will clearly be our intent and the enemy must prepare for it, regardless how imprudent it appears-and we will make the attack…!”
“What?” McClain was incredulous.
“In the dark of night, coordinated with an attack by boat from the sea, launched by the bombardment fleet- which the Doms will now consider a diversion!”
“By God!” Gerald barked approval.
“I told you those guys were clever,” Matt said, prodding him.
“I knew it already, but this! It’s better than chess!”
“Quite clever,” McClain muttered under his breath.
“In any event,” Jenks said, “hopefully, that’ll sol“Butroblem of New Ireland.” He waited for the approving applause to wane, then returned to the map. He drew the point of his sword down along the coast of California, near where San Francisco ought to be. “But, even more important than New Ireland, our continental colonies are at risk,” he said abruptly. “Before, or while we do anything else, they must be secured. The vast majority of our raw material comes from there and without them, we can’t sustain this… front… in the wider war, on our own. It’s that simple. If we lose those colonies, we’ll represent nothing but a material drain on our new allies who have concerns of their own, and that just to keep us alive.” His gaze fell heavily on Lord High Admiral McClain.
“Fast ships were dispatched, immediately after the attempted invasion, to warn the colonies of a Dom attack,” McClain said in response. “We now know the attack here was premature, that it was originally planned to coincide with the Founders’ Day festivities. The combination of the Christmas Feast, followed quickly by the New Year and Founders’ Day observances, would have left us singularly unprepared.” He paused. “We still don’t know if the Temple of the Popes is aware of the current situation, or that hostilities have already begun, but we do know that after January fifth, things are ‘automatically going to happen.’ ” There were murmurings at the now-infamous phrase that had been made public shortly before.
“Obviously,” McClain continued, “one of those ‘things’ was to be the attack here. We must presume other operations were meant to coincide with it. In my view, the next most logical enemy objective is our garrison on the Enchanted Isles, not Saint Francis.”
Courtney perked up. “The Galapagos Islands?” he interrupted insistently.
“Aye,” McClain confirmed, looking at him oddly, “though only the enemy calls them that. The ‘Insulae de los Galapagos.’ ”
“Good God!” Courtney exclaimed. “We mustn’t allow those”-he searched for a suitable epithet-“buggerers of a… an otherwise-sensible faith to defile that place!”
Matt almost chuckled, but thoughts of the very dark… per version… of Catholicism practiced by the Dominion stopped him. “The islands aren’t the same here, Courtney,” he reminded.
“Of course not!” Bradford exclaimed. “But they’re liable to be different in very fascinating ways!”
Matt sighed. “Go ahead and find a book, Courtney. We’ve got war stuff to talk about.”
Muttering, Bradford stood and marched to the shelves.
Matt closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your Majesty?” he prompted.
“Yes. Well. Obviously, we mustn’t let the Enchanted Isles fall, but they’re well fortified. The enemy will likely bypass them and hope they wither on the vine. The colonies are the main, immediate concern.”
