Men of War by William R. Forstchen Read Free Book Online Page A

his chin on his drawn-up knees.
    “No, Hans. I think I’d have enough sense to stop it if I understood that was the only reason for attacking. But Marcus is right, we have to do something. The people of Roum have to know that the Rus will fight to help them take back their land. So there is the politics. We have to find a way, as well, to end this war before we either collapse or Kal succumbs to the pressure that’s growing in the Senate to accept Jurak’s offer for a negotiated settlement.”
    “If Kal accepts that, he deserves to be shot,” Hans snapped.
    “He’s the president,” Andrew replied, a sharp edge to his voice.
    “And you wrote the bloody Constitution. So change it. I tell you I smell something in this.”
    “Are you accusing Kal?”
    “No, damn it, of course not. If anything he’s a rotten president because he’s too damned honest and simple.”
    “We used to say that about Lincoln, but under that prairie-lawyer exterior there was a damn shrewd politician.”
    Hans nodded, spitting a stream of tobacco juice and wiping the bottom of his chin with the back of his hand.
    “We have to end this war now,” Andrew announced, shifting the topic away from matters that he felt bordered on treason. Hans was right; he had indeed written the Constitution for the Republic. But once that Constitution had been accepted by the people of Rus and Roum, it had gone out of his grasp, and it now must bind him as it bound any other citizen who swore his allegiance to it, and thereby accepted its protection.
    He stood up. Raising the field glasses that hung from his neck, he turned his attention to the opposite shore. The eastern bank was lower than the western, the terrain flat, not cut by the ravines of the western bank. Jurak should have drawn his line farther back, not here. It was almost as if he chose a weaker position to tempt them in. Andrew could see the outlines of the fortifications lining the opposite bank.
    Wisps of smoke, morning cook fires, rose straight up in the still air. Again the shiver of a thought. The monthly moon feast had been two days ago, the cries of the victims echoing across the river throughout the night. He wondered if what was left was now roasting on those fires.
    Originally he had planned the attack to go in then, but it was too obvious a night for them to strike, and, besides, the bastards usually stayed awake throughout the feast night and might sense something.
    There’s still time to stop, the inner voice whispered. The battlements along the eastern bank were clearly silhouetted. This was the precious moment, the west bank draped in darkness, the east bank highlighted. He heard footsteps behind him … it was Pat, followed by Marcus.
    “Andrew, it’s three-thirty.”
    Andrew looked at Hans, almost wishing he could defer the decision. Hans was staring at him.
    Andrew lowered his head, whispering a silent prayer. Finally he raised his gaze again.
    “Do it.”
    * * *
    Jack Petracci, circling five miles back from the front, took a deep breath, not sure if he was glad that the moment had finally come, or dreaded the fact that the show was really on.
    “There’s the signal flare,” he announced to Theodor, his copilot. “Make sure the others follow.”
    Banking his aerosteamer over to a due easterly heading, he scanned to port and starboard. The formation appeared to be following. Leaning over, he blew into the speaker tubes.
    “Romulus, Boris, report.”
    “One airship, turning back,” Romulus announced, “think it’s number twenty-two. Rest are forming up.”
    Better than expected , Jack thought; forty heavy aero-steamers and thirty of the new Hornet single-engine escorts, it would be the largest air strike ever launched, the dream of more than five months of planning. Not exactly the way he wanted it done, but it would prove once and for all that the tremendous investment in airpower was worth it.
    More flares were soaring up along the front line, marking the beginning of