Chapter 41 Siege Aborted
Chapter forty-one
Siege Aborted
Marchland, early the next morning
General Edgar Garcia stood before a mirror and water basin in his tent, a steady hand on his razor as he took time for a morning shave.
He’d taken losses—more than he’d expected—but another week of bombardment, and Marchland was sure to capitulate.
President Irons would be pleased with his victory and with the timetable leading to the fall elections intact.
Though it had rained overnight, and he’d given his gunners a reprieve to keep their ammunition dry, a glint of sunlight shot through his tent flap at a sharp angle.
Reflecting off the mirror, it stabbed his eye.
He shifted position so his back blocked the blinding ray.
“General Garcia, sir!” a harried voice shouted, startling him into nicking his chin.
Annoyed at the drop of blood, he spun around, razor in hand, to glare at General Schuler. “What?” he snapped. “And where’s Colonel Green? The artillery should be waking the Verdancians about now.”
The presumptuous woman burst into his tent as if she were in charge. “An urgent dispatch from the president.” She held out a tube bearing Irons’ seal.
He took it, broke the seal, and pulled a roll of paper from the cylinder.
The last few days had been bizarre. Robots in Stonevale?
Fierce opposition from Marchland. The defenders had sent squads on virtual suicide missions to destroy munitions trucks and cannons.
Even if they had taken out whole truckloads of ordnance, it wouldn’t matter.
But they had managed to make off with five rocket launchers and two cases of missiles.
The first mortar shell explosion sounded like a sweet melody. Garcia smiled. Then he read the letter. “What?” he exclaimed. “No! We’re so close to victory.”
“What is it, General?” Schuler asked.
Edgar slapped the page with the back of his hand. “We’re being recalled immediately. After everything I’ve invested in this campaign?”
“Why?” Schuler tried to peer at the paper from the opposite direction.
“I’m getting to that.” He absently wiped the blood drop from his chin.
“Massive invasion force, thought to be the Anáhuac. Must defend the Republic.” Edgar lifted his gaze to meet Schuler’s.
His jaw dropped. “The homeland is under attack. OK, no time to waste. This is scorchbit. Rust it all, Schuler! My family’s back there.
” At least it would take invaders from the south time to reach Amarillo.
“Mine too.” She swallowed, her hands trembling.
“Pack it up,” he commanded, slamming his razor onto the little table holding the water basin. He seized her arm and exited the tent. “Sergeant Blanchard!” He glanced at Schuler. “Spread the word. Pack up only the essentials, and let’s get this army on the road—now.”
“Incoming!” General Alexander Longstreet yelled from his post near the top of the citadel.
A booming impact rocked the northeast wall, the stone shuddering under his boots as soldiers rushed to their posts.
“Colonel Vance, answer with our cannons and those missile launchers the rangers grabbed. Let them know we aren’t beaten. ”
“Yes, sir!” The sharp-eyed lieutenant colonel jogged toward an artillery turret, already barking orders into her radio. Longstreet had lucked out with such a competent second-in-command. She always got the job done right.
Another shell landed in town—way too close to the old courthouse. Longstreet would hate to see the historic building blown to dust.
Lifting his binoculars, the general watched his cannons strike their enemy targets and allowed himself a brief smile.
As abruptly as the shelling began, it stopped. Iron Army personnel scurried about, hooking artillery pieces to the backs of trucks.
“Cease fire!” he ordered. “Save our ammunition.” That was his major concern.
They had food and water to last, and, thanks to Lady Cade and Fleetmaster Dawnriver, over half of the residents were safe on the sandbar and in makeshift caves in the cliffs below.
Bullets and cannon shells, however, were in short supply.
Alex tensed his jaw, grinding his teeth as he thought of the inhumane attacks on Marchland’s civilians.
Schools, churches, and a hospital packed with noncombatants.
He watched as the enemy … packed up? Soldiers mounted horses. Troops piled into trucks. jeeps pulled out, heading north. Confused, he nabbed Lieutenant Butler as he raced by. “Hey, Butler. Find out what’s going on down there.”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “I was wondering about that too.”
Vance strode toward him, glancing over the battlements as she came. “What’s going on?”
