Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Why did you approach from the east?” he demanded.

  “Actually, Lord General, I flew up from the south. Since no roads are visible beneath the cloak of trees, I had only my compass, the sun, and unfamiliar mountains to guide me. I struck the coast east of here where I met this other courier”—he nodded at his companion—“and we proceeded here together.”

  “South?” Mayta exclaimed, confused. “Whatever for? Your assignment was to view the enemy preparations at Monsu.”

  The flyer bowed again. “I did, Lord, and saw they’ve established respectable defenses facing east, toward us, and north toward the sea. Behind them they’ve started great pits and are gathering heavy materials to cover them. I imagine they’re intended as shelters for troops and supplies against heavy bombardment.”

  Mayta nodded. Shinya had no reason to fear the Dominion Navy anymore, but he knew their greater dragons could drop a couple of bombs. And Los Diablos del Norte would certainly have informed him of Leopardo. Just as Mayta prayed for them, Shinya doubtless expected more League ships to arrive as well. The Shinya that Mayta had come to know without ever meeting him in person would take precautions against their powerful guns.

  “What of the enemy army? Has it begun its advance?”

  The flyer shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, Lord General, and it has made surprising progress.”

  Despite the damp morning heat, Mayta felt a chill. “How soon will it get here, do you think?” The flyer’s face betrayed anguish, as if he feared Mayta’s response to the news he brought. “Come now, our preparations proceed apace. It can’t be that bad.”

  “My General,” the man began, “I don’t think the enemy is coming here.”

  Mayta simply looked at him and blinked. “Where else . . . ? I can’t imagine . . .” He suddenly froze and his eyes narrowed. “Shinya has plunged into the forest, hasn’t he? Angling southeast!”

  “Yes, My General. It was difficult to tell for certain at first—the trees are so dense—but I caught glimpses of enemy movement as much as two hundred and sixty leguas almost due south of here.”

  “That’s . . . a-amazing,” Colonel Yanaz stuttered, and Mayta couldn’t tell if he was alarmed or relieved.

  “My General,” interjected the other flyer, the one who’d brought the scroll. “I too have a . . . disconcerting report. It seems General de Quito fared . . . poorly in his battle with Los Diablos at El Palo. There was news of this at El Penon before I left, but I personally viewed shattered troops straggling along the shoreline.” He shifted uncomfortably. “They appeared to be scrounging for dead fish on the beach.” Mayta said nothing, but if that was true, de Quito’s force had been broken completely and even his baggage was lost. The flyer continued relentlessly. “Overflying El Palo, it was clear there’d been a great battle and the city was still in the hands of Los Diablos”—he nodded at his fellow aviator—“but many of their troops were already gone. Based on the movement of wagons and those protecting them, I also got the impression they were moving south.”

  “Toward El Templo de Los Papas,” Mayta murmured, suddenly blindingly certain, and he found himself strangely conflicted. Not only was he stunned by the realization, but also by the fact he couldn’t help but admire the enemy’s audacity.

  “Then we have no choice,” Colonel Yanaz began, his voice pitched high. “If the heretics have bypassed us, you must pursue them, General Mayta! They can’t be allowed closer to the Holy City of Nuevo Granada itself!”

  Shaking his head impatiently, Mayta tore the seal off the scroll and spread the tanned, crinkly skin. Everyone, even Yanaz, recoiled, clutching the jagged crosses they wore. It was considered sacrilege to allow sunlight to touch the written words of any Blood Cardinal, let alone those of Don Hernan. Such were to be read only by firelight in otherwise darkened rooms to simulate the heavenly underworld. Mayta ignored their reaction and quickly scanned the page. Finally, he grunted with surprise. Smiling oddly, he looked at Yanaz. “It seems I won’t be with you much longer, and can’t ‘pursue’ anyone.” His smile grew broader. “Nor will the Patriarca have me for his fires or impaling pole. I’ve been recalled to Puerto del Cielo and ultimately the Temple City to prepare defenses there. By Don Hernan himself. I’ve no idea how he expects to move me,” he added abstractly, glancing nervously at the dragons, but continued wryly, “yet, unhappy as he must be with me, I imagine he’s even less pleased with General de Quito at the moment. And I did at least inconvenience the enemy a time or two. His Holiness ‘prays I’ve learned from my experience.’”

