Blood In the Water (45 page)

“That's what they do, dammit,” Silva snapped. “You knew that! I'll allow these lizards're different from any I've seen, but when it boils down to it, they're still Grik, bein' Grik. Even on their ships, they keep folks in the hold—doin' that!”

“But I never
saw
it!” Miles snarled back. “It wasn't
real
, see? I always thought what the Japs did to me, to Horn and Herring and all the others, was the worst—and it kind of . . . broke me, you know? I don't mean it made me helpless, like some of the 'Cats we saw, but it made me a . . . different man. Selfish. Damn near useless,” he confessed, his tone now softer but even more bitter. “This never has been my war. You pegged me right off. I was just going along to get along, to be safe and get fed, and the hell with anybody else.” He looked down at his weapon. “I have
maybe half a drum left. That's it.” He looked back at Silva. “But this is
my
war now, by God! These 'Cats . . .” He took another long breath, and new tears appeared. “They're
good
people, Chief, and they need me. Hell, they
want
me! I had a . . . hard time, down in that pit, but when I crawled out, Kaam was gone with most everybody else and the Grik were closing in on the dock. It didn't look easy getting through.” He waved around at his Lemurian companions and straightened. “These fellas found me. Gave
me
a mission,” he said, looking at the youngling with Silva's Doom Stomper. “They saved me,” he added quietly.

“What mission?” Silva asked.

“Get as many of our people out of this mess as we can,” he said simply, and Silva was surprised how closely Miles's plan reflected his own. “This
was
a mess,” he stressed, “just like you and Colonel Chack knew it would be.” He wasn't accusing, just stating a fact, and Dennis had to agree. “But we still won,” Miles added, waving down at the destruction they'd caused and the two tugs and barges chuffing sparks near the middle of the river now. “We won the first victory against the Grik these people have ever seen. They know the Allies are fighting everywhere else, and winning sometimes, but now they know they can too. Word will spread, and 'Cat tribes from all over will come to fight.” He shrugged, and his face grew animated with excitement for the first time since Silva knew him. “I want to help them, to keep chewing on the Grik every chance we get. Maybe just as important, that Brit bomber gave me the idea that what we—all of us—need down here is an airstrip! These people can build one pretty easy on the plain near the Naa-Kaani village. That'll let us stay in touch, get more trainers and weapons down here, and give us an air base to hammer these Grik in the ass!”

“That's . . . a pretty good notion,” Silva allowed. “But how will anybody know we're doin' all that stuff, 'specially the airstrip?”

Miles looked at Silva, and his old smirk reappeared. “I thought ‘The Great Dennis Silva' always had a plan, never gave up, and always came through,” he mocked. “They'll know because
you'll
tell them. This is
my
show. I thought it up, and I don't want you meddling around.”

Silva cocked his head and arched the brow over his good eye, his near-perpetual grin approaching that worrisome shape. This was definitely a different Miles from the one that went into the battle, but they still weren't pals. “It's a cinch I ain't hitchin' a ride with Courtney or
Chackie,” Dennis said. “They'll pick up whoever's already made it downriver, if they can”—he gestured at the five 'Cats and the youngling standing beside him—“but they'll be long gone before us that stayed fightin' can get there.”

Miles snorted. “You're right—and you're stupid. Hurts to say the first, but I've been waiting a long time to say the other. And both are true. What we're going to do is help you get down behind the Grik before they wise up and start looking to their rear again. Then we're going to get you up in that,” he said, pointing. Silva looked, and for the first time he really noticed the second Grik zeppelin still suspended above the ground, miraculously untouched by the flames.

“I'll be damned. I should'a thought o' that,” he said, his grin changing, growing wider. “I really should, you know? Maybe I am a little stupid—tired.” He nodded decisively. “Sounds like a hoot, if I can make it go.”

“What? You never flew a zeppelin before?” Miles asked.

“Nope. But there's always a first time. I'm game, if we can get it.” He looked at Miles, nodded, then pulled his battered 1917 cutlass with his right hand and his .45 with his left. “An' you're right too. Let's go before they figure out some of us are still runnin' around behind 'em. No shootin' unless we have to.”

They scrambled closer to the docks and the preponderance of remaining Grik, keeping to the shadows as best they could. It wasn't easy. The flames lit the area pretty thoroughly, and the first rays of the sun had begun to emerge, turning the top of their objective a fluorescent golden pink. There was a lot of smoke, though, and the tugs and barges still held the Grik's attention, stopped in the middle of the river, transferring passengers from the dhows. Soon they were in sight of the mooring lines tethering the zeppelin to the ground, and there weren't any Grik in sight. The proximity of the fires had probably driven them away. A rope ladder dangled from the forward gondola. “I bet there's nobody up there either,” Miles puffed, tired from their run. “Hell, with everything burning all around,
I
wouldn't go up there.” He paused and grinned ironically, challengingly. “But I'm not Dennis Silva.”

