Fourth Vector Ch. 27

No one had any words that could approach that level of pain.

*****

The rest of the battle played out exactly as Trevor had hoped. Around the same time that his force was clearing the house, Gavin's force attacked the perimeter of the camp. He'd split his force into two parts—one group that attacked from the north while another group hit from the east.

The marines never had a chance to develop even a basic defense. Some of them didn't even have the chance to grab their weapons before taking a bullet to the torso. Gavin's men were just as thorough, and not more than twenty-five minutes after the attack started, it was finally over.

None of the Javan marines made it out alive. There was one that had been wounded and disarmed, but he was promptly dispatched once the full extent of the activities in the house had been revealed.

At that point, there was no need for tolerance or mercy.

As the sun rose in Amboy, there were no longer any living Javans in the town.

Trevor was one of the first to inspect the bodies of the Javan dead, having had them stacked together in the camp. He collected all the identification tags from the bodies, noting with a hint of sadness that Captain Smart wasn't amongst them.

"Looking for someone? Or something?" asked Gavin as Trevor kneeled over on the bodies.

Trevor shook his head. "I was hoping to find the body of that captain that showed up at my store. I guess it figures he wouldn't be here."

"Captain, eh?" asked Gavin before gesturing out to the mountains. "I'm sure he's out here somewhere still. Probably with the rest of his company."

"Then we'll just have to find him," said Trevor as he pushed to his feet. He fixed a firm gaze on his second-in-command. "Along with any other Javans who hope to step foot in Amboy. Or Tyrol for that matter."

Gavin smirked. "It sounds like you've had a change of heart about this whole thing. A few days ago, you seemed pretty dedicated to keeping this covert. You know, keeping it a guerrilla operation as much as possible. What changed?"

Trevor gestured back toward the house. At that very moment, Reese Bach emerged out of the back door cradling the body of his dead brother. His face was red, as were his eyes, but there was a look of steely determination in his eyes.

"That's what changed," said Trevor quietly. "As long as there's air in my lungs, I won't let those Javan bastards destroy Tyrol. Our people have suffered enough. Tonight was just the beginning. I'm going to put the word out to the rest of the members of the Movement throughout the area. We need to start combining and working together like a real army."

Trevor looked down at the pile of dead bodies. "The war is on."

*****

Admiral Bancroft was used to better days.

For a short amount of time after the Battle of Aberdeen and the great parade in Belfort, he'd been on top of the world. His prestige had been taken to new heights, and it seemed like the war was finally getting to a point that it could be won.

Lately though, the good news seemed to have stopped coming in. It had been replaced by an endless series of delays and losses. At least, that's how it felt to him as he listened to Clark go on about yet another raid in Tyrol that had happened two nights prior.

"So what are the losses, Clark?" asked Bancroft, his face in his hands.

"An entire marine platoon," replied Clark quietly, handing Bancroft the casualty report. "This one was from the 27th Marine Regiment."

Bancroft recognized the regiment, knowing it was one of those few that had sworn personal fealty to him instead of the emperor. In doing so, it was one of his most trusted units, as well as one that might be counted on when he needed it sometime in the future. But this report about the loss of an entire platoon didn't make any sense.

"Who the hell has the kind of firepower to wipe out an entire marine platoon?" asked an increasingly annoyed and alarmed Bancroft.

Clark shrugged. "The same people who took out several squads near the town of Tyrite. Or the ones that mauled that army regiment near the town of Wallny. The whole of Tyrol is going up, sir."

"I can see that, Clark," snapped Bancroft. "How the hell can these people be doing this? Especially to marines? Most of them are backwoods farmers! How can they even think to stand up to that kind of firepower?"

"They are getting supplied by the Ruthenians, no doubt," replied Clark. "That captured Ruthenian spy that we found admitted as much. They are repeating the same tactics they tried in the Desert War."

"And now of all times," muttered Bancroft. Today was an especially sensitive day as he was waiting on reports from the new invasion force which was now depositing elements of two Javan divisions on the Occitanian coast. The operation wasn't as secretive as it was the first time around but the stakes were just as high.

