Fourth Vector Ch. 36

The man tilted his head. "How much is too much sacrifice? When is enough enough?"

Trevor found himself unable to respond to that directly. How could he answer that from a man that just lost his two boys? Was there even an answer that would placate him? What about Tyrol? When would enough blood be shed to wrap up this terrible conflict?

Those questions were still on his mind as he felt Gavin's hand on his arm.

"Trevor, you have to listen to what this man is saying," said Gavin, gesturing to a new man that was trailing just behind him. He was young, no more than sixteen. His inexperience was evident in the fact that the beard on his face was still thin and patchy.

Trevor turned away from the old man to face the teenager. "What is being said?"

"Go on, tell him," said Gavin, gesturing to the youth.

"Sir, the Javans are heading this way," said the teenager, his voice already deep like a man's. "To this fortification. We managed to stay ahead of them, but they are coming here."

Trevor's eyes went wide with alarm. "How do you know that? Who told you that?"

"The Javans, sir. They made no secrets about it. They know you are based in the mountains and they know if they send a large enough force here, they can destroy your army."

Trevor shot a tentative look at Gavin before looking back at the teen. "How would they know that now? We've been based here the whole time. How did they just find this out now?"

"And why would it matter if they did?" added Gavin. "The Javans are afraid to come into the mountains. They know we take advantage of the terrain more easily than they do. They stay in the valleys and in the plains and leave the mountains to us. Who cares if they come here?"

"The size of their army means they don't have to fear the mountains any longer," said the teen. "It numbers in the thousands. At least five! They know they can crush you if they stick together and assault your mountain. They are burning and destroying everything in their path. They will get here soon!"

"Can anyone else corroborate what you're saying?" asked Trevor. "Did anyone else hear what the Javans had to say about coming here?"

As it turned out, many of the refugees did. Quite a few of them attested to the teen's story, even going so far as to draw out the path of the army as it was heading to the mountains. Once he saw such certainty to their story, Trevor quickly pulled Gavin and Nina aside.

"So it appears this is either one elaborate hoax of a story or all of them are telling the truth," said Trevor. "And I'm inclined to believe they are telling the truth."

"As am I," said Gavin. "So what do we do? How could they have found out where we are?"

"A good question," said Trevor. "But with the lengths the Javans are willing to go to get information, I wouldn't be surprised to hear just about any answer. For all we know, they could have tortured it out of someone."

"We all know how much they love torture," said Nina before her eyes settled on Trevor. "So do we stay here? It sounds like they are making no effort to disguise their approach. It's like they want us to know they're coming."

"They must have the numbers to make this work then," said Gavin. "And our numbers are still low."

"How many men do we have to fight?" asked Trevor.

"About twenty-five hundred," replied Gavin. "We would have more but we're running out of room up here, especially with all the refugees. Space is at a premium."

"So we're outnumbered and facing a force that wants to exterminate us," muttered Trevor.

"I hate to even ask this but should we not pull back?" suggested Nina. "It sounds like they want us to fight here. Should we find better ground?"

That was the biggest question Trevor faced. Why did the Javans want to fight here so badly? Was it driven by hatred--the result of wanting to defeat them on their own turf? Or was there an advantage somewhere to attacking this position?

Trevor shook that last idea from his head. The old fortification was on excellent defensive ground, and he could make an attacker seriously bleed just for considering an attack on it. This had to be a move that was designed to strike fear in their hearts.

This was a move of extermination.

And he was determined not to let them push him from his mountain hideout.

"No, we stay here and fight," said Trevor finally. "We need to start preparing now but we will defend our home the best we can. We have no other options. We either win or die but if we are to die, then we'll take as many of the Javans with us as we can."

*****

Colonel Bruce Potts was wounded.

It was a grazing wound but a wound nevertheless. He was lucky that it was against his forearm and not against his head or his legs. This way, he could just tie a bandage around it instead of having to lose his ability to fight.

He'd been wounded because he was moving too close to the front gates of Kalmar, and a member of the besieging army must have spotted him. He never saw whether the attacker was taken down but he had all the faith in his soldiers that one of them would avenge the insult.