  “But what will we do here?” Yanaz demanded. Faced with Mayta’s departure, his belligerent call to action turned to caution. “What if it’s merely a ruse and the heretics come here after all?”

  “They won’t.” Mayta rubbed his chin in thought and actually chuckled. “But you’re right. They must be followed. Perhaps it is time I met with Colonel Fuerte and the Patriarca. We’ll give them half your men, Colonel Yanaz. Only the very best, of course,” he added with a veiled hint of sarcasm. “They will hunt General Shinya and Los Diablos down! I’m sure they’ll enjoy it immensely.” He caught the panicky look on Yanaz’s face and formed a concerned expression. “No, no, Colonel, much as I know you yearn to join them, even command the expedition, I trust only you to hold El Henal when I depart. Objections will do you no good. Someone responsible must always stay behind.”

  CHAPTER 10

  ////// Lake Galk

  Grik Africa

  May 9, 1945

  Wearing only a pair of ragged shorts made from his flight coveralls, “General of the Sky” Mitsuo Ando wiped at sweat gushing from his torso with his balled-up shirt, but all it did was smear the salty stream around. At least he was out of the sun, down in the cavernous armored casemate of Supreme Regent General Esshk’s huge new flagship, supervising the loading of its primary weaponry. But the heat and humidity were still stifling. And the smell! The hundreds of Grik Uul workers under Ando’s supervision relieved themselves wherever they stood, and he had to use other Uul solely to clean up the mess. It made little difference. He sighed, trying not to breathe too deeply.

  The huge ship had been designed and partially built as just another ironclad “greatship of battle,” festooned with monstrous muzzle-loading guns, but Ando and his four Japanese companions had designed new weapons called yanone, hopefully more lethal to the enemy than to the ship that fired them. Yanone were essentially a combination of enlarged, solid-fuel rockets like the Grik so profligately flung at aircraft, mated to remodeled versions of the flying bombs used earlier in the war, dropped from swarms of zeppelins. But the zeppelins were nearly all gone, and Ando and his people had come up with another way to deliver the weapons—and their suicidal pilots.

  Yanone required large, stable launch platforms, invisible or invulnerable to marauding aircraft. And originally intended as offensive weapons, they had to be mobile. Offense was a forgotten dream, for now, but putting them in ships, open at both ends, remained the best way to move yanone, protect and aim them, even hide them from the air. And this was the second of only two yanone carriers Esshk was likely to have before he had to use them. Ando didn’t think they’d be enough.

  “Esshk is here,” hissed Lieutenant Ueda. The youngster was Ando’s XO, primarily (as far as they were concerned) of the little squadron of five Muriname-designed AJ1M1c fighter planes they’d brought over to the Grik. Ando and his four remaining people were still tortured by that choice and would un-make it if they could, but believed Muriname hadn’t left them an alternative. Ando hissed, watching the tall, powerful leader of the Grik faction he “belonged to” approach. Esshk was surrounded by sycophantic courtiers, as usual, and despite a strange . . . benevolence he’d displayed around Ando of late, he looked as frightening as ever. Polished armor and a bright red cloak couldn’t make the furry reptilian monster any less intimidating. He and his hangers-on surged through the working Uul, which
immediately flung themselves to the putrid deck at their feet, and soon stood before Ando and Ueda.

  Esshk was looking at the five yanone suspended overhead—only one remained to install—angled upward toward the bow. Sleek, lethal-looking little rocket planes pointed at the opening in the forward casemate. The exhaust funnels had been trunked and diverted and the framework bracing the launch tracks was tied directly into the knees once supporting the gun deck. This was more than ample, since in addition to the load of the deck itself, they would’ve sustained hundreds of tons of iron guns. Esshk swept his gaze back to Ando and his slit pupils narrowed.

  “Almost loaded, I see,” he said. “Is the ship ready to get underway?”

  Ando nodded, a little hesitantly. “It is. Do you intend to move it?”

  Both yanone missile ships were carefully concealed, snugged against the shore of an inlet on the east side of the lake where there were still plenty of trees. These had been pulled over on top of the ships and more branches brought in and tied all over them. And there were quite a few “decoy” ships, unfinished or unpowered but made to look operational, scattered around the lake, sure to focus the enemy’s attention. Ando was sure the missile ships would be seen as well, eventually, as soon as the Allies brought their smaller planes close enough to linger over the lake and search at low altitude. But the big four-engine planes were too vulnerable to antiair missiles and had to stay high.

