Settling Accounts in at the Death

Brigadier General Clarence Potter crouched in a muddy trench north of Atlanta. Overhead, U.S. bombers ew through what looked like ak thick enough to walk on. Potter saw smoke coming from a couple of enemy airplanes, but the airplanes went on about the business of pounding the hub of the Confederate States of America at. Most of the bombs fell behind Potter, in the heart of Atlanta. As usual, the United States were going after the railroad yards and the factories that made the capital of Georgia so vital to the CSA. As far as Potter could tell, the latest bombardments were overkill. By now, Atlanta's importance was gone with the wind. The locals, those who hadn't refugeed out or been blown sky high, seemed stunned at what had happened to their city. Disasters, to them, were for other places. New Orleans had suffered the indignity of capture in the War of Secession. Louisville had been lost in that war, wrecked in the Second Mexican War, lost again in the Great War, and spent an embarrassing generation as a U.S. city afterwards. Richmond had been battered in the Great War, and was taking it on the chin even harder now. But Atlanta? Atlanta just kept rolling along. Except it didn't. Not any more. Bombs were falling closer now, working their way north. Potter had seen that happen before. The lead airplanes in a formation would put their bombs about where they belongedor where the bombardiers thought they belonged, anyhow. Bombardiers farther back would use those early explosions as targets. But, being human, the bomber crews didn't want to hang around any longer than they had to, so they released their bombs a little sooner than they might have. Work that all the way back through a bomber stream, and... "And I'm liable to get killed by mistake," Potter muttered. He was in his early sixties, in good hard shape for his age, with iron-gray hair and cold gray eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. His specialty was intelligence work, but he commanded a division these daysthe Confederacy was running low on capable, or even incapable, line ofFicers. His cynical cast of mind either suited him for the spymaster's role or came from too many years spent in it. Even he didn't know which any more. "General Potter!" a soldier yelled. "You anywhere around, General Potter?" No doubt for his own ears alone, he added, "Where the fuck you at, General Potter?" "Here I am!" Potter shouted back. Not a bit abashed, the runner dove into the trench with him. "Why are you looking for me?" Potter asked crisply. "You'reGeneral Potter?OurGeneral Potter?" The young soldier didn't seem convinced despite Potter's dirty butternut uniform and the wreathed stars on either side of his collar. "Afraid I am, son." Potter knew why the runner was dubious, too. "Back before the Great War, I went to college up at Yale. I learned to talk like a damnyankee to Fit in, and it stuck. Now quit dicking around. What's up?" "Sir, General Patton's on the telephone, and he needs to talk to you bad," the kid replied. "Oh, joy." Potter had no trouble containing his enthusiasm. No matter what George Patton imagined he needed, Potter knewhedidn't need to talk to Patton. But Patton commanded an army, not just a division. He headed all the forces trying to keep the USA away from Atlanta. Potter knew damn well he had to render unto Caesarnot that Patton thought Julius Caesar, or anyone else, his equal. "All right. Field telephone still at the sameTurtledove, Harry is the author of 'Settling Accounts in at the Death ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780345492470 and ISBN 0345492471.