Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  Kim bristled again. “And what will First Corps do?”

  Pete frowned. “Is this how it’s gonna be? Bickering over who gets the shitty jobs and who gets the plums? That won’t work,” he stated flatly. “Trust me, First Corps won’t sit on its ass for long, but the first thing it’ll do is rest and refit.” His expression clouded. “Goddammit, they’ve—we’ve—been after Ign ever since the battle that ran him off, while everyone else was taking a break.” He shook his head. “And Ign’s pretty good. Pulled us nearly two hundred miles away and ran us ragged before skipping across the lake. All our tanks broke down, not that they would’ve been much use. There’s some pretty rough country out there and we had to leave ’em. Hopefully, most are already patched up and heading back here. We might need ’em again. Still, if Esshk had been in any shape to take advantage of Ign’s diversion, he could’ve driven a wedge between us. Lucky he didn’t. But First Corps is pretty hammered down.”

  Kim cleared his throat. “You’re right, of course, and I apologize if I seemed insensitive and . . . provincial. You may be used to this level of cooperation with your other allies, but it’s quite new to us.” He took a breath. “So you want Fifth Corps to destroy Ign?”

  Pete nodded gratefully, understandingly. “No apology necessary, General. And no, not specifically. I just need the Fifth to keep Ign pushed off, get between him and Esshk and stay there. Don’t want them linking up.”

  “Why not just use cavalry then?” Kim inquired.

  “It might take more than that. We slaughtered his rear guard,” Pete said offhandedly, making light of one of the bitterest fights he’d ever seen, “but Ign’s been raking in troops on the march.” He noticed an arousal of interest among the Grik officers and the Celestial Mother. “More than us, despite what Geerki’s translators could do.” Pete finally addressed the Grik. “Sorry, Choon didn’t introduce us. I met Colonel Shelg, but who are the rest of you?”

  “I am First Ker-noll Jash,” said one, in Grikish. He was surprisingly young, judging by his underdeveloped crest. “I was elevated to my current station by Second General Ign. I and these others command the Slasher Division.”

  “Promoted by Ign,” Pete said dubiously, before recognition struck. “Hey, it was your Slashers that gave Chack’s Brigade and Second Corps such a rough time.”

  Jash bowed his head slightly. “It was a great battle,” he simply said.

  Pete examined him speculatively. “Colonel Jash,” he murmured, tasting the name. “What do you think of Ign now?” he asked bluntly.

  Jash looked at the Celestial Mother for guidance but she merely gestured at the flag behind her and said, “No lies.”

  Jash took a long breath. “I admire him, but I also once admired the Usurper General—until I discovered how . . . faithless and false he is. Forgive me, these words are almost as new and difficult as the concepts behind them.”

  “No sweat,” Pete said. “But what about Ign?” he pressed.

  Jash looked at Shelg, then back at Pete. “He’s tenacious, as you learned, and inspires considerable faithfulness—loyalty—among his troops. More than they feel toward Esshk, or if she’ll forgive me”—he cut his eyes apologetically at the Celestial Mother—“to our Giver of Life. But Ign’s own loyalty is . . . misguided. I think it remains with Esshk because he doesn’t know where else to lay it.”

  “Are you loyal to him?”

  “I was,” Jash confessed, “and still regard him highly. How could I not? But my devotion is to the Giver of Life”—he looked directly at Pete—“and my allegiance, through her, belongs to those who conquered us and could’ve killed us all—and didn’t. Considering what I’ve learned about what our race has done to . . .” He practically shivered. “All others, everywhere, for longer than anyone knows, your restraint and benevolence fill me with more faithfulness than I can express.”

  Pete grunted, reluctantly impressed. “So why are you here, just hanging out?” He looked at Kim. “Why aren’t they with Rolak?”

  Kim hesitated and his brows furrowed. “Honestly? Regardless how I personally feel about Colonel Jash, there naturally remains a question of trust. Even he recognizes that.” His gaze shifted to their former enemy. “It will take time before our troops will be comfortable with Grik, no matter how devoted, guarding their flanks.”