“You just watch.” Silva grinned back. “Who's with me?” The five 'Cats who'd been with him for the rearguard fight all volunteered—somewhat hesitantly, he noted understandingly—and the female youngling with
his Doom Stomper defiantly stepped forward. “Oh, all right,” he grumped. “Go! All of you, before the damn lizards see us!” The 'Cats rushed the hanging ladder, so similar to those they used to access their tree lodges, and scampered up. Dennis turned to Miles. “You're gonna have to cut us loose,” he told him, “an' keep the Griks off us if they look this way, but haul ass as soon as we're risin'.” He scratched his ear under his helmet. “Might take us a minute or two to figure out how the damn thing works, but don't wait for that, just scram.”

“You won't have to tell us when,” Miles assured. “We'll be long gone.” Suddenly, hesitantly, he stuck out his hand.

Silva immediately took it. “I'm glad I didn't have to kill your sorry ass after all, Miles,” he said lightly, “but I still gotta know one thing: did Herring ever tell you who he gave that kudzu bomb to?”

Miles shook his head. “He didn't trust me anymore. I don't blame him. But just between us, I figure it was Adar. Maybe even Mr. Bradford. I know they were sending messages back and forth about it after we headed down here in the Seven boat—and Mr. Bradford's not as opposed to using it as he once was.”

Silva blinked thoughtfully. “Hmm. That may be. Even so, just between us, keep it to yourself.”

“Sure,” Miles said, looking at the waterfront when he heard a loud report. Apparently the Grik had finally moved a couple of cannon down from where they'd been stored ashore, waiting to be floated across, and were now firing at the tugs. The tugs themselves were gaining way, heading downstream. It was time to go. “I have just one more question for
you
, Chief Silva,” Miles said, still looking toward the river. “If
you
had the kudzu weapon, or knew where it was, what would you do with it?”

Silva raised his brow, then slowly, that very disconcerting grin of his spread across his face. “That's a damn stupid question,” he said. “Hell, I'd use it . . . first chance I got. If there was a button I could mash that'd kill every goddamn Grik on the planet, you couldn't kill me fast enough to keep me from punchin' it till it broke. So long, Miles!”

“Stupid question!” Petey cried back as the big chief gunner's mate ran to the rope ladder and hauled himself up.

“Good,” Miles said quietly, grimly. “Good,” he repeated more forcefully. Then he looked at his Lemurian companions. “Cut those lines, and let's get the hell out of here!”

CHAPTER
30

IRIS
Nachi
260 Miles N-NW of the Seychelles
October 12, 1944

General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa paced the quarterdeck of his Grik-built “cruiser” flagship, the “Imperial Regency of India Ship” (IRIS)
Nachi
, as his strike aircraft returned from their attack on the American/Lemurian convoy in untidy clumps.
Not very professional,
he brooded,
the way they straggle about so
.
But then, this was their very first carrier operation.
He sniffed.
Their first combat operation of any kind, in most cases,
he amended.
They will improve
. His mood lightened again.
It feels quite interesting to be . . . pleased about something,
he reflected.

What he himself recognized as an uncharacteristic frame of mind was founded on a variety of things. First, of course, he was at sea and had a relatively decent ship under him. He rather liked his cruisers, particularly
now they'd been significantly improved. Each was named after an “old world” cruiser and, despite numerous refinements, still resembled the old
Azuma
—Japan's very first ironclad warship—to some degree. Their rams (which he considered pointless, aside from the forward buoyancy and stability advantages they afforded) were much abbreviated, and their scantlings were uninterrupted except for gunports. He'd also done away with all but a vestigial, auxiliary sailing capacity now that his engineers had upgraded their machinery. The result was a small fleet of “pocket battleships,” to borrow a term, which combined the heavy firepower and toughness of his monstrous yet vulnerably slow and clumsy battleships, with much greater speed and agility than they'd ever had before. A further personal attraction was that they were smaller, less prominent targets than his three great carriers. He'd learned that lesson long ago; one should always avoid commanding from the deck of the most conspicuous target. Of course, if he had a
real
battleship to wrap around himself . . .

