Fourth Vector Ch. 23

"She's still alive. I know of it." Calland produced a dispatch from his breast pocket and handed it to his wife.

Lisa's eyes widened in shock as she grabbed it and read it. As soon as she was through with it, her mouth fell open and she smacked him with it. "Bill! Where did you get such a thing?"

"I stole it," he said unabashedly. "Stole it from the State Ministry when I stopped by there this morning."

"You could bring serious consequences down on us for this!" she said in a low tone. "You know how tightly news is controlled here."

"But look at what it says," he said, pointing out the words on paper again. "A foreign threat to the east. War in Picardy. A Swabian invasion. And more importantly—"

"—Katherine Rosdahl as one of the leaders," finished Lisa, looking back at the dispatch. "With a blond-haired foreigner. So she's alive. But who is he?"

Calland shook his head. "I have no idea. But if Katherine is still alive and fighting a war in Picardy against the Swabians, this could only mean big things are afoot! Yet you wouldn't even know anything was going on if you picked up a Galician newspaper! And Eric reacted badly when I suggested such an idea to him."

"That shouldn't surprise you. He cares for nothing outside our borders."

Calland nodded. "True, but that doesn't mean that external affairs care not for us. We can stick our heads in the sand all we want, but it doesn't mean war won't find us if it starts looking for us. That's why the navy is so important. It's our natural bulwark against any threats."

Lisa turned her attention back to the dispatch. "Bill, even if this dispatch is correct, and she is alive, what can we do with the information? We're so far away from Picardy with the entire stretch of Swabia in the middle. If she's fighting a war there, what hope can we have of convincing her to come back to Galicia? Why would she even? The support of one lord is hardly a bargaining chip."

Calland let out a long sigh and shook his head. "I don't know. But I need to know if this is true. I need to see if I can contact her. If she's alive, then we have some hope. Some hope of a decent future for Galicia. I can't live out the rest of my days knowing we left this country to her fate."

"What do you want to do? Surely you can't suggest letting yourself take such a journey to contact her?" Lisa gave him a fearful look.

He shook his head gently. "No, but there is someone here younger than I and in better shape. And whose name would still lend credit to her words."

Lisa gasped as her hand covered her mouth. "No, Bill! You can't seriously suggest that! Please tell me you're joking."

"What other chance do we have?" he asked softly, daring to meet his wife's teary-eyed gaze.

"There must be some other option," she sobbed.

"What other option?" asked a much younger, masculine voice from the other side of the room.

Together, both parents turned to look at their only son. Will Calland was the apple of his father's eye. He was only twenty-five, but he had the looks of a strong man with a deep, barrel chest. His hair had none of the gray of his father's, and it's blond quality stood out in sharp contrast to his bright, blue eyes. For Bill, there was never a father more proud of his son, and he knew if he had to ask anyone to undertake such a journey, it could only be his flesh and blood.

Bill let go of his wife reluctantly as she started to sob. "Will, I need you to do something for me. Something that is of utmost importance."

Will laughed nervously. "What's this about? And what's upsetting, Mom?"

Bill put his hands on his son's shoulders. "She's upset about what I'm going to ask you." Bill spent the next fifteen minutes briefing his son on everything—his meeting with the regent, the state of the navy, the stolen dispatch, and the promise of an alternative to the east. Will listened eagerly, seeming to understand the momentous task that was being requested of him.

"Will you go to the east and seek out Katherine Rosdahl? And see what can be done to bring her back on our behalf?" asked Bill finally, leveling his gaze at his son.

Will nodded. "I will, father. But how do you want me to get there?"

"You can have one of my ships. It's hardly a warship, but then again, we aren't at war. Yet," said Bill with trepidation. "But you'll take one of my guard companies as well."

"An entire company?" questioned his son.

Bill nodded. "Protection. It's all I can spare right now so it'll have to do. You'll be going into a war zone, son. I can't send you in without men to watch your back."

"If I find her, what do you want me to do?" asked Will nervously. "What should I tell her?"

Bill gulped. "Tell her William Calland sends his apologies. And he invites her back to reclaim her rightful place."

