Blood In the Water (5 page)

“True, but none of them speak with Cap-i-taan Reddy's voice. I have come to rely on his counsel more heavily than any other.”

“I can't do that either,” Sandra objected.

“But you know the man and his thoughts well enough to stand in his stead in this instance, I think. I would like to know your opinion of the ‘Union' Alan Letts has arranged. You've read the particulars?”

Sandra shifted uncomfortably. Matt had very specifically
not
advised Adar too strongly on this subject. Just as he'd practically insisted—finally—that Adar leave the war to him, he'd bent over backward to stay out of the politics of the Alliance.

“Of course I have. Everybody has,” Sandra hedged. She knew most of them by heart. The Articles of Union were very similar to the Constitution of the United States, after all, with a few notable exceptions. Provisions had been made for only one legislative body, for example, but its numbers would be determined by the populations of the states, or “Homes” they represented. Some interesting, possibly temporary concessions had been made to the seagoing homes and other smaller population centers, most of which would eventually join larger Homes as semi-independent jurisdictions,
their High Chiefs becoming like mayors or county commissioners. Factionalism was inevitable; it already existed. But with members free to leave one state or Home to join another that they agreed with more strongly, and leaders still subject to popular vote, or acclamation—and removal by the same means—it seemed workable. It would be chaotic; democracies always were. But she certainly couldn't think of a better way to get so many disparate groups to work together.

She took a breath. “I guess I like it. It'll be a mess, but maybe not as bad as we've already been dealing with.”

“Cap-i-taan Reddy feels that way?”

Sandra nodded. “He does.”

Adar smiled and blinked his gratitude. “Then it will be as Mr. Letts has formed it. I had already decided that, I suppose, but I wanted Cap-i-taan Reddy's opinion.”

“You know why he couldn't tell you straight up, right?” Sandra asked.

“I do. And I honor him for his restraint. But he has helped form us in so many ways, Alan Letts in particular, how could we not share his opinions to some degree?” He glanced forward. “What remains then is a name. And a flag. Not all Homes will submit to the Banner of the Trees to represent them. They have symbols of their own.” He sighed. “It would be ironic if the Union were to fail over mere symbols.”

“Symbols are more important than you know, Mr. Chairman,” Sandra said.

“Perhaps. Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar believes so as well. The first time he saw your Amer-i-caan flag flying above a captured Grik ship, he had an epiphany that resulted in the Banner of the Trees! It is a . . . powerful symbol, and even I am not unaffected by it.” He sighed again. “We shall see,” he said.

Sandra saw a small form approaching beyond Adar's cape. “If you'll excuse me? Come here, Diania,” she said softly, extending her hand for the tablet the woman bore.

“By all means,” Adar agreed. “The status of our wounded is far more important than our little chat.”

“The list,” the dark-skinned beauty offered, carefully enunciating her words. The version of English she'd once spoken was almost incoherent. Sandra looked at her. Diania was an “expat Impie gal” she found in Maa-ni-la, there to escape the system of virtual female slavery that had
prevailed in the Empire of the New Britain Isles at the time. Sandra immediately swept her into the Navy for a variety of reasons, but mostly because she liked her and because if female Lemurians could serve on
Walker
, and ultimately all Allied ships, then female humans should be allowed to as well. Matt had not been pleased at the time, but the notion and the necessity grew on him. Things in the Empire had changed dramatically since the rise of Rebecca Anne McDonald to the position of Governor-Empress, and a few women even served on Imperial ships now. But Diania stayed with Sandra, essentially as her steward and bodyguard. In the latter, she'd been taught by and ultimately fallen in love with a man three times her age: Chief Bosun of the Navy Fitzhugh Gray. After his loss at the first Battle of Grik City, the light that had animated the young woman's face had dwindled to a cinder and Sandra worried a great deal about her.

She displayed the tablet to Adar. “The list of those deemed fit to return to light duty,” she explained. “Not that there is a lot for them to do aboard here, but each one is a victory.”

“Indeed. Thank you for all you have done.” He glanced at the tablet. “So many! And this list is tabulated how often?”

“Every day.”