He raised his 7x50 Nikko binoculars and watched the planes return to his carriers
Kaga
and
Soryu
to port, and
Akagi
steaming some distance to starboard. Except for the leaders of the Grik squadrons, he'd specified that all his Japanese pilots operate from
Akagi
. He was glad he had. Planes recovered aboard her successfully enough, though it took a great deal longer than he'd have liked. One damaged plane missed the arresting cables and slammed into the raised barricade protecting the aircraft already aboard. The result was a brief fire, but no real damage. It was different on
Kaga
and
Soryu
. Muriname's Grik pilots had apparently learned to fly fairly well, and even the newly promoted “Captain of the Sky” Iguri, so long Muriname's opponent on the subject, had finally agreed that Grik could be made competent in the air. The older ones, properly matured and trained, even seemed to have a certain knack for aerobatics. Their carrier landings left a great deal to be desired, however, and now, returning with damaged aircraft or flushed with excitement for this new kind of combat, many Grik were landing . . . poorly.

General of the Sky Muriname will be furious at the preventable loss of so many of his precious planes and pilots
. Kurokawa almost chortled, and the occasional plane, cartwheeling into the sea or missing the big ship entirely and crashing in her wake, actually amused him. On one level he lamented the waste, of course, but it would take a great deal
more than a few comically dead Grik and lost planes to ruin his day. And signals indicated that
Akagi
, at least, would soon be prepared to launch a second strike against the crippled enemy convoy.

He felt a growing thrill. “Crippled” was the word that lifted him, sent by Iguri, who'd led the raid in one of the twin-engine bombers. He'd been strictly ordered to avoid the actual attack so he could observe its effect—and risk a brief transmission on the radio they'd copied from the one in their old Type 95 floatplane. His was one of only three planes equipped with radio, and transmissions were dangerous things—a point driven home by the fact that intercepted
enemy
communications had made this day possible in the first place. Iguri had dutifully refrained from exposing himself to the surprisingly effective defensive fire and reported the sinking of numerous auxiliaries and at least one of the strangely converted Grik dreadnaughts. He'd also related that the enemy
carrier
was crippled and ablaze by the time the first strike was forced to return for fuel and more ordnance. For all their vast advantages over the zeppelin fleets of the past, the new planes had very short legs and a range of only about a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles if they meant to return. But most important to Kurokawa personally, Iguri had seen a steel-hulled destroyer—apparently very active in the defense—take one of their wonderful new aerial torpedoes! That ship was also crippled, and dead in the water as well. Iguri had been unable to confirm that either ship had sunk, but both were definitely badly damaged.

Kurokawa was ecstatic. As far as he or Gravois's spies knew, his enemies had exactly two steel-hulled destroyers, and one remained laid up at Madras. That meant USS
Walker
herself—and
Captain Reddy
!—must've steamed to meet the convoy at some point. It only made sense, Kurokawa supposed, if the convoy was as important to him as Gravois indicated it would be. But instead of luring his greatest enemy into battle in response to today's attack, Kurokawa had already caught him. Crippled him! Maybe even killed him! He grasped that hope with both greedy hands and continued pacing with a genuine smile on his round face.

“Ah, General of the Sea,” said the slightly built Hara Mikawa, approaching his lord with care. Mikawa was
Nachi
's new captain, and he hadn't risen to the post from a mere ensign by being foolish. He was perfectly aware how volatile Kurokawa's moods could be. And
Nachi
's
first commander had taken great pains to remind him before leaving to command
Soryu
.

“Yes, Captain Mikawa,” Kurokawa said with a . . . bizarrely benevolent tone.

“There are further reports now, signaled from
Akagi
, made by returning airmen who had different perspectives on the attack, Lord.”

“And?”

“All concur that great damage has been inflicted,” Mikawa stated hastily, “and the last returning Japanese pilots report that the enemy carrier is fully ablaze and listing heavily.”

“Excellent news, Captain Mikawa!”

“Yes, Lord . . . but there seems to be . . . disagreement on a few small points.”

Kurokawa's smile faded slightly and he blinked. “Explain.”

“Lord, Captain Iguri said the enemy destroyer was struck by at least one torpedo from a staggered wave of bombers attacking the carrier from its starboard side, while the convoy was steaming eastward.”

“Yes?”

Mikawa licked his lips. “Lieutenant Takeo, who led the first waves of fighters rigged with bombs, reports that he saw the enemy destroyer close alongside . . .
another
of our former battleships and a number of support vessels. Possibly more than half the convoy, all told. They were some distance away from the carrier, and after taking numerous bomb hits, those that could all steamed
west
.”

