Dupont turned to gaze speculatively at his devices and hide the gleeful expression on his face. Parfait, he thrilled. The devices were bombs, of course. They weren’t very large, but they didn’t have to be. Not only would he have his revenge, there’d be almost no risk to him. He had the perfect buffer. Giaan and Nau were cowards. Fearing the League, they’d do all they could to protect him, and fearing discovery by their own people, they’d quickly silence the imbécile who placed the device. And the bombs themselves were assembled from components from all over the Alliance! The battery, as bulky as the explosive, was from here, as was the wire, but the dynamite was from the Filpin Lands and the clockwork from the Empire. That appealed to Dupont’s sense of fate.
He frowned. But the clockwork, taken from the ubiquitous, if overlarge Imperial watches, troubled him. They kept good time if they were wound every few hours to keep the springs tight, but that would be unworkable. And the longer they went without winding, the slower they went. He’d love to have one explode right over a secret airfield, wrecking its target and spreading destruction in all directions, but not knowing where the airfield was, timing for that was impossible. Second best would be if the aircraft went down in the middle of the predator-rich jungle, far from civilization. That he might manage, with a reasonable itinerary.
He turned back to his Lemurian co-conspirators. “Find out whatever you can about the schedule for this flight. Timing will be crucial,” he stressed, then paused, looking back at his workbench. “We should only need one device, but two are ready, as you see. Both would be better, but that would double the risk of detection. I leave to your discretion how many to use.” He glanced at the unnamed Lemurian. “All that remains is to set them—and place them, of course. Both of those things must be done with care.”
CHAPTER 17
////// Baalkpan, Borno
Mackey Field
May 22, 1945
Wow,” was all Matt could say, gazing up at the huge dirigible floating over Mackey Field, its nose anchored to a tall tripod mooring mast. He’d already seen it from a distance, of course. It was impossible to miss, shuttling passengers and payloads across the bay. And he hadn’t had any anxious flashbacks to the times they’d been mobbed by countless Grik “zeps” and their “suicider” bombs because this airship was strikingly different. Not only was it painted a pleasant medium dark blue like all Allied aircraft (except Republic planes), its rudders and elevators sported the reassuring red and white stripes. The roundel “target” was composed of the blue, white, green, and gold of the United Homes instead of the white star with a red dot in a blue field of the Navy Clan, but it wasn’t a Navy Clan airship. Yet even aside from the color, the biggest differences between this and the dirigibles Grik had made were that it looked a lot “cleaner,” more finished, and it mounted four radials instead of the five horizontally opposed “flat” engines. It was also bigger.
“Her name’s Fueen—’Cat for ‘Union,’” Alan Letts told Matt and Silva. The translation was unnecessary, but Alan’s warning tone prevented Silva’s ready crack about another common, literal, usage of the word.
“Damn thing’s half again bigger than any Grik zep,” Silva said instead, echoing Matt’s thoughts. “Can I fly it?”
“It’s over four hundred and fifty feet long, and no you can’t fly it,” Alan replied, voice rising incredulously. He caught himself before he went off on a rant about the big man’s destructive potential, however. It had been almost two weeks since “The Battle of the Busted Screw,” and Silva didn’t show much damage as a result. It was possible Matt wasn’t aware of his participation. Better to keep it that way, Alan thought, and consciously lowered his voice. “Trust me, the controls are different from what you’re used to.”
Silva shrugged, upsetting Petey. “How hard can it be? ’Specially with somebody to show me the knobs. Never had that before.” Silva had become the first dirigible pilot in the Alliance when he swiped a Grik airship and literally learned to fly it . . . on the fly.
Henry Stokes chuckled. “Later, mate.”
Lawrence, hanging back—he wouldn’t be joining them—made an amused kakking sound. Silva glared, then peeled Petey off his neck and tossed him at his friend. Petey’s gliding membranes deployed just long enough to correct his trajectory before little claws dug in and Lawrence yelped. “Take care o’ the little booger. He hates to fly as much as you.” He grinned. “Feed him somethin’.”
“Feed?” Petey inquired, tasting the word, then looked at Lawrence with demanding eyes. “Eat!” he cawed.
“But why build it at all?” Matt asked, focusing back on the airship and thinking of the materials and labor it must’ve taken. “We already know how vulnerable the damn things are—and I guess it’s full of hydrogen.”
