Deadly Shores (8 page)

“Ha! I bet that kill a couple Doms too!” Seepy chortled as a surprised but vengeful patter of musket fire chased after them. Nothing hit the plane, but Orrin was quickly on the lookout.

“Swell,” he shouted, relief turning to exasperation. “And we would've got even more if
we
crashed into 'em! What the hell's the matter with you? We're not playing chicken here . . . and get your eyes up! Where do you think those other Grikbirds went? They're down here on the deck someplace. So quit fooling around!”

“Hey! Take it easy, Ell-Tee! You plan worked, an' these Blitzers is swell guns! Way better than tryin' to blaast 'em with a musket an' buckshot!”

“Yeah, but if we were back there blowing dirt bubbles, all this fun you're having would be over!”

Seepy was silent for a while as they climbed back to join the other three ships. “Could've got more of 'em too, if you thought to use
you
gun while we was divin',” he finally accused, just loud enough to be heard through the voice tube. Orrin snorted and shook his head. He hadn't been around when his cousin Matt first met the Lemurians, and he found it hard to believe they'd once been practically pacifists, almost as a race. There were exceptions. Supposedly the Aryaalans and B'mbaadans used to fight all the time, but from what he'd learned of 'Cats, they all seemed pretty bloodthirsty. Of course, it had taken the Japanese to make
him
a killer.
And as soon as this patrol's over, I'll
report
to a Jap!
War sure is funny like that.

*   *   *

The four Nancys set down on the gentle, protected water of Guayaquil Bay and motored in line like blue and white ducks over toward the pier established for their support. Beyond it was the strange city of Guayak the Allies had occupied almost without a fight, and the first “permanent” Allied foothold in the Dominion. The architecture was a combination of stone and adobe, but the adobe had been whitewashed or brightly painted. There hadn't been a wall around the city when they took it, but the Allies had raised one with a lot of local help. Beyond the wall was a broad killing ground on a vast cropland plain, and it was studded with trenches, stakes, and barbed-wire entanglements. Everyone suspected that the barbed wire, newly arrived from Maa-ni-la, would come as a very nasty surprise indeed for the Doms.

Only the 9th and 11th Bomb Squadrons of the 3rd Naval Air Wing operated directly out of Guayak, while the other squadrons continued flying off their carrier,
Maaka-Kakja.
The great ship wasn't far beyond the horizon, and Orrin alternated between her and shore. Right now, he felt more needed here because, besides his “test” that day, it was starting to look like things were about to pop. They'd only seen the one column of Doms for almost a hundred miles up the coast, and though they couldn't get through to the interior to confirm no more were coming from there, the new arrivals would increase the enemy numbers to more than fifty thousand. That was plenty, and probably more than enough to make them sure they had the edge. That was likely all they'd been waiting on.

Orrin gunned his engine, and the plane surged forward to settle atop a submerged truck on a broad, newly graded ramp beside the pier. When his crew chief satisfied himself that the plane was properly supported, a large group of locals heaved on a line and pulled it out of the water. The fabric skin covering the Nancys was well sealed and they'd float for days, but they did tend to seep after a while. It was better to get them out of the water—particularly after an action that might have caused holes they weren't aware of—and maintenance was easier ashore as well. Once Orrin and Seepy's plane was high on the ramp, they climbed down and looked around. They'd been told that General Shinya himself would meet them. He wasn't there, so they waited. Orrin's gaze swept over the locals, toiling alongside the ground crew. They weren't what he'd expected at all. Everyone had thought all the Doms were nuts, adhering to a wildly warped, slightly Catholic-flavored religion that was probably closer to what the Grik believed than anything. Their “pope,” like the Grik “Celestial Mother,” was basically God, or at least represented him. Orrin wasn't clear on that and didn't really care beyond the ways it influenced their enemies to fight. But the locals had their own screwy faith with a bunch of goofy gods, and what mattered to them was that, having seen the invaders tread upon the very soil of the Holy Dominion itself, they'd be killed just as mercilessly as the invaders. Orrin wondered how the Doms would justify letting the army sent to fight them live after also seeing them there. Maybe they wouldn't?
More likely they'll cook up some new holy declaration that it's okay to see us to shoot us after we're already here,
he thought. But that left the locals, poor devils, who didn't much care for the Dom Pope either. They hadn't wanted any part of the war, but now, all of a sudden, just because the Allies chose to land at their city, they were in it up to their necks. Orrin didn't think that was really fair, but then again, it never was, was it?
Another funny thing about war,
he mused.
The civvies in the way always get stomped on, and more of them usually die than soldiers do
. The great lesson there, he supposed, was not to be a civilian when a war falls on top of you. By the look of things, the people of Guayak weren't civilians anymore.

