“In any event, as you say, Don Hernan must be increasingly aware how much he needs us and it’s time to assert ourselves. Bending their taboos a bit might be a subtle way of beginning the process.” He chuckled at Gravois’s dire expression. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll loudly proclaim I’m responding to a summons as I go ashore. That should satisfy appearances.”
“You may be right, sir,” Gravois said, his tone one of respect. “I hope you are,” he added, and found he actually meant it.
* * *
* * *
“They’ll kill him, kill them all!” Capitano di Fregata Ciano growled harshly, standing by Victor Gravois on Leopardo’s bridgewing the very next morning. Brightly colored lizardbirds swooped and capered overhead, and snatched churned-up morsels from the wake of a gleaming white motor launch carrying Contrammiraglio Oriani ashore. Oriani was stuffed into his most stunning uniform and looked like a decorative ball on tall black boots. His Spanish chief of staff, a strange, thin little man named Roberto Francisco (Gravois remembered he’d been a fervent Carlist, of all things), was dressed the same, but with less ornamentation. They were accompanied by ten armed men in black tunics, khaki trousers, and black fezzes on their heads, each adorned with multicolored tassels. These were hard men, all volunteers, constituting Oriani’s personal guard and half of Ramb V’s naval landing force. Two sailors manned the boat.
“I fear you’re right,” Gravois confessed, watching a rapidly escalating reaction near the dock the boat was steering for. People were running from everywhere, not just to look, but to confront. “I warned him repeatedly, but he doesn’t understand these people.” Gravois snorted. “I don’t understand their self-destructive fanaticism, and never will. Not really.” He considered. “At least not those in the cities, almost daily washed in sacrificial blood. I understand our enemies have had better luck with people in the countryside.” He shook his head. “But these . . . Oriani must believe that since they look like us, they are like us in whatever fundamental way that can be touched by reason. But they’re not. Not yet,” he emphasized, then frowned. “In some ways I suspect they’re more outlandish than Lemurians. Even Grik.” He sighed and looked squarely at Ciano. “But he was most determined, and I really did try to make him reconsider.” Gravois wouldn’t go so far as to call Ciano his ally, but they’d been through a lot together and he and his ship had shared Gravois’s exile to this place. Ciano also shared his ambition for a more aggressive League, so he was an ally of sorts. That didn’t mean he’d support everything Gravois intended, however, and he’d have to tread carefully, making sure Ciano got what he wanted out of their association.
“And most poignant of all,” Gravois went on, “not only did Oriani name me his deputy in this endeavor, he fully supported all the plans we’ve made and every action we’ve taken. I believe I was on the threshold of a genuine rapprochement with the man.”
“He should turn back,” Ciano said, raising his binoculars and watching the boat near the dock. The waiting crowd was silent, but not respectfully so. More like a great predator preparing to pounce.
“Yes, he should.” Gravois raised his binoculars as well.
The crowd opened around several men in red robes who harangued the people until they reluctantly gave way. Almost triumphantly, Oriani and his entourage stepped up on the dock. Nothing happened for a moment and it looked like Francisco was talking to the priests, but suddenly, at some apparent command, the crowd swept over the visitors like a wave. There were a few muffled shots but that was all. Then, like a receding tide, the mob withdrew, leaving no sign of the landing party. The launch and its crew remained untouched. One sailor recovered from his shock faster than the other. Gunning the engine, he turned away from the dock and raced frantically back toward the ships.
“An . . . interesting welcome,” Gravois observed dryly.
“Damn you!” Ciano snapped. “We should shell the city!”
“Calm yourself. That’s exactly what Oriani expressly forbade. And we can’t just assume he’s dead. All might still be well.”
“‘Well’ for you, and your plans,” Ciano growled. Gravois was mildly surprised by Ciano’s reaction. Though he was Italian, he disliked Oriani even more than Gravois.
“Our plans,” Gravois stressed. “And if the worst has happened, you and I will be in charge of the entire operation in this hemisphere.”
“I don’t want to be ‘in charge’ of anything but my ship,” Ciano ground out.