Adar closed his eyes. “I have been right all along. The Heavens
did
guide you to us!” Sandra's face reddened, and Adar smiled. “I will leave you now.” He paused. “If you should think of a name for our new nation, please do not hesitate to inform me! Enough of our people owe you their lives, I suspect you could call it anything you liked and it would be accepted by acclamation!” With that, Adar turned to stride forward, leaving Sandra and Diania to stare after him.

“What
do
ye want tae call it?” Diania asked hesitantly. Sandra smiled at her, glad to hear real interest in her tone. “I'd call it ‘Virginia,' but nobody would understand why.”

“
I
would, um, Miz Minister,” came a deep male voice.

Sandra and Diania both stared at two deck chairs occupied by an extremely unlikely pair.

“I suppose you would at that, Gunny Horn,” Sandra said with a smile.

Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn was a black-haired and -bearded version of Dennis Silva, who was the pride—and terror—of the
Amer-i-caan Navy on this world. He was not quite as powerfully built, and not nearly as reluctant to let people know how smart he was, but he and Silva had a history of some sort that dated back to their days in China together. Ever since Arnie's arrival here on the ill-fated
Mizuki Maru
, they'd been thick as thieves. Again. Both had been wounded in the assault on the Celestial Palace at Grik City, but Horn's injuries were more severe. Seeing him here wasn't unusual; he often basked on deck, allowing the cooling breeze to wash over him. Sandra was surprised by his choice of companions, however. Reclining on a chair beside him was the diminutive, by comparison, form of Lieutenant Toryu Miyata. Miyata had defected from the Grik—and the Japanese maniac Hisashi Kurokawa—when he'd been sent to deliver an ultimatum to the Republic. Instead, he warned the people there, came east with
Amerika
, and ultimately joined the attack against the Celestial Mother. He'd been the most badly wounded member of the assault force to survive, having had his leg nearly torn off by some kind of huge, terrible beast unleashed to guard the lower levels of the palace. He hadn't lost the leg—quite—but he'd never be an athlete.

It was the sight of the two of them, an Imperial Japanese sailor and a “China” Marine, sitting companionably together, that gave Sandra a start. Of course they'd shared a tough mission; a nightmare none of them expected to survive. But that didn't erase the war they'd come from. If
they
could get along . . . Gathering herself, Sandra waved the tablet at Horn. “You're on this list, Gunny.”

“I know. Ain't it grand?” He lifted his T-shirt to expose a jagged purple scar halfway between his right hip and lower ribs, the result of a wickedly barbed Grik spear. Diania suddenly gasped and turned away. Sandra looked at her, concerned, doubting she was compelled by modesty. She'd been accustomed to running around practically nude in her former life, and had seen plenty of wounds and scars much worse than Gunny Horn's. More likely the wound reminded her too graphically and unexpectedly of when Horn got it—in the same battle that killed Chief Gray.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Miss Diania,” Horn said, flustered, misunderstanding. “My manners aren't much to speak of.”

The kind words probably too much for her to bear, Diania blurted,
“Excuse me, I beg,” and briskly strode off forward. Sandra watched her go, then turned to Arnie.

“It's not you,” she said, and Horn frowned comprehension, pulling his shirt back down. “Maybe,” he agreed, “but I wouldn't have . . . not for the world.”

Sandra nodded, realizing for the first time that Horn might actually be sweet on Diania. There was no reason he shouldn't be. She was beautiful, and now—however tragically—unattached. But Fitzhugh Gray's ghost still loomed large in Diania's life. He'd always been the perfect gentleman toward her and never openly acknowledged his feelings until the very end—and then only to Matt—but he'd been the center of Diania's world. Sandra hoped Horn, or someone with similar apparent integrity, might eventually heal Diania's broken soul, but there was no telling how long that might take.

Still watching the direction the woman had gone, Miyata sat up on his chair. “It looks like we will be steaming through one of those squalls. Gunnery Sergeant Horn, would you mind helping me up? Perhaps we should go inside.”