“I asked myself the same question when I saw it,” Lieutenant Muriname began, conversationally, but Matt frowned at him. The balding, bespectacled Muriname had been “General of the Sky” for Kurokawa and the Grik, designing zeppelins (and other things) for the enemy. He’d finally come over to the Allies with the remains of a squadron of pretty good torpedo bombers during the First Battle of the Zambezi. Matt didn’t like him and his presence on this trip was probably why Sandra decided to stay and work in the hospital. But Stokes and Letts had vouched for him, and the League defector Walbert Fiedler, who Matt both trusted and respected, seemed to be Muriname’s best buddy now. Matt sighed. Like it or not, the Jap’s part of the new “staff” they hung on me, along with most of the other people here. He glanced around at those waiting to board the airship while Muriname kept talking, apparently oblivious to the look Matt gave him.
Muriname and Fiedler were on his “strategic consulting team” as air advisors, and somewhat whimsically as specialists on League tactics. More importantly, the latest dope was that Victor Gravois might actually be formulating League strategy in the Caribbean and they knew the French lunatic better than anyone else. Other members of Matt’s new team included the Lemurian General Mersaak, once commanding Safir’s fabled “600,” and now in acting command of II Corps. Several other ’Cats were in, as experts on new systems and goodies they’d get. Many more would come and go, as usual, including all Matt’s senior officers. The “permanent” staff would be heavy with bigwigs, like Ambassadors Doocy Meek from the Republic and Bolton Forester from the Empire. Both were smart guys, dedicated to the cause, but also frustrated by the fact they’d sat the war out, so far. They wanted in at the end. Matt’s former coxswain, now “king” of North Borno, was an exception to that. Not only was he painfully crippled, he was absolutely terrified of the water. And there were thousands of miles of it between Borno and their destination. He’d go because he thought his human and Grik-like Khonashi troops deserved his support in the, to them, unimaginably distant fight. They’d probably have to add more Impies, Repubs, and even Nussies as time went by, Matt supposed.
“Actually rather simple to make, utilizing the ingenious laminated and diagonally braced Baalkpan bamboo for framing,” he heard Muriname say admiringly as he tuned back in. They were ascending tall stairs to the top of a movable platform pushed against the belly of the airship. A hatch loomed open and exhaust washed around them from the muttering engines, their propellers spinning flat. Variable-pitch props were only one of many innovations Matt had apparently missed. “And the design is stronger, more efficient, and less labor intensive than anything I was able to accomplish,” the Japanese officer went on. “You’ll note only a single gondola, forward, where the flight crew navigates and operates the controls, but the passenger/cargo compartment we’re entering is not only spacious enough for impressive loads, it avoids the drag of additional gondolas!”
“Looks like a midget version of the Akron and Macon. You remember what happened to them,” Matt said aside to Alan.
“Sure, but we didn’t build her to do all the crazy crap our old Navy wanted. Fueen is not a flying aircraft carrier, for God’s sake
, and anybody with planes—especially the League—makes her useless as a bomber. Like you said, we proved that against the Grik. She’d probably be a decent long-range scout,” he conceded, “but still practically helpless if she got caught. We don’t need her for that, anyway. We can put plenty of scouts in the air from carriers and AVDs. What we do need is a way to quickly haul heavy loads relatively short distances—she’ll fly nearly seventy miles an hour—and get in and out of places there aren’t any roads. She’s a flying transport, period.”
“The Republic’s promised land locomotives,” Doocy Meek said, ducking through the hatch behind Bolton Forester. “An’ ye’ll get ’em too. But current priority’s on extendin’ rail lines ta support the war in Africa. That, an’ powerin’ our own warships, o’ course.”
“Everybody’s been busy with other things,” Tony Scott conceded, limping into the passenger compartment behind Matt, Alan, and Silva. The stairs had been hard on his mangled leg, brace or not, and he quickly found a seat near a small open window. The others joined him, finding chairs or cushions. Matt and Silva walked around, looking at the little decorative touches—typically Lemurian, even for a glorified cargo bay—and glancing out more windows. “We couldn’t use the locomotives if we had ’em,” Scott added. “Haven’t even started clearing the roadbeds yet. What for? With our shipbuilding program in such high gear, we can’t spare iron for the rails.” He arched his brows at Matt. “You remember the hell we had making our first pipeline cut.”
