Blood In the Water (10 page)

The roar in the trees was continuous now, surging and bellowing, echoing yet muted.

Abel turned back to watch. “And the noise?” he asked again, just as a tall, narrow tree quivered and fell forward, finally revealing a squat, ugly shape surrounded by a swirl of blue smoke. It roared louder and crawled over the shattered tree, bounced, then thundered toward the line of infantry. Some of the Khonashi took a step back, but an apparently ancient Lemurian sergeant named Moe bellowed at them to hold the line as he paced behind them. Chasing him was a small “real” Grik called Poky, who carried nothing but a haversack and a notepad of stiff paper. Not many of the Khonashi so much as twitched, however, and wouldn't have even in the face of a “super lizard.” This monster should've been even more terrifying since it wasn't a “real” monster they knew how to kill.

“My God,” Abel breathed. “It's a tank!”

Alan grinned. “Yeah, I guess. Look it over when it gets here.” He chuckled. “It'll take a few minutes. It's not very fast.” He looked at I'joorka. “Congratulations, Major. The last regiment we did that to, from Austraal, ran all the way back to the bay and nearly jumped in the water! Your troops are steady enough for just about anything they'll run into.”

“Yes, they are,” I'joorka agreed, fascinated by the tracked . . . thing, still roaring and clanking toward them. “Sergeant,” he called to Moe. “Clear a lane so that . . . tank can get through.” Moe sketched a salute.

“It's certainly loud enough,” Stuart said doubtfully. “But what is it for, besides breaking small trees and frightening troops in training?”

“What it's
for
is to protect the crews of the two machine guns inside while it advances into enemy fire,” Alan explained. “It's only lightly armored, but it'll stop small arms, and even small roundshot from Grik or Dom field guns beyond a couple hundred yards. With tractor treads, it can go just about anywhere—as you've seen. It's loud because it has an unmuffled engine, just like those straight sixes we put in the PTs.” The thing rumbled closer, looking like a faceted, riveted turtle shell about sixteen feet long and ten feet wide on caterpillar tracks. The muzzles of two machine guns protruded from sponsons near the front of the shell and a 'Cat stood, half-exposed, from a hatch on top. He wore a leather helmet with ear holes on the sides near the top and a big grin on his face. Alan shook his head. “Whether they'll do any good depends on whether we can solve all the problems with them—and build enough to make a difference. You're looking at a quarter of the operational tanks in the whole Alliance right now, and I'm not sure there'll be any more for quite a while.”

“Why?” Abel asked, advancing to look at the machine as it finally churned through the line of troops and rocked to a halt a short distance away. Motionless now, the engine roar was still loud but bearable. Blue smoke wafted away from the rear. The 'Cat on top climbed the rest of the way out of his hatch and saluted. The gathered officers saluted back. “Why?” Abel asked again.

“In case you haven't noticed, there's a war on,” Alan replied wryly. “And while that may make a fine argument for building hundreds of these things, there's still a metal shortage. Good steel, in particular. What's left
of
Amagi
is just about gone, and we save that for really important stuff. We're getting more and more out of Indiaa now; the Grik foundries and mills we captured had started making some scary decent stuff, and we've improved it even more. We're getting billets of iron and steel for airplane engines, guns, projectiles, bombs, you name it. And we're getting good plate steel from the rolling mills the Grik built to make plate armor for their battlewagons. The trouble is, practically each and every plate our people ship back here is allocated before it even goes to sea. Right now, modern ships have priority. They howled like boiling monkeys when I diverted enough just for the four prototype tanks we built!”

Abel already knew the advantages that armored vehicles might deliver to their ground troops, “might” being the operative word. The thing was big and heavy, and he wasn't sure they'd fought many battles in places the thing could even go, much less contribute to the outcome. Stuart and I'joorka were quick to catch on to the advantages.

“Such a machine, impervious to wounds, could tear right through Grik—or Dom positions,” Stuart said.

“Allowing in'antry to attack through the holes it creates,” I'joorka enthused.

“Ah, yeah, that's the idea,” Alan agreed. “It's the whole point behind them. But my planners tell me the country we're fighting in right now, and we're liable to be fighting in when we jump across to Africa from Madagascar, is no good for tanks and we're better off focusing on other stuff,” he added, confirming Abel's concerns. He looked at Stuart. “And squirreling enough steel away to make enough of them to send against the Doms just isn't going to happen, for the reasons I already mentioned.”

“The Ardennes were not considered good tank country either, Mr. Chairman,” Abel said, suddenly remembering. “Yet the Germans passed through them to get around the fixed defenses in France. With tanks.”

