Chapter 47 Eyes in the Sky
Chapter forty-seven
Eyes in the Sky
Two days later, northwestern Verdancia
First Sergeant Roy Sutter braced against the basket’s rim, binoculars locked to his eyes as he swept the horizon for the enemy.
It was an overcast day—good for sparing his eyes but negating sunlight reflecting off metal, catching his attention.
Many had volunteered for the reconnaissance mission, and Roy felt honored to have been chosen.
Three balloons had been sent scouting, one each from Marchland, Stonevale, and Nelanta.
At least one was bound to discover something.
He’d never seen the world from such a high vantage point and marveled at fields and forests, stretching below in grids, varying from deep green to amber.
Rivers snaked like veins, branching across the land’s body.
Although spared the scorching rays, the heat and humidity dampened his shirt, sweat rolling down his neck.
“Anything?” asked Lieutenant Butler. Taking careful steps, he joined Roy at the rail.
Butler was a Black man, much younger, but grew up in Nelanta, receiving a quality education.
Also, with his dad a master sergeant in the Engineering Corps, the lad knew the ropes.
Roy could respect him—and offer gentle guidance when needed.
“A while back, we passed a meadow teeming with deer. Would have made for excellent hunting.”
This was their second day in the balloon, after grounding while it had been dark.
They’d already passed Tupelo, its buildings like matchboxes and dice lined up in patterns.
The pilot held them east of the Memphis crater.
If the Iron Army was stupid enough to trek through there, they’d all be dead before reaching Marchland.
Radiation in most places had cooled off forty-five years later, but the most potent hot zones must be avoided at all costs.
“Want to look elsewhere?” asked Sergeant Liam Carlson.
Yesterday, the fiery-haired pilot had explained that this was a Rozière balloon, a hybrid that operated with both helium- and propane-produced hot air.
“Great for longer trips; more versatile, stronger payloads.” He steered it by changing altitudes, catching a wind current blowing the way they wanted to go.
Roy just didn’t want it to crash to the ground like a meteorite.
“Not yet,” Butler said. “Let’s keep following old Highway 45. With as large a force as we expect, they’ll want a roadway, even if it’s bumpy.”
The two infantrymen, who brought long-range guns along in case they got into trouble, sat on the basket floor, playing blackjack.
Roy resumed his sweep, praying the weather held. Carlson assured them a little rain wasn’t a problem as long as they didn’t experience high winds. Lightning wasn’t great either. Butler took a turn scouting while Roy sat down for a drink and a bite to eat, glad to give his eyes a break.
By the time he returned to his post, old 45 had turned into old 51, and they’d passed the northern border of Verdancia.
Below stretched no-man’s-land—wilds and swamps, inhabited by beasts, mutants, and the uncivilized, all of which would flee before a tremendous army’s advance.
Roy was starting to think the intel had been wrong.
“Take us closer to the Mother River,” Butler ordered, lifting his binoculars to search to the west. It was tedious work, yet of vital importance.
The pilot pulled a handle, and the balloon sank out from under them, giving Roy the sensation of his stomach catching in his throat.
They leveled out about thirty meters lower than they had been cruising.
“I don’t see how you do that,” Roy said.
“Experience reading wind shear.” Carlson shrugged as if it were easy.
Roy took a moment to close his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he peered through his lens again, he saw something. As he rolled his forefinger along the focus wheel, his pulse raced. “There!” he yelled excitedly, pointing ahead.
“Where?” Butler crossed to stand beside him while the infantrymen jumped to their feet, rocking the basket.
“Not everyone on the same side,” ordered the pilot. “Balance, OK?”
The scene unfurled as the balloon flew closer. A tremendous force of infantry and cavalry already occupied the eastern bank of a narrower bend of the Mother River, while a third as many, along with supply trucks, clogged the opposite bank.
“They’re using a pontoon bridge,” Roy announced.
“It looks like maybe forty or fifty twentieth-century field cannons,” Butler estimated. “Some pulled by Jeeps, others by mules.”