A crew-’Cat ushered the last Lemurian specialists in and latched the hatch behind them. Matt noted that the hatch and frame around it looked like molded plywood. Mere moments later, the deck seemed to shift and angle slightly upward toward the stern. There was a bumping lurch and the massive craft began rising, yawing a little in the early morning breeze, before the idling engines increased power and their props began to bite. The subtle vibration they’d felt since they boarded grew more insistent. Still gazing outside, Matt saw the airfield slide away beneath them and Fueen seemed to surge, fluidly accelerating like a great startled fish swimming in the sky. Belatedly, Matt craned his neck at the window, trying for a glimpse of Baalkpan from the air. That was something he’d never had.
“Sorry, Skipper. Not much to see on this heading,” Alan apologized. “Mackey Field’s still on the edge of town. Not much past it but jungle. You can go down in the gondola when we come back, if you want. Have a good look.”
“I’d like that,” Matt agreed.
They flew east for a while, then turned due north for the better part of an hour, the rays of the morning sun washing through the starboard windows. To Matt it felt like they were gently climbing almost continuously, the impenetrable greenness below losing all features but those betrayed by mountain and valley shadows. After remarking on this, and various other things of interest, Matt determined now was the time to question Henry Stokes about his suspicions. This was the first time they’d all been sequestered from potentially prying ears, and the first time Stokes was trapped, unable to make a cryptic hint and bolt.
“Suspicions.” Stokes glowered. “Hell, there’s no question now.” He took a breath and seemed to contemplate where to begin. “You’ll remember that nobody liked General Linnaa. Had no bloody experience at all. But former Chairman Adar appointed him Commander o’ Sixth Corps to make Sular happy when we were tryin’ to ratify the Union Charter. Didn’t like his draggin’ arse around Indiaa when you needed Sixth Corps in the south either, but he always had excuses. It wasn’t until you discovered he’d been slowin’ iron an’ steel shipments from Madraas, an’ sittin’ on repairs to Mahan an’ those salvaged Grik BBs, we realized he was doin’ it on purpose. That got him sacked, an’ good riddance. You got Sixth Corps.” He smiled. “An’ Mahan. We started gettin’ a flood o’ good iron an’ steel from Madraas. Those Grik BBs too. Speakin’ o’ which, they’re all re-engined. Sular too. You saw her comin’ outa dry dock the day you got in. ‘Sular,’” he snorted. “There’s bloody irony for ya!”
“Indeed,” Bolton Forester agreed somberly, “but never forget, Sular itself is not to blame. Most of its people are loyal to your Union and its namesake ship has given good service.”
“They all have the same engines as Fleet Carriers now,” Alan supplied. “Their old guns are gone, but they still have some armor. They make decent protected troopships and they’re faster now.”
“I’ve been thinking about a couple more modifications I’d like done to them, if there’s time, but for now let’s get back to the point,” Matt suggested.
Stokes nodded. “Yeah. So all the while we’re gettin’ yanked around by Linnaa, Sular’s sendin’ colonists to B’taava an’ Raan-Goon. Sinaa-pore too. It wasn’t long before B’taava had enough people to join the Union with full representation in the Assembly. Other places won’t be far behind, an’ it’s obvious Sular’s tryin’ to pack the Assembly with a voting block that’s in their pocket. That’d be bad enough, puttin’ politics over the war effort, but it gets worse.” His voice hardened. “They haven’t just been puttin’ themselves first, they’ve been workin’ to throw the rest of us to the flashies.”
“Those lousy sons o’ goats,” Silva seethed.
“Why?” Matt asked, genuinely perplexed. “How do you know?”
“It started comin’ together when we looked closer at Linnaa. On top of everything else he did—or didn’t do—in Indiaa, we found his name on orders refusing supply requests by Colonel Enaak an’ Dalibor Svec, off chasin’ Halik, citing ‘emergency priorities’ elsewhere. Since he wasn’t actin’ on any other ‘emergencies,’ I turned a pack o’ OSI snoops loose to chase down where Enaak’s supplies wound up. Take a guess.”
“B’taava?”
“Right. Raan-Goon too. OSI dug deeper. Seems there’d been a lot of CW traffic outa Linnaa’s HQ. In unapproved code,” he stressed. “Signal-’Cats didn’t know what it was, but a general tells you to tap somethin’ out, you do what he says. Apparently, there was never any response except from some of our other stations asking ‘what the hell was that?’”