Horn stood. “Sure,” he said, helping the Japanese officer to his feet. “Say, Miz Minister, how much longer can we expect to enjoy this little pleasure cruise? It's not like I'm ungrateful for the rest, but I feel fine. Probably didn't need to come,” he prodded—again. “And I'd kind of like to get back in the game. Who knows what trouble that idiot Silva will stir up without me to yank his chain.”

Sandra laughed, tempted again to ask directly exactly what kind of “history” the two men had that made them so . . . compatible. Some shared adventure in China, she assumed. She shook her head. Later. “Kapitan Von Melhausen remains . . . indisposed, as you know. He's an old man and I'm sad to say his mind isn't always what it was. Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange has effective command. Have you met him?”

“I've seen him. Had a few words. We're not exactly pals, but he seems to know what's up.”

“He does,” Sandra assured, “and he told me that we're three days away from the Sunda Strait at this speed. Another two, at most, to Baalkpan.” She smiled. “So in less than a week you'll be free to begin lobbying Alan Letts for a new assignment. Even after Adar's return, Alan will probably be the best person to pester for something like that.”

“And I'm cleared for duty?”

“
Limited
duty,” Sandra stressed.

“Good enough.” He smirked. “Not that there's much to do around here.” A gust of wind ahead of the squall whipped against them. “C'mon, Miyata. Let's get you inside.” Horn glanced back at Sandra. “Thanks. And . . . please tell Miss Diania I apologize for startling her so.”

“Of course, Gunny Horn. And you're welcome.”

C
HAPTER
2

Zanzibar
Sovereign Nest of “Jaaph” Hunters
September 25, 1944

“So, General of the Sea Kurokawa, what, in your opinion, will the reptile leader, their, ah, ‘General Esshk,' do now?” Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois asked politely. He was seated on a chair in the open air opposite Kurokawa, who was nattily dressed, as usual, in his French naval uniform, round hat with patent leather brim, silk scarf, and highly polished boots. Kurokawa wore a “uniform” as well, though his was based only loosely on the one prescribed by the Japanese Imperial Navy. It was festooned with all sorts of imaginative ribbons and medals, likely of his own design. In contrast, Gravois's tunic was unadorned, with the exception of the “badge of devotion” to the fascist party that united the various members of the League of Tripoli. The badge resembled the emblem of the PPF at a glance, but the outer border embraced
not only the yoke and arrows of fascist Spain, but the Italian fasces as well. He'd earned other decorations in his career, of course, many he was quite proud of. But his business was clandestine action, after all, and he disliked revealing more about himself than was absolutely necessary. Waiting for Kurokawa to reply, he dabbed his thin mustache with a napkin and managed an engaging smile in spite of the vile grain wine that had just polluted his lips. This was the first time he'd met “socially”—and practically alone—with Kurokawa since he and his delegation arrived weeks before, and he'd managed, somehow, to keep from spraying the foul fermentation at his host. Kurokawa was a madman, Gravois had no doubt, but he was also an amazingly capable, cunning, and
dangerous
madman. Insulting him, and the revolting wine he seemed so childishly proud of, after Gravois had worked so hard to arrange this informal meeting between them was perhaps not the most diplomatic—or survivable—thing Gravois might do.

The two were not entirely alone beneath the bright canvas awning overlooking the . . . odd-looking warships in the bay. Kurokawa's most intimate staff members and the other members of Gravois's delegation from the League of Tripoli were all absent, though Gravois's companions were well aware of the meeting. Kurokawa's were not. The only others present, besides guards stationed out of earshot, were Gravois's aide, Aspirant Gilles Babin, and a young Japanese officer named Iguri whom Gravois recognized as “General of the Sky” Hideki Muriname's executive officer. They were seated opposite one another a short distance away, silently staring at the admittedly impressive fleet that Kurokawa had amassed on the southwest coast of Zanzibar. The fleet was composed largely of Grik dreadnaughts and cruisers he'd “appropriated” and improved and altered over time, as well as their largely Grik crews, who'd grown as slavishly loyal to him as they'd once been to their Celestial Mother. Gravois suspected that Kurokawa actually imagined himself to be the equivalent of that creature to them in his mind. He suppressed a shiver.

