Blood In the Water (31 page)

Bashear shrugged and spat a yellowish stream of Lemurian tobacco juice over the rail, covering his mouth with his hand like he would to shout. Then he grinned. “I guess it's like Spanky McFarlane on
Walker
. He's Captain Reddy's XO now, but you'll never get his heart out of her engineerin' spaces. Ronson—‘Mr. Rodriguez'—will always be an EM in his bones. I figure we're all like that, in a way, slippin' back to what we know best from time to time. Kinda comforting. Anyway, he got tired of my ‘suggestions,' I guess. Said he didn't need me.”

Perry grinned back. “Well, then I'm sure you can find something else to do.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Lots of somethin' elses.”

Perry turned to Stites. “God knows what'll turn up next. I'm surprised they didn't cast heroic scenes on the anchors. I don't care about that sort of stuff, aside from the loss of time that could've been spent on more important things, but we all have to keep our eyes peeled for . . . weirdness that affects function.”

“Ah,” Bashear said, shifting.

“What?”

“You mean . . . you haven't looked at the anchors, Skipper?”

*   *   *

USS
Baalkpan Bay
(CV-5)

General of the Armies and Marines Pete Alden was on
Baalkpan Bay
's hangar deck watching several III Corps company commanders exercise their Lemurian troops. I and III Corps had no Imperial regiments attached yet, and there were only a very few observers or liaisons. For such a big ship, the space was incredibly cramped with all the troops and aircraft crammed in, and the soldiers and Marines had to take turns with what room there was. Pete scratched his dark beard against
the phantom itch of whatever they'd been that had infested it during the siege of his perimeter east of the Rocky Gap. The lice-like vermin were long gone now, but he still “felt” them sometimes. He didn't know what had kept the 'Cats, with fur all over their bodies, sane. Muln Rolak had been a wonder, never even deigning to scratch, as if the cooties hadn't bothered him at all. The old Aryaalan was like that, and Pete missed his company, but he'd—appropriately—embarked on
Sular
with the bulk of his I Corps.

Baalkpan Bay
's skipper, Commodore Kek-Taal, was himself a Sularan. That reluctant member of the Alliance produced generally kind of snotty 'Cats, in Pete's opinion. At least the high-ranking ones. He apparently didn't like guys running around on his flight deck during daylight, even though there were no flight operations underway. His reasoning was that daytime was when they were most likely to have to get things going in a hurry. Pete wasn't sure he agreed, but despite “commanding” the task force, he would
not
get wrapped up in the day-to-day operations of Kek-Taal's ship. The pilots and support crews didn't like guys running around on the hangar deck either—not ever—especially when the pilots were frustrated that they couldn't fly, and the support personnel were annoyed that most of their planes weren't doing anything. They did launch the occasional Nancy, and recover it alongside, but though they might still theoretically launch the improved P-1Cs, there was no place for them to land with Ben Mallory's eight P-40Es strapped to the flight deck. That was their problem, Pete thought, regarding the feelings of the support personnel. His troops had to stay fit, one way or another.

He glanced at his watch. The task force would briefly slow to a crawl in just a few minutes when one of the Clippers returned from its scout and was taken aboard USS
Andamaan
. Another would be lowered into the sea, and take off for its own long scout. It had been his call, but Pete still wasn't sure they shouldn't have just filled
Andamaan
with Nancys and flown the Clippers down to Madagascar. It was done now, though, and he liked watching the operation.

“Morning, General,” Ben Mallory said, saluting.

Pete looked up and returned the salute. “Good morning, Colonel. Where are the rest of your Flashies?” he asked, referring to the other human and Lemurian P-40 pilots in Ben's 3rd (Army Air Corps) Pursuit Squadron. They usually all stuck together.

“They're at chow. I gave 'em the slip. Thought I'd look you up.”

“Here I am,” Pete said. “I'm heading over to the starboard side hangar bay to watch the Clipper turn around, then I'm going to go get some chow myself. You're welcome to join me.”

“Thanks, General.” Together, the two men weaved through the parked planes, busy crew-'Cats, and jogging troops until they stood in the huge rectangular opening. The sky was almost cloudless and the sea quite calm. Almost immediately, they heard the thundering crackle of four double-stacked radials.

