Fourth Vector Ch 14

Chapter 14: Bittersweet Victory

*****

From his spot in the open, gilded hallway of the Javan imperial palace, Admiral Percival Bancroft fumed silently. He didn't start his morning off this way, and he remembered walking with his cane to the palace in a mildly positive mood. It was just that spending enough time in the decadence of the palace always seemed to turn his mood from jovial to foul faster than he cared to admit.

The subject of his latest frustration was the painter not far from his temporary desk. Between writing out orders and interacting with the other officers in the grand room, the admiral took frequent glances at the painting taking shape in front of him. A lover of classical beauty, elaborate scenes of nature, and splendid displays of humanity in all its glory, this painting was bound to be a letdown. It was becoming a mass of jarring blobs of color, lacking in intricacy, beauty, or any kind of formula that might make it a work to be appreciated. Bancroft hated this new type of art, absent of everything that made the classical era great.

He supposed he shouldn't have expected much from the artist, if you could call him that. An effeminate-looking man wearing clothing way too tight for his liking, Bancroft should have guessed that something so decadent would have come from such an individual. He had just hoped that for one time, he might be surprised at the outcome.

The admiral sighed heavily. He was never surprised anymore.

Especially not here of all places. Ever since the crown prince had made good on his word to move them into the palace, Bancroft had known no solitude or peace. With the Admiralty building still in a state of total destruction, they needed a new workplace and to find one quickly to get back to the war effort. With the size of the imperial palace, and the large quantity of rooms that were unused, it was suggested that they make due with that space until the Admiralty could be rebuilt.

The current room they were in was a large receiving hall that hadn't seen use since Charles IX was coronated over twenty years ago. Bancroft had heard from the palace servants that enough dust had been removed to fill another small palace, something he didn't doubt with the state of disuse of most of the furniture in the room. Even the chair he sat on currently was ripped in the upholstery, a reminder of better days. In all honesty, it drew a parallel with the current state of the empire.

What was worse about the hallway was the lack of privacy. Used to having his own distinct space, Bancroft was now out in the open, watching the various naval officers move about their tasks, receiving and giving dispatches, and conducting meetings within sight and sound of all the others. It was a distracting way to work, meaning that no matter what was discussed, you had to be comfortable with all the other officers listening in.

For his line of work, sometimes a healthy degree of secrecy was necessary for operations to flow more smoothly. That line of thinking counted doubly when Bancroft was doing his behind the scenes scheming, another frequent (but silent) lament of his now that he no longer sat in a private office.

He knew the main reason for being placed in this open air prison. Crown Prince George's main chambers were not but fifty yards from his current spot. Almost every other hour, he saw the corpulent prince on his way either coming or going throughout the palace. Bancroft had been put in this spot so that George could keep an eye on him—he had no doubt about that. His subtle insinuations back in the hospital had shown that Bancroft's schemes hadn't gone unnoticed. If there was any place that he could have been situated so that eyes were on him the entire time, the imperial palace was the best spot.

Bancroft resisted the urge to grind his teeth. The fat prince thought he had him in his grasp. It wasn't hard to tell by the smug smile he wore every time he passed Bancroft's direction. George thought he had his goose, and he believed he could cook him at any time. Bancroft longed for the day when he could show him that this goose still had claws. And he would make the first example out of the father/son duo that were leading this country straight into hell.

Finding his mouth dry, Bancroft got up from his desk and took a brief stroll to grab some more water. There had been a makeshift kitchen set up on one side of the hallway, the part of it that butted up against a private theater set up for George. Once he was closer to the kitchen, he could tell there was some kind of performance going on in the theater itself. The sound of jarring, uncoordinated music could be faintly heard.

Probably another one of those disgusting plays

, he thought to himself.

George loved plays. Of course, he didn't love the truly theatrical ones, those liable to win awards with casts that were truly talented. No, George had an eye for those that were more detestable in nature. Plays that had an erotic element to them. Little better than porn they were, filthy and obscene to those with more sensible minds.

Sure enough, Bancroft drifted over to the entrance to the theater, seeing George in the front row of a scene playing out just in front of him. The actors on the stage were completely nude or just about, most of them writhing together in a giant mass of degeneracy in the middle of the stage. Bancroft squinted his eyes to see what they were doing, not surprised to find it appeared to be a giant orgy playing out in front of him.

