CHAPTER 54
////// USS James Ellis
Lago de Vida
Holy Dominion
Lago de Vida was deep and blue and large enough that the curvature of the earth easily hid the forest-fringed southern end. The afternoon sky was clear, and purple, flat-topped mountains loomed beyond the distant, hazy sprawl of the Dom capital of New Granada. It was actually quite beautiful, but Commander Perry Brister caught only a glimpse as USS James Ellis sprinted out of the River of Heaven. An instant later, his bridge talker urgently echoed Paul Stites’s shout of “surface target!” directly overhead on the fire control platform. “Two surfaace taargets,” emphasized the talker, “bearing one, eight, seero, speed . . . seero. They must be at aanchor! Range nine t’ousaands!”
“All ahead full, left standard rudder, make smoke!” Perry shouted, his rough voice tight with tension. “Inform Captain Reddy on the TBS.” The enemy would hear, but they could see them now, and shells were already splashing nearby. They could make all the noise they wanted.
“Rudder amidships,” Perry told the ’Cat at the wheel. “Surface action starboard. Commence firing at will, and stand by starboard torpedoes.”
“On taarget!” came the cry from above, and the salvo alarm rattled against the aft bulkhead. Ellie’s three 4″-50s that would bear boomed together, their bright tracers converging as they arced toward the larger, distant target. A pair of flashes lit the superstructure aft of the enemy bridge and Perry heard Stites yell triumphantly, “No change, no change, rapid fire!” That must be Ramb V, he thought, uncomfortably. Word is, she’s just an auxiliary, but heavily armed. Kinda like going up against the old Santy Cat. But we’re already hitting her, and what’s she doing just sitting there?
Ronson Rodriguez, standing by the auxiliary conn, aft, while the number four gun spat another shell to join those from guns one and three, was wondering much the same when a ’Cat suddenly screamed, “Torpedoes! Port quaarter!” Ronson spun and saw them: four bright, creamy wakes arrowing in from aft. He saw where they came from too. Canet, the Alsedo Class destroyer that suddenly went missing had been snugged close to shore, camouflaged by overhanging trees. She was getting underway, now, already exchanging point-blank fire with Walker as the second Allied DD steamed into the lake. “Four torpedoes in the water, two, four, zero relative!” he shouted in the voice tube to the bridge. “That little bastard Alsedo bushwhacked us! Get this gun on him,” he yelled at the crew of number four. ’Cats were rapidly cranking it around and Ellie was finally, glacially, starting to turn to starboard, when a torpedo hit her forward of the amidships gun platform, heaving her over under an avalanche of water and falling debris. Even as she hung there, a second fish struck just under the bridge. That almost rolled her over and Ronson went sliding off the aft deckhouse, tumbling onto the starboard 25mm, breaking his fall on the ’Cats who crewed it. He was afraid he might’ve killed one, who lay unnaturally in a spreading pool of blood. The ship shook again, even as it righted itself, and a tower of fire rushed into the sky. Everything forward of the amidships gun platform was a wall of flame, and Ronson knew Captain Brister, Paul Stites—all his friends up there—were dead.
“Get those hoses going!” thundered a blackened, smoldering form, physically picking ’Cats off the deck and hurling them toward firefighting gear. It took a moment for Ronson to recognize Chief Bosun Carl Bashear. His beard was burned off. “We still got power, so we still got water. Get some on those fires, damn you!” His watery red eyes caught Ronson. “I guess you know you’re in charge,” he snapped bitterly, not angry at Ronson, just coping with the loss of friends as well. “I doubt we can save the ship. I can’t even get forward to look at the damage, but we better stop the engines before they drive us under.”
“Do what you can,” Ronson gulped, his first pathetic words of command. “I’ll stop the engines and see if I can get ahold of anybody forward.” His voice was firming as he spoke. “There must be somebody.” He turned to climb back on the aft deckhouse and the number four gun barked, shooting at Canet, he guessed. “Get the torpedoes off the ship!” he shouted at Bashear. “Point ’em at the enemy if you can, but get ’em off!”
Back at his station, he quickly spoke to Johnny Parks in the forward engine room—at least he was still alive—and told him to secure the engines and send whoever he could to join the damage control parties. Looking forward at the roaring flames and destruction, and feeling the way the deck tilted forward, he suspected it was hopeless, but they had to try.