Kurokawa waited.

“Lord,” Mikawa continued reluctantly, “based on these conflicting reports, is it not possible that the enemy somehow managed to employ
Walker
and
Mahan
with the convoy, in some fashion?”

Kurokawa waved his binoculars. “A common error, Captain! Spatial orientation is often skewed in the air. I have often found it so myself. And it is natural for men, caught in the exuberance of battle, to misremember details—perfectly understandable for them to confuse the exact direction of a target they are focused on attacking.” He smiled again. “Don't you see? Despite which flight leader ultimately claims the credit, this is further proof that the American destroyer that has plagued us so long was very badly damaged indeed, perhaps struck by bombs
and
torpedoes!” He smiled even more broadly. “And even if there
were
two, if they
somehow managed to repair the other sufficiently to send it down after all, then that's
both
of them accounted for at last!”

“Yes, Lord,” Mikawa agreed without inflection.

“Was there more?”

Mikawa took a breath. “Yes, Lord. Another sighting by two of our human pilots”—no one even considered taking reports from Grik—“confirms that at least a few of the enemy's modern warplanes, their P-Forties, were on their carrier when it was struck. Their destruction accelerated the flames aboard, in fact.”

“More wonderful news!” Kurokawa said, almost giddy. “I had wondered if Captain Reddy, having so wildly overextended himself, would send for them. I honestly doubted he would. And now they are destroyed as well!”

“Lord,” Mikawa added with in inward cringe, “though some were definitely destroyed, others were reported to have flown off the ship to engage our aircraft. They shot many down before our planes broke off the attack.”

Kurokawa's eyes narrowed, but then he smiled again. “We can replace our losses, even with Grik. They can never replace their modern warplanes. And where will they land? They couldn't have landed on the carrier even before it was blown from under them. I think we will find that, as many planes as we may have lost today, their most capable aircraft—and pilots—have been annihilated.”

A Grik runner approached and hurled himself to the deck at their feet. “
Akagi
is ready to launch its air-craht, Sire.
Soryu
an'
Kaga
is re-ar'ing, and is soon ready to launch, ah, ‘reduced' skadrans.”

“Very well,” Kurokawa said lightly. It was the first time Mikawa had ever seen him speak to any Grik without a measure of abuse. “Still,” he mused, looking back at Mikawa. “Any surviving enemy planes will likely make for the Seychelles. Gravois tells me they have begun constructing an airfield on one of the islands in that group. I won't send
our
army away from Zanzibar just yet, but perhaps General Esshk would be interested in sweeping such a small enemy force away.” He chuckled. “It might boost their reptilian morale, after all the reverses they've endured of late.” He shook his head. “But the Seychelles are the only place. They can't possibly reach anywhere else.”

“Lord?” Mikawa said, his voice suddenly rising in distress and his
eyes flaring wide. He pointed up at the late-morning sun just as alarm horns began to roar. “There is
one
other place!”

*

“Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead. Looks like we caught 'em just like they did us, with their pants down and planes all over their decks,” Ben Mallory said into his microphone over the roar of his engine. They'd also positioned themselves to approach out of the sun—just as the enemy had. Hopefully, it would work just as well for them. It definitely gave them a fine view of the enemy task force. The big carriers were as obviously made from Grik dreadnaughts as
Andamaan
and
Sular
had been, except they'd removed the casemates entirely and installed massive flight decks. Smoke hazed downwind from a cluster of funnels poking out their sides behind very small “islands.” And just like the planes, all three ships had big red “meatballs” painted on them. For an instant, Ben felt almost as if he were back in the “old” war, just fighting the Japanese again. He scowled.
Not likely
. They'd had it bad, and hearing from guys like Cecil Dixon that the Japanese had caught, it only kept getting worse. But it was hard for him to imagine anything being worse than
this
damn war.

He didn't see any apparent auxiliaries, like colliers or . . . oilers.
Hey!
he realized.
Those ships are burning oil!
He didn't know how he'd missed the complete lack of telltale columns of black smoke. But where'd they get the oil—and gasoline for their airplanes, for that matter? With a sudden certainty that startled him, he knew Kurokawa must've cozied back up to the Grik in a big way. Wherever he'd holed up after their apparent break, only the Grik could get oil to him, or allow him to take it. But judging by all the meatballs, Grik pilots and ship's crews or not, this was a Kurokawa show, pure and simple. Wasn't it? Things had changed, but Kurokawa and the Grik were friends again. Friends . . . but not together. So what were the Grik up to by themselves? That was an important question—and information by itself.