“I wonder who it went to?” Doocy Meek murmured.
“It could haave been anyone with a receiver,” General Mersaak spoke up, “but my guess would be Sularaan aaccomplices . . . or the League.”
“One or both,” Stokes nodded. “Chairman Letts an’ I put the finger on Linnaa for treason instead o’ just incompetence. When he was arrested in Madraas, he objected that the Navy Clan had no authority over him ’cause he was a general o’ Sular. More important, he was gonna be the next High Chief o’ B’taava.”
“Payoff,” Matt surmised.
“Right. OSI sweated him in the brig on Andamaan Island. With what we had on him, the Sularaans couldn’t have the people in B’taava ‘spontaneously’ acclaim him High Chief, an’ we damn sure do have authority over Union officers! He never squealed, though, which is actually kind of funny, since when we finally had him shipped back here for trial in an old Nakja-Mur Class APD, the ship stopped at Aryaal for fuel.” He chuckled. “Not only was Linnaa discovered to be missing before the ship docked, several sailors the ship took on at Andamaan went AWOL in Aryaal. The skipper said their service jackets showed ’em all from Maa-ni-la, but they sounded like Sularaans to him.”
“They bumped him off,” Silva said wonderingly, looking at General Mersaak. “I can count the number o’ ’Cat murders I’ve heard of on my fingers.”
“The proof’s still circumstantial, and none answers ‘why,’” said Matt.
“The real proof we’ve been gettin’ lately gives us ‘why’ enough, Cap’n Reddy,” Stokes countered grimly, then seemed to go off on a tangent. “Y’know, even before hardly any of ’em knew how to read or write, ’Cats loved the regular mail runs you started, early as ’forty-two. So many’d gone to the Filpin Lands, not just ‘runaways’ but families o’ those who stayed behind, ’er ’Cats you’d trained to teach Maa-n
i-los to make things or fight . . . Hell, they drew pictures to one another if they couldn’t write. ’Cats ain’t shy either. They don’t care if somebody else looks at what they write or draw. Most just fold a page over an’ put a name on it. Even now there’s envelopes, hardly anyone uses ’em. They cost more than half a dozen regular sheets o’ paper! Anybody who springs for one won’t seal it so you have to tear it either. They’ll send it back and forth until it wears out.”
“So the Office of Strategic Intelligence has been reading people’s mail,” Matt guessed.
“Right. Especially if it’s sealed.”
Bolton Forester stirred in his seat. “More specifically if it’s sealed in a diplomatic pouch from the Sularaan Consulate, on its way to the Empire of the New Britain Isles. You can be sure Her Majesty’s government is investigating the addressees.”
“I wonder who gave them that idea,” Matt speculated.
“Doesn’t matter,” Letts replied. “They might as well have put ‘Read me! Incriminating shit inside!’ on the label. It has been incriminating too. We now know somebody in the Sularaan Consulate’s behind almost all our leaks, and a lot of the subversion of the war effort from the start. We just don’t know who, exactly. My money’s on Giaan because I don’t like him, but it might be their senior assemblyperson and all this is why he’s made himself scarce.”
“How much have they spilled to the enemy lately? And you still haven’t told me why, damn it!”
“As to the first, we don’t really know,” Stokes answered uncomfortably. “We believe we caught the first reference to Savoie, but can’t be positive. There’ve been no more unauthorized code transmissions from here, and we’re probably catching all their letter mail now. Moreover, we don’t think they know about U-112 because Captain Hoffman”—he nodded at Fiedler—“and the submarine he and his crew defected in, never came to Baalkpan. There’s a static floating dry dock at Tarakan Island now—strictly Navy Clan territory—and that’s where she was taken for overhaul. U-112 actually remains our best source on League dispositions, as a matter of fact. You may remember Hoffman said he was still listening to their transmissions?” Matt nodded. “What you may not’ve realized was his boat had an ingenious cipher machine to encode and decode ’em, along with a key and various sets of—Hoffman called ’em ‘rotors’—to randomly change the codes. For proof positive how arrogant the League is, and how sure they are his boat was lost, Hoffman says they’ve changed their rotors a time or two, on schedule, but not the bloody key. He’s still reading their mail!”
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