The Chosen

Yet, Gerta thought. General Meitzerhagen was being truthful enough: the Chosen Council wanted a decade of peace now. If they could get it on their own terms, which did not include giving up the fruits of victory in the Union.

'If you join with Santander in attacking us and our allies, do not expect us to meekly endure it. When someone strikes us a blow, we do not just strike back-we crush them.'

He held out a hand palm up and slowly closed it into a fist, letting the delegates look at the knuckles, scarred and enlarged.

Gerta called up a mental map of the Sierra. Mountains north and south, high ones-too high for dirigibles, except in a few passes, and they'd have to come uncomfortably close to the ground even there. A spine of lower mountains down the center, joining the two transverse ranges and separating two wedges of fertile lowland on the west and east coasts. The eastern wedge was drained by the Rio Arena, from here at Nueva Madrid to Barclon at the rivers mouth. The Arena valley was the heartland of the Sierra, where most of the agriculture and population and trade lay, although the national mythology centered on the shepherds and hill farmers of the mountain forests.

This is going to be very tricky, she thought. And we don't have much time.

Fortunately, good staff work was a Chosen specialty.

* * *

Admiral Maurice Farr tapped the end of the polished oak pointer he'd been using on the map into his free hand. 'Gentlemen, that concludes the briefing. The blockade begins as of midnight tonight.' He looked out over the assembled captains of the Northern Fleet. 'Any questions?'

'Admiral Farr.' Commodore Jenkins, commander of the Scout Squadron of torpedo-boat destroyers spoke. A thickset, capable-looking man, missing one ear from a skirmish in the Southern Islands. 'Could you clarify the rules of engagement?'

'Certainly, Commodore. No ships, except Unionaise fishing vessels, are to be allowed within four miles of any of the Union ports on the list, or to within five miles of the coast, or to offload or load any cargo. You will issue warnings; if the warning is ignored you will fire over the vessel's bow. If the warning shot is disregarded, you may either board or sink the vessel in question at your discretion.'

'And if the violator is a warship?'

'You will proceed as I have outlined.'

There was a slight rustle among the blue-uniformed men in the flagship's conference room.

'Yes, gentlemen, I am aware that this may very well mean war. So is the Premier.'

And not a moment too soon, if there's going to be a war, he thought. The Republic's lead in capital ships was shrinking, as the Chosen finally got their building program under way. At a fairly leisurely pace, since they'd been planning on war a decade hence, but they had some first-rate designs on their drawing boards. One in particular had struck his eye, a huge all-big-gun ship with twelve twelve-inch rifles in four superimposed triple turrets fore and aft of the central island, and a daunting turn of speed. If it worked the way John's intelligence report said it would, nothing else on Visager's oceans could go near it and live. Fortunately, they hadn't even laid down the keel, and this conflict would be fought with existing fleets.

Santander's fleet was as ready as he could make it. That left only the personal question. Am I too old? Fleet command in wartime needed a man who could make quick decisions under fatigue and stress. Maurice Farr was within a year of the mandatory retirement age. Should he be at a desk in Charsson, or at home working on the book? I'm a grandfather with teenage grandchildren. He took stock of himself. He'd kept himself in trim, and he didn't need to shovel coal or heave propellant charges into a breech. No failure of memory and will that he could detect. No. I can do it. He spoke again, into the hush his words had made.

'You will accordingly keep your ships on full alert at all times, with steam raised and ready to weigh anchor at one hour's notice. All leaves are cancelled, and naval and other reservists have been notified to report to their duty stations.'

Jenkins nodded. 'If I may, Admiral, how are we going to maintain a blocking squadron along the Union's south coast? Bassin du Sud and Marsai are the only good harbors or fully equipped ports between Fursten and Sircusa.'

'The Southern Fleet'-a grand name for a collection of candidates for the knackers yard and armed civilian vessels, with only two modern cruisers-'will blockade Bassin du Sud and Marsai. At need, they can be reinforced from the Northern Fleet. Any more questions? No?'

Mess stewards entered, with trays of the traditional watered rum, one for each of the officers. The toast offered by the senior officer present was equally a matter of tradition.

'Gentlemen-the Republic and Liberty!'

'The Republic!'

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

'Dammit!'

Commodore Peter Grisson raised his binoculars again. The dawn light was painting the Chosen dirigible an attractive pink, a tiny toy airship at the limit of visibility to the north. Far out of range of anything the ships below it could do. They all had the new high-angle antiaircraft guns, but the distance was far too great.

I hate that bloody thing, he thought, wishing for a storm. You could get some monsters down here south of the main continent, with nothing but the islands between here and the antarctic ice and nothing at all all the way around the planet east or west to break the winds. His ships, some of them at least, could keep station better than that floating gasbag.

But the ocean was like a millpond, only a trace of white at the tops of the long dark blue waves. The McCormick City and the Randall steamed on, heading east- northeast for their blockade stations off the southern Union coast. They were making eight knots, well below their best cruising speed, because most of the gunboats and naval reserve yachts and whatnot around them couldn't do any better. Certainly the pathetic hermaphrodite-wood-hulled and iron-armored-relics that made up the other six cruisers couldn't. Neither of his two best ships were new, but at least they were steel-hulled and armored, and they'd both had extensive refits recently, virtual rebuilding.

Then a light began to flicker on the nose of the Land dirigible. Grisson smoothed his mustache with a nervous gesture. What would Uncle Maurice do? he thought, and looked at the captain of the McCormick City.

The captain lowered his own binoculars. 'Coded, of course,' he said neutrally.

'Of course. But Land scout dirigibles carry wireless.' The Land's armed forces didn't make as much use of that on land as the Republic's did, but they had plenty for sea service. 'So whoever he's signaling is close.'

Grisson thought for a moment. The rules of engagement and his own orders from the Admiralty gave him virtually complete discretion. One thing Uncle Maurice wouldn't do was sit with his thumb up his ass waiting for things to happen to him.

I can't run, he knew. Intelligence on the Land naval forces in the area and their Unionaise allies was scanty, but whatever they had was likely to have the legs on his motley squadron. Therefore. .

'Squadron to come about,' he said, giving the new heading. 'Signal battle stations and sound general quarters. My compliments to Commander Huskinson, and the torpedo-boat destroyers are to deploy. Tell him I have full confidence in his ships' scouting ability. No ship is to fire unless fired upon or on my order.'

Bells rang, signal guns fired, yeomen hoisted signals to the tripod mast of the McCormick City. 'Oh, and general signal: The Republic expects every man to do his duty.'

Armored panels winched up across the horseshoe shape of the fighting bridge, leaving slits for viewing all