  “Inquisitor Choon recommended they remain as a training cadre for recruits, and troops arriving from other regencies,” the Celestial Mother supplied.

  “Lots of that to do?”

  “Less than we’d hoped,” the Celestial Mother admitted. “Many regents have chosen not to participate in what they see as civil war. They wait to see who wins, and Esshk is their current favorite.” Her crest rose. “I can’t imagine how they perceive inaction as the safer path. I won’t forgive it, when all is done, and Esshk won’t wait. He’ll destroy any in his reach, if he can, as an example.”

  “I doubt it, Your Majesty,” General Kim disagreed. “He’ll soon have more pressing concerns. He may outnumber us and have the high ground, but we have better weapons and control of the air. His few Japanese planes haven’t been seen and he can’t have many dirigibles left.” He raised his eyebrows. Half a dozen Grik zeppelins had been captured intact during the recent campaign. “We may have more of them than he does.”

  “Regardless, you mustn’t underestimate him—or the ‘new weapons’ he told me he was preparing. And as you say, even without further assistance, he retains a powerful force.”

  “Then we need to keep pestering the fence-sitters,” Pete said. “Spread the word and remind ’em we’re the ones who chased his shifty ass off, and the Celestial Mother and her loyal troops are on our side.” He looked at I’joorka and waved at Jash. “Get these guys kitted out. With most of your Khonashi headed back to Baalkpan with Second Corps, there’s plenty of replacement gear in storage at Arracca Field, or still in the pipeline.”

  I’joorka nodded. “What about weapons?”

  “Surely we’ve got enough Allin-Silva breechloaders for General Mu-Tai’s Austraalans in Twelfth Corps by now.” Pete turned his gaze back to Jash and cocked his head to the side. “Issue their rifle-muskets to the Slashers. See they have plenty of instruction, but make it quick. How does that sound, ‘First Colonel’? Ready to get off your ass and do some real soldiering, on the right side for a change?”

  Jash perked up. “Quite ready.”

  The Celestial Mother leaned back in her saddle-throne in apparent satisfaction. Pete rubbed his chin, thinking. “Back to ‘fence-sitters,’ though, there’s only one who really worries me: General Halik. I bet the rest of ’em know about him by now. They’d have to, with him fightin’ them all the way down here!” Colonel Enaak had detailed how Halik’s roughly hundred thousand troops had fought other Grik across Arabia and now northeast Africa. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean much regarding his ultimate intentions, it simply meant he was crossing various regencies with more warriors than their regents were comfortable with. Combat in that situation was as much traditional as anything else. “I bet all the others are just as curious to see which way he’ll jump as we are.” His expression tightened with determination. “I believe it’s time I visited him, in person, and pinned him down once and for all.”

  “Entirely too dangerous!” Kim protested.

  “He’s right,” Choon agreed.

  “How, General?” Mark Leedom asked, ignoring the others. “Our last report had him too far from water to fly you up in a Clipper, and it is too far and too dangerous to go overland.”

  “Easy. I’ll take one of the Grik zeps.” Pete grinned. “With a suitable escort, of course.”

  “One of those rattletraps?” Leedom objected indignantly. “Might as well just shoot yourself.” Grik dirigibles, ships, guns—everything they made, in fact—had actually become surprisingly reliable, considering how relatively crude they were. This was simply because they’d
made so many, the same way, for so long, with a fanatically specialized workforce focused only on their own small part of the whole. And “incentives” had been added to ensure quality components: build them to specs or be eaten. As for the zeppelins, however, even their most complicated parts—the five little engines that drove them—seemed able to chug along forever despite the crappy fuel they were fed. Leedom would never admit that, of course.

  Pete laughed. “Silva flew one farther. Twice.”

  “And crashed it both times,” Leedom reminded. “Respectfully, sir, you’re a little more important than he is.”

  Pete smiled ruefully and lowered his voice. “I’m not always sure about that.”

  Leedom was thinking. “What about this? How far is Halik from that other big lake, north of Ukri? What’s it called?” He glanced at the Celestial Mother. They’d never flown that far, and without Grik maps, wouldn’t even know the big, roughly rectangular lake was there. And when it was revealed, all they’d really cared about was that there were no locks and the river flowing down to Lake Ukri was unnavigable, descending hundreds of feet in elevation. There was even reputed to be something almost as impressive as Victoria Falls, which apparently didn’t exist on this world.