  “I intend to use them soon,” Esshk said.

  Ando shook his head, uncertain he understood. “Against what? The enemy’s First Fleet has departed. And no targets of consequence are in range.”

  “They will be,” Esshk retorted darkly. “There are still at least two heavily armored enemy vessels, in addition to ours they’ve captured. One tested the river defenses and steamed almost close enough for a yanone to reach, had the carriers been in position on the south end of the lake.” Esshk waved a clawed hand as if it were of no importance. “It was repulsed, and reports differ on how much damage it received, but it will come again, probably with its companion and other ships as well. When they do, we must be ready.” He clacked his frightening teeth together. “I need not remind you of the consequences if the enemy passes the locks and gains access to Lake Galk itself. The Great Hunt and the Way of our race could be ended forever.”

  Ando didn’t care what happened to the Grik race, but he’d given his word to serve Esshk and that was all he had left. “What of General Ign? Aren’t he and General Halik hastening here?”

  Esshk growled. “Ign still attempts to elude pursuit. He crossed Lake Nalak and evaded one enemy force, only to be blocked by another.” He snorted. “Ign is my finest general, but he may be spent.”

  “And Halik?”

  Esshk shifted, and from what little Ando understood of Grik expressions, he looked troubled. “He comes, as summoned,” he said at last, “but hasn’t openly declared for me. I don’t understand,” he complained. “And he only has a hundred thousands. I thought he’d bring more.” Esshk appeared to brighten. “Then again, he’s had to fight through numerous treacherous regencies. Why do that if he won’t support me? Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t declared: to avoid combat when he can and bring me as many warriors as possible!” Esshk snorted and a string of snot arced out of a nostril on his snout, almost spattering Ando. He recoiled, but Esshk didn’t notice. “Obedience to the Celestial Blood,” his voice turned harsh, “even when it runs through a treacherous hatchling, is always blindest on the edges of the empire.”

  Esshk looked back at Ando, confident again. “Halik comes, but we must hold until he gets here. And I have to be ready to use the yanone against the armored ships, or any large enemy concentrations.”

  Ando glanced at Ueda and scratched his head behind his ear. The ship was infested with vermin. He was sure the yanone could smash the Republic monitors, or any other ships the enemy sent, but Esshk still didn’t get it. Against infantry, they might slaughter a hundred troops if they were gathered close together—if the pilot saw them fast enough to aim himself at them—but they wouldn’t break a regiment, much less an army. And not only did each ship carry only six, it took hours to reload them! He sighed inwardly. We’ve been over this so many times, it’s pointless to argue further.

  “Regardless,” Ueda ventured carefully, “once you reveal the yanone and their carriers, the enemy will hunt them relentlessly. You’ll only get to use them once.”

  If Esshk could’ve smiled, he would have. “Ah! Exactly why I’m here!” He gestured around. “Your task is complete and you’re relieved of this burden I know you’ve chafed against; released back to your flock of flying machines!” His eyes focused on Ando. “You’re my General of the Sky, after all, not an auger worm, boring through ships’ timbers! When I use the yanone, you’ll protect the carriers with your magnificent planes!”

  Ando stared. Protect them with my five planes. They had plenty of fuel, not very good, but better than what had been available, carted down from Kakag where Muriname left a cache. But they only had enough 7.7 mm ammunition for maybe two loadouts, per plane. Even if he’d known how, it would’ve been impossible to recreate the industry Kurokawa established on Zanzibar. Again, with no other alternative, Ando bowed. “May I ask, Lord Regent General . . .” He licked his lips. “What if my few planes can’t protect the yanone carriers? What if General Halik doesn’t come in time? What if . . . despite all we do, all is lost?”