"We simply need to increase our forces in the area," said Clark in a matter-of-fact manner. "Having these regiments split up to garrison these Tyrolean towns isn't the best strategy anymore. There's too much unrest, and it's not worth having them picked off piecemeal."

Bancroft pursed his lips. "Perhaps you're right, Clark. Perhaps things in Tyrol are coming to a head."

"Now would seem like the most appropriate time," replied Clark. "We're stretched very thin right now. With our ground forces split between two different invasion forces as well as garrisoning all of Tyrol, there isn't much held in reserve."

"I do have a few more regiments I can send there," said Bancroft reluctantly. "Although truthfully, I'd hoped not to commit any more of my reserves than I need to." The last thing he wanted was to have any more of his personal marine regiments mauled. With the plans that he had for them, he needed them in peak fighting strength.

"The way I see it, we either commit more men now or we risk all of Tyrol going up and forming one combined army like they have in the past," said Clark. "We must bring more pressure to bear on them now while we still can."

Bancroft knew that his deputy was right, even though he didn't like the request. The emperor had tasked him with ending the rebellion in Tyrol with his marines, and the longer that this action went on, the worse it reflected on him.

"Fine," said Bancroft with a dramatic sigh. "But I want those marines givencarte blanche to get the job done. If that means a dramatic increase in bloodshed and activities, then do it. I want Tyrol to burn for this, especially for seeking to do this now while we're distracted with the wider war. Give them the authorization to be as brutal as possible, and let's remind these backwoods shits who really wields power in Java."

Clark nodded. "I'll get instructions out shortly, sir." He saluted to leave, but before he could get to the door of Bancroft's office, there was another stunning interruption. A lieutenant entered while bearing a dispatch, and Bancroft could tell by one look at the man's face that the news was poor.

"What is it?" he snapped at the lieutenant.

"This just in f-from Admiral McKenzie's forces up north," stammered the lieutenant as he deposited the dispatch in Bancroft's hands.

Bancroft read it quickly before unleashing a stream of obscenities. He crumpled the dispatch and threw it away, but not before smashing his fist against the desk. It was only a moment later that he noticed that Clark was still in the room. The man knew better than to ask what was in the dispatch, but it was clear he was waiting to see if Bancroft would tell him on his own.

"There's been a small action with the invasion force," muttered Bancroft in a quiet voice. "An Occitanian raiding force was able to pick off two cruisers and a transport. About nine hundred men are dead, all told."

Clark nodded and moved back toward Bancroft's desk. "What about the rest of the force? Were they able to land?"

"Yes, they are now on the south coast of Occitania. Two divisions worth, minus the few companies that were on the ill-fated transport," replied Bancroft.

Clark brightened up considerably. "That's good news then. Our armies can finally take the war to the Occitanians."

Bancroft shook his head. "The emperor won't like this one bit. After the first debacle, he didn't want any possible complications with this one." Bancroft avoided looking at Clark as he spoke, knowing Clark's true feelings about his role in causing that first invasion debacle. Clark was an intelligent man and therefore he said nothing about it.

"Perhaps we can have McKenzie split off part of his force to chase after these raiders," suggested Clark. "That way, we can make sure the other two divisions that are still waiting on the northern coast can get across without any incident."

Bancroft nodded. "Put that in action. I want to hear—"

There was a knock at the door that caused both men to pause. Clark went to answer it, and Bancroft pursed his lips in anger as one of the emperor's courtiers stepped into the office.

"Admiral Bancroft, sir," said the courtier as he stepped up to Bancroft's desk. "His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Charles IX, requests your presence immediately."

Bancroft resisted the urge to swear again and gave his acknowledgment to the courtier. As the man left, Bancroft turned to Clark once more.

"I'm going to get my ass handed to me now," said Bancroft as he stood up.

Clark didn't say anything to that, but a simple nod was all the recognition he gave. Bancroft didn't want to hear anything further anyway. If he had to take his proverbial beating from the emperor just so he could get back to work, then he would do so.

It didn't take him long to get to the imperial palace on the outskirts of Belfort, and a deep feeling of disgust overtook him as he stepped out of the cab. It hadn't been that long since he was here everyday, sequestered inside the palace and exposed to the crown prince's perversions while the new Admiralty building was being built.

