Blood In the Water (49 page)

“Crap!” he exclaimed. They were a little lower now, and close to passing directly over Chack's tugs. He had no doubt they were about to be fired on. “Gimme that!” he ordered, shoving the 'Cat aside and taking the tiller. Immediately, he wrenched it hard to the left. The airship pivoted when the rudder behind the gondola vectored the thrust of the engine just in front of it. “Stick yer stupid heads out now,” he shouted. “Wave at our people, shake yer tails at 'em.
Piss
at 'em if you have to, but let 'em know we're the good guys, quick as you can!” Niri-Aani and the two other 'Cats started shouting and waving over the rails. Apparently, it had the desired effect, because no shots came, and Silva eased the tiller back to aim his zeppelin at the enemy once more.

The Grik airship was as high as they were, less than eight hundred yards away. The tug and barge were within two miles.

“What will we do?” Niri-Aani demanded.

“I'm calculatin' that now,” Dennis replied.

“You shoot the big fish with your magic maas-kit?”

“Not sure where to aim that'd do any good. Never thought I'd need incendiaries for the ol' Doom Stomper. 'Bout all there is, though. Gotta get past it somehow, an' bomb that Grik tug. I don't know that our people can get past 'em by theirselves.”

“
I
will shoot it!” Niri proclaimed derisively, hefting the big rifle again. “
I
will kill the flying fish!”

“You'll kill
yerself
, Squirt.” Silva chuckled. “That booger thumps on both ends. Here . . .” He motioned to the 'Cat he'd taken the tiller from. “Get back over here. Hold it just like this. You know yer left from yer right? I guess not. Just hold it steady. I'll try to take a shot.”

Hoping the 'Cat really could keep them steady, Dennis took his big rifle from Niri-Aani. “Hand me a round,” he said, pointing at the huge cartridges in the bandolier the youngling still wore, slung across her body. “An' keep 'em comin' until I say stop.” Obediently, the youngling
pulled a cartridge from a loop. It looked even more enormous in her small hand. Silva took it and, after opening the breech, shoved it in the chamber. Snapping the breech shut, he rested the weapon on the forward rail and crouched behind it, considering. The approaching zep was pointed almost directly at them, but its crew still had no reason to expect they were hostile. It was clear something had happened to the depot, and they probably thought Silva's zep and the tugs below were attempting to escape whatever it was. That would change if they got a closer look at the tugs—which Dennis couldn't risk—and as soon as he shot at them, of course.

“Steady,” he called, looking at the oncoming airship through his sights. He figured he could get several shots off, at least, before the enemy could react. Where to put them? A pair of one-inch holes near the tops of the bladders would release a lot of gas. How many of the five bladders would his big bullet penetrate, end on? All of them? At least three or four, he suspected. He also knew about where to aim to hit other things now as well, like the fuel tanks. But how to light them? He might not be able to. He shook his head. “I'm overthinkin' this,” he grumbled. “All this responsibleness I been samplin' lately has dulled my edge.” Adjusting his rear sight to the five-hundred-yard mark, he aimed near the top of the oncoming zeppelin and fired.

The gun rocked him back, and smoke coursed quickly through the open gondola. “Gimme another,” he demanded of Niri, who seemed a little stunned. She blinked and yanked another fat cartridge from the bandolier and handed it over. Dennis opened the breech, ejecting the smoking shell, and slid the new one in. Taking aim again, he sent another big bullet on its way. He managed a total of six increasingly painful shots before the enemy zep began to turn to port, about two hundred yards away. “Ghaa!” Dennis said, shaking his arm and wiggling his fingers before reloading again.

“The fish flies lower,” the 'Cat at the tiller observed excitedly. “It is dying!”

“Not yet,” Silva said, imagining the effect of what he'd done. With luck, he'd opened the equivalent of a square-foot hole in each of the forward bladders, at least. The zep would go down, and probably fairly soon—but even as he watched, sand-filled ballast bags dropped from under the forward gondola, the nose came up, and the engines—now
close enough to hear—roared louder. “They're tryin' to get above us,” he realized aloud, “so they can blast us with their swivels! Pull back on the tiller a bit.” The 'Cat complied, but they were going fast enough now that the nose came up more quickly than expected and the 'Cat lost his balance. With nothing else to grab, he hung on to the tiller, pulling it back to the stop.

“Whoa!” Silva roared, grabbing the rail while Niri tumbled toward the back of the gondola. “Level us off! You tryin' to loop us? Push that stick forward!”