“Lieutenant Reddy,” came a voice behind him, and he turned. General Shinya and a number of others had finally approached, joining the fliers who had gathered around him.

“General,” Orrin said, saluting. Shinya returned the sudden swarm of other salutes very crisply.

“I gathered from the wireless traffic that your new air-to-air tactics are a success. Congratulations,” Shinya said.

“Thank you, sir. It was kind of a tight squeeze”—Orrin glanced darkly at Seepy—“but we got six of them without loss.” In the past, armed only with muskets, the aircrews would've been lucky to knock down three for one, and even though a trickle of crated Nancys was still arriving with supply convoys, the losses—particularly in trained aviators—were unacceptable. “Who knows how long it'll work before they get wise,” he had to add.

“It may not have to work much longer,” Shinya said cryptically. He turned to the Imperial Marine Colonel Blair standing beside him. Orrin considered Blair one of the “good Brits.” He was one of the few high-ranking Imperials with any land combat experience, having learned a bitter lesson in Singapore, then honed his skills alongside Chack-Sab-At. “The map, please, Colonel,” Shinya asked.

“Of course.” Blair took the map offered him by Captain Blas-Ma-Ar. She was a Lemurian Marine, commanding the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines to be precise, and had seen a
lot
of action on every front. She was a tiny thing, and really cute in a kitteny sort of way, but Orrin often felt intimidated by her intense gaze. There were rumors about her going all the way back to the battle of Aryaal that might explain her unforgiving personality.

Blair displayed the map. “Yours was not the only reconnaissance of the day. We've had other planes up, as you know, and our cavalry actually skirmished with theirs south of the city.” He paused. The Eastern AEF had cavalry with real horses, but not very many, whereas the Doms probably had a full division of horse-mounted lancers. Fortunately, they didn't use them very well, keeping them distributed in battalion-size clumps attached to infantry. “Our horse was pushed back,” Blair continued, “but not before confirming that the enemy has extended his flank to cut the south road.”

Orrin shrugged. He liked Blair, but despite their official rank difference, he didn't consider him his superior. “So? My guys could've told you that, and we knew they were going to do it.”

“Yes, but they didn't march fresh troops up to do it, as we'd expected, and there are no more coming from the south. They merely extended their lines. The cavalry skirmish is immaterial,” Blair added, waving it away, and it occurred to Orrin that it had probably been carried out on impulse by yet another Imperial officer who wouldn't be an officer much longer. “But if the column you observed is indeed the last element of the enemy army, we can expect an assault on the city very soon.”

Orrin nodded. “That's what I was thinking. I'm kind of surprised they haven't hit us already.”

A dark-skinned man in a strangely cut but otherwise plain robe cleared his throat. His name was Suares and he was the liaison for the local high priest/mayor/whatever he was, named Don Ricardo Del Guayak, usually referred to simply as “Alcalde.” A former trader to the “Honorable” New Britain Company, Suares spoke a variety of English; no other locals did. Few locals, including the alcalde, even spoke Spanish, which everyone had always thought the universal language of the Dominion. The lingo here was apparently based on something much older.

“They will only attack when they are positive of success,” Suares said nervously. “To do otherwise courts even greater disaster than your presence here already represents!”