Alan nodded. “Yeah. They had roads, but yeah. And we have to assume the Grik have roads. We know the Doms do. I didn't say I completely
agreed
with my planners. We wouldn't have any tanks at all if I did. But their assessments are considered by the representatives who vote allocations, and they want a whole fleet of
Walker
Class DDs, and the upsize cruisers based on them! Can't say I blame them either, to be honest.” He was silent a moment. “Never forget, just like us old destroyermen,
Lemurians are first and foremost people of the sea. So are Imperials,” he said, looking at Stuart. “They'll always equate control of the sea—and now the air, thank God—with safety for their homes and people. And as this war moves farther and farther from their homes, they're starting to lose some of the urgency
we
think they should feel to eliminate the threat once and for all.” He shrugged. “They feel safer now, and that's part of our problem. Even Captain Reddy and the war in the West are far enough away that people here can hardly imagine it. They're still
close
to that war because they're reminded of it every day. They work to support it; their loved ones are fighting—and dying—in it. And the Grik are the ‘Ancient Enemy,' so they're still all in.” He looked at Stuart. “But the war against the Doms is on the bottom of the world, as far as these folks think. It's understandable if they have a hard time staying ‘all in' for that one.”

“Understandable, perhaps,” Abel almost snapped, looking at I'joorka and the Khonashis he'd fought beside to destroy
Hidoiame
. Whatever their shape, they'd cast their lot with the Union and the Alliance when they, of all people, could've hidden from the wars and watched them pass, regardless who won, with the least inconvenience to themselves and their prior way of life. “But unforgivable that they would deny anything that might help win the war—either war—to whoever might need it.”

Alan was silent for a long moment, puffing on his vile PIG-cig, looking thoughtful. Finally, he tossed it away. “Congratulations, Major I'joorka,” he finally said. “Your regiment has completed every requirement necessary at the Baalkpan ATC to be declared fully operational, and is now prepared for deployment in all respects. This little display today wasn't really part of the curriculum. It was as much for your benefit as anybody else's, so you'd really know what you've got. Please extend my warmest admiration to your regiment. You have some swell people. Graduation ceremonies will commence at oh nine hundred, the day after tomorrow. They'll be attended by your representatives and a lot of other folks from the city and across the Alliance. After that, you can start a liberty rotation as you see fit. Give 'em a break—but remember to warn your, uh, nonhuman troops to stay in groups.” He shook his head. “Sorry I have to say that, and it isn't right, but like I said, folks have to have time to get used to each other.” He shifted his gaze from I'joorka to the rest of the regiment, then back to the idling tank. “As
we've discussed,” he said, “your deployment will most likely be to join General Shinya's Tenth Corps.” He smiled faintly. “His ‘Army of the Sisters.' And
I
won't forget you when you're down on the bottom of the world, any of you, and I'll do my damnedest to make sure nobody else does either.”

C
HAPTER
5

“Army of the Sisters”
September 26, 1944

A light, ragged volley of musket fire clattered from the trees bordering the brightly lit, rutted trail twelve miles south of the Dominion village of Kotopaxi, ninety miles north of Chimborazo. Most of the shots were wild, but one 'Cat in Captain Blas-Ma-Ar's Second of the 2nd (Lemurian-Amer-i-caan) Marines snapped a curse and clutched his arm. Blas made a loud
snick-snick
sound and pointed at the white gun smoke while the dark-haired, dark-skinned trooper riding beside her raised a hand, halting the column. Immediately, a squad of former Imperial lancers, now dragoons, led by Blas's First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak (“Spook”), unlimbered their carbines and spurred their horses directly at the ambush. Dingy, yellow-clad forms rose from their hiding places and bolted downslope, clearly hoping to lose their pursuers in the dense timber and deadfall. They didn't stand a chance. Spook's
dragoons had amassed a lot of practice at this sort of thing over the last few days, and Blas would be surprised if any ambushers survived. “Corps-'Cat,” she called, summoning aid for her wounded Marine as the woods below began echoing with shots.

“They try to nibble us to death,” proposed Teniente Pacal, the swarthy man beside her, in charge of the company of Sister Audry and Arano Garcia's “Vengadores” attached to the sadly diminished “A” Company of the 2nd. Blas's mission was to make contact with the bulk of what remained of the Dom Army and probe to discover its size and disposition before the rest of the Allied forces arrived. Shinya would then decide whether to attack immediately or maneuver, possibly even attempting to simply cut the Dom army off and starve it to death.