  “Lake Uskoll,” Inquisitor Choon replied. “And I know where you’re heading with this. According to Colonel Enaak’s reports, Halik is within a hundred and fifty kilometers of its northeast shore. A meeting there would be out of his way if our assumption, that his army will cross the upper Ukri River before continuing south, is correct.”

  “Kind of ‘out of the way’ for us too,” Pete stated wryly, “so maybe the best possible place.”

  “I wonder if he’d leave his army and let Enaak’s cavalry escort him down?” Leedom pondered. “I could take you up in a Clipper and you could palaver there.”

  Pete scratched the dark beard along his jawline. “Maybe. Depends on how well they really get along, and how much Halik trusts Enaak—and Dalibor Svec, for that matter,” he added darkly. “He’d have to know a meeting between us was intended to make him finally get off the pot and declare his intentions. Come to that,” he added thoughtfully, “he’d also suspect Enaak, and especially Svec, might bump him off if he came and told us to our faces he was going with Esshk. Have to assure him of safe passage either way, and make him believe it. Just knowing what he’ll do is worth armies. And whether he shows or not, he’ll give us some idea which way he’s leaning.”

  “In that case, issue the invitation—and any guarantees—in my name as well,” the Celestial Mother said, looking defiantly at Pete, her tone brooking no argument. “I will go with you. I’ve always wanted to fly, since the first time I saw your wondrous machines,” she confessed, “but mainly because if you can’t persuade General Halik, perhaps I can.”

  Choon blinked unhappiness. “A great risk for all concerned. Even a simple engine malfunction might cost us the war. On the other hand,” he continued, “if his own Giver of Life can’t induce Halik to declare against Esshk at last, no one else possibly can.” He blinked sternly at the Celestial Mother. “And you must allow him no flexibility.” He flicked his ears at Jash. “Just as others have done, he must declare his intentions, without reservation, to your face.” He looked at Pete. “Certainty is indeed ‘worth armies,’ and with it, we can plan accordingly.”

  “And if he declares for Esshk?” I’joorka asked softly.

  Pete shrugged. “Enaak and Svec take him back to his troops.” His lips compressed in a thin line, fully conscious of the personal feelings the Khonashi might have about what he said next. “Then they spot for Pat-Squad 22 as the Clippers take as many incendiaries as they can carry, as often as it takes. Halik has no defense from the air, and we’ll burn his whole damn army.”

  CHAPTER 1

  ////// USS Walker

  Indian Ocean (Eastern Sea)

  May 1, 1945

  Damn, Skipper, it’s good to be back at sea!” Commander Brad “Spanky” McFarlane proclaimed. Standing in his trademark pose—hands on hips, chest out, chin jutting—he always seemed bigger than he actually was. Short reddish hair ruffled in the wind on his uncovered head as he stared through the newly replaced glass windows in the pilothouse of USS Walker (DD-163), past the busy sailors around the number one gun on the fo’c’sle, and out at the white-capped, purple sea. The detail on the fo’c’sle was largely composed of furry, long-tailed Lemurian “’Cats,” as was nearly all the old “four-stacker” destroyer’s crew, these days. Similar details still worked all over the ship to patch her many, but thankfully—this time—relatively minor wounds. The ship looked like hell, battered and rust-streaked from battle and toil, but was steaming easy and the ’Cats at the big brass wheel and engine order telegraph (EOT) seemed relaxed and satisfied with how she handled.

