Harry Turtledove - Settling Accounts-Drive to the East

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SettlingAccounts:DrivetotheEast

SETTLING ACCOUNTS:

DRIVE TO THE EAST

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Harry Turtledove

About the Author

HARRY TURTLEDOVE is a Hugo Award–winning and critically acclaimed writer of science fiction, fantasy, and

alternate history. His novels include The Guns of the South; How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best

Novel); the Great War epics American Front, Walk in Hell, and Breakthroughs; the World War series: In the Balance,

Tilting the Balance, Upsetting the Balance, and Striking the Balance; the Colonization books: Second Contact, Down to

Earth, and Aftershocks; the American Empire novels Blood & Iron, The Center Cannot Hold, and Victorious Opposition;

Settling Accounts: Return Engagement; Homeward Bound; Ruled Britannia (also a Sidewise winner), and many others.

He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.

BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE

The Guns of the South

THE WORLDWAR SAGA

Worldwar: In the Balance

Worldwar: Tilting the Balance

Worldwar: Upsetting the Balance

Worldwar: Striking the Balance

COLONIZATION

Colonization: Second Contact

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Colonization: Down to Earth

Colonization: Aftershocks

Homeward Bound

THE VIDESSOS CYCLE

The Misplaced Legion

An Emperor for the Legion

The Legion of Videssos

Swords of the Legion

THE TALE OF KRISPOS

Krispos Rising

Krispos of Videssos

Krispos the Emperor

THE TIME OF TROUBLES SERIES

The Stolen Throne

Hammer and Anvil

The Thousand Cities

Videssos Besieged

Noninterference

Kaleidoscope

A World of Difference

Earthgrip

Departures

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How Few Remain

THE GREAT WAR

The Great War: American Front

The Great War: Walk in Hell

The Great War: Breakthroughs

American Empire: Blood and Iron

American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold

American Empire: The Victorious Opposition

Settling Accounts: Return Engagement

Settling Accounts: Drive to the East

A DF Books NERDs Release

Settling Accounts: Drive to the East is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual

people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the

products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

or persons,living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States by Del Rey Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a

division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DEL REY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Turtledove, Harry.

Drive to the east / Harry Turtledove.

p. cm.—(Settling accouts ; 2)

eISBN 0-345-48462-2

1. World War, 1939–1945—Fiction. 2. Confederate States of America—Fiction. 3. United States—

History—Civil War, 1861–1865—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3570.U76D75 2005

813'.6—dc22 2004062488

www.delreybooks.com

v1.0

Table of Contents

Title Page

Map

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

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SettlingAccounts:DrivetotheEast
Chapter V 
Chapter VI 
Chapter VII 
Chapter VIII 
Chapter IX 
Chapter X 
Chapter XI 
Chapter XII 
Chapter XIII 
Chapter XIV 
Chapter XV 
Chapter XVI 
Chapter XVII 
Chapter XVIII 
Chapter XIX 
Chapter XX 
About the Author 
Other Books by Harry Turtledove 
Copyright Page 
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E very antiaircraft gun in Richmond seemed to thunder at once. The sky above the capital of the

Confederate States filled with black puffs of smoke. Jake Featherston, the President of the CSA, had

heard that his aviators called those bursts nigger-baby flak. They did look something like black dolls—

and they were as dangerous as blacks in the Confederacy, too.

U.S. airplanes didn’t usually come over Richmond by daylight, any more than Confederate aircraft

usually raided Washington or Philadelphia or New York City when the sun was in the sky. Antiaircraft

fire and aggressive fighter patrols had quickly made daylight bombing more expensive than it was

worth. The night was the time when bombers droned overhead.

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Today, the United States was making an exception. That they were, surprised Jake very little. Two

nights before, Confederate bombers had killed U.S. President Al Smith. They hadn’t done it on purpose.

Trying to hit one particular man or one particular building in a city like Philadelphia, especially at night,

was like going after a needle in a haystack with your eyes closed. Try or not, though, they’d flattened

Powel House, the President of the USA’s Philadelphia residence, and smashed the bomb shelter beneath

it. Vice President La Follette was Vice President no more.

Featherston wasn’t sure he would have deliberately killed Al Smith if he’d had the chance. After all,

he’d hornswoggled a plebiscite on Kentucky and the part of west Texas the USA had called Houston and

Sequoyah out of Smith, and triumphantly welcomed the first two back into the Confederacy. But he’d

expected Smith to go right on yielding to him, and the son of a bitch hadn’t done it. Smith hadn’t taken

the peace proposal Featherston offered him after Confederate armor sliced through Ohio to Lake Erie,

either. Even though the USA remained cut in two, the country also remained very much in the war. The

struggle wasn’t as sharp and short and easy as Jake had hoped.