“They nibble with busted teeth,” Blas replied contemptuously. The ambushes had been nearly constant since they'd descended back below the timberline from the high, cold mountain road above, and though they'd taken several casualties, their attackers had been practically exterminated every time. Still, it was a nuisance, particularly after the freezing, windy misery of their high passage. For three days they'd traveled a rough, rocky trace, little more than a game trail, which might've been difficult to follow if not for all the abandoned military equipment strewn along the path. At least for the first twenty miles or so. After that there was less equipment, but a lot more bodies. Men and animals, wounded in the battle for Fort Defiance, had been left to die where they dropped, freezing hard as stone at night and scavenged by carrion eaters during the day. There were other bodies too: men apparently “sacrificed” to appease the twisted God of Don Hernan de Devina Dicha and the “Holy Dominion” he served after the defeat of his “Army of God.” Or perhaps they'd been examples? Don Hernan was very fond of providing examples of what befell those who didn't please him. Together, the trail of accoutrements and corpses bore an eloquent if mute testimony to the precipitous retreat so recently effected. A retreat that was increasingly looking like an escape.

“But they do slow us down,” Blas added bitterly. “Makin' us hesitate, even if we don't always deploy, in case the Doms only run off to suck our dragoons to a trap.” She blinked at her companion as Pacal looked back at the Lemurian female, a little nervously as usual. Sometimes still called “Blossom” behind her back by her old Navy pals, Blas had a reputation as
one of the fiercest fighters in what General Tomatsu Shinya increasingly referred to as “the Army of the Sisters.” And most of her reputation had been built killing men like Pacal. The Vengadores were former soldiers of the Holy Dominion, captured after their defeat on New Ireland, who'd been converted to true Christianity—and the cause of destroying their former masters—by the tireless, gentle ministrations of their new spiritual and military leader, Sister Audry. She'd been a Benedictine nun, brought to this world aboard the old S-19, and constituted one of the three “sisters” that gave the army its unofficial new name. But Pacal knew Blas had a ferocious temper and it had been building for days as the ambushes nagged them—and they viewed the handiwork of his former countrymen.

“An' we can't just run off an' leave Spook to fend for himself if it
is
a trap.” Blas snorted. “Which keeps us goin' at a crawl. So, gettin' many of us 'er not, they're still accomplishin' somethin'.” She nodded forward. “But what?” Scouts sent ahead of the column, apparently too few to trip the ambushes, consistently reported nothing in their path. “You'd think the closer we got to Koto-paaxi, we'd finally run into a defense, some kinda hasty fort, or at least a bigger rearguard. There ain't no place for the Doms to go, past Koto-paaxi. The maps we captured show no roads between there an' Popayan,” Blas said, referring to the next large village to the north, northwest, “and that evil baas-tard Don Hernaan has to know he can't escape by way of Quito, to the west. Our navy took a beatin' at Maal-pelo, but his was practically rubbed out. He
can't
get away by sea.” Her quiet rant, something she did fairly often in Pacal's experience, was interrupted by a growing flurry of shots deep in the woods that went on for several minutes. When it finally tapered off, there was a lot of indecipherable shouting (quite normal), then silence for a moment—until a crackly drone began to rise, echoing in the trees and off the distant mountains.

“About daamn time!” Blas exclaimed. “A plane! Finally! Lazy baas-tards.”

Allied aircraft had been having a lot of trouble getting over the mountains from their bases on a couple of coastal lakes and Guayakwil Bay. The few Grikbirds that had remained with Don Hernan's army—large, flying creatures that looked like colorful Grik with wings—had apparently retreated with him, but in some cases, the mountains in the region jutted
higher than Allied carburetors—or aircrews—could breath. And high altitude had been an increasingly evident problem for Lemurian aviators. Apparently, 'Cats required more oxygen than humans, and it had finally been determined that they risked hypoxia at anything much over eight thousand feet. Debilitating effects were more likely the higher they went and the longer they lingered there. That discovery explained a great deal, going all the way back to some of Tikker's high-altitude . . . antics . . . in the old PBY. But even the lower mountain passes were prohibitively dangerous, swirling with treacherous winds that could easily fling a plane out of control. And then, of course, there was the cold. Blas wore a peacoat over her tie-dyed combat frock and was
still
cold, even back down among the trees. How men like Pacal stood it without fur was beyond her. And flying even higher in an open cockpit must be pure hell. She looked up and shivered involuntarily.

“Course,” she said, “until we find a lake 'er somethin' on the east side o' the mountains big enough to operate planes off of, for scoutin' or attackin', I guess I shouldn't gripe when one makes it across.” She and Pacal and a number of troopers behind her scanned the sky for the aircraft heralded by the growing roar of its engine. They couldn't see it for the trees, but it should find the six-hundred-man-and-'Cat column easily enough.

