Born Hero

  THE PROTECTORATE WARS:

  Born Hero

  S.A. Shaffer, Esq.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  THE SURPRISE MOTION

  THE BURDENED LOCAL POPULOUS

  CONDEMNATION

  THE MAN IN THE SHADOWS

  THE GIRL IN THE RED DRESS

  THE COST OF LOVE

  THE PINNACLE

  SPIES AND CONFIDANTS

  SINCERITY

  THE MAW

  PROWLERS

  ROMANCE OR ESPIONAGE?

  A MEETING OF THE MINDS

  BORN HERO

  SNOOPING

  MOVEMENT IN THE SHADOWS

  THE BUTCHER'S BILL

  WHERE NOBODY ELSE LOOKED

  THE MATTER OF THE SPEAKERSHIP

  EPILOGUE

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  The Protectorate Wars : Born Hero

  Copyright © 2019 by S. A. Shaffer, Esq.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher, except for brief excerpts in reviews.

  Cover Art by Austin Reddington (AustinReddington.com)

  Edited by John David Kudrick (johndavidkudrick.com)

  2nd edition

  All character and events in this book, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781074025434

  Map Of The Fertile Plains

  PROLOGUE

  “Once, there was a land of vast wealth and power, towering mountains, and lush plains. It was a bastion of hope between the sweltering deserts and the raging ocean. Many peoples lived there and thrived in peace and prosperity, for there was plenty for all. And—”

  “No, Mommy. The Protectorate War, not the origin of the Fertile Plains.” The little boy pushed his lower lip out as he clutched his covers against his chest.

  His mother’s eyes glanced up from the book on her lap and gave him a stern look. “Did you want a bedtime story? Because I don’t tell stories to pouting little boys.”

  The boy sucked in his lip and nodded vigorously.

  His mother looked down her nose at him before straightening up in her nightgown. “Let’s see, where was I?” she said as she looked at the book in her lap and started brushing her chocolate curls again. “Oh yes …

  “Berg lay to the north between the Rorand Mountains and the Central Ridge. The Bergs were a strong, proud people, famous for their iron mines and mineral wells. The People’s Republic of Viörn, a great realm of rolling grasslands, lay south of the Central Ridge, north of the Southern Spires, and east of the High Peaks. Their land was immense and rich with factories and manufacturers. Their people were intricate and calculating, always weighing profit and loss. Lastly there were the Thirteen Houses of Alönia. They were a fringe people living in perpetual rain on the edge of the Fertile Plains, isolated by oceans and mountains.”

  “That’s us,” said the boy as he twisted the tassels on the edge of his blanket.

  “That’s right,” his mother said with a nod. “For thousands of cycles these three countries lived in harmony, trading through the single pass that joined the realms. In time Armstad, City of the Five Paths, grew out of the pass amidst the trade and prosperity. Peoples from all three countries lived there, and they grew in wealth and sophistication.

  “However, greed and pride are powerful motivators. The cunning Viörns sought to extract the wealth of the proud Bergs by raising the price of their products. Berg raged, as all Viörn products were made from Bergish resources. War ensued.”

  The little boy started bouncing beneath his covers, eyes glowing with eagerness. His mother tried and failed to hide her smile as she kept brushing out her hair. Boys would be boys.

  “Rather than be caught in the middle of two warring countries, Armstad closed the pass and announced its independence as a free nation. While anger between Viörn and Berg remained, the mountains of the Fertile Plains were too high to cross. Their tops overlooked the clouds, and the air was too thin to breathe. The war ceased for a time, but peace is short where hearts and minds are inclined toward battle. And where war strikes, it kills the hostile and the innocent alike.

  “Armstad was small, yet sophisticated. They possessed the finest airships in the Fertile Plains. Not long after Armstad’s independence, excavators began building fortifications into the mountain cliffs, where they discovered a vast deposit of ebony iron, the rarest and strongest of the minerals. The nation now possessed a great treasure that was as much a burden as a boon.”

  “Why was the treasure a burden?” asked the boy, brow pinched in contemplation.