A high-pitched Lemurian cheer from the number four gun’s crew drew his attention and he looked aft—just as USS Walker roared past, jettisoning her own life rafts in case Ellie’s people needed them. USS Sular wasn’t far behind, recklessly dropping a half dozen dories down her launching rails. Reckless, hell! Ronson thought. Those dories have ’Cats in ’em! All were bounced and jostled radically by the big ship’s wake, but some miracle preserved the brave ’Cats manning them. A wet, thundering bong reminded him of Canet, and he turned to see her doom. Walker had obviously savaged her badly as she raced by. Of course she had, Ronson thought proudly. Walker’s got the best gun’s crews on this whole screwed-up world! Sular had four 4″-50s of her own, at the peak of her casemate, and doubtless raked the Leaguer as well. Mahan finished her, slamming a salvo right in her fireroom at less than two hundred yards. The sound Ronson heard was boilers bursting and shattering a sinking hulk. Looking forward, he knew Walker, Sular, and Mahan were still fighting Ramb V and Leopardo, but he couldn’t see anything through the smoke. Nor could his number four gun bear on anything useful anymore. “Okay, people!” he shouted. “Ellie’s down, but she’s not out. Let’s get busy!”
USS Walker
“My God,” Courtney murmured as Walker swept past James Ellis. The whole forward half of the ship had been smashed off, and flaming fuel spewed wide across the water. Ramb V, still inexplicably at anchor, was firing somewhat wildly, her guns uncoordinated. Ellie must’ve knocked out her fire control, and Walker’s and Sular’s salvos were tearing her apart. Leopardo had apparently retreated beyond the smoke of her burning consort and couldn’t be seen.
“My fault,” Matt said, as Walker’s guns boomed. “Perry . . .”
“I think the term is ‘bullshit,’ my brother,” Keje told him. “For whaatever reason your heart sought this baattle when it did, your mind gave us a better one. And we caan never predict whaat we caan’t possibly know. The enemy surprised us, thaat’s all.” His gravelly voice turned to stone. “And he paid for it. Now we’ll make them pay more dearly.”
Matt was silent only a moment before turning to Bernie. “Range, Mr. Sandison?”
“Seven thousand, three hundred. Easy shot on a stationary target, especially with the new fish. I have a solution for the port tubes.”
“Give him all four, and they better all hit.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Bernie spoke into his headset while the ’Cat on the director kept it on the target. “Port mount, stand by to fire all tubes on my mark.” He glanced at the director again. “Fire two, fire four, fire six, fire eight!” The ship lurched with each command and the bright afternoon sun briefly glinted off the gold-colored weapons as impulse charges flung them over the side in a swirling cloud of smoke and steam.
“Send to all ships: ‘Follow me, and make for the docks,’” Matt said. “Helm, make your course two, three, zero.”
“Making my course two, three, zero, aye,” Paddy Rosen barked in reply.
“Cap-i-taan, Commaander Tiaa-Baari on Mahaan requests permission to pursue Leopaardo,” Minnie said.
Matt spared a quick, fond glance at Mahan. Tiaa was taking her slightly out of line to the left, possibly anticipating his approval. And he did approve, on a visceral level, since he knew Tiaa was just as anxious as he was to avenge Perry Brister. Not only was Mahan Walker’s only real—if somewhat truncated—sister from their old world, she’d been Perry’s
first ship as well. “Request denied. We’ll both go hunting as soon as Sular’s at the dock and we suppress any shore batteries that open up on Chack’s troops as they disembark. All guns will keep firing at the big one, but if Mr. Campeti spots Leopardo as our aspects change—”
“Haammer her,” Minnie finished for him. Matt managed a small grin. “Damn straight.”
For a moment then, through the racket of the guns and the occasional shell splash from Ramb V, those on the bridge were able to view New Granada in better detail. Walls surrounded the city and numerous stepped pyramids rose behind them. One near the center of the city was much taller than the others. “What do you wanna bet that’s where they keep their big cheese?” Spanky asked.