“That stands to reason,” Orrin agreed. “When Fred and Kari came in, they said things aren't all peaches and cream in the Dom empire. Any hint of a defeat here could stir up a lot of trouble, maybe even a revolt.” Orrin scratched his head. “Which I bet that spy they ran into, Mr. What's-his-name . . .”

“Cap-i-taan Aanson,” Blas supplied, and Orrin nodded at her.

“Yeah, Anson. The guy's supposedly from some other ‘Americans' who got here earlier than we did.” Orrin's eyebrows went up. “Here since the Mexican War, in the
1840s
! How weird are they liable to be? Anyway, I bet that's exactly what he's been trying to stir up.” He looked at Shinya. “Any idea how to get ahold of those people?”

“None. Mr. Reynolds suspected that contact might follow a decisive fleet action by them or us, on one side or the other of this amazing passage between the continents.”

“And since we can't get eyes on what's there . . .”

“Exactly. High Admiral Jenks refuses to bring on such an action, and hopes to avoid it until our own fleet is stronger. Thus,” Shinya said with a sigh, “here we remain, hopefully delaying that fleet from setting sail by occupying so large a portion of the army meant to join it!”

“All in a nutshell,” Orrin murmured.

“Indeed,” agreed Blair. “But, back to the original subject, I would appreciate your assessment of the enemy position. For our benefit, as well as that of Señor Suares. This will be his first briefing on the overall tactical situation.” Orrin looked at him, surprised. “Yes. As you know, we've been giving rudimentary training to his people here of military age.” Blair frowned. “Male
and
female,” he added uncomfortably. “It's time he was allowed to inform his alcalde exactly what we all face together.”

“Fair enough,” Orrin agreed. He cocked his head and looked at the map. “We're surrounded, or about to be,” he supplied unnecessarily, “and besides their fifty thousand troops, they've got about a hundred guns. Big suckers, some of 'em, that it took a dozen of those goofy armadillo-looking things to pull.” The Doms used horses for their light artillery, but their siege guns—probably the same weapons used aboard their heaviest ships of the line—were drawn by animals that did look like giant armadillos with long, spiked tails. “Again, like their lancers, they haven't concentrated them anywhere, so they'll probably use 'em to pick at us all along the line. They might gather 'em all together for a big push someplace, which is what I'd do, but so far there's no sign of that.” He looked at Shinya. “We're good for ordnance, right?”

“For the time being, at least. Our line of supply is very long, but we have significant supplies already stockpiled at the Enchanted Isles.”

“Fine. Then unless they pull something really weird, we should be okay for a while.” He nodded at the bay. “My biggest concern is there. It's the only place we can't really fortify, and we don't have enough ships to cover it unless High Admiral Jenks cuts more of Admiral Lelaa's screen loose—which I doubt he'll do under the circumstances. If they do get more troops and decide to cross the water, or worse, their fleet shows up and we can't stop it, we might be in trouble.”

“A most succinct appraisal,” Shinya complimented.

Suares looked increasingly incredulous. “If I may,” he said. “I do not mean to seem rude or disrespectful, but I find it difficult to credit your confidence, Lieutenant Reddy.”

“I believe what he means,” Blair said with a trace of amusement, “is that he can't understand how we, with just over twenty-five thousand troops, including his militia, can hope to resist twice that number.”

“Well . . . indeed,” agreed Suares, “though I mean no offense.”

Shinya considered. “No offense taken, and I understand your concern. But do not fear. You have not seen how we fight, and though the Doms have formidable numbers, none of those here can have the slightest idea of the monster they've marched against.”

“Then if you are so confident of victory, why do you need my people to fight? Why do you not simply destroy the Doms here and then continue fighting them somewhere else?”

“That is easy,” Blas suddenly interjected harshly, glaring at Suares. “This is
your
war now too. It should be all your people's war, to rid the world of the Doms!”

“That's one consideration,” Shinya confirmed. “The other is that I want the enemy to send more troops
here
for us to kill. I do not wish to chase him about. The best way to ensure that, I think, is to beat those already surrounding the city . . . and wait.”