Gravois looked at him coolly. “Surely you want something after all this is done, all you’ve been through? Flag rank, at least.”
Ciano hesitated and finally lowered his binoculars. There was nothing to see. “Very well. Flag rank, possibly,” he confessed, “but something personal too. If we fight the Allies—as you plan—I want to destroy Walker. With Leopardo.”
Gravois blinked, surprised. He knew Ciano had been humiliated by the way Captain Reddy and his frail, dilapidated old destroyer forced them out of the Indian Ocean. It didn’t matter he’d had a powerful auxiliary cruiser and hundreds of planes backing him up, it had been Reddy himself—and his decrepit ship—that drew Ciano’s ire. Though not particularly pleased by the circumstances either, Gravois hadn’t taken it personally. He had, after all, left Captain Reddy’s wife in the hands of Hisashi Kurokawa. Gravois occasionally doubted his own sanity, and found that somehow reassuring, but Kurokawa had been utterly, barking mad. Fleetingly, he wondered if the charming Sandra Reddy was still alive. “You hadn’t mentioned Walker for so long, I thought you’d gotten over that little episode,” he said, then shrugged. “You know it’s unlikely she’ll make it this far, even if she’s still afloat. And there’s no possibility Captain Reddy will still command her. Our last reports revealed the ‘Union’ was building more ships like her. They’ll be poorly made, no doubt, but he’ll surely be in one of them, or something else we haven’t seen.” It was hard for Gravois to admit there were things he didn’t know, but that was the new reality. The enemy was more careful with their communications, and since the mysterious loss of U-112, there’d been no direct observations in enemy seas.
“Nevertheless,” Ciano insisted stubbornly.
Gravois secretly doubted he’d release Leopardo for combat of any sort when their reinforcements arrived. She was old, but fast and powerful, even compared to some of their newer destroyers. He’d have to see how things went. “Of course, Capitano Ciano,” he said. “You have my word.”
CHAPTER 4
////// Galk River
Grik Africa
May 5, 1945
Muddy brown water foamed alongside the low, beamy form of RRPS Servius, churning hard against the brisk Galk River current 120 miles north-northwest of Sofesshk. Dark smoke boiled from the ship’s two funnels and her low freeboard bashed occasional packets of reeking spray over the armored deck as far back as the big, rounded, forward gunhouse. Nothing unusual in that. Princeps Class Republic monitors were wet ships, even for the harbor defense role they’d been designed for, and their shallow draft made them ideal for river operations. Many considered it something of a miracle Servius and Ancus both survived their open ocean voyage from the Republic city of Songze, however. And despite her best exertions, Servius was barely making five knots against the flow. Though bright and clear at present, the rainy season had begun and for the next couple of months, the river would only swell.
Above and behind the gunhouse, General Muln-Rolak, Colonel (Legate) Bekiaa-Sab-At, and Captain Quinebe stood on the comparatively fragile-looking flying bridgewing extending out to starboard of the heavily armored battle bridge. Quinebe, a tall, thin, dark-skinned human, dressed in the stark white tropical uniform of the Republic Navy, was staring ahead at a bend in the river. His mission was to provoke hidden shore batteries to reveal themselves, and perhaps even gauge their strength. The cover along the shore was too dense for planes to spot all the guns and they needed a better idea w
hat they faced before planning any waterborne troop movements. Rolak and Bekiaa were Lemurians, both wearing faded camouflage combat smocks, standard for all Union and Imperial troops. Their helmets hung from their cutlass and pistol belts by their chin straps, since they fully expected to take fire at some point. They’d studied aerial photographs of the route ahead, but both had recently acquired a new appreciation for viewing the ground they had to lead their infantry across from the ground—or water, in this instance—and they were only here to observe.
Servius was alone on the water, but there were thousands of troops, Allied and Grik, fighting on both sides of the river less than a quarter mile off either beam. They couldn’t hear the sounds of battle over the roar of machinery and rushing spray, but gunsmoke choked the woods on either shore. Rolak raised his Impie telescope and watched a V of Nancys drop incendiaries on a Grik position near the eastern bank ahead. A row of greasy orange fireballs rolled into the sky.