“Right on time,” Pete said as a big blue-and-white, four-engine aircraft with a deep, boat-shaped fuselage rumbled into view from the south and began circling as way came off the four ships in the center of the formation. The auxiliaries slowed, but plodded on. As usual, the screen both contracted and spread out, depending on their relative positions. The plane tightened its turn and descended on
Andamaan
's port quarter, in the half-mile gap between her and
Baalkpan Bay
. Without hesitation, the PB-5D slapped the water and skimmed to a stop roughly even with
Andamaan
's bow, and about fifty yards off her beam. Almost immediately, the two inboard engines wound down and the plane turned toward the ship and began to close the distance.

“It's a wet ship, I'm told,” Mallory said, referring to
Andamaan
. “It sits up higher in the water now, with all the guns and junk torn out, but takes a lot of water over the front when the sea's up.”

“I thought you'd be more interested in her big planes,” Pete retorted.

“Sure. I've even flown them. They're good ships. Hell, I'd fly nothing else if that was the only way I could get back in the fight.”

“You'd give up your P-forties?” Pete asked, amazed.

“I haven't gotten to use them much lately, have I?” Ben asked bitterly. “I did more actual fighting in that old PBY before I flew its wings off than I have in those high-performance hangar queens strapped down topside,” he added.

“That's about to change, looks like.”

Ben shrugged, nodding across the water. “Anyway, that setup is kind of interesting.” The plane was almost alongside now, and the big crane on the port side near the front of the casemate was turning outward, preparing to lift the plane. When the hook was secured, the outboard engines finally spun to a stop. “I wonder how well that thing would handle a real
blow, though,” he speculated. “A lot of water goes over the front, through the hangar doors—they can't be watertight, can they? The next thing you know, it just fills up and sinks.”

“Kind of like a car ferry, huh?”

“I guess.”

“You'd think they would've thought of that.”

“I hope so.”

They watched in silence while the dripping plane swung inboard. Unnoticed until then, they realized that another plane had been set down in the water off the starboard quarter. They knew only because it suddenly accelerated forward, past the ship, skipping across the wave tops until it lifted completely free and soared away.

“Nine minutes,” Pete said, surprised, glancing back at his watch. “Pretty slick.”

Ben rubbed his chin. “Yeah,” he said. “They know what they're doing, at least. Question is, what am
I
doing?”

“What do you mean?”

Ben snorted, then waved around. “All this.”

Pete waited expectantly.

“Okay.” Ben sighed. “Here's the deal. My P-forties were a technological godsend, no question. I mean, the 'Cats have learned so much from them—their manuals, construction techniques, performance characteristics, even just looking at their lines—that they've started making honest-to-goodness pursuit ships of their own. Granted, P-Ones and even P-One-Cs are pretty primitive, but I'd say the Cs are nearly on a par with anything we had just fifteen years ago. And that was all from scratch! They carry real machine guns in their wings, along with a decent load of ammo, and their double-stacked radials give them better performance, even with the extra weight. They can carry guns
and
a couple of bombs, easy—even if they're no faster or maneuverable than a Nancy, then, but why do they need to be? Better pursuit ships might come in handy against the Dom's Grikbirds, but the first model P-Ones were already hell on Grik zeps. The Cs will go through 'em like castor oil.”

“So what's your point?”

Ben closed his eyes, then opened them, blinking. “I guess I worry a little that, given the fact that my planes are still a couple of generations, at least, ahead of the Cs, Captain Reddy might be expecting miracles from
them,” he finally admitted. “From
me
,” he added. “Sure, we helped turn the tide at Second Madras, but we didn't do anything the new D-model Clippers and C-model Mosquito Hawks couldn't do now.” He paused. “And we've just got
eight
of the damn things left, not counting the two still in Baalkpan! To make matters worse, and to underscore the reason they
have
been hangar queens, fewer than half the ones we've lost were the result of enemy action. The rest just crapped out and fell out of the sky, or cracked up on takeoff or landing. No fault of my pilots and ground crews,” he hastened to add. “That's a helluva lot lower percentage of losses due to mechanical failure or pilot error than you'll find in any other outfit. Any prewar P-Forty squadron, for that matter, I bet. But I guess my point is, maybe Adar was right, way back when we first found the things, when he wondered if we were spending too much effort on something of dubious value that we couldn't maintain and damn sure couldn't replace. We've been saving my planes and pilots back, like they were some kind of super weapon, when there's nothing out there we really
need
the planes for. And the pilots—
I
—might've been better employed training and leading other squadrons.”

