Blood In the Water (41 page)

“What fire?” Kek-Taal demanded, eyes blinking, then he raced to the port bridgewing and stared aft. A final P-40 had just cleared the deck, weaving as it rose, apparently still compensating for the shaking it took as it gathered speed. The other two sprawled amid the tangled wreckage of a bomber that had come in from aft. Whether it was shot down or its Grik pilot deliberately crashed into the tempting target like its zeppelin-dropped “suicider bomb” pilot predecessors would've done, there was no telling. And it didn't matter. It must've hit almost simultaneously with the other plane and torpedo, because they hadn't even felt it. They did now. Flames swept outward from the burning planes, carried by spreading fuel. 'Cats advanced with hoses, but a bomb or torpedo cooked off within the blaze and swept them away in sheets of searing fragments. Another detonation, heavier, shook the ship, and the tangled, burning debris heaved up—just as billowing flames and smoke roared out the side openings to the hangar bay. That, more than anything else, spelled
Baalkpan Bay
's doom.

After the loss of
Humfra-Dar
, there'd been many improvements made to all the Allied carriers. At least those in First Fleet, and especially
the new construction. Watertight integrity had been improved, magazines reinforced, and efforts had been made to isolate the aviation fuel. Much of this relied on the single most important protective measure they'd incorporated into the new
Baalkpan Bay
Class of fleet carrier: a barrier of armor plate between the flight deck and the hangar deck below. Too much armor made the ship top-heavy, however, and they'd only used enough to be proof, they thought, against the very light bombs the Grik had initially used. As Grik bombs got bigger, the vulnerability was recognized, but it was assumed the new dual-purpose armaments and improved pursuit planes would be sufficient to protect the ships. All that changed today, and either the crash or the powerful Allied bomb exploding on the deck had turned the flames loose below, where perhaps thirty more aircraft, fully fueled, awaited.

“General Alden,” coughed Sergeant Cecil Dixon, racing up the companionway to starboard. The man's khaki clothes were scorched and smudged, and his beard had an uneven, crispy look. “We gotta get you and your troops, and all my guys, the hell off this tub. She's about to go up!”

“This ship is not finished yet!” Kek-Taal said severely, then blinked rapidly when they felt another rumble deep below. “But perhaps we should evacuate those not immediately involved in defending or saving her,” he admitted reluctantly. The ship had slowed to barely four knots, and he stared out to starboard. “
Geran-Eras
seems to have difficulties of her own,” he added. The proud new destroyer had made a gentle turn to come back alongside, but her stern was sagging and she was clearly struggling. For the first time they also realized she wasn't firing her guns anymore, nor was the gun platform aft of the bridge thundering and shaking with reports. Kek-Taal turned. “Instruct any planes we may have still in the air to proceed immediately to Maa-he Island in the Saay-chelles. We certainly cannot recover them. Then contact
Clark
and
Saak-Fas
,” he said. “Instruct them to come alongside and begin taking our people off.”

“They still pickin' up boats from
Andamaan
.”

“The landing craft are quite seaworthy, and others can perform that duty. This ship . . .” His tail twitched slightly. “. . . may soon become an inferno. I want no oilers or ammunition ships alongside her!”

“Ay, ay, Commodore.”

“One last thing,” Pete interjected, his tone mild, but his eyes ferocious. “Contact Colonel Mallory's Third Pursuit Squadron. I
hope
he still has six planes, and enough fuel for the job. Either way, he's to quit hangin' around here and proceed with his mission.” He looked at Kek-Taal. “Tell him to follow the bastards who did this back where they came from and blow 'em straight to hell.”

CHAPTER
27

West-Central Mada-gaas-gar
Predawn, October 12, 1944

“Now
this
is kinda what it was like, foolin' around with those Khonashis,” Dennis Silva grumbled softly, apparently to the tree-gliding reptile clinging to his back as he, Courtney, Miles, Kaam, and six hundred Lemurian warriors crept ever closer to the Grik boma palisade on the south side of the river. “You weren't there for that. Oochin' along in the dark with a buncha overeager amateur warriors,” he went on, “sneakin' up on pre-pared defenses. Ow! Goddammit!” he hissed when a thorn pierced his knee. At least he hoped it was a thorn. Snakes were scarce as hen's teeth on this world—at least where he'd explored so far. Too many things would gulp them like worms, he supposed. But Kaam had shown him a weird little lizard with poisonous barbs on its back. . . .

“Goddammit!” Petey sympathized, mimicking Silva's whisper. He'd
finally learned there were times when keeping his voice down might prevent him from being thumped on the head.

“But in that case, if I recall your account, the enemy was Japanese, had modern small arms and machine guns, and was supported by fire from a formidable warship,” Courtney wheezed back, having obviously overheard. He was in much better shape than Dennis had ever seen him but was having trouble with the low crawl as well. Particularly burdened by a thirty-pound Vickers gun that he was dragging along beside him on a leather sled. He'd surprised Silva and Chack by confessing, rather enigmatically, that he knew how to operate it—as long as it didn't “throw a wobbler.”

