Fourth Vector Ch. 50

In the next moment, everything had turned around. Suddenly, Arnold wasn't the focus of the enemy fire as the remaining soldiers tried to take down this new attacker.

It afforded him an excellent opportunity. Arnold opened up covering fire on the closest position where two Javan soldiers were hiding behind a fallen tree and peppering Brian's position with semi-automatic fire. Arnold drew their attention back to where he was hiding, and it was all the opening that Brian needed to take action.

One of the Javans was killed as Brian took the first shot, only for the other one to scoot around another tree as Brian charged him. It was the craziest thing that Arnold had ever witnessed. To see Brian with his bayonet looking like some kind of legendary hero as he moved was one thing he was bound to remember for the rest of his life.

The second man never stood a chance, not as Arnold kept up his covering fire.

Finally, there was only one group of three Javans left. Once the odds were evened out, the two Western soldiers continued with their same plan--Arnold would provide the covering fire while Brian cleared out the position. It all worked out beautifully until it didn't.

Arnold winced when he heard the scream come from Brian. The Galician had finally taken a shot as he moved between positions, getting a nasty wound in the lower leg. Seeing his friend yell out in pain, Arnold sprung into action. He cleared his foxhole and kept up a steady rate of fire as he charged at the nearest position, which was hidden behind some tall grass.

The Javans looked completely shocked when they saw Arnold's hulking body standing over them and with his rifle pointing directly at their bodies. Arnold let off a quick burst of fire, killing the three remaining men before they could so much as fire another shot.

At that moment, it was finally over. With no other threats nearby, Arnold ran the short distance over to Brian, who was now flat on his back while his lower leg gushed with blood.

"The gods piss on me, this fucking hurts!" said Brian as he rolled his head back and forth. "That bastard shattered my leg!"

Arnold couldn't help but grin as he heard Brian swear. He knew that if the wound were actually serious, Brian wouldn't be able to swear it about like he was now.

"Hang on tight, we'll get that bandaged up," said Arnold as he looked over the wound. "But first, I have to dig the bullet out. Can you grit your teeth for a minute while I do that?"

Brian looked like he'd rather be sodomized with a rusty shovel but he gave his acknowledgment a moment later. He yelled out in pain as Arnold jammed his fingers into the bullet hole, emerging a few seconds later with the small piece of metal.

"Fuck, did you pull out the bone with it?" complained Brian as he clutched his leg.

"Not even close," said Arnold, chuckling. "Come on, we need to get you back to my foxhole."

His words didn't come soon enough. The sounds of rapid fire very close to their position raised the possibility of continued fighting. Since Brian would be slow on his feet, Arnold grabbed his body and carried him the short distance to his foxhole, carrying him like a baby (something that Brian didn't seem to appreciate).

"When you're telling everyone the story of how this went down later," said Brian as he was clutched to Arnold's chest. "Leave this part out."

Finally, the two men reached the foxhole and Arnold was able to let Brian down gingerly. Taking his place next to the Galician, he pointed his rifle in front of him and scanned for any threats.

"Thanks a million for coming to get me," said Brian after a moment as he bandaged his leg. "I was sure those three guys were going to come finish me off."

"Not if I had anything to say about it," replied Arnold. "Besides, it's me that should be thanking you. You saved my life back there. If you hadn't intervened when you did, there's a good chance I wouldn't be alive right now."

"Well, I saw you were in trouble so I decided to do something," said Brian, a grin on his face. "I didn't know if you Swabians could fight your way out of trouble after all."

Arnold started to chuckle. "My ass you didn't. You're just lucky I was still alive enough to pick you up in the end."

"You're right, I am thankful for that," said Brian, chuckling along.

Arnold took several looks around as the local firing became more distant. "I wonder how long we'll be staying here. It almost looks like it's too dark for fighting. I imagine most of these soldiers will be finding a hole for the night."

"If that's the case, we can assume the fighting will probably resume in the morning," said Brian as he turned around to look behind him. "We might be stuck in this hole as well. All that firing came directly behind us. No doubt the Javans are between us and the defensive line, as well as scattered about here in this mess of a position."