  His mother paused her brushing as she thought for a moment. “Sometimes people see what others have and grow envious. Armstad had a great treasure, but they were too small to protect it, and their neighbors wanted it.”

  The little boy frowned. “They wanted to steal it? But that’s not right. Jeshua forbids stealing.”

  His mother nodded. “But not all know Jeshua like we do, my son.”

  She looked at the boy for a moment as he pinched his eyebrows and twirled his blanket’s tassels. Then she turned a page in the book, started brushing her hair again, and continued, “Viörn and Berg rejected Armstad’s independence, and each claimed the city as their protectorate and Armstadi resources as their own. The defenses of Armstad, though valiant, could not resist the forces of the two great realms. Thus began The Protectorate War. The Bergish fleet—slow and sturdy, each ship a fortress—moved in through the Northern Pass while the Viörn fleet, quick and agile, pushed from the Southern Pass. A great battle ensued above the helpless city of Armstad, or so was the belief of the Bergs and Viörns.”

  The little boy, no longer able to contain his excitement, slipped out of the covers, raced across the room, and grabbed a model airship off a table. His mother laughed as he ran back to her and jumped in her arms. She squeezed him and smothered him with kisses as he ran his fingers through her hair, tangling what she had just brushed. She laid him back down on the bed and tucked him in before returning to the book in her lap. The boy animated the scene with his model airship, gliding it over the bedclothes.

  “Alönia, though a peaceful people opposed to war, valued freedom and independence above all else. Armstad called for aid, and the young men of Alönia answered. The Assembly voted, the armada gathered, brave men volunteered, and Admiral David Ike was tasked with confronting Berg and Viörn, peaceably if possible, violently if necessary.

  “As his airship, the Intrepid, soared through the mists, Admiral Ike stood at its prow, hands clasped behind his back. His aeronauts bustled around him, loading guns and preparing the airship for war, yet everyone was silent as the morning breeze.”

  The boy climbed out of his covers again sailing his little airship over his pillow and across his billowing sheets. His mother tickled his side, unable to help herself as she lay down beside him. He squirmed and rolled over, giggling with laughter.

  “The Intrepid steamed at three thousand feet, leading the airships of a few dozen fleet groups through the gulf pass in a cloud bank—as much of the Alönian might as could be mustered in three days’ time. It was little more than half of the Bergish fleet population, let alone the Viörn gunships swarming thick as tuber flies in harvest. Here, Admiral Ike struggled with a question as he watched the clouds pass around his airship. Should he make an attempt at peace before firing on the enemy? If he did, and peace was not possible, he would give up their only advantage.”

  The mother paused as the boy looked at her with wide eyes of anticipation and asked, “What advantage?”

  “Surprise,” his mother said, placing special emphasis on the word. “Nobody knew the
Alönians had joined the war, and if they could surprise the enemy, they might even be able to best them.”

  She smiled and turned a page in her book. “Admiral Ike knew this. Already his airships arrayed themselves to maximize their effectiveness. If he was going to fight a war, he was going to win, and Almighty forgive him, he wasn’t about to fight fair. As they drew closer to Armstad, Admiral Ike could hear the sounds of battle penetrating the cloud bank. His dark mustache twitched in expectation of action. His boatswain called the Intrepid to action; his gunners took their chairs, swiveling the airdestroyer’s great revolvers in one last check. Aeronauts manned flak cannons and carousels across all the airships’ decks. Timing was everything, and the time was drawing near. Admiral Ike sniffed the air as his lieutenant calmed the men with boasting words. It smelled of ash. Indeed, the white cloud looked tainted and glowed with whatever fire lay on the other side of the haze. Admiral Ike would give them one chance to surrender—one shot across the bow before he let loose the fires of Hades—but that was all the surprise he was willing to forfeit. What would you do? How would you pursue peace in the face of such risk?”

  The mother looked up from the question in her book and gave the boy an encouraging nod.

  He said, “I’d charge out of the cloud bank with every gun shooting. Shooting and shooting until the enemy turned tail and flew away.”