The main attraction taking center stage were two men and one woman, lined up in such a way that every protrusion had a hole to sink it in. Bancroft flinched at seeing one of the men in the middle, a most unnatural scene to his more modest sensibilities. Yet, a quick glance at George showed his eyes were holding rapt attention to the play, watching with peak curiosity as it unfolded in front of him.

Bancroft had seen enough. Closing the door with a slam, he walked back to his desk, shaking his head at the perversion. It made a mockery of the empire and everything it stood for. The imperial reach of Java was supposed to stand for decency, strong morals, and the classical ideas of reason and faith. What he had just witnessed was a complete rejection of such decency by the ruling class of the empire. If the emperor and his heir were to be so degenerate, what chance did the rest of the country have? Especially now as a war for their literal lives raged all around them.

It didn't make any sense to him. The leader of any country should lead by example in his mind. He should be the first to follow the laws and customs that had brought such glory to their country, not revel in the mud like the rest of the pigs. Yet Charles and his progeny were far cries from the emperors of old. Bancroft was reminded of it often, and every day, he thought about giving Java new leadership. Leadership that deserved the mantle of emperor. Leadership that couldn't be compromised with loose ideals or feeble minds.

One day. One day, I will show them all.

Bancroft arrived back at his desk to find Admiral Clark waiting for him with a fresh dispatch. If Clark minded the current working conditions, he didn't show it. His face was just as pragmatic and affable as always.

"How's the arm today, sir?" asked Clark while gesturing to Bancroft's sling.

"The same as yesterday but itchier, if that could be possible." Bancroft used his good arm to scratch around the cast of his broken arm. The cast had long since become a nuisance, and he had a persistence itch that occurred just an inch below where his fingers could reach. It was a pest he couldn't quite get rid of, similar in that matter to the royals.

"What do we have now, Clark?" asked Bancroft as he sat in his chair. "Who's requesting more ships

today

?"

Clark cracked a brief smile before handing the dispatch over. "It appears Commander Easterbrook is needing some reinforcements. I'll let you read the entire thing."

Bancroft motioned with his hands and took the message to give it a once-over.

ATTN: FLEET ADMIRAL BANCROFT

HOPE THIS MESSAGE FINDS YOU WELL. WE NEED MORE SHIPS AND MARINES AS SOON AS YOU CAN SPARE THEM. THE SITUATION IN ANDALUCIA IS GETTING DESPERATE AND WE HAVE NUMEROUS CASUALTIES. I UNDERSTAND THERE IS A JAVAN TASK FORCE AT QUILLER'S COVE. CAN YOU SPARE SHIPS TO SEND TO ME?

COMMANDER JACK EASTERBROOK

COMMANDER, TASK FORCE 21

Bancroft read it several more times before setting it down on his desk. "It seems Jack may have gotten himself into a pickle if I'm reading this right."

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," said Clark with a shrug. "Although I can say I don't have the faintest idea where Andalucia is."

"It is northeast of Sorella," said Bancroft before he started to chuckle. "Wherever Sorella is as well."

"Perhaps on our next message out to Easterbrook, we should tell him to send back a map."

Bancroft smirked. "At least he's making progress. Which is more than I can say about the majority of our commanders. Hell, even most of our admirals."

"Do we even have forces that we could spare for him?" asked Clark. "The last I heard, we were concentrating men and ships at Quiller's Cove to combat the Occitanians."

"You're right, Clark, but that front has been quiet for some weeks now. And I'm getting different reports on what's actually happening out there."

Clark crinkled his brow. "Different reports? From who? Surely you don't mean that old fool Lucas, do you?"

Bancroft smiled. "Old fool, well said. But you are correct. The old fool tells me one thing, but Admiral Reynolds tells me another."

"Isn't Reynolds the more reliable source?" asked Clark. "I know that man well. We joined the academy around the same time. I've always found him to be an able officer, one that will always do his duty."

"True," said Bancroft with a nod. "However, he can be a very cautious man."

"Reckless men don't often ascend the ranks," said Clark quietly.