//////
USS
Maaka-Kakja
(CV-4)

Flagship Second Fleet

June 18, 1944

A
surprisingly cool dawn, considering the latitude, swept across the vast expanse of sea between the occupied coastal city of Guayak and the Enchanted Isles to the west. Upon that sea sailed and steamed the greater part of Second Fleet, broadly deployed to support Shinya's expeditionary force ashore, as well as cover the approaches to the Enchanted Isles from the curious, troubling passage far to the northeast. The fleet was an impressive sight, screened by steam and sail-powered paddlewheel sloops and frigates of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and similarly powered Lemurian (American Navy) screw frigates or “DDs.” Beyond the screen, far beyond in some cases, prowled small divisions of DDs or seaplane tender destroyers (DTSs) designed to scout and fight. Within the screen were oilers, transports, freighters, ammunition ships, and colliers for the Imperials' coal-fired boilers. Recently arrived Imperial ships of the line, “battleships” or “liners” as they were called by some, nestled around the great aircraft carrier/tender
Maaka-Kakja
(CV-4).

Maaka-Kakja
had been the first purpose-built carrier on this world, but despite some major changes, her basic form remained very similar to the massive seagoing, sailing Homes that inspired her. Powerfully armed and capable of operating a large number of Nancys, she was unquestionably the most powerful ship in the Pacific, or “Eastern Sea.” But in some ways, though still practically new, she was already obsolete, and would be the only ship of her class ever built. She wasn't designed to operate the new pursuit ships, or anything actually capable of landing aboard her. Those modifications would be made when time and facilities allowed, but the Allied “BuShips” had settled on smaller, faster, lighter armed, dedicated carriers to provide improved capability while at the same time—hopefully—preventing another catastrophic loss such as that of the converted Home,
Humfra-Dar
.
Maaka-Kakja
, and indeed other converted Homes such as
Arracca
and
Salissa,
were in no danger of being decommissioned or released from service, but the new fleet carriers of the
Baalkpan Bay
class were the wave of the future.

“Ahd-mi-raal.” Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan stepped out on the great carrier's starboard bridgewing, overhanging the broad, busy flight deck below, carrying two steaming mugs in her hands. Lemurians, at least those from within the Malay Barrier, on the Great South Isle, or in the Fil-pin Lands, were accustomed to heat, and Lelaa gladly wore her Navy tunic over her brindled fur that morning. She strode to join a tall man in a dark blue tunic with yellow facings and white knee breeches. Knee-high boots were on his feet, and long, sun-bleached hair was braided down his back. As he turned to face her, he exposed equally long, braided mustaches on a weathered face.

“Good morning, Admiral Lelaa,” the man said.

“High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks,” Lelaa replied with a smile. “I brought you tea.”

“Why, thank you!” he said, taking one mug. He peered with distaste at the other. Lemurians were absolute fiends for iced tea, but most liked the hot variety as well. Almost none could stomach the ersatz “coffee” of this world that the human destroyermen had quickly adopted. Even when carefully brewed, it hid beneath a strange, greenish foam and tasted vile. Lemurians did use it as a tonic against extreme lethargy, but Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan was the only 'Cat Jenks ever met who drank it as habitually as any human American. Since all Navy 'Cats had taken the same oath and considered themselves members of the “American Clan,” he supposed it was inevitable that some would take on a few of the Americans' more disagreeable habits. Some even chewed the disgusting yellow tobacco, and it was rumored they were even smoking the stuff in the West now! But the
coffee
? Jenks watched Lelaa's face as she sipped the brew to try once more to determine if she really liked it or if drinking it was an affectation. She smiled at him more broadly, guessing his intent, and blinked amusement.

Jenks shook his head. “You have just come from your briefing? What is the latest news?” he asked. He was always invited to the morning briefings, but a lot of time was always spent on reports concerning the daily operation of the ship, and he felt like an intruder on the family atmosphere that prevailed. Instead, he relied on Admiral Lelaa or her exec, Tex Sheider, to fill him in.