  The little boy stood on the bed and jumped with excitement, waving his airship around like a warship in action. His mother rolled her eyes with a huff and flopped the book down on the bed with exaggerated frustration. She caught the boy up in her arms and tickled him until he cried with laughter.

  “How did I ever raise such a violent child?” She nuzzled him and then brushed her hair out of his face. “What if the Bergs and Viörns wanted to surrender? What if the battle could have been won without fighting?”

  The boy looked down at the airship he still clutched to his chest, fingering some of the model gun emplacements. “I guess maybe then. But that’s not what happened, was it?”

  His mother pursed her lips as she shook her head and placed the boy back on the bed. She picked up the book and continued where she left off.

  “The Intrepid burst from the mists and soared into the ashy skies of Armstad. The beautiful city burned, and the sight of it made Admiral Ike sick. He wasn’t sure which side had done the deed. To this day it is unknown whether Berg or Viörn had firebombed Armstad, but most historians agree that it was both.

  “Admiral Ike looked upon the inferno, his eyes aglow with flame and rage, fueled by the burning homes of the innocent. He looked at his lieutenant, and the unspoken command passed between them, then the lad gave the order for a full attack. There would be no warning shot. The Intrepid lurched forward to attack speed, leading the charge of the other airdestroyers.

  “Viörn’s airships were completely surprised, never suspecting an attack at their rear where their supply orbitals lay unprotected. Bergish airships were slow and ponderous, and there was no way their flying fortresses could slip behind the Viörn picket unnoticed. But these were not Bergish airships, nor were they Bergish guns that blasted away at their unprotected supply orbitals.”

  “It was Admiral Ike and the Alönian armada come to save the day!” the little boy exclaimed, adding sound to his animated airship, spittle flying from his mouth and covering his mother’s face.

  She only smiled as she brushed it away. Then she hooked a finger into the back of the boy’s pajamas, a precaution in case he slipped over the side of the bed.

  Suddenly a new voice joined the story as a tall gentleman strode into the room, boot heels thumping the floor with every step: “Who’s making all this racket?” he asked with mock irritation as he walked over and slipped an arm around the woman’s waist.

  “Mommy’s reading the story of the Protectorate War,” the boy said as he jumped around the bed.

  “I see,” the man said. “Well, when are you going to let me take Mommy and go to bed?”

  The little boy dropped his airship, then squeezed between the two of them and hugged his mother. “No, Father, she’s my mommy,” he said as he scowled at the man between locks of his mother’s flowing hair.

  The father chuckled as he offered his wife a mischievous smile. “We’ll finish the story and then it’s off to bed for you.”

  The boy squeezed his mother a little harder, but when his father picked up the book and began reading, the boy left his mother’s embrace long enough to retrieve his airship.

  “Viörn’s armada only has two types of craft: gunship and supply orbital. The diamond-shaped gunships are larger than an Alönian skiff, carrying a crew of …” The father looked at his son with raised eyebrows.

  “Ten,” the boy said. “One pilot, eight gunners, and one bombardier.”

  The father smiled and turned back to the book. “Gunships have one tactic: waves dive in, pepper the enemy with carousel and chain-gun fire, before loosing torpedoes and clearing the field for the next wave. Supply orbitals, or mother ships, boast crews of a hundred times that. Half a dozen docking rings orbit one central balloon. Each orbital can resupply an entire wave of gunships in a matter of minutes. The Viörn attack plan is predictable. Wave upon wave of the agile gunships race ahead of their mother ships, pouring fire into the enemy, only to return and refuel in perfect synchronization. Perfect, predictable, and exploitable by any such admiral as cunning as David Ike.”

  The little boy dove his toy airship, simulating gunfire, as the man sat on the bed, his weight slanting the mattress toward him. As he continued the story, his young wife leaned against his broad chest, one hand still pinching the back of the little boy’s pajamas.