"You don't want to chance and try to get back to our own lines?" asked Arnold.

Brian pointed to his wounded foot. "We wouldn't be able to move fast enough to stay out of trouble I'm thinking. Might be better just to wait until the morning. We're just as likely to get shot by our own people as we are to be hit by the Javans."

Arnold thought about it for a moment before nodding. "I suppose you're right. After all, our own army will come find us in the morning when we counterattack."

Brian gave him a sly smile. "You really think we're going to counter in the morning?"

"Of course. Why not? There's not that many Javans here in the center. One good push should see most of them back across their lines. That is, if we don't cut off their retreat before we do it.'

"Let's hope that's the case then," said Brian. "I'd rather be discovered by our own army than the Javans. I doubt this Bancroft asshole would be willing to give us acceptable accommodations for our trouble."

"Yeah, you're right," agreed Arnold. "Judging by the name alone, he sounds like a stingy bastard."

The two men snickered to themselves. For the next half hour, their time was filled with light chatter as the world continued to sneak into darkness. At one point, they quieted down as three Javans on patrol walked right past their position, but otherwise, nothing eventful happened.

It wasn't until Brian clutched his leg in pain that the conversation resumed again.

"Hurt?" asked Arnold, watching the look of pain on the other man's face.

"What gave it away?" retorted Brian dryly. "It's like a dull ache at this point. It doesn't sting but it pulses if that makes sense."

"Well, look at this way--at least you'll be off the front lines for a while," said Arnold. "You'll get to recover with the other wounded in the rear. And at this rate, the war is likely to be over before you're healed again."

Brian grunted. "We can only hope. I'm already tired of this continent."

"Oh, it hasn't been that bad."

"Like hell it hasn't," snorted Brian. "The entire time we've been here, we've been getting shot at. I'm tired of getting shot at period. And the women? Don't even get me started on that."

Arnold held his tongue lest he hear about how disappointing the local girls had been. He thought the problem was that they'd most likely built up how lovely and welcoming the Javan girls would be when they got here. The main issue was that most of them were way too skinny (a symptom of their wartime food situation) and very few of them seemed to look at the Western men in anything beyond childlike wonder.

"This might be your ticket back home then," said Arnold. "Back to Galicia. At least you know the girls there are something to look at!"

"I think that no matter where I go, I'm just destined to be complaining about something," said Brian. "I don't even know why you put up with me. All I do is complain sometimes."

"Not everything you do," corrected Arnold, chuckling to himself. "At least you're entertaining. I'll give you that."

"Well, at least someone finds merit in what I do," said Brian before rubbing his leg again. "It would be nice to go home again. Even though we haven't been here that long, I'm already homesick."

"What do you miss about home the most?"

"Maybe just the sight of Kalmar in the morning sun," said Brian. "There was always something brilliant about the city, almost magical even. I think I miss being in that city more than most. Everything else, I could leave at this point but just put me back in Kalmar."

Arnold nodded. "I miss Eloise. It feels like forever since I've spoken with her. I'm telling you, the minute I get home, I'm going to kiss that woman and not stop until a full day has passed."

Brian chuckled. "I highly doubt you're going to stop at just kissing."

"Shit no, I'm liable to knock that woman up right then and there," said Arnold, laughing. "Not that she wouldn't want it. She's been talking about starting a family. Maybe that'll be the right time?"

Brian looked around the trees above them, swaying gently in the nightly breeze. "Let's hope we both get our wishes then. We just have to survive the night."

"Well, there's no one else in the world I'd rather share a foxhole with," said Arnold.

Brian grinned. "Never thought you'd say that about a Galician, did you?"

"That's true. And I'm still shocked as hell to say it."

"Right back at you, you big Swabian ox."

"Thanks, you dumb Galician fuck."

*****

"In the morning, the main thrust of the attack is going to continue along this main axis right here, going straight into the Fourthie center until we completely crush them. Then, we'll roll up the flanks and capture every single one of those bastards left standing."

Bancroft made the whole plan sound so easy.