  Overseeing repairs to the forward 4″-50 gun, tracing balky wiring from the director, was an amusingly contrasting trio. The giant Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, the veritable Hercules of the Grand Alliance, seemed to be aping Spanky’s pose as he loomed over the diminutive, furry fireplug that was Chief Bosun’s Mate Jeek. And for no other reason than he apparently never left Silva’s side, the Grik-like Sa’aaran named Lawrence was there, standing slightly back out of the way. Unlike the sailors in T-shirts and dungarees (or blue kilts on the ’Cats) Lawrence wore only a new tie-dyed combat smock, sunlight flashing on the dark plumage of his tail, crest, and orange and near black tiger-striped pelt on his arms and legs. Occasional humorous snippets of Silva’s profane and bombastic declarations regarding how the work should proceed, and Jeek’s adamant denunciations could be heard. All this was punctuated by the cawing shrieks of a small, fuzzy, tree-gliding reptile draped around the back of Silva’s big neck like a sweat rag.

  Captain Matthew Reddy, Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces (CINCAF) and “High Chief” of the “American Navy and Marine Clan” leaned slightly back in the chair bolted to the starboard side forward bulkhead of the pilothouse. The chair’s shape and rigidity had always made it profoundly uncomfortable and only the soft, carefully embroidered cushion some anonymous Lemurian sailor secretly left on it one night made the long hours Matt often spent there physically bearable. And the responsibility the chair represented, not only to his ship but the entire Grand Alliance, could make it even harder to take. Matt was younger than Spanky, just thirty-five, but his brown hair was completely gray at his temples and the rest was starting to turn. His clean-shaven face remained boyish, but new lines were starting to undermine that impression as well. Turning away from the reassuringly normal entertainment below, he grinned at his friend and XO. “Considering you’ve said that every day since we left that nasty sewer river behind, I’m inclined to believe you’re sincere,” he noted wryly.

  Spanky shrugged and made a noncommittal grunt. Matt chuckled and followed his gaze. A few heavy clouds were building in the humid afternoon sky and a squall caressed the sea with filmy gray fingers a dozen miles to port, but a cooling breeze generated by the ship’s fuel-stingy twelve knots washed through the pilothouse and the eastern horizon they chased was clear. It was indeed a far cry from the filthy, muddy, blood-thickened waters of the Zambezi River. Most of First Fleet had been confined there for the last few months, after establishing a beachhead against the savage and seemingly numberless Grik. And these Grik were no longer the mindless mob of killing machines that relied as much on their teeth and claws as the other weapons they carried. They’d finally gotten wise and built real armies with thinking soldiers.

  The battles that followed had been brutal and costly, and only a bloody, grueling campaign of misdirection and focused ferocity, capitalizing on dissension among the Grik themselves, allowed the Allies to shatter their way through to Old Sofesshk, capture the Grik “Celestial Mother,” and command the cooperation of a percentage of her subjects. A larger percentage still opposed them, however, led by the cunning usurper Esshk, and the Allied armies still
had a momentous task before them. They were tired, worn down, depleted, and if Esshk’s troops were on their heels at present, that could quickly change.

  Matt frowned. Yet except for a little “brown water” work, the war in Grik Africa had changed to a land and air campaign. It would still gobble precious transports and supplies, and troops of course, but for the most part, the Navy had done as much as it could. Now it must race to confront an equally difficult, maybe hopeless situation, on the other side of the world. More than likely, they’d get there too late, with too little.

  Matt looked back at Spanky. Despite all that, it was a beautiful day. Walker was plowing smoothly through the choppy swells and notwithstanding her many dents and patches, the rumble of her boilers and engines, vibrating through the chair into Matt’s very bones, felt and sounded as healthy as he had any right to expect. And behind USS Walker, in a long straight line, steamed the pride of the American Navy Clan’s surface fleet . . . such as it was.

  Matt glanced over his shoulder, past his ship and the men and ’Cats going about their duties aboard her, and contemplated the massive form of First Fleet’s most impressive element a quarter mile behind: the captured League battleship Savoie. She’d taken a serious beating herself when they took her from that madman Kurokawa—the League’s former client in the Indian Ocean—but churning through the sea in her new “dazzle” paint scheme, she looked much better now. Some work remained, primarily to her sabotaged fire control system, but Steve “Sparks” Riggs cryptically promised they’d have it when they needed it. Like most of Matt’s “old” destroyermen, Steve was still just a kid, barely twenty-two, but Matt didn’t doubt the electronics wizard from Delaware, now Baalkpan’s “minister of communications and electrical contrivances,” would come through.