Bracing his knees against the wicker deck, the 'Cat managed to comply, but it was too late. The big airship had practically stalled. Without the hydrogen that held them aloft, the elevators would only have increased the angle as they slid backward, straight into the river. As it was, the tail slowly began to rise, but for a moment they hung practically motionless, a sitting target for the pair of swivel guns the enemy could bring to bear. There'd be a double handful of half-inch balls in each, fired from less than a hundred and fifty yards. They'd instantly do as much or more damage than Dennis had managed, and probably hit some of “his” people as well. He shouldered the Doom Stomper and fired into the aft gondola, hoping to rattle the Grik gunners at least, and maybe get a hit on the bombs. It achieved the first objective, causing both gunners to fire wildly. They still hit the gondola, though, probably with the top of a pattern of shot, and a blizzard of balls and wicker fragments sprayed through the space. The 'Cat at the tiller cried out and fell, and Dennis felt a stinging pain in his side.

“Take that tiller!” Dennis roared at the other adult 'Cat. “An' bring my damn ammo back,” he demanded of Niri. The youngling was on all fours, tail high and whipping back and forth, but she blinked big yellow eyes and scampered to his side. Dennis loaded again as quickly as she gave him a cartridge and aimed at the aft gondola again. Then he blinked when first one, then two more Grik just . . . jumped out. “Hey . . . ,” he said, watching them fall. Only then did he realize they were trailing smoke from their feathery fur. “Hey!” he repeated louder, looking back at the zep. “Hard a'port!” he yelled. “Left! Left!
This
arm!” he roared in exasperation, flapping his own.

The dark interior of the aft gondola on the enemy zeppelin seemed
to flicker with a pale, almost neon blue for several seconds. Then, with a rushing
whump!
the bladder above it exploded in fire, shattering the airship completely in half. The gondola fell free and plummeted toward the river below even as both ends of the wrecked zeppelin quickly burst into flames. Burning fragments wafted down, unnervingly close to Silva's zep, but they'd turned away just in time. A heavy detonation drew Dennis's eye down where the gondola—and all the bombs aboard—had exploded when it hit the water just a few hundred yards short of the first tug in Chack's little convoy.

“Ha!” Silva barked, incredulous, but shaking his massive weapon with glee. “Ha-ha! They lit up their
own
stupid-ass selves! Must'a swirled a bunch'a gas down in there when they pitched up so sudden, then the vent jets on their guns set it off! Ha!”

“You are hurt!” Niri insisted, raising his bloody T-shirt to look at a gouge along his ribs.

“Nah, I ain't hurt. Just scratched this time, an' that's a fact,” Dennis said, glancing down at the graze. “My shoulder's a tad sore, though,” he confessed ruefully, rubbing it. “Have a look at our buddy over there. Looks like he took one in the leg.”

“What will we do now?” the 'Cat at the tiller asked while Niri examined their companion.

Dennis scratched his eye patch. “Well, first we're gonna climb a bit higher an' bomb the shit outa that Grik tug an' the barge behind it. If they ain't got anything more than muskets, we oughta be okay. We got six tries to hit 'em. Kaam said there ain't no flasher fish in the river this far from the coast, but there's other boogers. An' I never saw a Grik swim before. After that, I'll see what shape our ‘flyin' fish' is in. If it ain't bad, we'll scout for our friends until they reach the sea, then hightail it to Grik City. If I don't think we can make it, why, we'll hitch a ride with Chackie. Either way, by air or sea, we're gettin' the hell outa here.” Suddenly, he grinned. “Chackie lured me down on this little jaunt promisin' me a huntin' trip, an' I thought it was gonna be a bust, at first. Now I've sunk a super lizard with a torpedo, killed a puff lizard, an' shot down a zep—I mean a giant flyin' fish—with my Doom Stomper! An' I'm fixin' to sink another bunch'a Griks
from
a flyin' fish! Helluva time.” To everyone's amazement, he began to sing with his dry, smoke-roughened voice.

Oh! I come from ol' Grik City, an' had a helluva lot o' fun,

I killed two hundred Griks with my favorite Tommy gun!

But it don't make a dit o' bifference, to neither you or I,

Big Grik, little Grik, all run 'er die!

Oh! The Doms an' Griks are full o' tricks . . .

He paused, shook his head in frustration, but began again as the airship rose, angling toward the enemy.

Oh! I learned to fly, like a Air Corps guy, without the fancy suit . . .