Pete stared out at
Andamaan
, watching as the task force accelerated smoothly back to its standard speed and the screen slowly shook itself back out. “You're preaching to the choir, Colonel,” he said at last. “And while none of us really knows what's out there that we might
really
‘need' your hot ships for someday, I've been saying the same thing for a long time.” He waved around them at the planes crowding the hangar deck. “They've been building these things faster than we could put qualified pilots in them for a while, and experienced leaders and instructors would've probably saved a lot of lives.” He looked at Ben, his eyebrows narrowed. “But that's beside the point, isn't it? Even bigger than your frustration over being kept on the sidelines so long, is your concern that your carefully reserved wonder weapons can't hack whatever stunt Captain Reddy might cook up for them. You think, whatever it is, it's liable to be a doozy.” He snorted. “And it may well be. But did it ever occur to you that maybe there won't be anything ‘special' about it after all? That Captain Reddy just finally wants to mass as much firepower in one place as he can? And whatever else your planes might be, with all six fifties back in 'em, and their bomb payload, each one equals a whole squadron of P-Ones in good, old-fashioned ground attack.”

His stern expression softened. “Look, son, I know a little how you feel. Along with Second Corps, which has been whittled down time and again, First and Third Corps are the cream of the crop. We can't replace them either, not soon. Don't you think I love them too? Don't you think I'm frustrated that they haven't been with Captain Reddy at the very tip of the spear? And don't you think I worry sometimes that, because they're the ‘cream,' Captain Reddy might someday expect more from them than
I
can handle? Not the army; it can handle anything. I mean
me
.” He grunted at Ben's surprised expression, and unconsciously scratched his beard again. “Yeah,” he said. “Look, all of us started somewhere. You were just a green Air Corps butter bar when we got here. Captain Reddy himself was a junior skipper of a worn-out tin can. Hell, that murderin' devil Chack was a goddamn
pacifist
!” He shook his head. “And everybody seems to forget that I started out in this world as a gimpy, homeless Marine sergeant, with nothing but a forty-five.” He looked Ben up and down. “You'll do what you have to do,
Colonel
, when the time comes. All of us will, and you always have before.” He grinned. “Now let's go get chow before they throw it to the fish.”

“Sure,
General
,” Ben said with a slight smile, stressing Pete's title as well. “And . . . thanks.”

CHAPTER
21

The Highlands
West of the Indus River Valley
October 11, 1944

The morning was bright but cold, this high, and General Shlook's troops had been torpid and listless in the predawn gloom when the general and his staff, warmed by fires, roused his division as quickly as possible from the huddled mounds they slept in. Despite sharing many physical characteristics, Grik weren't exactly reptiles and didn't rely entirely on ambient temperature to regulate their body heat. It helped, though, and they were highly specialized to the equatorial environment in which they'd evolved. Over time, they'd adapted to somewhat milder climes such as prevailed in India, even if quickly traveling from hot to “cool” required acclimation. There existed tales of similar races that thrived in colder climes, but “proper” Grik didn't do particularly well in them—and “cold” was pretty much anything below fifty degrees Fahrenheit.
Their aviators suffered terribly if they weren't warmly dressed and almost ridiculously well fed.

A flood of hot, meaty soup and an hour of vigorous exercise had brought Shlook's division around by the time the expected solid mass of enemy Grik swarmed down the road. The road was much broader here, winding through a sloping meadow between two peaks, and the attack would descend on a front of approximately a quarter of a mile. Strange bipedal creatures, heavily furred, fled before the swarm, scattering to the sides, bright sunlight flashing from whitish antlers on their heads and spikes on their tails.

Apparently, Shighat had prepared his warriors the same way Shlook had done, and without the timely—if somewhat disdainful—warning by a troop of Colonel Enaak's 5th Maa-ni-la Cavalry, his strike would've caught 2nd Division completely unprepared. As it was, Shlook's troops were already braced for the coming impact behind its shields and hasty breastworks.