“Technically, he is not their ‘leader,'” Kurokawa said, smug in his greater knowledge of the Grik. “Esshk and his ‘Chooser'”—Kurokawa frowned—“a despicable but useful creature, have arranged the elevation of a new ‘Celestial Mother.' I am told the ceremony is . . . noteworthy,” he said, brows rising slightly. “She reigns now, in name. But you are correct
that Esshk is essentially in charge.” His eyes narrowed. “And likely to remain so. I suspect, having tasted the power of ‘regent champion,' he will never fully relinquish it, and ‘Celestial Mother' will increasingly become a ceremonial title.”

“Indeed?” Gravois said with genuine interest. He waved a hand. “I bow to your superior understanding of the reptile folk. But again, what do you believe he will
do
? His latest attack against your enemy was quite decisively destroyed, after all.”

Kurokawa gazed at him, his expression pregnant with a hidden secret, as well as great satisfaction that, for once, he knew something that Gravois, with all his elaborate means of gathering information, did not. “Captain Gravois,” he said at last, “I actually know
exactly
what First General Esshk means to do.
Is
doing now, as a matter of fact!”

Gravois feigned surprise. “Bravo! I had assumed you were in contact with him.” He hadn't “assumed,” he'd known. The “secret” envoys hadn't been as secret as Kurokawa obviously thought. But learning what those contacts entailed had grown increasingly urgent to him—and his superiors.

“I have,” Kurokawa admitted, still smug. He'd clearly been bursting with the need to gloat over his arrogant visitors, but Muriname had always been present during previous discussions and had somehow wordlessly restrained him. But Muriname wasn't here today. He was flying with Gravois's German pilot, Walbert Fiedler, in the Ju-52 that brought the delegation from the League of Tripoli to this place, observing as Muriname's primitive, by the League's standards, air force made practice attacks against one of Kurokawa's large ships underway. “We are ‘allies,' after all,” Kurokawa practically chortled.

“You convinced him that you remain loyal, even after your . . . past differences?”

“Little convincing was required. I merely told the truth about the formidable nature of the forces that defeated ours in India—a nature he has now seen for himself—and the disloyalty and treacherous incompetence of his protégé, General Halik, of course.” Gravois already knew that if anyone in India had been incompetent or treacherous toward First General Esshk, it had been Kurokawa himself, but he said nothing. “I did make a few judicious omissions,” Kurokawa added with a self-satisfied smile. “And Esshk needs me far more than I need him at
present. He was glad to accept my explanation—and award me the regency of India and Ceylon in perpetuity! Once they are recovered, of course.”

“Confirming the declaration you had already made yourself, and incidentally, what you told your loyal Grik here to get them to support you! Ha!” Gravois barked in genuine admiration. “What had been something of a fiction is now a fact and you need not be concerned that certain inconsistencies might arise to cause you difficulties!”

Kurokawa's face reddened. “I
was
regent of India and Ceylon,” he snapped, “before Halik allowed the defeat of his army and the Americans and their ape-man lackeys drove me out! I will rule there again, as well as over all the lands that border the Indian Ocean. With or without your help!” He stopped, eyes smoldering in his round face. “Aid me now as a friend and earn my appreciation, or deny me and earn my enmity!”

Gravois was always surprised by how quickly Kurokawa's moods could shift, and he raised a placating hand. “I and the League of Tripoli would like nothing more than your conquest of this entire region. It is inconveniently distant from us to properly monitor the beings who rule here, and we have no interest in it for ourselves. Much better that it be ruled by a friend and partner we admire and trust.”

Kurokawa settled back in his chair, somewhat mollified, and sipped his wine. “Then you will acquire the other things I requested? General of the Sky Muriname grows weary of Maggiore Rizzo's condescending glances at the aircraft he has labored so to create, for example, and if my enemy retains a single advantage over me, it is his few modern warplanes.” He leaned forward. “Do not disappoint me in this, Captain Gravois.”