  “Admiral Ike gritted his teeth as he watched the first volley of unchallenged fire smash into the rear orbitals. He’d tasked his airships to target those in the middle of resupply first, and they had done well. Two succumbed before the Intrepid’s revolvers could even empty their chambered rounds. Each downed orbital meant no resupply for an entire wave of gunships, and once those had spent their torpedoes, it was only a matter of time before they exhausted their fuel and small arms doing little more than scratching the paint on Admiral Ike’s heavy warships.

  “The Alönian destroyers were at knife range now, blasting massive orbital chunks into the air with each shot. The lightly armed orbitals could only absorb the fire and rain ash and aeronauts on the city below. As the guns reloaded and fired for the third time, the Intrepid’s boatswain pointed out an orbital in the middle of resupply.”

  Here the father paused for effect, and the mother gasped.

  Then he went on, “Admiral Ike motioned to his lieutenant, and the Intrepid flashed signal lights. The airship veered to the right, charging the resupplying orbital, trailed by six of its sister ships. They had but a matter of seconds before the mother ship would release its unruly brood of gunships—and a wave of angry gunships had enough torpedoes to pulverize a quarter of his airdestroyers. The Intrepid rumbled as its revolvers did their work, firing incendiary rounds in between the mother ship’s docking rings at the vulnerable orbital balloon. But as the orbital decking groaned, two dozen gunships released and raced toward the seven attacking vessels. Thus far the Alönians had dealt considerable damage to the Viörns while taking few, if any, casualties. But Admiral Ike knew that before the day was through, bodies of friend and foe would litter the streets of Armstad below.”

  The mother elbowed the father as he read. He saw her looking up at him with a frown.

  “Sorry, darling,” the father said. “That’s the way Grandfather told it, anyway.” He kissed her and continued, “His lieutenant gave the order and the warships’ small arms prepared to do their part.” He looked up from the book at his son. “You see, during the harried flight across the gulf, Admiral Ike sent out an order to all his airships. Do you know what that order was?”

  “He ordered his men to secure all the chain-guns to the airships,” the boy said as he flew his airship around in
a circle.

  As he nodded, the father replied, “That’s right, son—every small arm that could bring down a gunship. If the airdestroyers had to fight gunships without close support from their skiff-carriers, they needed to fill the air with as many bullets as possible.” The father turned his gaze back to the book. “Chain-guns howled and carousels barked as the Viörn gunships flew closer. Some fell in flames, some didn’t. However, as they neared torpedo range, not a single torpedo launched. They didn’t launch because they weren’t armed. This was a suicide run.

  “The collision bell rang as eight of the original twenty-four gunships charged Admiral Ike and his escort ships. Six got through, smashing into the Reliant and Voxil and sending them plummeting to the ground as burning wrecks. Admiral Ike said a silent prayer for the aeronauts, but their sacrifice was not in vain. All the while, true to their orders, the revolver gunners pounded away at the Viörn orbital, ignoring all else around them. Even as the admiral watched, the balloon roiled in flames and broke apart in a hiss, dragging man and gunship to the ground. The orbitals were gone, all twenty-two and the tens of thousands of men that had manned them.”

  Looking up, he saw his wife looking at him again. She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.

  “But many survived,” he amended, clearing his throat.

  She rolled her eyes but gave a tiny smile.

  “Admiral Ike wasn’t without loss, though,” the boy’s father went on. “A handful of airdestroyers, with all hands lost, littered the countryside, and as many more heeling at the outskirts of the battle, but they weren’t done yet. More than twelve waves of gunships lay between the Alönians and the entire Bergish fleet, and then there were the Bergs themselves. The bill from the butcher had yet to arrive.”

  The boy continued to play out the battle atop his bed as his father read on, “His lieutenant sounded a few bells and flashed signals to the other airships. The mass of airdestroyers assembled into a double-layered, half-moon formation and advanced. The remaining Viörn gunships, caught between the Alönian line and the Bergish super-fortresses, whirled around in chaos. Some tried for suicide runs, some tried to escape, few found success. With no chance for resupply, and no torpedoes, the gunships lit up the early-morning sky as fire from two sides ripped them to pieces.