CHAPTER
32

USS
Walker
Grik City Bay
October 12, 1944

“It's bad, Skipper. Damn bad,” Spanky said grimly, entering the wardroom with a sheaf of message forms in his hand. Matt had been staring out the starboard-side porthole at
Santa Catalina
's dark form, silhouetted by the setting sun. The nightly air raid would likely begin in a couple of hours, but for now, all was peaceful. He and numerous others were gathered there, waiting for the latest. He turned and nodded at his Exec. He'd known it was going to be bad; reports had been coming in all day and it already was. Apparently, judging by Spanky's expression, things were about to get even worse. It was interesting, he thought. Everyone was gathered aboard
Walker
again, for a change. Admiral Keje was there, flown in from
Big Sal
by Captain Tikker, who sat uncomfortably on a chair beside him. Keje's red-brown eyes were blinking solemnly as
he exchanged whispers with General Queen Protector Safir Maraan. Russ Chappelle had come over from
Santy Cat
, and Majors Risa-Sab-At and Alistair Jindal had just arrived. Leftenant Doocy Meek, effectively now the Republic's direct liaison to Matt, was sipping coffee with a frown, a sheaf of new maps lying on the table in front of him. Commander Bernie Sandison, Lieutenant Tabby, and Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross had found places at the big wardroom table, and Chief Bosun's Mate Jeek stood behind them, saving the last chair for Spanky. Juan Marcos hovered expectantly near the curtain leading aft, a battered coffee urn in his hand. He suddenly thumped the curtain viciously when some listener lurking beyond it leaned too close. The muffled curse that resulted sounded suspiciously like it came from Earl Lanier.
After all we've been through, it's just like old times,
Matt reflected with a half smile at his crew's antics, for the benefit of the others, but he felt a sick feeling in his gut. It had been growing for days, as concern over
Amerika
's “overdue” status seeped into his consciousness, and now the trickle that fed his apprehension had become a flood.
Walker
's wardroom was crowded with old friends, though far too many were absent, and they'd gathered again as they had so often in the past to try to manage a terrible situation.

“What do you have?” Matt asked, holding out his hand as Spanky settled in the chair beside him. Spanky subtly held the papers back. “Why don't I just hit the high points, Skipper? The low points, I mean,” he amended. “We can go over the rest of this briar patch”—he shook the forms—“after we adjourn.” He nodded around the table. “Some of these guys need to get ashore or back to their ships.”

Matt nodded. “Sure, Spanky. Good idea.”

Spanky grimaced, flipping through the forms until he pulled one out and laid it on the stack. “In addition to
Geran-Eras
and that big-assed AVD
Andamaan
,
Baalkpan Bay
is gone,” he stated flatly. Everyone already knew the carrier was doomed, but it hurt to hear Spanky confirm it. “
James Ellis
finished her with torpedoes,” he added. “
Ellie
took a couple of bombs herself and had seven killed and twenty wounded, but Captain Brister says the damage was superficial. She'll be ready for action as soon as she can get her wounded and all the people she took aboard set ashore. She rescued
Geran-Eras
's crew and picked up a couple hundred troops from
Andamaan
's boats.”

“Just how good are the new Jap torpedoes?” Bernie asked, probably talking out loud to himself.

“Good enough to sink
Geran-Eras
with one hit,” Spanky grumbled. “Of course, it opened her up near her keel right at the bulkhead between both engine rooms, so she lost just about everything all at once. We won't know more until we get a full report from her people.” Spanky looked back at his list. “We lost nearly half the light auxiliaries: fast transports, oilers, ammunition ships—you name it. They weren't equipped for air defense at all and were sitting ducks. We're gonna be
damn
strapped for auxiliaries for a while.” He looked up at Matt. “Losses in crews range from two or three, to, well, total, on one of the ammo haulers. Our worst losses were on
Andamaan
, which took nearly four hundred down with her, along with four of the big Clippers on board. And
Baalkpan Bay
, of course. Commodore Kek-Taal got almost all the troops off her, including General Alden, thank God, but early estimates are that close to a third of her crew was lost. Nearly everybody in engineering. Probably around another four hundred. Of course, her whole air wing is gone too, except a few Fourteenth Pursuit Fleashooters. They're on Mahe with Colonel Mallory, his five remaining P-Forties—two of which are damaged—and maybe a couple dozen Nancys off all the ships that carried 'em. Talk about a hash-up squadron! Jumbo Fisher's two remaining Clippers are there. Jumbo wanted to get back in the air immediately and go looking for that last carrier, at least see where it came from. Ben told him ‘no go.' He'd be easy meat for those new Jap/Grik fighters, even if he found 'em.” He nodded at Doocy Meek. “And after what Mr. Meek and Commander Leedom saw on their scout up the Zambezi, I took the liberty of telling Jumbo to patch his ships on the double, but stay put for now. We may want 'em down here.”

“What about Commodore Kek-Taal?” Keje asked. He'd never much liked the Sularan, but they'd known each other a long time.

“Went down with his ship,” Spanky answered solemnly. “They say smoke probably got him and everybody else on the bridge.” He shook his head.