It was just another day inside the city, the city that was now besieged by the Galician King.

Bruce still had a hard time believing it was actually him. He thought the Galician King belonged only to legend but recent events had shown the Galician people that their king was more than just a myth. For a brief moment, Bruce let his hand touch his heart over his army fatigues but he quickly brought it down, not wanting the men to see him do it.

After all, such a movement could now be construed as treason.

Bruce rolled his eyes at the thought of the last decree by Regent Eric Rosdahl that made any acknowledgment of the bond with the king an act of treason. For all that Rosdahl was concerned, the bond didn't exist.

But every true Galician knew that the bond was stronger now than it had been since that day months ago, when the king first came back into their lives.

Now they were here fighting him. Mortars were lobbed on Bruce's position every few minutes as the rebel forces tried to assault their way into the city. For now though, the defense was holding but the question of how long they could hold had already been raised. Food was running in short supply. Soon they would be forced to eat whatever animals they could catch, and that would include mice and rats in the city.

Bruce had never seen true starvation, and he wasn't enthusiastic about the thought of seeing the misery it would bring. Neither were any of the men of his regiment. He wasn't oblivious to their late-night discussions. He knew that many of them sympathized with the king just as much as they despised Eric Rosdahl.

Even still, they didn't have tolike Rosdahl to fight for him, especially after he'd just raised their salaries. But it still left a foul taste in their mouths at having to fight their own sovereign king.

Particularly when Eric Rosdahl's grasp of reality seemed to desert him with each passing decree.

That was the position that Bruce found himself in that afternoon after having repulsed another attack against the main gate of Kalmar. His men were taking a breather and attending to their wounded, with a steady stream of them being moved behind the front lines to the hospital in the city. Ammunition was still in good supply and his Bornmount V1 rifle was working well that morning.

In fact, his mood had been just fine until he received the next order, groaning when he saw it was a new decree from the regent.

"Suicide attacks?" he muttered under his breath. "He's gone completely nuts."

Even still, the order was quite clear in its wording. Bruce was to start sending out soldiers in suicidal waves against the king's forces, especially if they were getting any closer to breaching the front gate.

Bruce scoffed at that line in particular. The front gate was already breached, destroyed with artillery fire. It was only the rubble that remained, but his men had made a defense of it the likes of which meant that none of the king's forces had yet entered the city.

Eric Rosdahl should have known that fact. He did not because he never left the Castle anymore and wasn't bothering to be updated on the strategic situation.

Once again, the internal feeling that Bruce was fighting for the wrong side reared its head. Again, he tried to ignore it.

Thankfully, he could ignore the order for now. Another attack began in earnest and his full attention was needed to repel it. It was getting to be midafternoon when the attack finally petered off, and another round of wounded men were taken off the front lines. Bruce thought it likely that the majority of the action for today would now be over, giving both sides time to lick their wounds.

He couldn't have been more wrong. The insanity was about to move to an untenable level.

It all started with a messenger from General Burke requesting Bruce's presence at once. That in itself wasn't a cause for immediate alarm. Even though Bruce didn't have much respect for the general (who'd only been recently promoted due to his ability to kiss Rosdahl's ass), perhaps Burke could help him digest the true meaning of the suicide attacks order.

In that thought, he was proven horribly wrong.

One look at Burke's face told Bruce that he was a defeated man. He looked like someone trying to swallow a rotten piece of beef without letting anyone know about it. Although there was no signs of immediate distastefulness, his microexpressions betrayed his true body language.

"Why have the suicide attacks not begun yet, Colonel?" asked Burke, not bothering to meet Bruce's eyes and getting straight to the point.

Bruce found himself blinking without an answer. "Colonel, how can I ask my men to do that? It's barbaric! It's unsettling! No one fights that--"

"I'm well-aware that no one fights that way!" yelled back Burke with a degree of fury. "Those are the Regent's orders and they aren't being carried out!"