“A close call,” Shlook murmured to himself. “Very close indeed. Shighat can't
defend
himself any better than a fresh hatchling, and our aggressive pursuit tears great, bloody morsels from his flanks,” he murmured aside to Captain Sigg, who'd increasingly become Halik's eyes in the various divisions. “But he can still attack, and his attacks grow disturbingly more imaginative.” He suddenly shouted at a runner over the rising flood. “Apprise Lord General Halik of the situation here, along with my worshipful suggestion that such attacks may serve our enemy just as well as a strong defense! Go!” He turned back to Captain Sigg. “I do hope our reluctant scouts saw fit to make the same warning to our other divisions this morning, though I would not be surprised if they didn't.”

“Why?” Sigg asked as four light guns spewed canister into Shighat's swarm, just as it slammed into the breastworks. The shield wall bulged back, but frenzied fighting reestablished the position—for now. Shlook tore his eyes from the collision and looked back at him. “They still hate us,” he said. “Make no mistake. They want us to destroy Shighat's force, and will help us do that to a point, but they would not be the least distressed if we destroyed ourselves in the process.” He watched the growing, blood-drenched struggle for several moments, gauging the weight behind the swarm with a practiced eye. He suspected perhaps twenty
thousand warriors confronted the eight thousand or so that he had left. It was a sizable fraction of Shighat's army, perhaps a quarter of what remained, but the difference in quality should even the odds. Unlike his companion generals in Halik's army, even General Ugla, who was born a general just as surely as he, Shlook had no desire to personally join the fight. He could have, and had before. He was fully trained. But his satisfaction came from watching his warriors, his
troops
, fight well. For most of his life, that satisfaction had been dependent upon how their performance reflected on him. That was no longer the case.

Arrogance was not new to Shlook, or any Grik Hij, but he'd come to know that arrogance, particularly that of the Grik as a race, was based on little more than an illusion. Pride was different in a very fundamental way, and Shlook had learned to feel genuine pride in himself and in what he'd helped Halik accomplish. But the army was their greatest accomplishment, and a source of satisfaction to them all. Lately, however, he'd gained a growing,
special
sense of attachment to his division. That was what generated his greatest pleasure —and at the moment, his most severe anxiety. It was almost as if his own body were wounded with a blade or blow for each of “his” warriors he saw fall.

“It is well that Shighat is too fearful to combine boldness and imagination. This”—he gestured grimly at the shield wall—“will be close. I am tempted to ask for reinforcements, in fact. But a larger force might have already swept us back on 5th Division, and if it was still afflicted by the cursed night cold of these unpleasant mountains, the confusion would have been difficult to overcome.”

General Halik himself trotted up within a cordon of guards, accompanied by the runner Shlook just sent. “Lord General!” Shlook and Sigg chorused.

“Good day to you both,” Halik replied, gazing at the forming battle, his crest half raised in . . . curiosity. “I am glad to see that our erstwhile allies chose to warn you as well,” he said.

“We were just wondering if they came to
you
,” Shlook informed his commander. “Apparently so. Most obliging of them.”

“Actually, they did not, but they came to General Niwa several hours ago. Interestingly, he immediately roused his division and marched toward a place in the riverbed south of the meadow”—Halik pointed—“and sent word to me.” He paused, seemingly baffled. “He also sent a personal
message from Colonel Svec.” Halik's eyes were wide when he looked back at Shlook. “Included were the usual words of insult, so I know that it was genuine, but it proceeded to assure me that Shighat will be ‘served up to us' this day, if we can refrain from defeating this attack so quickly that we send the, ah, similar insulting words that must apply to our enemy, ‘running for his life again' before they—and I assume Svec must mean his and Enaak's cavalry—are ‘ready.' I have no idea what he meant by any of that, nor am I sure that he wanted me to be certain. I suppose he harbors a concern that we might capitalize on some vulnerability of
theirs
if we knew exactly what they meant to do.” He huffed frustration. “Cooperating with enemies can be
so
tiresome! But Niwa is convinced that we will know when they are ready, and our response will be obvious.” He shook his head. “Such annoying, enigmatic creatures! But the point, I suppose, is that we must allow Shighat to believe his attack here is succeeding, or is likely to with a greater push.” He measured Shlook's reaction. “That means, while everything else
is
coming up, I must hold it back from your support so we do not destroy the illusion we must create. Your division will suffer sorely, I fear. Hopefully, not for long. Another runner just informed me that Niwa is almost in place.”