“I won’t be betting,” Courtney said flatly. Few Doms captured by the NUS over the years had even been to Nuevo Granada. Those who had all agreed—they believed—“His Supreme Holiness” resided in the larger structure. Only one, a certain Blood Cardinal named Don Emmanuel, acting as an early ambassador to the League at the time, was taken prisoner by their own Fred and Kari. He’d once been granted an audience (of sorts) with the Dom Pope himself, and finally, never imagining they’d actually see it, somewhat proudly revealed the meeting occurred in the “tallest structure in the City of God.” There was only one possible candidate.
“Instruct Colonel Chack”—Matt paused, smiling slightly—“to make for what looks like the biggest cowflop around, only this one has steps. What is it about pyramids on this dopey world?” he asked the pilothouse at large.
“Nothing particular,” Courtney replied. “They’re the simplest of all complex structures. I know that sounds contradictory, but it’s true, and they’re found all over our old world as well, attributable to innumerable civilizations.” He blinked. “Some of which do seem to have touched this world as well . . .”
“Sorry you asked?” Spanky quipped.
“We would never make something so crude,” Keje—the Lemurian descendant of tree dwellers—said loftily, then chuckled at his own joke.
Not all the defenders of the Holy City were preoccupied in the west, and several large cannon opened on Sular as she steered for the docks. One massive shot deflected off the old ironclad and smashed the top off Walker’s number three funnel, scything fragments down on the crew of the port torpedo tubes. Even in their pain they had the satisfaction of watching all four of their fish disembowel Ramb V. Tall geysers erupted the length of the 384-foot ship, and black smoke gushed from her funnel like the cough of a volcano. Fuel washed across her, ignited, and she became a settling inferno in seconds.
“Take out those shore batteries!” Matt hollered up to Campeti, bypassing Minnie, and Walker’s guns started blasting masonry from around the closest embrasures. Sular’s 4″-50s and all her machine guns pummeled them too as she slowed. But Sular kept going, practically crashing ashore, splintering the docks all the way to the base of the wall that crumbled down against her. Grinding to a stop, she still kept shooting even as troops poured out and over the rubbled breach.
Matt touched the battered academy sword at his side, actually yearning to go with Chack and help finish this himself. But he belonged on Walker, and there was still Leopardo. . . . On the other hand, there was one thing he could do. “All ahead one-third. Bring us alongside Sular,” he told Paddy Rosen. “Chief Silva!” he shouted down through the open pilothouse windows, still broken after the action off St. Vincent.
“Sir?”
“You’ve stormed a cowflop or two in your time. They say three’s a charm. You want to go ashore with Chack, or stay with Walker? I owe you the choice.”
Silva hesitated, torn. “I want to stay with you, Skipper,” he finally replied.
“On your number one gun, doing what you’ve taught a dozen ’Cats to do.” Matt pointed at the looming pyramid barely a mile away. Dried blood—and not all dried—coated the hundred steps to the top. “You can do more there.”
Silva looked out over the water where Ramb V was turning turtle, her red-black belly rolling into the sunlight. Somewhere beyond was Leopardo. He turned back to look at his captain. “You orderin’ me, Skipper? I got a score to settle with Gravois my own self, you know.”
Matt considered. Some choice, after all, he thought. “Yes, that’s an order. Gravois’s as likely to be ashore as on Leopardo, anyway. We have to cover both bases. All astern one-third,” he told the ’Cat on the EOT. “You’ve got one minute to arm yourself and get across,” he called back down to Silva. “Go.”
All hesitation gone, Silva tossed a salute and bolted for the hatch. “All stop. Ease her in,” Matt told Rosen, as Walker leaned to kiss the side of the ex-Grik battleship. Self-consciously, he glanced at Courtney. “I know. Silly.”
“Not at all. You do ‘owe’ him. We all do. And it was clear he wanted to go, despite his protestations. I would too, if I was twenty years younger.” He chuckled. “And you’re right. Chack may need him, and he does have a talent for it.”
“Not me,” Keje declared. “I’ll fight my baattles on a wooden deck.” He grinned at Matt, blinking ruefully. “At least the strakes in the pilothouse are wood.”
Silva must’ve snatched Petey, as well as a BAR (Browning Automatic Rifle) and his belt festooned with weapons, because they both reappeared moments later and jumped across to Sular. In seconds he was lost among the ’Cats, humans, and Khonashi surging ashore. “He didn’t take his big gun,” Courtney suddenly exclaimed.