“Details,” Silva muttered distractedly, searching the gloom for a spiky lizard. He found something sharp with his hand. “Shit,” he muttered, but in a tone of relief despite the new pain. “Thorns.”

“What a baby,” Miles scoffed. “I always hear stories about ‘The Great Dennis Silva,' but you're just a whiny baby when it comes down to it.”

“I'm gripin'. I told you, there's a difference.” He looked back at Miles, who was dragging another Vickers. A 'Cat youngling, too small to handle one of the powerful bows, had been detailed to stay with him, along with a pouch of extra magazines, just as another trailed Courtney with a similar pouch and his Krag. Miles's Allin-Silva rifle had been given to Kaam, along with a two-day course in how to use it. He'd even competently fired a couple of rounds, but seemed most impressed by the long, triangular bayonet. A third youngling, an older female, had no other mission that night than to lug Silva's heavy Doom Stomper and its bandolier. Dennis hoped he wouldn't need it and had his Thompson in his hands. “An' we'll see how
you
do when the lead starts flyin',” he added. “Chack said these Griks have muskets, different from the matchlocks they've used on us before. Said they look like copies of the ones our guys carried ashore on Ceylon—which were caplocks!” He shook his head. “God knows how they cap 'em, with their claws, but they must somehow. Larry figured it out, so maybe they did too. Anyway, it's liable to get real noisy here d'rectly, an' if you run away”—his face hardened—“I'll plug you in the goddamn back. Clear?”

Miles bristled. “Maybe I'll beat you to it.”

“Gentlemen,” Courtney soothed, but there was a note of irritation in his voice. “You've been sniping at each other since this trip began, and I insist you put an end to it. At least until our current business is concluded!”

Silva slowly grinned that . . . unnerving way he had, visible even under the thin moon. “Sure, Mr. Bradford. It's just fightin' talk. Always comes out before a fight, when fellas are keyed up. Ain't that so, Miles?”

“Indeed,” Courtney puffed doubtfully as they pushed on, keeping up with the line advancing on either side of them. He couldn't recall ever having seen Silva “keyed up,” and knew he wasn't now.

“They don't like each other,” Kaam whispered, and Courtney jumped, betraying how nervous
he
was. “Oh. I didn't see you edging closer. I was distracted, I suppose.”

“Those two, not Aan-glis, but . . . men like them, like you, like Lef-ten-aant.”

Courtney nodded in the dark. “Yes. All men,” he agreed. “We—at least some of us—call Mi-Anakka ‘Lemurians.'”

“Why?”

For an embarrassing moment, Courtney was at a loss. “Well, when my people first met Colonel Chack's, we didn't speak the same language—except for a
different
language that few of either of our people knew. . . .” He stopped, realizing how absurd that sounded. How to explain that his limited Latin and the corrupted version that Adar had learned from his Sacred Scrolls had formed the foundation of their early communications? “In any event, it's a long story. But that's what some of us called the Mi-Anakka. Among other things,” he added truthfully. “It's been a great advantage since that so many Mi-Anakka still understand one another after having been so long apart. There must be something about your base language that discourages corruption over time,” he thought aloud.

“I do not know,” Kaam said, but then flicked his ears at Silva and Miles. “I do know men. I met some Aan-glis traders long ago, and I knew Lef-ten-aant. I learned, like Mi-Anakka, there are good men and bad, so though they were men, they were still people. Only those who think
all
bad, like Gaa-rieks, and some Erokighaani, are not people. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I think so,” Courtney gasped, dragging the Vickers over a large rock, and believed he did.
How profound!
“There are men like that,” he confessed. “And by your definition they would certainly
not
be ‘people' either.”
Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin come immediately to mind.
 . . .

Kaam flicked his ears at Silva and Miles again. “What about them?”

Courtney had to stop and stare at Kaam in the darkness. He needed a rest anyway. “You can do that? Judge whether individual members of a, um, clan or species are people or not?”
Why not? I just did
.

“Yes. Among the Shee-Ree, those who are found not to be people are . . . not allowed to live among us. They are dangerous and must be made to go.”

“If they won't?”

“They are killed.”

“A sensible solution, I suppose,” Courtney said, rubbing his nose and starting forward again.

“Then you see also why I ask about them, since they”—Kaam paused thoughtfully—“and your Col-nol Chack are the most dangerous people I have ever seen. If they are not really people . . .”