Shlook opened his mouth to speak, possibly to object, then closed it. Whatever happened that day, his pride in his division would surely grow. He and Halik, followed by Sigg and their respective staffs, began to pace, staring at the battle at the shield wall. Guards protected them from crossbows as best they could, their shields soon festooned with dark-feathered bolts. Whether the group was deliberately targeted or not, guards occasionally fell, mostly victims of musket balls that respected no Grik shield. But Halik and his party kept moving slowly, their unspoken agreement being to stand behind the entire line at some point in the fight, so their warriors might at least sense their presence, know they were there. And they watched. They'd seen it all so often now: the rabid roaring, frantic hacking, the shrewd stab through an unprotected gap. Blood splashed and spritzed everything near the line, and coils of intestines spilled on the ground, churned in the dust, making a gruesome red mud. Shields banged together and pounded enemies in the snout. Warriors lost their weapons and reverted to the ones they were born with, using claws and slashing teeth. They were usually quickly slain, without the extra reach a sword or spear afforded them. Of course, there were
also archers and musketeers on both sides, who killed beyond the reach of any handheld weapon with a startling, impersonal ease. Now and then, the shield wall briefly parted and a gun rolled into the gap, spewing canister with a great, smoky thunderclap that shredded dozens and felled scores.

They could have closed their eyes and seen it all just as well, smeared across their memories of a hundred fights. This was different, though, in one specific sense: one way or another, even as more of Shighat's warriors stampeded to join what they must've believed was a fine chance to eliminate the annoyance that had nagged them all the way up from the valley below, Halik and Shlook both knew they were going to win. And their warriors, now engaged, clearly believed it too. It was a bitter, costly struggle, but they were holding. And just as their leaders had confidence in them, they had equal confidence that General Halik would soon “do” something . . . interesting, with the
four
other divisions not yet in the fight.

“Second Division is fighting superbly,” Halik shouted at Shlook.

Shlook straightened and almost visibly puffed out his sides. “Yes, Lord General. But it grows weary. The line grows thin.”

“It can persevere awhile longer yet. The heap of enemy dead makes it difficult for Shighat's warriors to reach the shields. There is some respite in that, I think.”

“I agree. But I do wish that . . . whatever is meant to happen, will happen soon. And I hope it will be worth it,” he added with a tone of distress.

Halik looked at Shlook. His friend. “General,” he said, “I remain unsure what our former enemy means to do, but I do believe Enaak and Svec have proven they can be trusted. As least insofar as our current cooperation is concerned.” He took a long breath. “And General Niwa trusts them. That, and my understanding of the phrase ‘served up,' makes me confident that not only will we destroy this force completely today, but their plan likely includes furnishing us with Regent Consort Shighat himself, in some way. Remember, they have proven to be amazingly competent scouts, and likely know exactly where he is.” He looked back at the battle just as a low, rolling
boom
sounded, echoing down from the far side of the long, climbing meadow. It went on for a long moment, each report distinctly spaced.

“I counted twenty cannon shots!” Sigg cried.

“Twenty-three,” Halik corrected. “Shighat still has some artillery, but has not been able to use it. I doubt they could fire with such precision in any case. The Allied cavalry has four batteries of light guns, six guns per battery. Perhaps one is damaged, or they reserve it for something else, but I do not think the number is coincidental.” He turned to face Shlook. “I believe we, and General Niwa, now know ‘when.' Colonels Enaak and Svec must have worked around beyond the enemy, and doubtless hold a commanding position, blocking their escape from the ground ahead. Captain Sigg? Have Generals Ugla and Yikkit bring up their divisions at the trot. They will deploy from columns into files behind Second Division. As soon as General Niwa makes the flank attack I expect, the First and Sixth will pass through the Second, and sweep all before them. General Shlook? You will follow with the Fifth, keeping your Second Division as a reserve.” His crest rose in satisfaction. “My
friends
,” he said, stressing the word, “we made this army, our very
selves
, from nothing. We have suffered countless hardships, betrayals, and defeats.” His eyes narrowed. “We have also benefited from strange, unexpected mercies, on occasion. But without those things, and the wisdoms they taught us, we would none of us be here upon this plain of decision. Of destiny. One more great battle, my friends, and we—this army—could be the masters of all Persia before the night comes again.”