“The ship is in fine shape—if one reads between the lines of Chief Gilbert's constant complaints regarding the engineering division. None of his grievances reflect the material condition of the power plant or the combat readiness of my ship. Otherwise, there have been no reports of enemy activity in the vicinity of this ‘pass of fire.'” Her tail swished. “I do wish Mr. Reynolds or Kari-Faask might have arranged some way for us to communicate or cooperate with the ‘other Americans' they insist exist beyond the Dom frontier. We have no way to coordinate with them—and no real way of knowing if we even should.” She blinked frustration. “Our scouts creep closer, and Grikbirds have been seen. Our antiair devices discourage them from serious attacks, and no one thinks they can actually report to their masters. Barring a confrontation that results in heavy losses on their part, I doubt the Doms will suspect we know their secret. We have encountered none of their ships. I assume that means they intend that we continue thinking we have swept their fleet from the sea.”

“But when it does come . . . we have no idea how large or powerful it may be.”

“We continue to prepare and behave as if it is at least a match for us,” Lelaa assured.

Jenks frowned and nodded. “What of this other report that Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask made—that the mountain fishes of the world gather in the vicinity of the pass to feed after giving birth? Is there some way we might use that?”

“Possibly,” Lelaa said, hedging. “Mr. Reynolds even proposed a desperate plan, but it would be extremely costly in aircraft and flight crews, and I cannot condone it at present.”

“Yes, I remember, and I agree with your decision. Still, it is a plan we may want to ‘keep in our back pocket,' as Captain Reddy would say.”

“We try to plan for all contingencies, High Ahd-mi-raal, but plans do so rarely go . . . as planned.”

“Indeed. And what is the latest from General Shinya?” Jenks asked, changing the subject from one he knew Lelaa was uncomfortable with.

“General Shinya is convinced the Dom force opposing him has received all the reinforcements it considers necessary to succeed. He hopes to disabuse them of that certainty within a few days of their assault.”

“He expects it soon?”

“Almost immediately.” Lelaa shrugged in a very human way. “Perhaps with this very dawn.”

“Very well. You are prepared to support him if he calls?”

“Of course.”

Jenks hesitated. “Are you . . . Are
we
also prepared to pull him out if we must?”

Lelaa blinked doubt. “We can certainly withdraw the force we landed at Guayak. I remain less sure we can evacuate the entire local population of the city, if it comes to that.”

“And General Shinya will not leave the people there at the ‘mercy' of the Doms,” Jenks finished for her. He rubbed his eyes. “One more reason we cannot land even more troops to assist him.” He looked at Lelaa. “Of course, ‘if it comes to that,' Shinya's force and the local population will both be much reduced by then.”

“I expect so,” Lelaa said, swishing her tail in agitation and blinking a hint of dread.

Allied Center
East side of Guayak

“That's the purtiest aar-mee I ever saw,” muttered First Sergeant Spon-Ar-Aak, better known as “Spook,” of A Co., 2nd of the 2nd Marines. He'd gained his nickname as a gunner's mate aboard
Walker
, but he'd been a “Marine” ever since going ashore to fight in the land battles south of Saint Francis. He'd remained as liaison to then Commodore Jenks, but now he and his precious, trusty Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) were under Captain Blas-Ma-Ar's orders in the Lemurian Marine battalion she commanded. At that moment, he was just about in the exact center of the Allied defensive line protecting the city from behind the hasty but formidable earthworks heaped up around it. Before him, across the vast, cultivated plain at the base of the mountains in the middle distance, the Army of the Holy Dominion was beginning to deploy at last.

He squinted up at the sun just now rising above the high, distant peaks. “Y'know, I bet they was waitin' till now just so the light would show us how purty they are!”

“Tryeen' to scare us,” said Lieutenant Stas-Fin, or “Finny,” who came from similar circumstances, but now commanded Co. C of the 2nd Battalion, 8th Maa-ni-la, deployed to the left of the Marines. Lieutenant Faal-Pel, better known as “Stumpy” and another of their old
Walker
shipmates, was on the far end of the 8th, commanding its Co. A. Both of them still had '03 Springfield rifles. For a while they merely watched as the enemy maneuvered on the plain.