“On the bright side—if you can find one after the licking we took—General Alden just transferred to
Sular
, which is nearing Mahe in company with
Tarakan
Island
. He and General Lord Rolak both report that First and Third Corps are virtually intact and can be combat ready as
soon as they get ashore somewhere and get everybody sorted out. That won't be near as easy to manage as it was to say, but we're damn fortunate in that respect. We lost too many planes and pilots, fuel and ordnance, but most of our heavy combat equipment and the new squadron of MTBs made it through okay aboard the heavies that got away. And
Tarakan Island
and some of the fast transports had a fair number of crated Nancys and Fleashooters aboard. Not near what we hoped to get, but some. As you know, Colonel Mallory has pulled out all the stops to get Mahe's airfield fully operational, and in addition to the mixed wing of surviving planes he's patched together, he wants some of the carrier's pilots and support personnel dropped off with him as well. Says we need to put airfields all over the Seychelles, and even the Comoros Isles, eventually.”

Matt considered that. “Very well. Mahe's as good a place as any to muster the survivors and see what we have left. And as for the additional airfields . . .” Matt took a long, frustrated breath. “I would've liked to have done that already, if we'd had the planes and personnel.”

Tikker blinked frustration. “But we didn't have 'em.”

“No, but Mahe was a start—and it's a good thing we had it.” He rubbed his face. “Let Ben have at least a few crated planes, and he can shanghai half the support personnel he asks for. But make sure he gets whatever we can spare in the way of heavy equipment and engineers to get the airfields up and running. He's our new northern picket, after all, and we need those strips for forward recon and dispersal as much as for protection. Have him set up a
supportable
patrol schedule for his Nancys and one of the Clippers, far enough out to do some good, but close enough that he can scramble some help if they run into trouble. We'll need most of the planes and pilots here, though. At least until we get more replacements through.
Salissa
and
Arracca
, not to mention Grik City, are down to the bare bones. And I want Fisher and his Clipper down here. We're going to have to keep a very close eye on the Zambezi.” He looked at Doocy Meek. “Which brings us to you, in a roundabout way.” He nodded at the maps in front of the Republic liaison.

“So it does,” Meek replied, pushing one of the maps across the table and turning it around. “Most of Captain Galay's photographs were quite good, actually, but their size made the details difficult to see. Your
Lemurian cartographers are bloody talented artists, though. I'd say they enlarged the photos very faithfully.”

Matt stood and stared down at the map, while others leaned in to see them as well. “That's Sofesshk?” Matt asked.

“Aye. The ‘palace' looks a great deal like that mucking great mound on shore here, doesn't it?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Cowflop. “You'll note the striking difference between the part of the city surrounding it and the rest across the river. You'll also note it's a bloody
big
city!”

Matt looked up at him. “And you didn't take any ground fire at all when you flew over it? None of those damn rockets?”

“None. Though I doubt that means they weren't there.” Meek snorted. “They seemed quite surprised to see us.” He pushed another map across, with the east end of a large lake dominating the thirty-six-by-forty-two-inch sheet. “It was a different story here, of course. I'm sure they saw us coming. Heard us, perhaps. Or, being predominately military Grik, they may've just been more observant.” He pointed at several places. “Concentrated rocket batteries here, here, here, and here. The . . . ‘plain'—I suppose that's the best word—here to the south was an immense marshaling yard for zeppelins, as you can see, but they weren't bunched together or secured to one another as they are when they make their attacks here, so they presented a rather poor target. My assumption is that they gather and bind them to one another much closer to here and perhaps only build and disperse them from Sofesshk or the lake. In any event, with our aircraft already damaged, Commander Leedom chose to bomb one of the large warships anchored offshore of those interesting sheds.” He peered closer and pointed. “That's the very one, in point of fact. It was heavily damaged, at least. You can see from the drawing that the ships are just as large, but different from others we've encountered. I have larger drawings of them, rendered as well as possible, that seem to imply fewer but bigger guns, in addition to some other modifications that weren't clear enough to accurately render.”

Matt was staring hard at the map. “No aircraft carriers, like hit TF Alden?”

“None,” Meek confirmed. “Granted, we didn't fly the length of the lake, and they may have other ships anchored farther inland . . . but certainly,
if they had such ships or the planes they carry, they would've pursued us, don't you think? Even surprised, they could've gotten those up in time to catch us.” He frowned. “I haven't had the displeasure of encountering him before, but I'm well aware of your suspicions that the force that attacked TF Alden, though allied with the Grik, is under the control of that devil Kurokawa. I suspect as you do that only he could—or would—produce aircraft so similar to your own and they and the ships that launched them were probably under his direct, exclusive control. I honestly don't know what to say about that, or have any idea what we should try to do about it. He remains a threat, despite the pranging Colonel Mallory gave him in return, and you're far better qualified than I to devise a strategy to deal with him. My focus remains on the Grik my own people must fight through to join you at Sofesshk, if that city remains your primary objective.”

Matt looked at Meek for a long moment before nodding. “It does. For now. Like we've been discussing, though, we have to see what we have left to do it with—and how much Kurokawa's going to screw with that. I've always said, now we have this place, we can't just keep waiting for the Grik to push us off. We have to keep after them. Figuring out how, with what we have, is the trick.”