Thousands of tents had already been pitched in a grassy meadow between forested mountain foothills. It would take them until nightfall for the entire army to cross. Butler unfolded a map, comparing the terrain to markings on the paper. “Write this down.”
Roy dropped his binoculars to his chest, pulled paper and pencil from a pocket, and took dictation while the lieutenant called out coordinates.
“Include an estimated 80,000 divided between infantry, cavalry, and artillery. Substantial supply chain. I couldn’t guess how fast they’re moving while they’re setting up camp for the night. ”
Roy halted mid-scratch and looked to Butler. “I’m almost out of space to write. Anything else?”
Butler refocused his binoculars, studying the enemy army.
A round cracked past Roy’s ear, the rifle’s report following a split second later.
He jumped in alarm, still clenching the report note.
Another flew by too close for comfort. The wicker creaked under their boots as the basket lurched, every man bracing for the next shot to punch through.
“Up! Get us up!” Butler barked, snapping to Carlson. “They’ve got long-range rifles.”
The two infantrymen, standing on opposite sides of the basket, raised their guns and returned fire. Red hair flapping in the breeze, Carlson flipped the propane handle, shooting a burst of hot air into the balloon. Drifting skyward, they moved out of range, allowing Roy to breathe easier.
“That was close.” He said what everyone was thinking.
“And they know we saw them,” Butler grumbled. “Make two more copies of that note. Send them to Generals Longstreet, Calder, and Stark—as soon as our pilot gets us the hell south.”
“Yes, sir.” Roy copied the intel, inserted the messages into tubes, and tied them to the pigeon’s legs.
If he recalled correctly, the black one flew to Stonevale, the gray to Marchland, and the white to Queen Frost’s aviary.
When they could no longer hear weapons being fired, he released the birds to carry their messages, confident they would reach their destinations tonight.
“Carlson, get us back to base ASAP.” Butler looked every bit an officer with his proper posture and commanding tone.
“This is really happening.” The words dropped from Roy’s mouth, pulse hammering as the adrenaline ebbed.
Reality set in. He’d fought skirmishes, trained recruits, and performed an array of duties for the army.
None of them, except General Longstreet, were old enough to have fought in an actual war before.
This was monumental. What if we lose? What if I’m killed in action and never know if we won? Lark and Leif.
“Yes, Sutter, it is,” Butler confirmed, a hint of fear in his eyes. “I’m glad to have you by my side for it, though. You’re the real deal. It’ll be OK. General Stark is the best head general on the continent—especially since Crane’s gone. Have faith, sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” That’s exactly what he was trying to do.
Stonevale, the next day
Roderic Calder waited at the Fort Calder motor pool with his father and younger brother, while a corporal selected a vehicle for him.
He’d said his goodbyes to his wife, sons, and daughters early that morning at Highcrest Hall and entreated them not to come to the fort.
The general couldn’t risk tearful farewells.
In the expansive parade grounds, five thousand infantry stood in disciplined ranks, packs on backs, weapons in hand, along with three thousand militia Lord Calder called into service.
Two thousand cavalry were split between horse, motorcycle, and Jeep detachments.
His force also included ten field cannons hailing from over two centuries, refurbished and tested, and a dozen hand-held, over-the-shoulder rocket launchers.
Quartermasters crammed trucks with rations, tents, ammunition, and medical stores.
Medics and engineers loaded into pickups and flatbeds stacked with strapped barrels of ethanol.
Ten thousand pairs of eyes fixed on him, waiting for orders that might carry them to death. The weight settled heavy on his shoulders, heavier than any pack or armor.
The fort, established by and named for Roderic’s grandfather, sprawled over far more terrain than Highcrest Hall, but wasn’t as impressively constructed.
Mostly a mix of wood-framed barracks and brick fortifications, the fort secured the safety of the entire northern third of the country, from the Mother River to the sea.
Many soldiers had battle experience warding off the dregs who supposed they could ravage the territory.
Others had only endured training exercises.