“Is it working?” Captain Blas asked dryly, suddenly appearing beside them.

Spook gave her a long, appraising stare. “Nope,” he said at last, spitting a stream of yellowish tobacco juice in his best imitation of Spanky McFarlane. Lemurians couldn't spit as elegantly as humans, but he'd practiced a lot and accomplished a very creditable squirt. Some of the 'Cat infantry nearby even cheered and stamped their feet.

“They have many flaags,” Blas observed. “More than we, for the same number of troops.” She gestured at the gold-embroidered black standard of the 8th, and the Stars and Stripes of the 2nd Marines. Each flag fluttered beside the stainless banner of the Alliance. “We got regimental flaags, but I bet they got 'em for every company, maybe every plaa-toon. Makes it look like there's more of 'em than there is. An' all their flaags are the same, see? That red field with the rough, sideways X on 'em in gold—just like the sails on their warships!”

“Let's watch an' see what they do,” Finny suggested.

It was quite a spectacle, and none of them had ever seen anything like it. The Grik came to war as a swarm—at least that was the way those at Guayak remembered it. They knew things had changed, but they doubted the “new” Grik paraded into battle like the Doms were doing now. The sound of drums was thunderous, and bands with horns played a dirgelike, but markedly martial piece. All the while, columns of troops marched across the front and took positions opposite the defenders. Artillery was brought to the front with equal pomp, drawn by the lumbering armadillo-like things, their shells now garishly painted and draped in bunting.

“Think a lot of themselves, don't they?” Spook finally managed.

“There's a lot
of
'em,” Finny replied softly.

“Not as many as it looks like, but still a lot,” Blas admitted, blinking thoughtfully. “Them spreading out there, not far beyond musket shot, I think not a single one of 'em's ever faced
us
before.” Her tail swished and her sudden grin turned feral. “They're gonna learn some things today.”

“Look there!” Finny exclaimed. “What the hell they doin'?”

Blas blinked. A column of lancers had advanced, right out between the armies. Some stopped, facing forward, while others dismounted and began erecting a colorful pavilion removed from a wagon that followed them out.

“Beats me.”

“Captain Blas!” came a shout behind. Blas turned and saw Colonel Blair riding a dark horse behind the line. “A mount for you is coming. I recall you enjoy riding horses?”

“Ay, Col-nol,” Blas replied. “Where are we going?”

Blair pointed at the rising pavilion.

“Out there. General Shinya, you, I, and Mr. Suares will represent the Allies at the parlay.”

“Paar-lay? You mean we're gonna
talk
with them before we kill 'em?”

“I'm told they always do such things,” Blair said with a snort. “God knows why. Proper form, I suppose. Come along.”

Blas looked darkly at Finny and Spook. “If they kill me, you mugs kill an extra bunch of them, hear? Talkin' with the enemy! What a shaam!”

*   *   *

General Ghanan Nerino had been born for this. He'd commanded the Army of the South since he was twelve years old, and in the forty years since donning the broad, feathered hat of his office, he'd never been granted anything like a
real
battle to test his military genius. He drilled the standing, permanent portion of his army to a perfection unmatched in all the Dominion, he thought, but aside from occasional clashes with rebel heretics that rarely required more than a squadron of lancers to scatter, there'd been little to amuse him. Sometimes, when the great dragons threatened important cities, he deployed his infantry and artillery against them, but they were mere beasts with no notion of how a proper army should move, no appreciation for the intricate dance of formal battle. He'd often despaired, despite the bishop's devout assurance that his army would be tested someday, if not against the weak armies of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, then certainly against Los Diablos del Norte. It was inevitable, he'd said. General Nerino had not been so sure. Soon he would retire and his eldest son—already past thirty—would take his place. He hadn't doubted that war would come; that
was
inevitable, but he'd grown increasingly convinced it would wait too long for him to enjoy it. But the bishop had been right all along.

“Come, come,” he scolded a staff officer, arranging a cherished tapestry from Nerino's own villa against the bright morning sun. “We must do this properly! How often are we afforded the opportunity to entertain such a foe?”