“He broke it,” said Spanky, “and never replaced it this time.”
Courtney frowned. “I hope he doesn’t need it.”
Spanky laughed. “He never needed it, except for the occasional super lizard. He just liked wagging the damn thing around.”
“All back, two-thirds,” Matt ordered. “Right standard rudder.” A moment later, a big roundshot slammed into Walker’s fo’c’sle and splashed alongside, leaving a hell of a dent. Her guns pounded more cannon firing uselessly at Sular, but less so at her troops. “Mahan’ll have to stay here,” Matt sighed. “Tell Tiaa to move out of range and keep covering our people. We’ll go for Leopardo ourselves. Rudder amidships. All ahead full.”
CHAPTER 55
THE BATTLE OF NEW GRANADA
////// August 8, 1945
Blas
Giles Meder, a colonel now, had wheeled his massed batteries right up into musket range of the western wall of New Granada. His gun’s crews took fearful losses at first, while mercilessly battering the wall around the main West Gate, but they quickly reduced a section about ninety yards long to a crumbling mass of rubble and mangled defenders. Contrary to expectations, return fire from elsewhere along the wall was slackening, not growing, as Shinya and Cox struggled to form their tired troops behind the guns for a hasty, overwhelming assault.
“What the hell?” murmured Colonel Blas-Ma-Ar aside to Sister Audrey and Captain Bustos as Arano Garcia and Captain Ixtli ranted at their hopelessly intermixed 2nd Marines and Vengadores. And the problem wasn’t theirs alone. Dao Iverson was yelling at Impie Marines, and Nussie officers and NCOs were working just as hard to bring order out of chaos.
“There’s a battle on the lake,” came General Tomatsu Shinya’s voice behind them, speaking matter-of-factly. “A shame we can’t see it from here.” Blas turned to see the Army’s overall commander, escorted by Lieutenant Anaar as he often was of late. More surprising was the sight of Captain Anson and a number of his Rangers. All were dismounted and armed with Allin-Silva rifles.
“Is a lake baattle still a sea baattle?” First Sergeant Spook brazenly asked, and Blas blinked scathingly at him.
“I suppose, in a manner of speaking,” Anson replied loudly over the thundering cannon, while carefully checking his pair of large revolvers, “but that’s irrelevant.” He smiled. “What is quite pertinent is that wireless communications have virtually exploded from nothing, to more traffic than can easily be absorbed. You
r Captain Reddy has routed the League fleet”—he grinned at Spook—“in what assuredly was a ‘sea battle,’ and chased its meager remnant here. He’s going after that wicked Leopardo as we speak, and Colonel Chack has assaulted the docks with a division of your Second Corps and his own illustrious brigade.” He waved at the walls before them. “That explains the sudden paucity of defenders here, and why we’re in such a rush to take advantage!”
“That’s wonderful news!” enthused Sister Audrey, while looking suspiciously at Shinya and Anson in turn. “But why are you here?”
“I’m with him,” Anson answered merrily, nodding at Shinya.
“And I’ve come to pay my debt to Colonel Blas,” Shinya said simply. “And you, Sister Audrey. To all the Marines, Ocelomeh, and Vengadores I’ve sacrificed so ruthlessly for so long. It’s time I fought beside you, if you’ll have me.” He grimaced. “If you think I’ve earned the honor. General Cox has my full confidence and has agreed to obey General Blair if something happens to me.”
“And my Rangers and I will prevent that ‘something,’ if possible,” Anson said, still cheerful.
Blas opened her mouth to object, tail whipping, but finally blinked acceptance. “It would be our honor, Gener-aal Shinya.”
“Do you have the time, Captain Anson?” Shinya asked. “In the excitement, my orderly neglected to wind my watch this morning, and I didn’t think to.” He looked straight at Blas. “I’ve grown far too reliant on other people to do important things for me.”
“Certainly.” The Ranger fished a large gold disc from a pocket in his dingy blue vest by the chain. “I have ten minutes after three.”
“Your officers have five minutes to complete their preparations,” Shinya told Blas. “Not much time, but the enemy’s even more disordered than we are. And they’re afraid,” he added with satisfaction.
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