"That I don't doubt as well, Clark. But in the current environment, we can't afford to let our ships linger in the same position if there's no danger. I have too many of them bottled up at Aberdeen and not enough coming off the production lines. And it seems like Jack has a real need for it."

"Yet we can hardly afford to sacrifice Quiller's Cove," said Clark. "If we lose that base, surely Easterbrook's mission would have to be recalled anyway? We can't slight one hand to keep the other."

"But if it's not being targeted right now, I can't leave a good portion of my ships there either," said Bancroft. "It can still be protected, just a smaller force will have to do."

Clark pursed his lips. "So what exactly did Lucas say? When did you last hear from him?"

Bancroft pulled out the top drawer of his desk where he kept the most important dispatches. He had to cycle through about five of them before he came to Lucas' most recent message. "I heard from him about three days ago. Here's what he sent," said the admiral, before handing it over to Clark.

ATTN: FLEET ADMIRAL BANCROFT

THREAT TO QUILLER'S COVE HAS BEEN NEUTRALIZED. NO FURTHER NEED FOR FULL MIGHT OF TASK FORCE 49, ESPECIALLY IF SHIPS ARE NEEDED ELSEWHERE.

COMMODORE STANHOPE LUCAS

COMMANDER, QUILLER'S COVE NAVAL STATION

Clark read through the message before looking up at Bancroft. "Very peculiar," he remarked quietly. "Why would Lucas give a different report than Reynolds?"

"Why not, Clark? Reynolds has at his command the largest task force outside of Java. If what Lucas says is true, then there's no reason for it to be there anymore and it'll dissolve," said Bancroft. "Naturally, Reynolds wants to keep all those ships under his command."

"I'm not sure I trust the word of a commodore over an admiral," said Clark with a hearty chuckle. "Especially given Lucas' reputation."

"I don't disagree with you on that," said Bancroft as he shut the top drawer once more. "God knows every opportunity I've had to pinch Lucas over the years I've taken. The man is a disgrace to the navy, but even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

"I don't think you've just suddenly decided that Lucas isn't full of shit," said Clark with a raised eyebrow. "This has to do with Easterbrook, doesn't it? The fact that he has a need, and Reynolds has the ships."

"Of course it does, Clark, and you know that. Easterbrook is our ace in the hole. As long as that man lives and continues to reflect well on me, I'll support him as much as I need to," said Bancroft, reclining back in his chair. "So here's the deal. For once, we're going to go with the word of Stanhope Lucas over that over another officer."

"Once and only, I hope," muttered Clark.

Bancroft shot him a look that quickly quieted him. "What's the current state of Task Force 49?"

"Hold on just a minute," said Clark as he pushed up from his chair and ran back to his desk. He sorted through several folders before he came to the one he was looking for, and then made a quick dash back to Bancroft.

"Task Force 49 has four cruisers in it currently. Three heavy cruisers—

Stardust

,

Horton

, and the

Paucis

. There's also the light cruiser

Valiant

, commanded by our newly promoted Commander Luke Ravencross."

"Who previously served under Jack's command," interrupted Bancroft. "Go on."

"There are also seven destroyers there as well. Most of them a modern design and quite capable," said Clark.

"Let's do this," said Bancroft after thinking the move over for a moment. "We'll send Jack the

Stardust

,

Horton

, and the

Valiant

. That should be enough firepower for him."

"Three cruisers?" asked Clark incredulously. "What has he done to earn that much firepower? And he still commands the

Destiny

as well?"

Bancroft nodded subtly. "Jack's last few messages reference another power in the Vector. Another country called Swabia who has been hostile toward him. By his account, their ships are nearly as advanced as his and making trouble in the nations we've invested in. The extra firepower will be needed."

"That we know of," scoffed Clark. "How do we know Easterbrook isn't making this up? That he's not exaggerating the odds against him? If that's the case, he'll be no worse off than Reynolds. And there's no one else there to report on the conditions so we have to trust the man."

"For now, Clark," said Bancroft with a chuckle. "We'll ask our other commanders when we get there for a report. If it turns out that Jack has exaggerated, then we'll send the ships to another place where they're needed."

"I still don't like this plan very much," mumbled Clark. "We're sending our ships in blind off of one man's reports. It doesn't inspire a lot of confidence, Admiral."

