Fourth Vector Ch. 24

And that design was right here in front of them.

"Hurry up and get that thing back to the main camp," snapped Magda. "I want a complete refurbishment of that airplane as soon as possible." She turned to one of her own engineers, part of the recovery team. "I want all those not working on getting the tanks back on the front line on this immediately. Tell me if anything further is needed to fly it."

"And what about people to fly them?" asked the engineer with an unsure look.

Magda rolled her eyes. "That's always a first time for something, isn't it? Make your men do it. Get help from those prisoners we captured since they seem to know how these things operate. But before you do, make sure we have down the basic blueprint of the design. If someone crashes it, I want to be able to recreate it."

With a few more instructions, Magda left as the recovery team began to tow the airplane back to the main camp, a self-satisfied smile prominent on her lips. For months now, they'd been the victims of their unrelenting attacks from the air. Too many times had those stewards of the air swept in low over their ranks to drop bombs, coming away unscathed without any opportunity on the Swabian side to even the scales.

No longer, if she had anything to say about it. They would get that airplane fixed and get it flying again, hoping for once that it was the Picards that would shit themselves when they saw an attack coming out of the sky.

Magda reached her own headquarters in time to meet Colonel Meyer who was coming from the opposite direction. He gave her a crisp salute before he started to talk. "Ma'am, I have a report that we have ten more tanks operational and ready to go."

"Excellent, Colonel," replied Magda. "How much longer until the others will be ready?"

"We're making a lot of strides on those left over. We should be ready before the week is out," he replied.

Magda rubbed her hands together, unable to hold her glee. She looked out on the horizon where she could just see the rise of Daban in the distance.

She was back, and this time, she'd be here to stay.

*****

"Do you really need to bring that pistol with you?"

Dante was giving him a look that suggested he should know better. Dustin grinned and put it in his holster anyway as they made their way closer to the airplane.

"You know, some day you might thank me for bringing it with us," said Dustin with a chuckle. "One of these days, the Swabians are going to figure out on their own how to fly, and we might need to shoot one down as they pass alongside us."

Dante shook his head as he hopped in the cockpit. "That day is still a long way off. Besides, do you know how hard it will be to shoot at something in flight as it passes you? It's harder than it sounds!"

"If that's the case, then the pistol is for if we need to make an emergency landing in enemy territory," said Dustin as he turned on the engine. The heavy, thickra-ra-raaaaaaaa of the engine soon forced him to yell as he put on his flight goggles. "Then you'll really be thanking me!"

Dante could only manage a reserved smile as they went through the preflight checklist. Both of them were dressed in heavy warm clothing, the onset of winter meaning that as cold as it was on the ground, it was guaranteed to be colder in the air. Dustin pulled his thick jacket tight around him and secured his hat in place.

All too soon, the little biplane was jostling down the runway, sending them airborne a few moments later. Almost immediately, Dustin could see the sights of the city to his left, their airfield being just a short distance away from the furthest suburbs. It was the only place they could put an airfield without running into something else, so populated was the city environs.

"Turn the nose due south," yelled Dante with an accompanying tap on the shoulder. "Let's see what those Swabians have been up to."

"Something tells me they're not heading into winter quarters," said Dustin as the plane soared over their own lines and moved closer to the enemy. Together, they made three passes of the Swabian lines, only incurring the occasional rifle shot from below, none of which came anywhere near them. After the last pass, Dustin felt Dante tap his shoulder again.

"Let's see if we can find their main camp," he yelled. "I want to see if we can find any tanks."

Dustin lowered his wings and flew deeper into Swabian territory, finding a likely concentration of them near what used to be an old factory some distance from the city. The factory environs had been taken up as the headquarters for the Swabians, the existing buildings being taken over by their officer corps as well as being the workshops for their tank force.

Below them, Dustin caught sight of three tanks sitting outside, although from this distance, he couldn't tell if they were broken down or still operational.

