Chapter 5 Calculated Power
Chapter five
Calculated Power
Two dusty quarter horses plodded to a halt as the driver called, “Whoa,” easing back on the reins.
The military taxi stopped before a red-brick secondary school scheduled to reopen next week after summer break.
With fresh rolls of barbed wire and dozens of armed troops marching around, classes would have to wait.
“This was the best option we had for housing the prisoners,” said Colonel Ashby. He looked a sight better than yesterday, washed, shaved, and in a crisp uniform with a cottony bandage taped over the gash on his forehead. Azaleen suspected she looked much better too.
Earlier that morning, Lark and the team had a formal send-off from the base.
With the colonel and a complement of Marines present, Azaleen had shaken each VERT member’s hand and wished them luck.
They took the same jeep and motorcycles they’d brought to New Charleston with an escort of twenty MPs in two antique ethanol troop trucks, canopies over rows of seats in the backs.
When she’d locked eyes with Lark, an unspoken promise fired between them, emboldening Azaleen even more. I’m not alone, she was reminded, and neither is she.
A powerful gust shuddered through the red maples shading the yard between the sidewalk and the tall cypress doors of the educational building.
Rosalind has done good work getting these schools up and running, she thought, picturing the older Secretary Keane.
The lifelong educator was the queen’s first choice for the position, and her zeal for education had doubled the number of schools in the kingdom in the ten and a half years since.
Colonel Ashby climbed out of a coach that looked as if it belonged to the nineteenth century and handed Azaleen down onto the patchwork walkway.
“Keane Gymnasium.” She read the large letters carved into the nameplate arching over the double doors. The building dwarfed the surrounding homes and neighborhood stores, with only the surviving pre-war cathedral, its steeple soaring, appearing grander.
“Yes, but she didn’t name it that herself,” Ashby commented.
“The secretary once taught here in a one-room schoolhouse thrown together from tin and wood after a post-ruin major hurricane devastated most of the city. Our mayor and city council wished to honor her, and, when the funds arrived to erect this two-story structure, they insisted on naming it for her. The community shares in using its auditorium, basketball gym, and outdoor sports facility.”
“I’m glad to see national funds put to such good use. A shame it must house prisoners.”
“Colonel Ashby!” A frazzled corporal called over the roar of his motorbike. Turning off the engine, he raced up to them. “Sergeant Cantore just returned from scouting in his balloon and says there’s a storm comin’.” The young man halted, popped a salute, then bowed to Azaleen.
“Sorry, Your Excellency. The sergeant says we’re in for a squall later today—not hurricane force, but not weather you want to be caught in.”
Azaleen glanced to the east. While the sun still shone overhead, thunderheads mounted in the distance.
“Perhaps you should remain as our guest until the storm passes, Madam Queen,” Ashby suggested, concern edging into his voice.
“We’ll see how long the interrogations take,” she answered, “and what the sky tells us then.”
The colonel nodded respectfully and turned back to the corporal. “Report to Major Dunham and convey my orders: immediately secure tarps to all damaged roofs—on the base and in town. There should be plenty in the maintenance shed. Batten down the hatches, Adams.”
“Sir, yes, sir!” He snapped a stiff salute, pivoted on his heel, and raced back to the bike.
“This way.” Ashby swept his hand toward the pebbled walk that cut through overgrown grass to the school building’s steps.
As she strode inside, her shoes echoing on the tile floors, Azaleen wondered what it would have been like to go to school in a place like this with other children.
She was fortunate to have had tutors, but was glad her sons enjoyed the full experience of attending classes and engaging in games and group projects.
She glanced up at high ceilings—a place for the heat to gather.
A smile warmed her at the sight of a green banner bearing the national motto: From root, resilience.
Citizens on the coast embody it more than most, she wagered.
“Why choose the school?” she asked.
Ashby, who had remained oddly silent, motioned to a door secured by two steadfast security guards.
“It isn’t a good idea to round up hundreds of enemy soldiers, throw them together in a large facility, and then expect to keep them there with minimal manpower.
I’ve divided the men and women into different rooms—no more than twenty in each—petty officers separated from enlisted sailors, and so forth.
The ranking officers are on another wing and floor, making it more difficult for them to communicate with their countrymen. ”
He stopped at a staircase and motioned for Azaleen to go first. “Ingenious.” She started up the flight ahead of him.
“There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, Madam Queen,” Ashby said. “I can handle this … unpleasantness. Give me your questions, and I’ll add them to mine if any haven’t made the list.”
“It isn’t merely about the questions,” she replied.
The hem of her airy, floral kaftan brushed her thighs, skimming the peach leggings beneath as she climbed.
“Yes, I want to know where the rest of their fleet is, what targets the army marches on first, but we need to learn more. It’s about looking into their eyes, sensing their morale, measuring what kind of men these are who assault our shores.
Do they believe in their leader, or simply follow orders? ”
“I see,” Ashby said as they reached the second floor. “Do you still wish to question the officers then?”
“Yes. We can gather useful observations from the sailors, but they won’t possess vital information.”
“Certainly.” The colonel tried to mask his agitation at Azaleen’s encroachment on his role, but she noticed it simmering just below the surface.
“How many are there, and what ranks?”
Ashby inhaled sharply and listed them. “Two ship captains, three commanders, a handful of lieutenants, and a dozen ensigns. Out of courtesy, we brought in cots for the officers; however, we can’t begin to supply them to all the prisoners.
The enlisted and NCOs have adequate seating but must make do with sleeping on the floor. ”
“Rations?” Azaleen asked.