Now that he was here to be reprimanded by the emperor, the last person he wanted to encounter was George. He hoped this would be a relatively quick affair so that he could get back to work.

When he was shown into the emperor's study, Bancroft quickly realized it wouldn't be the case. Charles was fuming mad, and his errant son was seated right beside him.

"Ah, the famed admiral finally arrives," said George sarcastically as Bancroft approached the emperor and bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty, I'm at your ser—"

"You blasted fool," snarled Charles as he smacked his fist against his desk. "Do you have any idea how to run a navy let alone a war?"

Bancroft gulped. "I'm afraid I'm not following you, Your Majesty."

"So he plays dumb," said George, more interested in his nails than he was with Bancroft. "Interesting strategy, let's see how this plays out."

Charles cast a murderous glare at his son, forcing George to be quiet temporarily. As the crown prince stopped making jokes, Charles turned his full attention back to Bancroft.

"I'm getting fed up with your conduct during this war, Bancroft," growled Charles, causing his fatty jowls to jiggle. "Not only can you not get those damn Tyroleans rebels under control, but what is this I hear that I have lost more ships to the Occitanians? How many more soldiers have to drown before you get your shit together?"

Great, he knows about both affairs, thought Bancroft as he sighed heavily.

"Sire, I'm told that we lost a single transport as we ferried across two army divisions," said Bancroft. "Those two divisions are now safely on Occitanian soil, awaiting transport of the other two."

"You lost one transport and two cruisers!" yelled Charles. "And now that the Occitanians know we're landing our forces, they'll throw everything they have at the invasion force again!"

Bancroft shook his head. "I've already given orders for Admiral McKenzie to split off his forces to pursue the raiders. I assure you that no harm will come to those divisions that have still to make the crossing."

Charles threw his hands in the air. "Assurances mean nothing! Especially when you can't snuff out a little unrest in the mountains. Oh, yes, Bancroft, I know all about these losses your marines have been suffering in the area!"

Bancroft made a mental note to find out just who was feeding Charles the information about the actions in Tyrol before he responded to the emperor.

"This rebellion will come under our control soon enough," promised Bancroft. "At this moment, I have more men pouring into the area. If the Tyroleans want a fight, then we'll give them one. They only have the confidence to attack our forces at night when they're scattered but we'll see what happens to them when we have a full-fledged army at their very gates."

"I won't have this revolt flaring up anymore than it already has," interrupted Charles. "Tyrol needs to be dealt with—harshly."

"They aren't the only ones who need to be dealt with harshly," muttered George while staring at Bancroft.

Bancroft stared back, thinking of all the ways he'd love to sink a dagger into the back of the corpulent crown prince. He even wondered if he could just drop the prince in Tyrol and let them kill George on their own. Surely that would mollify some of their anger, right?

"I have issued the orders to the men to be a lot more thorough in their execution," said Bancroft, answering the emperor's charge. "Tyrol will burn before we're done with her. That I can assure you."

"It had better or I'll find someone else to replace you," snapped Charles, making Bancroft wince.

"Hopefully someone who actually knows how to prosecute a war," suggested George, causing Bancroft as well as his father to glare at him again.

"By this time next week, I'll have better results for you on the Tyrolean affair," promised Bancroft. "We'll bring those rebels to heel, I have no doubt about it."

Finally, Charles relented. "That's all I needed to hear, Bancroft. I don't like seeing Java this stretched. We need to start ending some of these threats for good."

"I'm in complete agreement with you there," said Bancroft. "Soon we will not just have good news to share about Tyrol, but we'll also have our own army knocking on the front door of Montauban."

"If you don't lose any more transports in the process," quipped George.

Bancroft had enough. "Do you have nothing better to do than run your mouth?"

George's eyes went wide. "How dare you talk to me that way, you cockroach! I ought to have you drawn and quartered!"

"That's it, George, get the hell out of here!" yelled Charles, pointing his son toward the door. "You'll never be able to keep this empire together if you don't know when to hold your tongue! Get out!"