"For good reason, sir," retorted Bruce. "It's a poor tactic. What will that accomplish for our forces? The loss of good men for no good reason. We're much better off staying behind our defenses. We can make the enemy pay a heavier price that way."

"That's still not what the Regent ordered," replied Burke, quickly losing his patience. "I want to see suicide attacks now. Your men have not demonstrated the proper zeal in fighting for the Regent and that needs to end now. You need to show the city your resolve when it comes to defending it!"

Bruce raised his chin. "So my death, and the death of my men, is the only way we can be shown as proper defenders?"

"Don't get smart with me, Bruce," said Burke, meeting his gaze for the first time. "Just see it done! I want a report every hour of the number of attacks and gods help me, if it's less than five per hour, I'm going to personally demote you back to lieutenant. Now get it done!"

Bruce was still cursing as he raced through the city back to the front gate. At one point, he even had to wipe tears from his eyes. How was he going to look his own men in the eyes and tell them they were being ordered to their deaths? And it wasn't even the threat of it that constantly surrounded being in the army.

It was a cold, barbaric, meaningless death that made their position worse off. It was death for the sake of death, and now he had to be the one to give the news.

Bruce smashed against a wall as a mortar exploded in the street behind him. He saw stars temporarily as his wounded arm hit the brick wall, losing his balance. The king was attacking again. What was he to do?

Open the gates and let them come, he thought to himself.Why am I fighting for a side that doesn't value my life?

Even Bruce was shocked at the notion. The sudden defeatism was nothing he hadn't already heard from some of the men and he was surprised it was now making a lot of sense.

Why shouldn't he join with the king? Bruce knew his life would be in better hands. He knew his men would gladly follow their king. Could he really betray his country like that though?

Or was he betraying his country now by fighting for a usurper such as Eric Rosdahl?

Bruce had a hard choice in front of him. Which side was more worthy of his soul? Who could he continue to fight for honorably?

It certainly wasn't Eric Rosdahl.

With that last thought in mind, Bruce made a short detour. The first-level barracks that was their temporary headquarters had a good portion of their gear, including their parade ground attire that was of no use on days like today. With that attire came a series of stylized flags and other symbols of Galicia. Once he found what he was looking for, he pulled the material from its storage and stared at it.

Could he really go through with this? Was this really the right answer?

*****

Jack watched from afar as his men once again assaulted the entrance to Kalmar. Mortars and small arms fire were abundant as was a steady convoy of those wounded being brought to the rear. From his binoculars, it looked like they were no closer to getting inside the city, something that continued to dampen his spirits.

It was now day three of the siege. Eric Rosdahl's reinforcements were coming up from the south at a fast pace, and Jack had to figure out a way into the city before he was squashed between two forces.

So far the Galician forces that opposed them had shown every sign of professional conduct. They were well-trained and deadly killers, and there wasn't anyone in Jack's force who didn't have a healthy level of respect for them.

It just made getting into the city more difficult. If the enemy was bound to fight them for every inch of ground, would Jack even have a force by the time the fight was over?

Jack took a moment to put his binoculars down, finding a canteen beside him to wet his throat. The afternoon heat was stifling even for late autumn. Already, his shirt was sticking to his back due to sweat.

"We'll get there, Jack," said Art to his side before he gestured to the city. "They can't resist us forever."

"Was it that easy to read what I was thinking?" he asked the general.

Art only grinned in response. "You wear your emotions openly. It wasn't that hard."

At least someone didn't seem to be too worn out from all the fighting. Art's spirits remained buoyant despite the repeated attacks and their failures to get into the city. Jack found that the general was often calmest in the middle of battle, never once letting his emotions go to his head.

It was just another reason why Art Chapman had his eternal respect.

"What I wouldn't give for half a dozen tanks right now," muttered Jack. "I doubt those men have ever seen them before."

"Tanks would be nice," replied Art. "I'd be tempted to say we might lessen the casualty counts but even still, Galicians wouldn't run away from tanks. They'd keep fighting them or die. And frankly, every good Galician soldier that dies from this is a waste. We should be fighting the Swabians, not each other."