That was the one thought on Menard's mind as he listened to the mad Javan emperor as he orchestrated the conditions for tomorrow's action--a plan that, in his mind, would lead to absolute victory.

Menard was much more unsure about their prospects for tomorrow. The fighting today had been fierce and vigorous but undecided. At the current time, only about an hour until midnight, the bulk of the Javan Army was now hunkered down in the positions that the Fourthie force started the day in. Though the Fourthies had managed to be pushed back, they weren't broken yet, and Menard thought that his own army was in much more perilous shape than the Fourthies.

For one, most of his army could now count themselves as being surrounded on three sides. Their failure to break the Fourthie center meant they were in an extraordinary amount of danger while the enemy army was still intact. The problem was that Bancroft envisioned this force being able to pick themselves up in the morning and throw themselves directly at the Fourthies, who were just about ready to break supposedly.

The point that Bancroft was missing was that their men were exhausted from the attack today, and they'd taken a great amount of casualties in pushing back the Fourthie center. Menard feared they wouldn't have the necessary strength to mount the attack in the morning, and there was no other force of reserves to bolster them with.

"Cheer up, General," said Bancroft seemingly out of the blue. Menard looked over to find his emperor watching him. "You look like someone who has no faith in the plan."

Menard cleared his throat. "It's not faith that I lack but rested men. I still don't see how these men who gave everything they had today will find it in them to continue the fight tomorrow. Not with their current strength."

Bancroft cursed under his breath. "For god's sake Menard, will you find your spine? The men will make the attack tomorrow because they are on the cusp of victory! They know what's at stake and they will find something deep within themselves to finish the job! I don't understand why you don't get that."

Menard held his tongue. With anyone else, he might have rolled his eyes. The problem was that Bancroft was a naval man, not an army one. Ships never got tired or had to deal with morale problems. As long as they were in good working order, they performed as they were supposed to.

Men were different. There were very few scenarios where Menard could ask a group of men, who'd battled as hard and as long as the men in his center did that day, to fight again without rest and with renewed zeal in the morning. Especially after they'd taken so many casualties.

It was a recipe for disaster, and Menard had to try one more time to get the Emperor to change his course.

"Sire, what would you think about a tactical withdrawal to the south?" asked Menard, broaching the subject in the most casual way possible. "We have the remains of Zander's force moving north, and they should be able to link up with us in a week. With their extra numbers, we can pick good defensive ground of our choosing and smash what's left of the Fourthie army."

Bancroft looked at him like he just suggested that they club babies for fun.

"Have you finally lost it, Menard? Why would I possibly retreat now when I have the enemy just where I want him?"

"Not a retreat, Sire, a withdrawal to the south--"

"I know what you said," snapped Bancroft. "The answer is no. Now is the time to defeat the enemy, not later. There is no military sense in moving from this battlefield, not when we have the enemy on the ropes!"

"But Sire, our situation isn't as secure as you might think--"

"Enough, Menard, enough!" roared Bancroft. "I'm sick to fucking death of your incessant complaining and defeatism. Everywhere I go, I'm surrounded by generals who don't know how to fight or how to sustain one once it's begun. This is the greatest curse that I have. I alone have the will to see Java to the highest greatness that she could possibly achieve, but the people I'm ruling over have no such inclinations. I have to deal with the highest order of fools, cowards, and incompetents--more so than any other ruler in our history!"

Bancroft was practically delusional with his ravings by this point but Menard could only shake his head. The man was too far gone to help. His words were already falling on deaf ears, and no matter what Menard said, Bancroft would pursue this path all the way to the bitter end.

When another officer showed up in their tent, Menard thought for sure it was bringing news of some kind of Fourthie breakthrough, however, this officer was from the navy and he brought a mixed bag of reports from the naval action off the coast.

"Disengaged, you said?" asked Bancroft, squeezing his fists after listening to the whole report. "So where did my navy go then, Captain?"

The captain gulped heavily. "Regrouping toward the north. The fleet is under the command of Admiral Strange at the current moment, and his last bearing was toward the Channel between Occitanian and Java. There is some good news though, Sire."