“Much haard work remains,” he remarked somberly, looking at Captain Quinebe. “Whaat’s the distaance to the great gates?”
It was only recently discovered by the Allies that the Galk River, flowing south to merge with the mighty Zambezi, was separated from a massive lake upstream by a series of enormous locks. They consisted, in essence, of monstrous movable dams, blocking a narrow gorge of living rock. They were, in fact, the only reason the lake existed at all. Grik considered them the “Gates of the Gods” and they might well have been, since the Grik certainly didn’t have the technology to make such things. Maybe nobody did, now. And the fact they were quite obviously very, very old, possibly as ancient as the heavily eroded Palace of Vanished Gods itself, only added credence to the Grik belief.
Before he left for Alex-aandra, Courtney Bradford eagerly sought detailed descriptions and gazed (a little longingly it seemed, to some) at aerial photographs. An amateur naturalist, archeologist, anthropologist—interested in everything—the Australian had been a petroleum engineer in his former life and all his old passions converged on the Galk River locks. Once, nothing could’ve torn him away, but his dedication to winning the war surpassed all his previous obsessions. Still, he’d made a number of observations before he left. He was certain the gates were made of concrete, for example—something else the Grik didn’t know—and the machinery operating them must be utterly stupendous. No one knew anything about that, since no machinery was exposed. Courtney decreed it had to be sealed inside the cliffs themselves. By all accounts, and perhaps most fascinating of all, an ancient and obscure . . . cult (for lack of a better word) of Grik devoted their lives to monitoring and maintaining the locks, but no one actually operated them; they simply opened and closed by themselves. This was further evidence to the Grik that the gates moved with the lingering humors of the Vanished Gods, but Courtney solved that mystery at once. As soon as he learned the locks filled and flushed more frequently in the rainy season, sometimes remaining partially open for long periods, and perhaps only operating once a week or so when it was very dry, he concluded they were “quite practically and ingeniously” actuated by water levels or pressure, and water might even be the driving force.
They might never know who’d built them, and possibly other ruins as far as India, but Courtney had the utmost respect for their engineering skills.
Quinebe looked thoughtful. “Another hundred and sixty kilometers or so.”
Rolak looked helplessly at Bekiaa, who blinked exasperation. It had been hard enough for her to learn miles and “standard” measurements, but to then have to learn metrics when she went to the Republic had nearly driven her mad. She had, though, of necessity, and could now convert them fairly quickly in her mind. “About a hundred miles.”
Rolak blinked appreciation, but nodded as if to say “of course.” “Thaat’s where Esshk will make his staand,” he mused. “He must. The lake beyond is where his laast heavy industries are, his laast resources for aarming and supplying his forces. His laast shipyards and waarships, for thaat maatter, though the ships caan be of little use—especially aafter Saansa Field is operationaal and our airpower moves up to mount a sustained bombing campaign. It might haave been nice of Cap-i-taan Reddy to leave us one carrier, to steam upriver this faar, at least,” he added ruefully.
“I fear Cap-i-taan Reddy will need everything we haave that floats in the east, and it still won’t be enough,” Bekiaa said grimly.
“I know,” Rolak agreed. “The League haas always interfered with our waar against the Grik—and still do, by drawing forces away.” He grunted. “Enough reason in itself to oppose them, besides all else they’ve done.”
They’d steamed beyond the front lines now and the fighting had begun to wane. There might be a few Allied patrols this far, but little else besides Grik—and other terrifying creatures, of course—for the better part of a continent. This was emphasized when a pair of white clouds blossomed on the shore and waterspouts rocketed up ahead of the ship. “Clear the deck, lock down, close all internal compartments!” Captain Quinebe shouted through the hatch into the battle bridge. ’Cats and humans, even a few Gentaa, quickly rushed to comply. Gentaa looked like human/Lemurian hybrids. They weren’t, of course, but had always kept themselves somewhat apart from Republic society, maintaining an influential and prosperous labor class. There’d always been a few in the navy, mostly youths rebelling against their culture, but those with the Army of the Republic had strictly adhered to a support and logistical role—until the desperate battles south of Sofesshk taught them it was time to join or die. They were “all in” now, finally choosing to support the Republic and Alliance in all ways. Even with their lives.