Gravois winced. He'd procured a promise from the Triumvirate to supply Kurokawa with several modern planes and pilots—it wasn't as if the League had unlimited numbers of them, or the means to make more!—but he'd been admonished to insure that Kurokawa was reliable enough to use them wisely and discreetly. The League still wanted to avoid open conflict with the Grand Alliance for a few more years, at least, if at all possible. But if Kurokawa could rid them of the nuisance the Alliance was sure to become with a minimum of resources . . .

“You will not be disappointed, General of the Sea,” he said softly. “But I do beg you to share your insights regarding the plans of the Grik.” He paused long enough to take a cigarette from its case, light it, and then,
somewhat hesitantly, offer one to Kurokawa. Kurokawa was stunned. He hadn't tasted a real cigarette in two years. He greedily accepted the offering. “And,” Gravois continued lightly, “whether or not you have told Esshk anything about the League of Tripoli.”

Kurokawa paused again, absorbing the bitter-rich Turkish tobacco smoke into his lungs, finally wondering if he'd revealed too much. Deciding it really didn't matter, he chose an unusual course of action, for him, when it came to dealing with these strangers from the League. He decided to tell the truth. They had so many sources of information, they'd probably find out for themselves in any event. “I have renewed my association with First General Esshk for a variety of reasons that I explained to him as well as you. I have not necessarily stressed the
same
reasons to either of you,” he allowed with a sly look. “But all Esshk knows of the League is that it exists as ‘another ally' against our common enemy. I told him nothing about where you come from or what you might offer to our association.” His face clouded. “Simple enough, since you still hold those particulars very closely.” All Kurokawa had been told was that the League controlled the Mediterranean and most adjacent shores. He'd surmised a bit more, and other members of Gravois's delegation had let things slip from time to time. The German pilot Fiedler, for example, had revealed the most detail. But of the League's resources, all he knew was that they were “considerable.” He believed that based on what he'd seen, and the information they'd provided him about his enemy.

“As for Esshk's plan, much is already in place and has been since before the last attack on the Celestial City.” He chuckled. “It seems that he used a certain rival regent and a great many obsolescent troops and ships to serve the joint purpose of weakening the enemy while at the same time consolidating his power. Quite ingenious, actually. All the while, he has been massing his better troops—troops that
my
discoveries concerning Grik mentality helped create!” He glanced at his glass and took another long pull from the cigarette. Gravois couldn't tell if his expression was triumphant . . . or envious. “He prepares them for an overwhelming invasion of Madagascar,” Kurokawa continued after a moment, “aboard a new fleet of ships he conceals in a great lake up the Zambezi River, beyond the known reach of enemy reconnaissance.” He spread his hands. “I do not know what his fleet consists of, and only assume it is composed of more of what I had here. Sound, but poorly
executed designs,” he defended. “He may have refined them further, as have I. Esshk is a great many despicable things, but no fool. I suspect this time he will want to protect his new army by some means instead of counting only on overwhelming numbers.” He sucked more smoke and coughed slightly. “He also took a page from his rival's plan and has been quietly landing troops of his own on the southwest coast of Madagascar—the better troops his rival had disdained. To cover this, he continues to hold the enemy's attention by providing inconsequential targets in the strait that their ships cannot ignore, and by expending his dirigibles in constant attacks against their forces in the capital city to keep their airpower occupied. His entire plan is not dissimilar from the one his rival attempted, as a matter of fact,” Kurokawa reflected thoughtfully, “but will fall with greater weight and better troops and equipment upon a weaker, more dispersed defense.”

Gravois frowned. “To try the same thing a second time, even better equipped, strikes me as . . . risky, to say the least.”

“Ah, but there is a significant element to this plan that was missing from the last: a final diversion that our enemies cannot possibly resist, that will leave his forces at the Celestial City utterly at Esshk's mercy.” Kurokawa smiled as if anticipating the greatest possible pleasure. “Me,” he said simply. “I will attack the southbound convoy that protects and transports the enemy's First and Third Corps, as you so kindly suggested to me when you cautioned me to allow the first convoy to pass unmolested! Captain Reddy, still at Madagascar by your report, will have no choice but to rush to the convoy's aid, and I will finally enjoy destroying him at last!” Kurokawa seemed to practically shiver with anticipation.