Chapter 19 Divided Command
Chapter nineteen
Divided Command
Colonel Miles Bourg rested on an old bench in the shadow of a rickety terminal building, once part of a small airport, overlooking ten thousand tents pitched in the open stretch of cracked concrete and unkempt grass.
The rusted-out hulls of derelict aircraft—a few small planes and a helicopter—stood as relics of a bygone era, bleached and hollow as dinosaur bones.
The hangar roof had collapsed long ago, storm-torn and half gone, the planes scattered, one nosed into the ground, another flipped upside down.
He wondered about the flying machines, if they could be repaired, or if mechanical engineers could figure them out and build new ones.
He supposed the government had researchers working on it.
After all, they’d refitted trains to run on coal and oil again.
How do they get into the sky? he wondered.
What keeps them from falling back to earth?
The nearby town, marked by a sign reading “CORINTH,” lay empty, though, for how long, he couldn’t tell.
While some buildings had crumbled to ruin, others appeared quite sound.
Survivors who still lived here may have fled at the Iron Army’s approach.
He’d sent a patrol to search for food and other usable supplies just in case.
A welcome breeze brushed Miles’ face, cooling his freckled skin and lifting his red hair.
A tall, muscular man of forty-six, he hadn’t begun to gray, though a few aches made themselves known at the end of a hard day.
He thought about his wife and daughter back at Rustin, in their brick home in the town beyond the fortress walls.
Mostly, he worried about Eliam, his son, who lay wounded over in the church building repurposed as a hospital.
Less than a week ago, the war had finally become real.
There had been plenty of marching, run-ins with the environment, and a few wild beasts, but nobody expected a surprise attack from Verdancian nationals.
General Garcia had assured them the royalists would hide behind fortress walls, unwilling to risk open battle.
“They’re nothing but farmers and freeloaders,” Garcia had said.
The men who ambushed us at the creek were neither farmers nor freeloaders, he considered.
I’m still not sure why they called off their attack and fled to the forest. They’d gotten no information from their prisoners.
Having captured a mere few dozen, most injured, Garcia had secured the two officers in a maintenance shed and the enlisted soldiers in a roofless hangar, both under guard.
The general should prove quite valuable.
Approaching footsteps pulled Miles from his thoughts, and he glanced up to see a nurse headed his way. Breathless, he rose to meet her. “Eliam?”
The nurse, in her late twenties, brown hair under her cap, halted and saluted him. “Colonel Bourg,” she said. “Lieutenant Langston, Twenty-Third Medical Division.”
He returned her salute, knots in his stomach as he prepared for the worst. “Any word, Lieutenant, on my son?”
A tender smile graced her lips, kind and professional. “His fever has broken, and he’s awake.”
Miles exhaled slowly, tension draining from his shoulders. “Thank God and thank you and the medical team.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet, Colonel,” she warned, “but he’s responding to treatment.
He should keep his arm, though he won’t be engaging in any more battles in this campaign.
I’m recommending he be transported back to Fort Rustin so he may gain a full recovery.
We have several hundred other soldiers with serious injuries who’ll be able to travel within the week. Dr. Ziegler is making arrangements.”
“That’s good, very good,” Miles said, smiling at the nurse.
“Sorry to disappoint,” cut in a gravelly voice.
Miles turned to see General Garcia’s personal attack dog, Sergeant Blanchard, swaggering up to them. He tugged on his belt, giving a cursory salute without waiting for Miles or Langston to respond.
“Excuse me, Sergeant.” The nurse’s kindness vanished, replaced by sharp, furious resolve. “Dr. Ziegler—”
“Is under General Garcia’s command,” he barked. Blanchard wore his beard trimmed and his stripes as if they were a license to kill. “I was on my way to medical to give the doctors the orders. Perhaps you’d care to join me.”
Outrage barely scraped the surface of the anger radiating from Langston. “We cannot needlessly risk the lives of Republic soldiers because the general doesn’t wish to spare the trucks.”
“I’ll tell you now and again at the church building,” Blanchard rebutted. “They are staying here until transportation from Fort Rustin arrives—or we take Marchland, whichever comes first. The general will not spare the trucks while we’re on the offensive. Last word.”
Throwing his stubby nose in the air, Blanchard strode past them toward the hospital church.
Miles and Langston stared at each other, mouths agape. Miles blinked first. “I don’t know what to say, but I’ll talk to the general about this.”
She shook her head and rubbed the back of her neck. “I understand a soldier’s job is to fight, to defeat our enemies, but, when it’s our own’s lives at risk, I would expect better, even from a general—especially from a general. If only—” Langston bit her lip and glanced after the sergeant.
Miles said nothing, but he shared the sentiment. If only General Crane were here.
The terminal was stifling, rank with stale air. Built to depend on air conditioning, it offered no windows to open, no relief from the heat. Battery and hand-crank lanterns pooled weak light over the table where the ranking officers gathered to hear Garcia outline the next phase of the invasion.
Flanking Miles sat three full colonels, two generals, and a lieutenant acting as secretary.
Heading the table was General Edgar Garcia, commander of Fort Amarillo, and, more recently, overall military commander for the Red River Republic.
He was known as an ideologue, a staunch defender of the Dominion Party and the Old Religion, the “might makes right” kind of authoritarian.
That could be a virtue in the upper echelons of the armed forces—if he had the brains to back it up.
However, Garcia’s record was spotty, marked by reckless aggressiveness and a habit of rushing in unprepared.
Garcia nodded to the lieutenant, who hopped to attention. “Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance and the national anthem.”