“I’m trying to find out, but it looks like Garcia is pulling out.”
Worry flashed across the colonel’s keen features. “What does he know that we don’t?”
“It must be colossal for them to abandon a campaign they’re about to win. I want all the intelligence we can gather, and then a meeting in two hours. Try to get Lady Cade and Fleetmaster Dawnriver up here. They may know something we don’t.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, pivoted, and strode away.
Alex made another pass over the shrinking perimeter with his binoculars. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear Garcia and his army were fleeing for their lives.
When Colonel Vance scrambled down the long hill to the evacuee camp along the riverbank with the news that the Iron Army had abandoned the siege, Cassandra’s suspicion flared at once.
She warned Vance that it must be a trap.
The colonel advised her to tell General Longstreet at the meeting he’d called.
In truth, Cassandra had been itching for the opportunity to visit the fort and check on Sergeant Sutter. That was her first stop after this meeting.
Mr. Hollis insisted on accompanying her, as did her two trusty bodyguards.
She’d been jumping at shadows since the hospital incident and didn’t voice an objection to the company.
Hollis pulled out a chair for her and dusted it with his handkerchief, muttering about the state of the room. At least the roof was still intact.
“Thank you,” she said when he motioned for her to sit.
After settling her chair at the table, Benjamin excused himself, taking up a protective position with the guards outside the small conference room.
A long, jagged crack Cassandra didn’t recall scarred the exterior brick wall.
Flies darted through a shattered windowpane.
A stout, bald man in his mid-forties—with a pencil stub behind his ear—joined General Longstreet, Lieutenant Colonel Vance, and Cassandra at the table.
A dark-skinned lieutenant, looking worse for wear, stood at parade rest nearby.
Beside Longstreet sat an older man with braided silver hair and gold stars and bars on his AlgonCree Navy uniform. Vance made the introductions.
“Lady Cade, this is Master Sergeant Callum Briggs and Lieutenant Robert Butler with the latest relevant information. Also, Fleetmaster Niska Dawnriver joins us.”
Cassandra nodded to each. Butler bowed. Briggs lowered his chin and rubbed a hand over his peachy head before glancing up.
Deep frown lines carved his face as if they were permanent fixtures.
Passing her gaze to Dawnriver, she said, “I was hoping to meet you, Fleetmaster, so I may personally thank you for coming to our rescue. Your presence on the river has saved thousands of lives.”
He acknowledged her by inclining his head. “Glad to be of service.”
“Lady Cade, I wanted you here so we can all learn what we can at once,” Longstreet began.
“Two hours ago, Garcia suddenly stopped firing, ordered a hasty retreat, and moved his army out, leaving behind tents and supplies rather than take the time to pack them. Lieutenant Butler sent scouts into their vacated camp to look for traps or clues for this bizarre action. Butler?”
The general glanced over his shoulder and motioned to the young man in a tattered uniform.
“The enemy broke the siege and fled north. At this time, we can’t determine where they’re headed.
It doesn’t seem they’re moving toward Nelanta, because traveling east would make the most sense if that were the case.
They could have been called to reinforce the assault on Stonevale. ”
“That doesn’t make sense either,” Vance mentioned. “Marchland is the more strategic target.”
“Whatever the reason, their departure spells our salvation,” Briggs said.
“Our medical supplies have been exhausted, and there’s only enough ammunition left for another day or two of what we’ve been up against. We could keep piling rubble on the redoubt forever, but, without firepower, it wouldn’t take them long to punch through and occupy Marchland. ”
“It’s absurd,” Cassandra said. “Which is why I don’t trust it. This could be a trick for us to let down our guard.”
“Which is why I’ve assigned a patrol to follow them at a distance and report back with their heading and distance,” Longstreet explained.
“I don’t trust them one bit. All I’ve seen from Garcia is poor planning and brutal tactics.
A man without honor can never be trusted.
Still, like Master Sergeant Briggs said, it’s fortuitous for us.
Lieutenant Butler, what did your scouts find? ”
“The initial report I received just moments ago turned up no traps, and no weapons or ammunition left behind—just easily replaceable things like tents, bedding, and camp supplies. Some fires still had full coffee pots on them.”
