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 FortRustin 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.”