“There!” several voices cried as a bright blue-and-white shape swooped by, north to south, low over the trees. It was a Nancy flying boat, with its distinctive fuselage, high wing, and pusher-mounted engine. It pulled up and banked to the east, coming around for another pass. When it flew over again, a bright wooden tube with a long streamer fluttered down near the head of the column. Then, with a waggle of its wings, the plane turned to the south.

“Must'a come up the Quito road from the sea,” Blas said excitedly as a pair of Pacal's men dismounted to retrieve the message where it landed on the west side of the road a short distance into the trees. “They'll have flown right over the Doms at Koto-paaxi an' seen everything! They'll be headin' back to report to Shinya now.”

A Vengadore approached with the message tube and Blas took it, twisting out the plug. She pulled a fine piece of Imperial paper covered with a ragged scrawl from inside, briefly appalled by the waste. Paper was still “new” to her, and the stuff made in Baalkpan was rough and brittle.
Of course, the Impies had been making paper for maybe two hundred years. She shrugged and tried to read the tortuously printed English on the page. Suddenly, with a snarl of rage, she shredded the sheet and hurled the fragments to flutter away on the light breeze.

“What is wrong, Capitan Blas? What has happened?” Pacal asked, alarmed.

Blas glared at him. “That slimy, creepy, murderin'
freak
is get away!” she hissed, her English slipping. “Iss annaar gikaa suk chik-aash . . . !” She stopped and took a deep breath, blinking apologetically. “Don Hernaan's got away
again
!”

“How?” Pacal asked, equally upset if not as furious.

“How should I know? Maybe he snatched the feet of his daamn flyin' Grikbirds an' flew the hell away!”

Pacal nodded at one of the fragments of paper lying nearby. “What did that say?”

Blas took another deep breath, blinking such a wide range of conflicting emotions that Pacal couldn't possibly decipher them. “Koto-paaxi is just like Chim-boraazo: burned out to the ground. They must'a done it three or four days ago, I bet, before we came 'round that last high turn in the road, or we'd have seen the fire at night or smoke in the day. We'd have come faster then, piss-aant ambushes or not,” she added with a self-punishing tone.

“Was that all?”

Blas looked at Pacal. “It was the same as Chim-boraazo,” she repeated. “There was no life, an' the same . . . ‘decorations' was seen.” She said the last with her lip raised over sharp canines. As far as they knew, every soul in or around Chimborazo had been murdered or herded away, and two hundred people, including Don Hernan's General Nerino, had been impaled and left for the Allies to discover. Lieutenant Pacal crossed himself as Sister Audry had taught his people, but quickly recovered. “We can still follow him.”

“I'm not worried about
followin'
him. He's down in the trees now, an' he's got a daamn army. He'll leave a trail like a land-walkin' mountain fish through a forest. But it'll lead us right where he wants us too. Daamn! He must've kept on nor' nor'east, roads or not.” She blinked rapidly, thinking. “With guides to show him the way, I bet. If Don Hernaan let
anybody at Chim-boraazo or Koto-paaxi live, it was to be guides,” she added, looking at Pacal almost accusingly. “An' we got zip.”

“My apologies, Capitan,” Pacal ventured, “but all the Vengadores are from the south, near Valparaiso, and never even knew what lay fifty miles beyond our place of birth . . . before we became
soldados
.”

Blas snorted, then sighed. “I know. Not your fault. An' even the Guayakaans don't know nothin' about the land past these mountains. Same thing with them.” She swore. “So now he's on the loose, an' we're gonna need our own guides to get around an' stop him before he gets to Popayan! He makes it there, the road'll be open all the way back to his daamn ‘Temple City,' that ‘New Gra-naada'! We'll never catch his sorry ass then.”

“Perhaps there will be survivors at Kotopaxi,” Pacal encouraged. “Some may have escaped who can show us a way.”

“I hope you're right, but I'm runnin' out of sunshiny thoughts.” Blas stirred impatiently, uncomfortably in her saddle. She'd loved horses ever since the first time she rode one in the New Britain Isles, but the saddles, though practical, were built for humans and made her tail hurt. “I want
after
that baas-tard, an' even Gen'raal Shinya does too, now. But we gotta know how to chase him!”

“Cap-i-taan Blas,” called a Lemurian NCO, detailed to picket the tree line Spook had entered with his dragoons. “First Sergeant Spook's comin' out.”

Figures on horseback picked their way slowly through the trees until they were in the clear, but to Blas's surprise they stopped at the edge and turned back to face the woods. Spook continued on, spurring his mount toward the front of the column where Blas and Pacal were waiting.