*****

"Hot damn, would you look at that lot of Picard soldiers?" said Dustin in his best drill sergeant impression to his men. "They make you all look like a bunch of girls now. They were desk flunkies at the start of this war and look at them now! I think they could take you on!"

He let out a small grin as he looked back at the rest of the men on the run along the road south to Zarah. By the looks on the faces of the marines, they knew it was a drastic overstatement, only said to get a rise out of them, but Dustin enjoyed keeping them on their toes.

It was just part of being a marine.

"If you boys start to run any slower, they might rename us into the Geriatric Regiment," admonished Dustin as he ran up the length of men. He stopped near one of the guys in the front of the column. "What do you think about that, Pvt. Silver?"

"That would be a damn shame, sir!"

"You bet your ass it would be," retorted Dustin. "So let's kick it in gear for this last mile! Move it!"

As could be expected, the hundred marines in the run picked up the pace, enough for Dustin to have to stop talking so much and focus on keeping up. By the time they made their way back to the camp, all of them were breathing heavy and soaked in sweat. Yet, Dustin was a firm believer in the phrase that a pint of sweat today saved a gallon of blood tomorrow, and he was determined that each of his men would unleash the killing machine he knew them to really be.

At this time of evening, the camp was humming as the men settled in for a meal before digging in for the night ahead. The camp wasn't the same as those they had in the beginning of the campaign, but rather, it was a rear staging area for those that weren't needed to keep watch on the front lines. With reports of Swabian activity moving north, all three forces had a constant presence on the front to watch out for the enemy.

Dustin was actually a little nervous about the next engagement, even though he would never admit to any of the men. The siege and taking of Burwick had almost been too easy, accomplished relatively quickly and with comparatively little loss of life. Even taking Daban hadn't been too complicated, and that was where Dustin kept trying to figure out the main question—if the Swabians were so feared in this part of the world, surely they would have to become an actual threat at some point, right?

So far, they'd almost made it look too easy, not only in Picardy but in Andalucia as well. At some point, Dustin was waiting for the Swabians to show their mettle, and he knew that empire of theirs didn't get as large or as feared as it was by incompetence. The force that was coming north to them was about double the size of the one in Burwick, and they were approaching on open ground. Would the Swabians finally show the reason for their supposed superiority in this next fight?

It was that question that occupied his thoughts as he slipped into Greg's tent to look for the man. He wasn't there when he arrived but Vera was, and she sat along the edge of his cot and looked up at his entry.

"Hey, Dustin," she said cheerily. "Were you looking for Greg?"

"I was, do you know if he's around?"

"He had to go to the communications tent, but I think he said he'd be right back."

Dustin nodded. "All good, I can wait. As long as you don't mind my company?"

Vera smiled. "Not at all!"

It was almost a fact of life anymore that Dustin could expect to run into the blonde Galician woman anytime he went looking for Greg. They'd been nearly inseparable lately, and where one could be found, the other wasn't far away.

Despite most of the men being homesick, you'd never know it with Greg. He had the marines and he had Vera. Dustin doubted whether he needed anything else to be truly happy, and it showed in his actions and general demeanor.

Dustin couldn't blame him. With a woman that looked like Vera practically chained to his hip, it was enough to satisfy just about any man.

He engaged in some small talk with Vera for the next five minutes until Greg returned, but Dustin could tell something was off about him as soon as he entered the tent. A crumpled piece of paper was in his hand, and the look on his face was serious. Almost too serious.

"There you are, I've been waiting for ages here," said Dustin in a joking manner as he tried to figure out what was one Greg's mind. To his chagrin, the look on Greg's face didn't break.

"What's the matter, Greg? You look like we've just declared peace with the Occies and the Swabians at the same time," said Dustin as he then gestured to the crumpled paper in his hand. "What's that?"

"News from home," said Greg quietly. "From Jack."

Dustin's brow furrowed in confusion. "Everything all right back there?"

"Yes and no," answered Greg cryptically. He moved to the other side of his cot and sat beside Vera. Dustin took a knee in front of them and watched as he unwrinkled the paper, which he could now see was a dispatch. Even Vera seemed to be paying closer attention. She admittedly had as much to lose from bad news as the rest of them.