"Too bad we didn't bring any bombs," said Dustin, looking at those fat targets below and salivating at the thought of taking out three of them at once.

They made another pass of the camp, completely unaware that if they'd been here just a half hour earlier, they would have seen the Swabians towing the broken airplane back to their own engineers. In fact, it seemed rather dead in the camp, with little activity to observe. Dustin was having a hard time even finding the Swabians, wondering why he wasn't seeing more of them walking around.

"Doesn't look like anything's happening down there," yelled Dante.

"Maybe they're just preparing for something big," replied Dustin. "Almost looks like the calm before the storm!"

"Come on, let's make one more pass of the front lines and then we'll head back."

After that last pass, Dustin pointed the nose back north, taking them back to their airfield after about an hour's total flying time. He cut power to the engine and brought it down low to land, coming to a stop not far from the main hanger.

"Something out there didn't seem right to me," said Dante as they emerged from the plane and touched down on solid ground. "I don't know if it's a gut feeling or what, but I can't really place it."

"I know what you mean," said Dustin as they walked away from the field. "There's usually more activity down there. Even the front lines were on the quiet side. I think they're preparing for something."

"They are probably trying to get those tanks operational again," said Dante. "That's the only reason we weren't crushed in that last battle."

Dustin scoffed. He knew that Dante was technically correct, but he had a hard time believing the Javan marines wouldn't have been able to throw off the attack, even if they were taking fire from two sides.

His pride in them was just too strong to consider any possibility of defeat.

"At least those tanks won't be able to operate too well in the city," said Dustin finally. "Not like in the open countryside. We can always block them off down narrow streets and fire on them from above if they attack the capital."

"That still didn't help us too greatly in Burwick," remarked Dante. "We got crushed all the same."

"We didn't make our last stand in Burwick," said Dustin. "A wise choice that turned out to be. Ask the Swabians how that turned out the first time around. If we have our full force in Daban, we'll make them pay."

Dante took a deep breath and nodded reluctantly. "I hope so. I think we should let headquarters know about what we saw. It makes me nervous to see them so quiet, and I think the men should be prepared if they are up to something."

Dustin nodded as they hopped into a small Picard army vehicle and sped off into the city. "I just hope this next attack comes sooner rather than later. I'm more than ready for this to be over with."

*****

Later on that evening, long after Dustin had given his report on the situation behind Swabian lines, Greg retired back to his tiny office that occupied an old kitchen pantry in the palace. The space was tiny, but it was all that could be spared at the moment as the city found itself under siege. He was thankful to even have an office so close to headquarters, knowing it was better than being outside considering the descent of winter temperatures.

It had been a trying day, like most of them had been lately. The most pressing concern with an army in retreat was keeping some semblance of order. An orderly retreat wasn't a death sentence as much as it was an escape—the promise to fight another day persisted as long as good discipline could be maintained.

However, many of the Picard units had no semblance of order, routing under enemy fire after they'd found out that they werenot invincible and that they could lose. Since the Picard forces were the bulk of their numbers, their lack of cohesion as a unit put the whole army in jeopardy. And while the Javan marines were an excellent force, there was no way they could stand their own against an enemy that outnumbered them fifteen-to-one, and that wasn't even including the tanks.

For that reason, Greg had been tapped by Neil and Aedan to help instill discipline into the Picard forces, the type of discipline that made the Javans such excellent soldiers. It hadn't been as hopeless as Greg thought it was at the beginning of the assignment. Most of those Picards that were still alive knew the benefits of order when it came to saving their own asses. With a heavy dose of humility, they'd consented to a new training regimen, the same kind that Greg ran new marines through back in Java.

Every Picard soldier was subjected to the training, starting early in the morning and ending late at night. They went in groups and waves, never taking more off the front line than was absolutely needed. Of course, every time the Swabians showed any hint of opening hostilities, the training was suspended to provide all the manpower needed for the front.

Today had been quiet though, and Greg spent almost the entire day with nearly two regiments' worth of men going over the finer points of being a battlefield predator (a phrase he'd heard from Dustin one time and liked).