George looked confused for a moment, no doubt upset to see his father's anger redirected toward him. He shot a dirty glare to Bancroft as his fat frame pushed up from his chair and headed to the door. He slammed it on the way out, causing a framed painting to fall off the wall in the process.

Bancroft was still fuming. He was able to tolerate Charles because he was the emperor and his career still depended on staying in his good graces. But he could never tolerate the filthy degenerate that was the crown prince.

He wouldn't let George of all people judge him.

"He shouldn't be in these meetings anymore," said Bancroft quickly. "I don't want George in here when you and I meet."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "You will call him by his proper title, which is the Crown Prince of the Javan Empire. My son may be a fat, useless fool, but he's still my son."

"I understand, sire, but I've had enough of his banal insults," said Bancroft. "Am I supposed to sit here and let him take potshots at me?"

"You'll sit there and tolerate whatever I deem necessary," thundered Charles. "He's still the crown prince."

"Some crown prince he is," muttered Bancroft.

"Enough!" yelled Charles, pushing to his feet. "One day, I will be dead, and George will be your emperor. You need to remember your place here, Bancroft. You are the head of the imperial navy. You do not have any titles beyond what I've given you for good service. You aren't a member of the hereditary nobility nor do you have any claim to the throne. George will be your sovereign someday. You need to remember who he is, and more importantly, who you are."

Who I am, thought Bancroft.I'm just the poor fool that serves this house of calamity that's driving Java into the ground.

Bancroft clenched his teeth while holding back the venom. "I understand, sire."

Charles fixed him with a knowing stare. "Do you really, Bancroft? Your actions lately seem to demonstrate that you have a higher opinion of yourself than what's suitable for your station. You wield a lot of power in this government, perhaps more than you actually deserve. But you'll never rise above the royal family. I hope you sincerely understand that. It will save you a lot of trouble in the long run."

The long run is what I make of it, thought Bancroft as his fingers tightened into a fist.

"It's a good thing we had this talk then, sire," said Bancroft once he'd managed to calm himself down. "It helps to put things into perspective."

Charles' expression didn't change. "Good. I expect to hear from you before the end of the day with a comprehensive plan to take down the rebels in Tyrol. And for the love of all that's holy, make sure those Occitanian raiders stay away from the rest of the transports!"

"Understood, sire," said Bancroft as he bowed again. "I'll have it over to you shortly."

Once he was dismissed, Bancroft wasted no time in leaving the room and heading for the exit. Once he was outside the emperor's study though, he quickly found out that his trouble wasn't over.

George hadn't left at all. His heavy frame was straining the wall as he leaned against it. He would have looked imposing with that angry glare in his eyes if his three chins weren't wobbling at the same time.

"When I become emperor, the very first thing I'm going to do is kill you," said George in a very nonchalant manner.

"The key word there is 'when', Your Highness," snapped Bancroft.

"Oh, it will happen someday, that I can assure you," said the crown prince, taking a step closer. "That is if we can't find a reason to hang you before then. I'm sure if someone looked hard enough, they could find several bones in your closet. People rarely rise to this level of power without having them."

Bancroft sneered. "You're free to look. Good luck on finding anything though."

"I just might," said George with a cruel grin. "I'm of the opinion that you're behind several of the unfortunate events that have happened around the empire lately. I think if I just dig hard enough, I might be able to find something that could be very interesting to my father. Then I could be rid of you that much sooner."

For a split second, Bancroft allowed himself to think back on everything he'd done in the last year that could potentially get him beheaded. From the use of Henrik as a decoy to the intentional sacrifice of the first invasion fleet, there was plenty to search for if someone was inclined to take a closer look.

And it seemed like George had every intention of doing just that.

"Better get a good night's sleep, Bancroft," said George as he patted him on the shoulder contemptuously. "You're going to need it."

Before Bancroft could get off another response, the corpulent crown prince was gone. Not wanting to linger in the palace, he made his way quickly outside so he could catch a ride back to the Admiralty. All the while, his anger grew.

By the time he was back in his own office, he was seething mad. Bancroft let his anger loose. He upturned his desk and smashed an end table that butted against the main window. Papers went flying everywhere. By the time that Clark found him, he'd turned the whole space into a disaster.