Six men and two women in uniform stood, faced the flag, and repeated the pledge in unison. “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the Red River Republic and the nation for which it stands. One strength, one will, one dominion, with liberty and justice for all.”
“Built by blood and steel,” the officers sang, half of them enthusiastically, most off-key.
“Forged by iron and fire. We will stand together, noble and untired.” Thankfully, the general stopped at the end of the first verse, and they all took their seats.
He unrolled a map, colonels and generals moving their lamps to hold down the edges.
“We are here.” He pointed to a spot north of Tupelo, about equal distance from Stonevale to the east and Marchland to the south.
“These are Verdancia’s most important military targets.
By now, our Navy will have already secured all enemy ports, cutting them off from receiving foreign aid.
Admiral Tulane and I are coordinating an attack on Marchland.
He will send battlecrafts upriver while I attack the fortress from its northern side, thus opening it to two fronts. ”
He tapped the map on a representation of the enemy Fort Marchland on the eastern side of the Mother River. Those at the table leaned in to see.
“General Schuler, Colonel Finstemayer, and Colonel Green will join me in the campaign for Marchland,” Garcia directed. “At the same time, General Roundtree, Colonel Bourg, and Colonel Hobbs will capture Stonevale.”
“Sir,” Miles said, marking Garcia with a serious gaze. “Do you mean to split the army?”
“Indeed,” he declared, sitting up straight in his chair.
He flicked his head, shaking back his black hair, projecting a commanding stare from dark eyes.
“Why waste time picking off inferior fortresses one by one, giving our enemies time to regroup and reinforce their ranks? If we crush their two primary bases at once, Nelanta will be forced to call for terms of surrender.”
“But General, sir,” Miles protested. “Our greatest strength lies in our overwhelming numbers. If we split the troops, we diminish that advantage. Choose Stonevale or Marchland, and let us all attack in force.”
Garcia snorted. “You give these peasants more credit than they deserve. Even halved, we greatly outnumber both objectives. My plan ensures divisions from Stonevale or Marchland can’t rush back to form a defense around the enemy capital.
President Irons wants the war ended by Thanksgiving.
He has a grand national celebration planned and needs Verdancian spoils to supply the feast.”
General Schuler, the highest-ranking woman in the Republic’s military, steepled her fingers, studying the map thoughtfully. “I’m getting a sense of déjà vu. I’m certain I read in a history book about a similar strategy—”
“Ancient history has no bearing on the current state of affairs,” said Colonel Green, a silver-haired man known to move in lockstep with Garcia on most matters.
“I suggest we capture Tupelo on our way to Marchland.” He pointed to the spot on the map.
“I’ve received intelligence that it’s a wealthy town, and we could do with a victory to bolster our soldiers’ morale after the unexpected blow at Cypress Creek. ”
Garcia glowered, clearly angry the matter had been mentioned.
“Yes,” he said, grinding his teeth. “We’ll capture Tupelo and any others along the way.
Take cattle and corn from the fields, hens from their coops, hogs, beans, fruit.
Whatever you can’t haul away, burn to the ground.
This is war, people. We don’t win by playing nice. ”
“Agreed,” Miles said. “But what’s this about leaving our wounded behind rather than sending them to Fort Rustin for proper care?”
Surprised looks on faces informed Miles that the other top officers were unaware of Garcia’s orders.
“Is that true?” questioned General Roundtree, the commander of Fort Resolute in Dominion. While well-respected with an unblemished career, he had come under scrutiny recently for his close relationship with the now-disgraced—and deceased—Maddox Crane.
“True.” Garcia minced no words. “We can’t spare the trucks as they are all required to convey ammunition and rations for our fighting men.
There aren’t enough ambulances, and we might need them if we meet with heavy resistance at Marchland or Stonevale.
I’ve dispatched a pigeon to Fort Rustin, asking them to send vehicles to collect our wounded. ”
“How many of our brave soldiers will die waiting for them?” General Schuler crossed her arms, jutting out her chin in blatant disapproval.
“Then they will have died for the cause and be honored as heroes,” Colonel Green concluded. “General Garcia, you’ve laid out an excellent plan. When do we deploy?”
“Wait a minute,” Miles interjected. “So, let me get this straight. We split our forces, march half to Stonevale and half to Marchland, with orders to seize food and livestock and subdue towns and villages along the way, then coordinate our attacks so they commence on the same day. How will we communicate with each other? What if one army arrives at its destination before the other? We have no long-range radios and can’t use pigeons. ”
Garcia leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and sneered at Miles.
“The only reason you are in command of the Fort Rustin Regiments is that General Jacobs, the old codger, is laid up with gout and couldn’t come himself.
You forget your place, Colonel Bourg. President Irons put me in command, and I will give the orders.
Or do you prefer a court-martial for insubordination? ”
The room fell into a breathless silence. Miles bowed his head. “What about the prisoners?”
“Ah, yes,” Garcia said, shifting into a more cheerful tone.
“I received a note today from Nelanta requesting us to negotiate a prisoner exchange. It seems our guest, General Calder, is some lord’s son, and they are most eager to have him returned.
Naturally, I’ll need a directive from President Irons before making any such decisions, but they will remain here with our wounded, under guard.
We can’t be slowed down by dragging prisoners with us.
This old airport is a defensible position with a high watchtower and no straightforward approach.
I’ll leave a company here with sufficient firepower to ward off any rescue attempts. Now, if that is all …”
Miles kept his head down, not breathing a word. He had a bad feeling things would not go well with Garcia in command. At least he’d been paired with Roundtree and Hobbs. They had good sense. I hope Nurse Langston will stay behind with Eliam. I’ll go visit him before we have to leave.