Bekiaa contemplated that, while the slitted battle shutters slammed over the bridge windows. I wonder how maany cultures across this world haave been remade by this waar? It waas for the better in maany cases, but for others . . . We’ll see.
“How long would it take to reach the great gates?” Rolak asked.
“At this speed? Without obstructions, serious opposition, or anything . . . unforeseen, we might see them by dawn tomorrow.” Quinebe paused, expression turning eager. “If we chose to push that far. It would empty our bunkers, but we have sufficient coal for a round trip. . . .” he prodded. Rolak nodded, saying nothing. More shore batteries opened up, one shot hitting the water close enough to throw spray on them. Quinebe frowned. “I’d recommend we step inside. This ship was never built for this latitude and it grows uncomfortable in there, over time,” he conceded, “but it might become more so out here.”
For the next two hours, Rolak and Bekiaa tried their best to see the land around them through the narrow slits in the stifling battle bridge while Servius pounded upriver, taking an increasingly heavy pounding in return. Quinebe continuously cautioned them to step back from the shutters as the incoming fire grew more furious. Lookouts in the fighting tops—dreadfully exposed positions—called in their observations and the ship’s four 8″ guns punished the targets they designated. Sometimes they were able to get a plane or two to hit them, but most of those were dedicated to supporting the infantry. Damage reports started trickling in.
The boats were shattered in their davits, thin funnels perforated with holes. The wooden bridgewing they’d stood upon was shot away. Beyond that, Servius was just too tough for any Grik field artillery to harm. But the Grik had larger guns, and the dark water around the ship started spewing taller, heavier plumes. Not so very long ago, we didn’t haave aartillery, Bekiaa mused. Then we did and the Grik didn’t. Even aafter they did, it waasn’t very effective compared to ours . . . but the Grik get better at waar as well. The battle bridge thundered with the deafening impact of a massive roundshot, and everyone inside the baking space flinched and closed their eyes and tilted their helmets against the stinging blizzard of thick paint chips.
Captain Quinebe was the first to inspect the deep new dent, protruding low down by the deck on the starboard side. “A big one,” he said lou
dly, white teeth exposed in a grin. He actually seemed to be enjoying himself. “Probably one of their bigger naval guns, emplaced ashore. A fifty pounder, I shouldn’t wonder. I’ll have that position destroyed, if you please,” he instructed his talker, a young Lemurian, who immediately spoke into a voice tube. The big round gunhouse on the fo’c’sle turned in response to instructions from the fighting top. Unseen, another turret tracked the same target aft. Moments later, four huge (if somewhat stubby) 8″ rifles roared. White smoke engulfed the forward part of the ship again, some seeping into the battle bridge. Everyone was so used to the bitter, sulfurous smoke by now, no one even coughed.
Rolak stroked the gray fur on his face and looked at Bekiaa and blinked the quizzical equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Bekiaa twitched her tail and returned a very human shrug. “Perhaaps, Cap-i-taan Quinebe, we’ve seen as much as we need to,” Rolak said aloud. “We already knew the enemy has lined this stretch of the river with heavy guns. They’ll only get heavier the faarther we proceed.” He motioned at the new dent. “As you observed, whaatever threw thaat was probably originaally intended for one of their aarmored cruisers.”
“I thought you wanted to see the locks.”
“I do. Not only the locks themselves, but the ground rising to them. Third Corps”—he nodded at Bekiaa—“and Fifth Division haave fought their way upriver, meeting stiffer resistaance with every step. They caan’t continue to slaam their faces against the wall. Neither caan this ship. The time will come when we’ll need her too baadly, fit and ready to fight. We must all take a brief pause, I think. Wait for the rest of the aarmy, and make a coordinated plaan.”
“Servius can take whatever those vile reptiles give her,” Quinebe proclaimed proudly, just as more heavy shot banged against the superstructure behind them.
“I’m sure, for a while,” Bekiaa told him. “We caan all take more thaan we think—until we caan’t,” she added softly.
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