For that reason, Greg was exhausted as he finally sat down at his desk. These long days doing the training almost entirely by himself were getting to him. His feet ached and the first thing he did was loosen the laces and pull them out of the leather confines. He opened the top button on his jacket, enjoying the extra mobility but it wasn't to last.

The knock on his door had seen to that. Greg growled as he put the button back in place and slipped his feet back into his boots. Upon entry, he was glad at first that it was just one of his Javan captains and not a more important guest.

"Ah, just you Mitch," said Greg with a relieved sigh. "Have a seat. What brings you over?"

Captain Mitch Madison was one of the replacement officers in the Javan force, a member of the 19th Marines Regiment which was the original battalion that Greg commanded. He'd largely taken over the duties of Captain John Reynolds, who had gone home with Jack several months prior since he'd been one of the originals. As such, Madison only had the experience in Andalucia to draw from before they arrived in Picardy, and like many of the newcomers, he had to earn his place amongst the already tested fighters.

He'd done so nicely, and Greg found him to be cool and competent for the most part. He kept a tight rein on his men, and he set a high standard that earned him the respect of his colleagues.

That's perhaps what made his visit such a blow to Greg in the first place.

"You all right, Mitch?" he asked once the captain sat down in front of him. The man looked a bit unsure of himself, a marked change from his normal demeanor. He kept wiping his hands on his pants, evidence of the nerves that threatened to boil out of him.

"I don't know, sir," answered Madison, taking a brief moment to look him in the eyes before casting them down toward his desk.

"What's the problem then? Something wrong with your company? What's on your mind?" Greg emerged from behind his desk and leaned against the front, putting himself closer to the captain. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and softened his gaze. "It's not like you to act like this."

"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" asked Madison.

"Granted."

Madison took a deep breath, seemingly to steel his nerves. "Sir, what are we still doing here?"

Greg blinked a few times before responding. "Pardon?"

"I mean here in Picardy," stammered Madison. "Why are we still fighting here?"

"You know why as well as I do," replied Greg with some confusion. "As long as the Swabians are here, so will we be. It might be different if we were having this conversation in Zarah, but that's not the case."

"But why, sir?" pressed Madison. "This fight doesn't need to concern us. How many of our men could find Swabia on the map? Or Picardy for that matter? This fight doesn't matter. It doesn't make one difference at all at home if the Picards control Picardy or if the Swabians do. So why fight here? Why continue to waste our strength in this land?"

"We do it because they're our allies, Mitch," answered Greg. "Just because you don't see the reason to continue the war doesn't mean we will stop fighting it."

"We may be allies, but we're taking losses that we can't afford. And for what reason? To stave off the inevitable? The Swabians will eventually take Daban. We don't have anything to counter those tanks."

"Yet," interrupted Greg. "We don't have anything yet. You better believe we're working on something and making damn good progress. I've seen about four different prototypes so far."

"Will they be ready in time? What if that final push comes tomorrow?" asked Mitch.

Greg didn't have a good answer for this. He knew as well as Mitch did that if the Swabians attacked in the morning with a heavy force of tanks, there would be nothing stopping them from pushing the defenders into the bay.

But still, it would do him no good to admit that to Mitch, especially if the man was already having doubts.

"It won't, Mitch," he said firmly. "Those tanks are broken down. Our own reconnaissance bears witness to this. We'll have time to develop a counter before they can attack again."

"And if we don't?" he asked, raising his eyes to lock on his Greg's. "What do we do then? Are we to die here in Picardy, completely forgotten by all?"

"Then we will fight and die beside our allies," snapped Greg. "This is what we signed up for. This is what it means to be a marine. The reality of the situation is that this city needs us. What do you think would have happened if we weren't with the Picards and the Carinthians at the Battle of the Tanks? Their army would have crumbled and the Swabians would control the whole country. It's only because of our presence that we can still continue to contest this fight."