"Well, out with it then!" barked Bancroft. "Because all you've told me is bad news so far!"

"We have a reliable report that the flagship used by the traitor Jack Easterbrook, the cruiser known as the Destiny, has been sunk in the battle. There is a high likelihood that he is dead."

Menard felt the air in the room shift at that point. Bancroft's mood morphed from one of perennial disappointment to almost childlike glee.

"Sunk? You're absolutely sure of this?"

The captain nodded. "Yes, Sire. The cruiser was sunk by the Revenge right before the blast that killed Admiral Reynolds. Though we do not have Easterbrook's body, there's a good chance that he is dead after the explosions that rocked the ship right before it went under."

Bancroft clapped his hands together happily. "Well, this could change everything. Not only would we have a military victory tomorrow on land, but with the death of Easterbrook, we could very well have secured our place in this war. This is most excellent news indeed."

From there, Bancroft gave orders for Admiral Strange to maneuver the fleet back toward the Javan west coast, with the primary order being to prevent any escape by the Fourthies once victory was had in the morning. After the captain left, Bancroft sat down in a chair and put his hands together in a most satisfactory manner.

"Victory is within our grasp, Menard," said the mad emperor, having already forgotten that he was upset with his general. "We just need to hold on a little longer and we'll have it. I've waited so long for this day and it's finally here. Get word to the men. Make sure they know what's expected of them in the morning."

Menard chose not to dispute any of Bancroft's words. At this point, he just wanted to survive long enough to see the peace on the other end of this fight.

"Yes, Sire, I will do as you command."

*****

It was late in the evening by the time that Kat reached the Visby offshore, but neither her own exhaustion or the falling of night would allow her to rest. Kat's brain was completely fried and wrought with the emotional carnage of what might have happened to Jack and Abigail.

The biggest problem was that after all this time of the Visby and the Valiant combing the seas for survivors from the Destiny, they still hadn't found him.

"I don't know what to say, my queen," said Russ, his face full of tension. "We just can't find them. I've picked up over two hundred survivors of the wreck but we know there's still more out there. My guess is that the currents may have pushed some of the survivors, including Jack, toward the coast."

"Have we checked the coast at all?" asked Kat. "I'd rather us find them than some of Bancroft's men nearby. You know what would happen to Jack if Bancroft got his hands on him."

Russ nodded. "We're checking as we speak. The Valiant has moved closer to the coast and has reported that local fishing boats have started to recover survivors as well. We are checking with them as much as possible but he just hasn't turned up yet."

Kat took a deep breath as her eyes welled up with tears. "We have to find him, Russ. We just have to."

He put a sympathetic hand on her arm. "I'll do everything I can."

For the next hour, Kat didn't have the patience to sit aboard the Visby and wait for results to come in. Every successive launch boat that was pulled up from the waters failed to show her husband or her sister-wife, though she did recognize many of the faces that were pulled from the water.

Finally, Kat could wait no more. She joined the next boat that went down, pledging to help the men with what was left of her strength.

It was before the boat could be lowered that she became aware of some yelling in the distance. Kat turned her attention to a small boat that was now making its way toward the Visby as several sailors in the boat were now waving their hands trying to get everyone's attention.

"We've found her! We have Queen Abigail!"

Kat closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief that someone had been found. She crossed back over to the battleship and awaited Abigail's boat. After several minutes, the boat was finally pulled up and Kat couldn't help but smile when she saw that Abigail was still alive.

"Abigail!"

Abigail's eyes turned to meet Kat's and she offered only the weakest smile as Kat hugged her. She was still drenched to the bone despite the blanket that had been wrapped around her. With her were four others from the ship, including Lt. Kyle Abrams of weapons division.

Suddenly, there was the hope that Jack might not be far behind.

Kat turned her gaze to look at Abigail's face. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

Abigail nodded weakly. She pulled her arm free of the blanket, finding that it was incredibly bloody, with her uniform cut in multiple places.

"Could be worse," said Abigail finally, her voice in no more than a whisper. "That happened from the explosion. Made it hard to swim. I'm glad they got here when they did. I didn't know how much longer I could hold on."