So maybe Al Smith was better off dead. Maybe. How could you tell? Like any Vice President, Charlie

La Follette was the very definition of an unknown quantity.

But it was only natural for the United States to try to take revenge. Kill our President, will you? We’ll

kill yours!

U.S. Wright-27 fighters, no doubt diverted from shooting up Confederate positions near the

Rappahannock, escorted the bombers and danced a dance of death with C.S. Hound Dogs. Level

bombers, two- and four-engined, rained explosives down on Richmond.

With them, though, came a squadron of dive bombers, airplanes not usually seen in attacks on cities. To

Jake’s admittedly biased way of thinking, the CSA had the best dive bomber in the world in the Mule,

otherwise known on both sides of the front as the Asskicker. But its U.S. counterparts were also up to

the job they had to do.

That job, here, was to pound the crap out of the Confederate Presidential residence up on Shockoe Hill.

The building was often called the Gray House, after the U.S. White House. If the flak over Richmond as

a whole was heavy, that over the Gray House was heavier still. Half a dozen guns stood on the Gray

House grounds alone. If an airplane was hit, it seemed as if a pilot could walk on shell bursts all the way

to the ground. He couldn’t, of course, but it seemed that way.

A dive bomber took a direct hit and exploded in midair, adding a huge smear of flame and smoke to the

already crowded sky. Another, trailing fire from the engine cowling back toward the cockpit, smashed

into the ground a few blocks away from the mansion. A greasy pillar of thick black smoke marked the

pilot’s pyre.

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Another bomber was hit, and another. The rest bored in on their target. Back before the Great War

started in 1914, lots of Confederates believed the Yankees were not only enemies but cowardly enemies.

They’d learned better, to their cost. The pilots in these U.S. machines were as brave and as skilled as the

men the CSA put in the air.

Yet another dive bomber blew up, this one only a few hundred feet above the Gray House. Flaming

wreckage fell all around, and even on, the Presidential residence. The survivors did what they were

supposed to do. One after another, they released their bombs, pulled out of their dives, and scurried back

towards U.S.-held territory as fast as they could go.

No antiaircraft defenses could block that kind of attack. The Gray House flew to pieces like an anthill

kicked by a giant’s boot. Some of the wreckage flew up, not out. The damnyankees must have loaded

armor-piercing bombs into some of their bombers. If Jake Featherston took refuge in the shelter under

the museum, they aimed to blow him to hell and gone anyway.

But Jake wasn’t in the Gray House or in the shelter under it.

Jake wasn’t within a mile of the Gray House, in fact. As soon as he heard Al Smith was dead, Jake had

ordered the Presidential residence evacuated. He’d done it quietly; making a fuss about it would have

tipped off the damnyankees that he wasn’t where they wanted him to be. At the moment, he was holed

up in a none too fancy hotel about a mile west of Capitol Square. His bodyguards kept screaming at him

to get his ass down to the basement, but he wanted to watch the show. It beat the hell out of Fourth of

July fireworks.

Saul Goldman didn’t scream. The C.S. Director of Communications was both more restrained and

smarter than that. He said, “Mr. President, please take cover. If a bomb falls on you here, the United

States win, just the same as if you’d stayed up on Shockoe Hill. The country needs you. Stay safe.”

Jake eyed the pudgy, gray-haired little Jew with something that was for a moment not far from hatred.

He ran the Confederate States, ran them more nearly absolutely than any previous North American ruler

had run his country—and that included all the goddamn useless Maximilians in the Empire of Mexico.

Nobody could tell him what to do, nobody at all. Saul hadn’t tried, unlike the Freedom Party guards

who’d bellowed at him. No, Saul had done far worse than that. He’d talked sense.

“All right, dammit,” Featherston said peevishly, and withdrew. He affected not to hear the sighs of relief

from everyone around him.

Sitting down in the basement was as bad as he’d known it would be. He despised doing nothing. He

despised having to do nothing. He wanted to be up there hitting back at his enemies, or else hitting them

first and hitting them so hard, they couldn’t hit back at him. He’d tried to do that to the United States.

The first blow hadn’t quite knocked them out. The next one . . . He vowed the next one would.

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