"I guess I just don't see the point of dying here, sir," said Madison after a deep sigh. "Our presence here feels so insignificant, especially when I look at the ranks of Picard soldiers, most of whom don't deserve to wear the uniform. Are our men supposed to die for them? For their families? Especially when they can't even defend themselves?"

"They'll get better," promised Greg. "And I can assure you that our presence here is far from insignificant. We may be the only force here that tips the scales." He softened his tone as he spoke the next words. "Don't ever think that your fighting doesn't make a difference, Mitch. Besides, if we lose Picardy, there's not one place we can go where the Swabians can't reach. That includes home too. This is a fight worth fighting."

Even though he spent the next ten minutes providing a much needed pep talk to the captain, and even though Madison left with considerably higher spirits than when he arrived, Greg was disturbed once he was left alone again. Madison was one of the cooler heads amongst his officers. If he was having second thoughts about being here, what could possibly be on the mind of those that weren't of the same caliber?

In that moment, Greg wished for the presence of those veterans that went back home with Jack, those steely men who stared down the Andalucian hordes and ended the Sorellan civil war. He wanted a Captain like Bucknell or Bridge, even though one of them was dead and the other one was certainly back on home soil. Neither of those two men would have second thoughts of defeatism nor would they question their will to fight.

The scariest thing for Greg was to consider the point that Madison might be right.

What if they didn't deserve to die for a country that was bound to be conquered anyway?

*****

The Foreign Minister of the Ruthenian Empire, Alexander Krupin, was not in a good mood.

For one, it was his birthday, and as of this morning, he'd been alive for sixty-two torturous years. When others his age were now looking to retire from their active lives and jobs, Krupin was just at the beginning of his term as foreign minister. And while others would celebrate their birthday with portent substances in their own home or out in public, Krupin was sitting behind his desk at the ministry, his hand planted firmly to his jaw, listening to the spy chief in front of him give his report.

And what a report it was.

"Are you certain of what your man saw?" repeated Krupin once more as reached into his desk and pulled out a cigar. He lit the end and inhaled deeply, enjoying the feeling it produced in his chest. If he couldn't be at home celebrating the day, at least he'd get a chance to enjoy his favorite brand of cigar.

"We're positive, sir," answered Popov, the head spy, as he nodded his head for the thousandth time. "The Occitanian fleet has absconded back to their home ports. The blockade is over and the Javan fleet is free again."

One would never guess Popov's profession by looks alone. Spies had a certain reputation to be moderately handsome or at very least, inconspicuous. Popov was neither. The first thing you noticed upon looking at his face was the mole that occupied a good portion of his upper jaw, something that was nearly a coin in diameter. The rest of him was large, his heavy body smashing over the line that separated overweight from obese.

Krupin knew that's why he was so effective. No one expected much out of Popov and that's why he made for an excellent spy. In the case of today, he knew the information he was receiving from him to be of good quality.

That's what made this conversation so difficult to contemplate. For months now, the war between the Occitanians and the Javans had been dragging on in a stalemate, neither country strong enough to overcome the other. For Krupin, that had been terrific news. Based upon their own intelligence, they'd expected any war between the two countries to fall quickly into the Javans' favor. In terms of overall military might, demographics, and economy, all indicators favored the Javans. The only thing the Occitanians had going for them was their navy, and at first, they'd used that single advantage to completely prolong the war longer than anyone thought possible.

The linchpin of their plan was the blockade of Aberdeen. With control of the seas, they were able to prevent the Javans from landing any armed forces on their shores, where they would simply be outmatched and overwhelmed.

But if Popov's report was true, then the only upper hand the Occitanians had was nearly destroyed.

"My man in Aberdeen reported the engagement on the day of battle," continued Popov, repeating this section for the second time. "Afterwards, there was no sight of the Occitanian blockade. Furthermore, the Javans were able to come and go as they please. This has been confirmed by two other men in the city, as well as one of our men in Chambery, who reports a larger than usual presence of Occitanian ships coming back home."