“Oh! I see,” Courtney exhaled, glancing quickly back to make sure the two men hadn't heard.
What if they did?
Miles doesn't understand the language well enough, and Silva wouldn't care
. “Then rest assured. All of us are people, even dear Lawrence,” Courtney whispered firmly. After a brief pause, Kaam seemed to take him at his word.
Oh, I do hope we all
remain
people,
Courtney thought
. This dreadful war has torn us so!
But it's interesting that even though Grik aren't “people” in Kaam's eyes, he doesn't question Lawrence's personhood. Or mine
. He considered more carefully.
There doubtless lingers some bad in Dennis Silva's heart, but there's a great deal of good there as well. It's like he suffers from a kind of behavioral Tourette syndrome. Isn't there a name for that? And paradoxically, the worse the war gets, he alone seems to spiritually thrive, revealing more and more good all the time
.
But what of Miles? Silva probably explained that best himself. He sees a lot of his old self in Miles, and probably loathes him for it. In Miles's case, he sees in Silva a man he can never measure up to.
He frowned
. I think. I really haven't paid nearly enough attention to the man, particularly considering his long association with Commander Herring and the dreadful weapon the two of them literally smuggled into the war zone. I wonder how many know about that. Has Adar even told Captain Reddy?
That thought made Courtney extremely uncomfortable, and he vigorously shook his head
. I've been directly involved in few enough battles, but I'm sure the last thing I should be doing just now is pondering things such as that—and analyzing my companions
. He took several deep breaths.
It does keep my mind off this
tiresome, undignified advance, however, and this bloody great gun I so foolishly volunteered to operate! Perhaps I should've allowed others to move it. . . . “
How much farther?” he gasped.

“We are nearly close enough now,” Kaam replied. Ahead through the tangle of brush was a clearing about a hundred yards wide. Beyond it was the boma, densely packed with the brush that had been cut. Firelight flickered beyond it, from camps, Courtney assumed, and torches threw enough light to silhouette two of the gun embrasures before them. Occasional movement betrayed a Grik sentry, but there'd been no pickets, and it really didn't look like there was a great deal of tension or expectation on the other side of the palisade. He felt a thrill, but at the same time a sense of resentment threatened to overcome him. “They
are
ridiculously arrogant, aren't they? But all the better for us. I do believe we've achieved the element of surprise,” he murmured.

“The cleared area Col-nol Chack described before we parted is there,” Kaam confirmed. “The thunder weapons he saw must have a similar range to our bows.”

“If they are what he thinks, they should have a similar
accurate
range,” Courtney reminded, “but they're still lethal considerably farther away.”

“Either way, we have almost reached our attack place without discovery.” Kaam moved a bit farther, glancing right and left. “Here,” he said. “Place your weapon. Corpor-aal Miles,” he whispered louder, “here is the place!” Miles and Silva crawled forward.

“Looks like we caught 'em nappin',” Silva said. “We'll wake 'em up soon enough.” He looked at Kaam. “Whenever you're ready, Cap'n o' the Guard, but remember, as soon as we overrun the palisade, ever'body has to hit the brakes.” He watched the yellow eyes disappear behind uncomprehending—and frustrated—blinking. “I mean
stop
. ‘Raise a ruckus,' remember? We gotta give Chackie an' ol' Roar-at-Y'all a chance to do their thing. If we can do more beyond that, swell, but our main chore is to make a lot of noise an' keep it up for a while.”

*

Emaciated Lemurians plodded listlessly along in the dark, carrying burdens of dry wood on their shoulders that would've been impressive for strong, healthy 'Cats. These were anything but. Yet they staggered on
like a line of ants from the remains of the Khot-So village to the hastily constructed pier on the north side of the river. Chack had seen this through his Imperial telescope during his sunset observation from a small rise on the far side of the river, there to scrutinize the disposition of the enemy for himself. That's when his desperate plan, employing a few hypothetical scenarios he'd discussed with Silva and Lawrence, took its final shape. He didn't much
like
the plan, and feared it would be quite costly, but he simply couldn't think of anything better in the limited time they had.

The village had been dismantled, even the great trees cut down, all to feed the boilers of the Grik transport tugs that came and went almost every day, according to the scouts. Slave work parties moved constantly to shift all that wood, and they weren't even that closely guarded. What could they do? They were too weak to run far, and any who tried was shot by what looked like exact copies of the Allies' own first-generation muskets.
They must have gotten captured specimens of those out of Say-lon or Indiaa,
he'd realized. Occasionally, a slave simply dropped under its load. When that happened, a Grik guard eventually approached, cut its throat, and flung the corpse on one of the carts, also loaded with wood, drawn by other slaves. That burned his heart, but when he saw the grim procession pass through the lighter defensive circle, through the smaller encampment, and directly to the moored steamers and barges with no notice at all, the opportunity was obvious. Particularly when he studied the tugs. They were unlike anything he'd seen the Grik make. Double-ended side-wheelers, like he'd seen in the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and about fifty or sixty tails long. They gushed woodsmoke from a single tall funnel, he noted, which meant they kept steam up all the time, but they had no masts for sails at all; fairly ambitious considering how unreliable Grik engines had been thus far. Just as important as the tugs, however, was what he saw secured behind each one: a high-sided rectangular barge a hundred tails or more in length. Obviously, the Grik used them to bring troops and supplies to this place. He'd use them to get people out.