"Jack and the rest of the task force are doing fine and they are in good health and spirits," began Greg as he looked at the dispatch before looking back up at Dustin. "But Jack thought there was something you needed to know."

"What?" he asked.

Greg swallowed visibly. "Jack has heard some pretty concrete proof that there's a rebellion in Tyrol."

Dustin sat back on his heels. "A rebellion?" He gestured toward the dispatch. "What else does it say?"

"There's not much on the way of details," said Greg with a grimace. "You know how short these messages have to be. But Jack made it clear he overheard this at naval headquarters and there's considerable weight to this. He thought you should know."

Dustin nodded his head slowly. "That's some bad news if I ever heard it."

"I'm sorry, but what's Tyrol?" interjected Vera, looking confused in the matter.

Dustin turned to face her directly. "One of the member countries of the Javan Empire. It takes up about a fourth of the entire Javan continent. It's also my home."

"Oh," said Vera suddenly. "I see."

"Can we press back for more details?" asked Dustin as he turned his attention back to Greg. "You know a good portion of our force is Tyrolean. If there's another rebellion there, this could be problematic."

Greg nodded. "I'll do so right away. It might take us a while to get a response back but I'll let you know at my soonest."

Dustin found himself looking off into the distance, a blank look filling his face as he still processed the meaning of the message. It had been a long time since the last Tyrol rebellion, and generally speaking, they never went well for the Tyroleans. The biggest issue with Tyrol was that its people ran too hot, and when they did so, they were liable to do stupid things, mostly to the original Javans. The Javans, being more numerous and powerful, would always seek retribution, and it was the main cause for the widespread poverty and backwardness of Tyrol to this day. Another rebellion would only exasperate that problem.

After a few moments of silence, he heard Greg speak up again.

"Are you all right?" Greg looked at him with concern. "You went quiet on me."

"Just thinking is all," muttered Dustin quietly. "What this could mean, you know?"

"Anything you want to talk about? You know I'll listen to anything you have to say," said Greg in a consoling voice. "You're a marine first and I trust you with my life. The fact that you're Tyrolean doesn't change anything."

Dustin shook his head. "I know that. I hope the men with us know that as well, as well as the rest of our people. I just worry about what it could all mean."

"Worried about family and friends back in Tyrol?"

"I am, but you know what else gets me?" asked Dustin. "The thought of what I would do if we had to be the ones to fight it."

Greg blinked several times. "No way, we're all the way over here. There's a lot of other forces that would get involved in the rebellion before we would be called to do the job."

"I'm glad there are, but you know as well as I do that Tyroleans are fierce warriors, and that's why they make up a considerable portion of the Javan armed forces. Would they be sent to fight against their own homeland willingly? Could I for that matter? Not to mention, would they continue to fight for an empire that was killing their own people?" Dustin thumbed his finger outside the tent. "How many of our own men would face serious doubts if they learned the truth of what you just told me?"

It was a question that Greg didn't have an answer for, so he mostly just stared back at Dustin while he tried to make sense of out it.

"I don't know if I can answer that question, Greg," said Dustin in a hollow voice. "I love this unit and I love being a marine, but I don't know if I could willingly put down a rebellion of my own people."

"We don't know if it would come to that, Dustin. This could be blown up into more than it is."

"I certainly hope so," said Dustin. "We may not be the smartest lot but Tyroleans stick together. I'd almost fear to know what might happen if the majority of the men found out about this."

"I'm not going to say anything to anyone other than you," said Greg. "At least until we get more information. The important part is that we are all Javans first, right?"

Dustin gave him a serious stare. "I don't know many Tyroleans who would agree to that statement. Especially if there's shooting going on back at home."

Greg nodded and then placed his hand on Dustin's shoulder. "Let's pray it doesn't come to that. And hope for more information from Jack soon. In any event, I don't think it would come to that. But I can see why Jack wanted you to know about it."

"I hope it doesn't come to that," said Dustin as he stood to leave. "Anything would be better off than a rebellion."