Colonel Ashby stopped before a door where two muscular, bearded guards stood at attention, holding sharpened pikes, their blades reflecting a beam of light from the opposing window. “We haven’t finished assessing the damage, but at least the corn and rice granaries came out unscathed.”
The report reminded her. Her shoulders eased down, but her jaw locked tight. “Casualties?”
“About twenty-five percent of my fighting force,” he answered, the words weighted. His gaze fell to the floor. “Seventy-five dead and as many wounded—some critical. Thus far, we’ve counted twenty-six civilians dead, forty-one injured, and six still missing.”
Azaleen recalled that Fort Stilwell carried a roster of about five hundred, the smallest of Verdancia’s three naval bases. She wondered what had become of the other two.
Ashby straightened, opened the door, and entered first. Spotting no immediate danger, he motioned for her to come.
They stood in what appeared to be an advanced math classroom, the walls lined with numbers, formulas, geometric shapes, and equations. One hand-painted poster colorfully proclaimed, “Happy Pi Day.”
Azaleen studied the men scattered around the space.
Several sat or lay on cots, while others occupied wooden student chairs.
A group of older men spun from the window, breaking their tight huddle.
She took in the defiant looks on their faces, reminiscent of the stone-sculpted Civil War figures under whose watchful eyes she’d grown up.
A captain huffed and folded hairy arms over his chest. Another glared at her as if she’d personally committed some earth-shattering injustice.
“What have you done with our female sailors and petty officers?” asked a chestnut-haired commander with the physique of a wrestler. Azaleen observed one Black and one Hispanic officer—none of mixed race—and the rest were as pale as she was.
Ashby snapped, “Their rights and safety have been maintained according to our laws. We aren’t barbarians, despite any propaganda you might have been fed.” The intensity of his glare could have ignited damp kindling.
“Go on,” growled the oldest captain, sweeping a hand in the air. “Torture us all you want—we won’t talk.”
“We’ll see about that!” Ashby snarled.
Azaleen ignored them, instead scrutinizing each officer’s expression and body language until she found what she was looking for—a lieutenant, alone, seated on a cot, elbows on his knees, sandy hair disheveled, head bowed, bloodstains on his hands, a wedding ring on his finger.
He appeared to be around thirty, his mind far away, his attitude more melancholy than insolent.
“I’ll take him first,” she ordered, indicating the lieutenant.
Ashby made a point of displaying the revolver holstered on his belt while the two burly guards entered, their spears gripped in a square stance, ready to run any unruly enemy through. The man in question jerked his head up, his eyes widening at their approach.
“You heard her,” Ashby barked. “Move it!”
The captains tensed, but a bold ensign sprang to his feet. “Where are you taking Sean?” His voice was strained and tainted with stress. A vein in his dirty neck pulsed above his open collar.
“Stand down, ensign,” Ashby commanded. “We have a few questions for him. You’ll have your turn.”
“Tell them nothing, Cartwright,” the old captain barked, puffing up like he still commanded a deck.
Lieutenant Sean Cartwright slowly rose, swallowed, and glanced over his shoulder at his fellow officers. He was met with a mix of angry, fearful, and indifferent looks from his peers and superiors. When his eyes locked onto Azaleen’s, she read all she needed to know.
“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
They exited the room to murmurs of, “Who’s that?” and “Will they break him?”
Colonel Ashby told the MPs to lock the door and remain at their post, then escorted Azaleen and Sean to a teacher’s lounge. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asked with a frown. “I can have him taken to the base and—”
“This is fine,” Azaleen said, cutting him off with a flick of authority. “Give us the room.”
Azaleen thought she’d have to pick Ashby’s jaw up from the floor when he gaped at her in astonishment. His rounded brown eyes blinked at her. “Your Excellency! I can’t permit—”
She pinned him with a stare that would have sent a warg racing for the safety of its lair.
“You’re the queen?” squeaked the captive officer. He groped for the arm of a cushioned chair before falling into it as if a boxer had just knocked the wind out of him.
She arched a brow at him, then turned back to Ashby. “I grant you leave to return if you hear screaming. We wouldn’t want me permanently injuring our … guest.”
“But surely …” The colonel waved a hand in the air. “It isn’t proper. I promise not to interfere if—”
“Colonel?” Azaleen lifted her chin, reminding him—and the prisoner—who was in charge.
Ashby shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing. I like my head where it is.” If she hadn’t been concentrating on being fierce, Azaleen might have cracked a smile.
“Thank you. That will be all.” Having dismissed him, the queen turned her full attention to Sean. Ashby stomped out, grumbling under his breath. Azaleen moved around a short table and regally glided into the cushioned armchair across from the lieutenant, assuming a relaxed posture.
“I—I don’t know anything,” he stammered, dropping his gaze.
“Now, you see, Sean,” Azaleen responded conversationally. “I don’t believe that. But I’ll tell you what I do believe.”
The queen sat forward, inspecting him like a principal would a boy who’d been caught breaking the rules. “You have more to lose than the others—a wife, a family, a life back in the Red River Republic. You’re wondering if you’ll ever see them again and how they’ll make it without your salary.”
Sean wiped a shaky hand across his mouth, letting it linger there a beat.
“Do you think President Irons cares what happens to you or your family?”
“I serve in the Republic Navy,” he said. “Military careers are lauded back home, and we get extra rations.”
There it was. Everything this man knew was about to become Queen Azaleen Frost’s intellectual property.