Bancroft leveled a serious gaze at him. "Good for you that you don't make the decisions then. This is my decision, Clark. Not yours. I won't have my orders questioned."

Clark's expression changed rapidly. "That's not what I'm saying, sir. I didn't mean to question you."

"Good. Now, that deals with the issue of ships. Now, let's talk about men. What forces do we have in Quiller's Cove?"

Clark gave him a confused look. "Sir?"

"Marines, I mean. What do we have available to send to him?"

"We already have reinforcements going out for his battalion that he already has," said Clark as he flipped through another set of folders. "I have one hundred men that are waiting to embark on the next ship out of Quiller's Cove."

"Jack's last message details a land war in this country he's in. This Andalucia. What other forces do we have at Quiller's?"

"We have two regiments at Quiller's currently. The 24th and 57th are garrisoned on the island. The 57th has only just arrived."

"Good, so they won't miss it much," said Bancroft. "Send the reinforcements already planned as well as the 57th Regiment. That should be enough of a force for him for the time being."

"An entire regiment?" said Clark loudly, earning the looks of several of the nearby officers.

Damn this open hallway

, thought Bancroft. "That will give him six battalions. Does he need that much of a force?"

"What did I just tell you about making decisions, Clark?" Bancroft gave him a displeased look. Clark knew better than to question his orders.

To his credit, Clark swallowed heavily before he nodded. "I'll do what you say, sir."

"You need to do a better job trusting my intuition on this, Clark. Have I ever steered you wrong before?"

"No, sir."

Bancroft managed a smile. "Good. Go ahead and carry out these orders quickly. I want a dispatch out to Quiller's Cove within the hour. I don't doubt that Lucas should be pleasantly shocked. Too bad I won't be there to witness him shitting himself."

"Should I get a message out to Easterbrook as well?" asked Clark. "To tell him about the reinforcements?"

Bancroft thought about it for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Not right now. Let it be a good surprise for him. Or have Reynolds do it."

Clark gave him a funny look before standing up and offering a crisp salute. A moment later, he was back at his desk, writing out the orders. This would do nicely. This would shuttle forces that were currently useless to someone who could make use of them. It would also get Jack off his back for the time being. Perhaps a good show of force would help him finally win over whatever war he was finding in this Andalucia.

Bancroft heard the sounds of loud speaking from back behind him. Turning his chair, he watched as the performers from the theater suddenly exited, spilling into the hall behind him. Bancroft's lip curled up in disgust as he watched the half-dressed imbeciles gloat about their performance, all the while having adoration heaped on them from the bovine-jowled form of George. His Corpulence took every measure to speak with the actors, offering a disingenuous smile and frequent touching of those who had just been rutting in front of him.

It made Bancroft sick to his stomach to watch. He turned around quickly, trying to bury himself back into his work. Much to his dismay, the steady sound of heavy footsteps grew louder against the marbled floor, only stopping mere feet from where he sat. Bancroft hated to look up, hoping that if he just didn't acknowledge the man, he would go away. It wasn't so easy to get away from the crown prince however.

"Well, Admiral, I trust you're having a splendid day?"

Bancroft resisted the urge to snarl. Instead, he slowly turned his head until his gaze locked on the corpulent prince. The man watched him with a combination of sneer and amusement, always a combination that made his blood boil.

"It's going, Your Highness," said Bancroft dryly. "Just trying to win this war."

"Bah, war," said George with a laugh. "Sometimes I forget there's one going on!"

"Some of us don't have the luxury of a poor memory," replied Bancroft.

The smile left George's face for a moment, only to be replaced by a look of curiosity seconds later. "Say, Bancroft, didn't I see you at the door to the theater just a little bit ago? I must ask why you didn't feel the need to stay and enjoy the performance? I found it quite . . .

invigorating

." The crown prince leered at him before making a grab at his own crotch.

"It's not my type of theater," said Bancroft. "I much prefer more classical fares. At least plays where the actors are fully dressed."

George let out a low whistle. "You don't know what you're missing. The beauty of the human form is displayed at these plays. There's nothing more raw or exciting than seeing the human body at its most primal. Their lust-filled passion drives them, Bancroft. You should really give them another chance."

"I'll pass on that, Your Highness," said Bancroft politely. "Agree to disagree, no?"