None—including himself—had faced a foreign foe’s army in battle.
It irked Roderic that he received word from Longstreet’s scouts before his own. It only matters that we have confirmation and a location, he reminded himself.
Soldiers and civilians swarmed like ants in a hill, hauling crates and shouting orders. Engines revved. Horses whinnied. Crates clanged. The unforgiving heat of late summer blazed down on them from a blistering sun. He wiped the sweat streaming down his brow and tugged his cap lower.
“General, I need your signature here.” An aide held out a clipboard. Roderic signed.
A young lieutenant raced up, meter-long cardboard tubes tucked under his arms, trying awkwardly to salute. “Here are the maps you requested, General Calder.”
“If I ever get a vehicle, secure them inside it.”
“Need a spare tire over here!” boomed a baritone voice.
Roderic dipped his head, caught the end of a tube in his mouth, and took a sip from his hydration system.
While the militia only had canteens and martial weapons, the officer corps and ranking soldiers had been fitted with hydration packs, body armor, helmets, and more formidable weapons—shotguns, .
22 rifles, XMZ 5000 machine guns, and power crossbows.
A few Jeeps had M2 Browning .50 caliber heavy machine guns mounted on them.
But crates of ammunition were limited. Every soldier had been issued a spear, sword, machete, or recurved bow as a backup weapon for when the bullets and shells ran out.
A day before the homing pigeon from Longstreet’s crew arrived, General Stark had sent a bulletin advising him to “create every opportunity to seize munitions from the enemy.” Like anyone had to tell him that.
“Remember the tactics we discussed,” his father said, his focus so singular he didn’t seem to notice the chaos surrounding them.
Lord Thorne Calder might be old, but he maintained his strength and wits like a man half his age.
Roderic had no doubt his father would rather he be the one to lead the army into battle.
“Yes, I remember, and I’m prepared to make on-the-fly adjustments if necessary.”
“Your smaller force should make better time,” Thorne calculated.
“If you beat them to Bethel Springs, blow up the Highway 45 bridges and force them to march through the wetlands. Their trucks will bog down, horses balk, and infantry sink to their hips in mud. That’s when you’ll spring your trap.
If Longstreet commits his troops to meet you there, he can lie in wait on the west side and you on the east. Set snares.
Put your big guns and sharpshooters on the ridges.
You’ll have them like fish in a barrel.”
“I remember the plan, Father.” Roderic held in a groan. They’d been over this forty times. “A lot rides on who gets there first, how much time we have, and if Longstreet meets me. I haven’t received word yet, but we must leave at once. I can’t wait for a pigeon from Marchland.”
“No, you can’t. Haste is of the essence.”
“Be careful, Rod,” Bernard bade him. “You can’t die and leave me as Father’s heir.
I’m enjoying life too much to become burdened with politics and responsibility.
” Although he punched out the words in a joking manner, Roderic knew his brother was being serious.
He’d already talked it over with the lord, and they agreed his daughter, Marenne, was much better suited should Roderic perish.
“General Calder, sir!” The corporal skidded to a halt, snapping his hand up in salute.
“We found just the thing—a Humvee.” He motioned to a light-armored vehicle painted a nondescript grayish tan rolling slowly toward them.
“I thought you’d like Sergeant Brant to be your driver, as you’ve used her before.
Also, being from Tupelo, she knows the area.
But I can get someone else if you prefer, sir. ”
If he hadn’t been so burdened with the gravity of their position, Roderic would have found the corporal entertaining. “Sergeant Brant’s proven. I’ll take her. Lieutenant Rushing, pack the maps, my gear, and yours in the Humvee. You’ll act as my adjunct.”
“Yes, sir!” he replied with gusto, and trotted off to obey.
“All right, Father, Bernard, it’s time.” He hugged his little brother, gripped his father’s hand firmly. In an unexpected gesture, the lord pulled him into a tight embrace.
“Win, lose, or draw, I’m proud of you, son.” Thorne stepped back, eyes glinting, grin fierce. “But you’re going to win.”