Longstreet nodded. “I’ve got every able-bodied soldier working on repairs to the fort, but, Vance, section out five platoons with wagons and trucks to salvage those campsites for anything useful. Maybe they’ll come across some medicine in abandoned hospital tents.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, and jotted the directive down.
“Lady Cade,” said Longstreet, focusing his gaze on her. “The civilians. I know you have been instrumental in saving as many as possible, and I hate to ask, but … how many? I know casualties have been … unavoidable.”
Cassandra felt sick at the reminder, but everyone needed to know. “First responders and city administrators estimate nine thousand dead with another two thousand missing. Wounded, at least twice those numbers. And the military losses?” She held her breath, uncertain if she wanted to know.
“An estimated three thousand dead,” Vance stated, “and twice as many wounded. Fleetmaster Dawnriver?”
“I am sorry for your losses,” he said with sincerity in his foreign tone. “We suffered casualties in the Battle for Fort Hammond but count only a few injuries here.”
“That is good news, my friend,” said Longstreet. “Between Garcia’s first disastrous attack on the fortress from the swamp and then his foolish infantry charges against our walls, we suspect they’ve suffered greater losses than we have. That’s something at least.”
A rapid knock made Cassandra jump, her stomach catapulting into her throat. The general narrowed his eyes at the door. “Enter!”
“Sir, a pigeon just arrived from Nelanta.” The messenger handed the tube to Briggs, who was nearest the door. He passed it to the general.
Longstreet pulled reading glasses from his pocket and emptied the tube.
He read the missive aloud. “Robots from Appalachia attacked both armies at Stonevale. Hours of chaos. Abruptly turned and left. Republic general and Calder called ceasefire to investigate. Report back on conditions there ASAP.—Frost.”
Cassandra blinked, leaned forward, elbows on the table like a commoner. “Robots?”
“Appalachia?” Vance seconded in a disbelieving tone. The lieutenant shook his head.
“Machines that march into battle?” uttered Dawnriver. “That runs against nature.”
Briggs’ jaw dropped. “Well, if that don’t beat all!”
“Maybe that’s what has Garcia zipping off like his tail’s on fire,” Longstreet speculated.
“Regardless, we’ll stay alert, but let’s use the time to reinforce structures still standing and do everything we can for the wounded.
Lady Cade, try to keep the residents who evacuated on the beach.
Let’s wait a day or two to ensure the enemy has left the area before giving the all-clear. ”
“I agree,” Cassandra said.
When the meeting adjourned, Cassandra and her companions went to the base infirmary to ask about Sergeant Sutter. So much had changed in a week’s time. Much of the city lay in ruins, thousands dead, and uncertainty hung around them like a widow’s veil.
“There’s been no change in Sergeant Sutter’s condition,” the doctor said when she finally arrived.
With frazzled hair and dark circles under her eyes, the tan woman looked as if she hadn’t slept in days.
“I’d let you go see for yourself, but there simply isn’t room for visitors. As you can see, we’re swamped.”
Glancing around, Cassandra had a sudden feeling of déjà vu from her visit to Memorial Hospital.
Maybe a smell triggered it, or the rows of cots crammed everywhere, each with a moaning patient.
Her chest tightened, her airway contracting, as terror surged through her body.
She reached out a hand to steady herself on the wall and catch her breath.
I’m not there. No bombs are exploding. No missiles being fired.
“My lady,” said Benjamin. “Are you unsteady? Shall we sit down?” There was no unoccupied place to sit.
“No, Mr. Hollis. I’m all right. Just overwhelmed by all that’s transpired.” She returned her attention to the doctor. “So, still unconscious?”
“Yes, but we’re able to get fluids into him so he doesn’t dehydrate,” the doctor assured her.
“We’re monitoring him closely for swelling or brain bleed.
It’s always a guessing game with head injuries.
The good news is that his extremities respond to stimuli, so no spinal injuries.
He’s in line for more tests. Is Sergeant Sutter a friend or relative of yours? ”
Cassandra let out a long breath, fully aware of her current surroundings. Being well read, she recognized the PTSD symptoms—the flashback and subsequent panic attack. She met the doctor’s eyes.
“He saved my life.”