"I can certainly agree to that," said Jack. "But it seems Eric Rosdahl is determined to waste as much blood as possible in this conflict."

"He can try but he won't hold out forever," repeated Art. "My gut feeling after knowing him is that he's bound to do something stupid eventually. He's the type that caves to pressure easily."

"We can hope," said Jack quietly.

He needed more than hope at that moment. He needed to force an outcome but how? Keeping steady pressure on the defenders was one thing but what else could he do that wouldn't destroy the city in the process?

Those thoughts were so consuming that Jack stepped away for a minute. Not far from their observation point was the main tent where Greg and Kat could be found. At this moment, John was aboard theDestiny with Vera, which was the only circumstance that Jack would allow Kat to be this close to the battle.

Jack saw both Greg and Kat looking over a map of the city when there was serious commotion behind him. It became quickly apparent that Art was trying to grab his attention.

Jack sprinted back to the general who was now pointing to the city with feverish excitement. "Jack, look at the gate! Quickly, take a look!"

Jack raised his binoculars to his eyes and looked over. He could see there was a temporary lull in the fighting and his forces were no longer directly assaulting the front gate at the moment, however a glimmer of white caught his eye.

There was a flag flying from the mast of one of the gatehouses. It was a flag that Jack hadn't seen before, especially since it bore no resemblance to the flag of Galicia, which was the sixteen-pointed yellow star on the blue field.

This field was entirely white but it wasn't a flag of surrender. Instead, there was a stylized letter K that was colored with Galician blue.

"What am I looking at, Art?" asked Jack, turning to look at the general again.

"Do you see the flag?" said Art quickly.

"I do but what does it mean? What's the significance of it?"

Art was practically jumping up and down. "It's a stylized monogram flag! It's the flag of the kings. Do you see the letter K? It's for your family!"

"The Kincardine family," said Jack as he once more looked at the flag. "I'm guessing Rosdahl doesn't like seeing that flag in the air."

"It's been outlawed entirely except for parade ground maneuvers," said Art. "It's the only place he tolerates it. When the kings of old used to be around, that flag was displayed wherever the king was, especially on the battlefield during fighting. Do you see the significance of this?"

"If you ask me, someone is trying to get our attention," said Jack. "This is telling me they want us to attack. Perhaps they are defecting?"

"That's my guess as well," said Art. "They want us to press in now. I'm going to guess whoever is in charge over there is trying to signal to us that they won't resist us. We need to push forward with all the men we have and get past that gate!"

That was enough reason for Jack. With a quick nod of the head, he allowed Art to give the order. It was quickly disseminated through the ranks and not more than fifteen minutes later, a renewed attack was now in progress.

Or rather, it could have been called a charge. No one inside the city was firing back. It quickly became apparent why.

"Jack, they've thrown down their weapons," came the radio call from Lindy who was fighting near the gate. "It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. I've never seen Galicians surrender before but it appears they won't fight us at all. At least an entire regiment's worth and perhaps more!"

"Keep pressing your advantage, Lindy," ordered Jack. "We're not going to be far behind you. Keep moving forward until you find resistance and let's converge on the Castle. I want to capture Rosdahl before he has the chance to escape."

With that last order, Jack and Art found a small car to take toward the city. They quickly crossed the mile of open ground that had been the battlefield for the past three days, arriving near the front gate to find the battered remains of it. With all the debris and rubble, there wasn't enough room for the car to drive unmolested, so the two continued on foot with the soldiers as they poured into the city.

It was a surreal feeling for Jack to be back within the walls of Kalmar. It was only a few short months ago that he escaped the city, fighting through its streets with the men of the 7th Regiment to the safety of the Galician fleet. Now he was back with the pride of the Galician armed forces and the immediate sight in front of him was that of Galicians with no desire to keep fighting.

A full company of his own men had been detached to watch over those that surrendered but there were looks of innate curiosity on the faces of those former defenders when he passed by them. They didn't need to be told who he was. Most of them could feel the strength of the bond at such a short distance and could surmise on their own.