  Ando had heard Esshk himself speculate about that before, but this was probably the first time an underling dared to pose the question. Esshk’s shiny black crest flared above his head, but the tension eased just slightly. “I’ve given that thought, General of the Sky, and determined that, one way or another, I will not lose. Yours is not the only project to insure that,” he added cryptically. “I prefer to reconquer the world as it was, and restore . . . much of what my race has been.” His voice began to rise. “But if this regency, my final lair, appears ready to fall into the claws of the enemy—of prey . . .” He caught himself, calmed himself, and when he continued, his voice was flat. “I’ll preside over the utter destruction, not only of the enemy and those of our race who collaborate with them, but of Old Sofesshk, the Palace of Vanished Gods . . . everything the Gharrichk’k to the south have ever been. I’ll build a new Way, a new empire atop the bones of the old.” He eyed Ando curiously. “You can be part of that. If you live.”

  Suddenly chilled beneath his sweat, Ando could only bow. He knew the yanone hadn’t been Esshk’s final bolt. He was a general, after all, and a fairly good one as Grik went. As soon as Sofesshk fell, he’d begun preparations for his final defense in a reasonable fashion that made good use of his position, as well as the bounty of heavy guns he’d stripped from otherwise useless ships. But Ando was mystified by this last revelation, and had no idea whether Esshk could really do it, or had finally gone entirely mad.

  CHAPTER 11

  ////// USS Walker

  Soonda Strait

  Goddamn paperwork!” Chief Isak Reuben snapped at Tabby in his reedy drawl when she cycled through the airlock into the aft fireroom. With numbers three and four boilers both lit, the heat that struck her was oppressive, instantly wetting her gray fur with foamy sweat. An “ex-pat Impie gal” water tender named Sureen caught her gaze and rolled her eyes before glaring at Isak, who stood on the grating between the boilers like a scrawny troll, menacing her with a clipboard.

  “No ‘good morning, Lieuten-aant Tabby, how’re you todaay?’ Just . . .”

  “Goddamn paperwork!” Isak repeated, belligerently whacking the clipboard against a fuel flow valve. Sureen sighed and inspected the valve. Like so many others, it was worn, leaky, and loose. Vibration alone was often enough to move it, alternately starving or overfeeding the boiler. The latter would quickly be noticed by lookouts above when black smoke swirled from the number three stack. Satisfied, the girl eased out of the path of Isak’s wrath. Seeing Su
reen in her virtually translucent sweat-soaked T-shirt brought Tabby an instant of nostalgic, bittersweet amusement, reminding her of when she first started working in the hellish firerooms with Isak and his half brother Gilbert. She’d been their student then, almost their pet, and they vicariously gloried in the way she tormented Spanky, who had her job then, by going topless. At the peak of the “dame famine,” she knew she’d tempted him, but he’d resisted. Oddly, somehow, that made her love him. And he’d eventually come to love her too—in a frustratingly different sort of way. All so long ago, she lamented, an’ Spaanky figures it’s settled—but I still feel the same. She shook her head and prepared to receive Isak’s rant.

  “Look at all this,” he snarled, ruffling the pages with grimy fingers. “Whaddaya even need it for? I tell you all the shit in here at quarters ever’day. I thought they made me chief ’cause I’m good at what I do, but all I get to do is scribble on these goddamn sheets while ever’thing falls apart! Better when I was just another snipe, fixin’ shit when it broke.” Tabby thought he might already be winding down when he took a PIG-cig from behind his ear and lit it, adding its acrid smoke to the steam, sweat, oil, hot iron, and bilgewater stink of the compartment. Unfortunately, he was just getting started. “We’re buildin’ ships, guns, stupid airplanes, fightin’ half a dozen wars at once, an’ some dope comes up with the bright idea to make flappin’ paper, so half o’ ever’body oughta be fightin’ can spend all their time scratchin’ on it! An’ what good does it do?” he demanded. “We been steamin’ without a break for the better part of a month an’ can’t really fix nothin’. Number two’s cold, so we can work on it, but it’s the queen, with the least wrong with it! These two bitches”—he whacked the boilers on either side of him—“ain’t really mean.” He paused thoughtfully. “Actually, they’re in pretty good shape, considerin’. That last overhaul’s holdin’ up okay. They’re just tired.” His face clouded and he pointed at the fuel flow valve with his smoldering PIG-cig. “But there was a lotta little shit Tarakan Island didn’t have for us—or didn’t have left after they showered it all on that shit-heap Ellie.” He sneered. “Oughta scrap that useless bucket an’ start over.”