The Chosen

'Going to cost,' someone commented. 'They're expecting us, by now.'

Jeffrey shrugged. 'We'll keep their attention. They don't have much of a garrison there yet, mostly construction battalions. With a little luck, the Resort Brigade will do its job.'

* * *

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.

Good thing we're in range of ground-based air support here, Farr thought.

His sons were inland there, where the fighting was-steadily increasing fighting, as the Land forces battered their way through guerilla harassment and started to bring their weight to bear on the Santander blocking elements. His eldest grandson was in one of those wood-and-canvas powered kites. . if he hadn't been the one who plunged out of the sky and died just now. Pride came in many flavors; right now it tasted like fear. An old man might not fear for himself, but anyone living still had something hostage to fortune. His family, his country. .

I think we'd be in a very bad way indeed if it weren't for John and Jeffrey, he thought. If John hadn't been born with a clubfoot, or if I hadn't gotten that posting as naval attache in Oathtaking. .

'Carry on,' he said aloud. 'Let's keep them busy. And stand by to fire support missions for the ground forces.'

* * *

'I don't give a living shit how many partisans there are out there, Colonel,' Heinrich Hosten said with quiet venom. His fingers were white on the field telephone. 'Ignore them. Ignore your fucking flanks. Hit the Santies, and hit them hard, or by the Oath, you'll be in the Western Islands dodging blowgun darts from the savages next month, if you're unlucky enough to be still alive.'

He retuned the handset to its cradle with enormous care, fighting through the rage that clouded his vision. He looked at the pin-studded map and tried to force himself to be objective. I'm not justified in going to the front. More information is getting through now. I'm in a better position to coordinate from here.

He could hear the Santy naval bombardment from here, though, a continuous rumble to the south. Guns were firing closer than that, medium field pieces; Land batteries, shooting obstacles out of the way in the narrow passages of the hills.

One of his staff handed him the field telephone again, 'Sir, you'll want to hear this yourself.'

He picked it up. 'Ja?'

Gerta's voice. He closed his eyes; nothing should surprise him today.

'You'll never guess which old friend of yours I ran into today,' she said. 'Ran into literally, but I didn't quite manage to kill him.'

There were times when he was tempted to believe in malignant spirits.

* * *

Kurt Wallers jammed his palms over his ears and opened his mouth. The gun fired again, and the pressure wave battered at him. No point in going back to the command bunker deeper in the rock; the observation stations weren't operational yet. With those and the calculating machine it would have been possible to direct accurate fire nearly to the southern shore of the Gut. As it was, each tube was firing under independent control-over open sights.

And not doing a bad job. He hated to think what had happened to the construction people up above; he'd spent a long time training them. All we have to do is hold out until the reinforcements drive off the landing parties. Then-

'Sir! Movement on the beach below us!'

He blinked. 'Get some extra propellant charges.' They came in fabric containers the size of small garbage cans. 'Strap grenades to them. Pull the tabs and roll them over the edge of the casement.