He didn't wait for a response from Greg or Vera and he slipped out of the command tent to return to his own. His thoughts were wild the entire time, many of them drifting in for a moment before exiting as quickly as they arrived. The thought of a rebellion filled him with dread. Tyrolean rebellions were no simple affairs. The last one had completely depopulated the region, where one out of every five Tyroleans met their death at the hands of their Javan counterparts.

The ones before that had been even more deadly.

There wasn't a single Tyrolean around that didn't have a story to tell about some heroic ancestor, someone who had fought the Javans as long as he could before being killed in the most glorious manner, dying for a homeland under siege by a greater power. Even though the long years had mostly erased the enmity between the two peoples, those feelings of inferiority lingered in the hearts of all those of Tyrolean blood, threatening to spill the region into chaos once more.

What was worse was that he truly didn't know what he would do if it escalated from a rebellion to an all-out war.

He thought about everyone he knew still in Tyrol, those that hadn't gotten out and wondered what they were seeing on the ground. For many of them, he could see their faces just as clearly as the day he'd left, and part of him wondered if he'd ever see them again.

On the other side of his rifle.

The only question in that matter was—could he pull the trigger?

*****

On that fateful morning, Admiral Bancroft had almost no sleep the night before. It didn't come easily at all, finding it almost impossible to turn his brain off to let nature take its course. In the deepest recesses of the night, he couldn't help but examine his plan from every angle, looking for potential weaknesses and positing what-if scenarios by the hundred.

Being an officer with so many years of experience under his belt, Bancroft knew that a well-executed plan was the difference between life and death, victory or defeat. He also knew that most plans fell to the wayside after the opening salvo, the strategic situation changing from the first shot. Even the best plans were susceptible to oversight or under-planning, with a single key detail often being the difference maker.

For those reasons, he was already wide-eyed and ready to leave bed when the alarm went off. He showered quickly and dressed in his uniform with every medal and commendation he'd ever earned pinned to his breast, fully intending to look the part of a fleet admiral of the Javan Empire today. He left his temporary residence and made his way to the naval headquarters of Aberdeen, noting that the city was already buzzing in the predawn light.

He had to give credit where it was due. The city knew something was up. All the sailors that normally congregated in the city were all aboard their ships, meaning the streets were empty, as were the taverns and the shops. There was an energy in the air, a subconscious feeling or predestination that seemed to fit in the eyes of every citizen he passed. Many of them knew him by sight, and offered their well wishes on this fateful morning. Down in the harbor, Bancroft could see the proud ships of the Javan navy and just off in the distance, barely visible to his eyes, he could see the faint silhouettes of the Occitanian blockaders.

"Clark, how are we doing this morning?" he asked, coming to his office on the second floor of the Aberdeen naval building.

Clark looked up and grabbed a list of notes that had accumulated over the night hours. "A few problems, Admiral. Several of the ships are low on ordnance, so if they get in a protracted fight, we may run dangerously low. Two battleships are having engine problems and won't be able to get out of the harbor if they're required. Admiral Kuntz has asked that you radio him as soon as you're in the office as well."

"Is there any way to get the ordnance to those ships? Surely we have more in the arsenal?"

"Not without attracting attention or compromising their readiness at this hour," answered Clark.

"Then they'll have to do with what they have," answered Bancroft. "Have those two battleships hold their position until they can get those engine problems sorted out, but by no means are they to sit out the battle. We'll need their firepower. And tell Kuntz I'll radio him in five minutes."

Clark already nodded as he went to carry out orders. He was gone for a short five minutes before reappearing with Bancroft's morning coffee.

"Have we heard anything on Reynolds or Easterbrook's positions? Are they in place?"

"Both men have radioed that they are at the rendezvous point at the appointed hour," answered Clark. "As of right now, they are steaming steadily closer to us. Easterbrook from the north, and Reynolds from the northeast."

"Good," said Bancroft after taking the first sip of his coffee. "And McKenzie?"

"Ready to go as well," said Clark. "At this time, it appears everyone is in place and following the plan, sir." Clark let out a deep breath. "We just might pull this one off."

"We can hope, Clark," muttered Bancroft. "Unlike the last engagement, this one actually needs to succeed."