Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Very well,” agreed Blair. “We must deal with them at any rate, and the less ammunition we expend, the better. The bulk of the enemy still infests New Dublin, across the Sperrin range. We must quickly prepare to threaten them there if the rest of the plan is to succeed—and every mortar bomb, roundshot, and musket ball we fire, not to mention the food to sustain us, must be brought over the Wiklow range from Cork, or all the way down the Waterford road from Bray.”

  The group started down the central avenue of the mostly undamaged town, moving through groups of people whose reactions to seeing them ranged from exuberant joy to resentful silence, depending on whom they’d supported. The latter were few, at least they appeared to be, and there were cheers when they reached the city center, already guarded by Marines, and Chack ordered the Company flag, the virtual banner of New Ireland, cut down from the pole in front of the Director’s mansion. After that, he and the rest of his entourage rode purposefully on, toward the sound of the guns.

  CHAPTER 15

  USS Maaka-Kakja Southwest of New Wales

  Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan angrily slapped the message form against her left hand, and Sandra Tucker looked at her with concern. She and Princess Rebecca, as well as several other Maaka-Kakja officers, had gathered on the bridge, forward of the comm shack to catch the latest news.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. . . . The issue on New Ireland grows more confusing by the hour!” She jerked her head to the side. “What seemed well in hand and going according to plan has apparently spun into the ‘pot,’ I fear.”

  “What’s up?” asked Irvin Laumer.

  “Yes, please tell us!” pleaded the princess.

  “Yess! Goddamn!” echoed Petey—more crassly—peering around Rebecca’s head from his perch on her back. Nobody paid his outbursts any attention anymore.

  Lelaa glanced at the anxious group, all of whom she cared a great deal about.

  “Majors Chack and Blair have reached their mountain pass objective and hold a good position on the ridge south of New Dublin. Sor-Lomaak and Salaama-Na, flagship of the bombardment element, heaps satisfactory abuse on the harbor defenses.... That much remains according to projections. But those defenses have not weakened in response to Chack’s presence in their rear—and Dominion forces continue to sprout in . . . unexpected places. Apparently, there were far more troops at Belfast and Easky than ever expected, and they’ve counterattacked. The beachhead at Bray has been overrun, and the one at Cork is sorely pressed. An army—presumably the same that recaptured Bray, now marches south toward Waterford and threatens Chack’s rear!” She sighed. “And now Salaama-Na begins to run short of ammunition—far in advance of the more intense covering bombardment that was planned.”

  “One would almost suspect that the enemy is as well versed on Major Chack’s plan as we are,” Brassey observed quietly.

  “Indeed,” agreed Lelaa.

  “Somebody in the Imperial command must’ve squealed,” Irvin snarled. “That’s the only answer. They had to know what our guys meant to do before they even did it. How else would they know to place troops just so, and keep them quiet until the right—worst—time?”

  “And where are they all coming from?” Sandra demanded. “The troops that took refuge there after the battle for New Scotland might account for the numbers Chack reported facing, but not many more than that. . . . There had to be more already there, or they’re still coming from somewhere else nearby!”

  “But where?” Lelaa murmured. She stepped to the chart table and peered down at it. Most Lemurians still called the charts “scrolls” even though those used by the Navy had none of the religious, cultural, or historic passages recorded by the prophet, Siska-Ta. It didn’t matter. The term was almost interchangeable in the Lemurian-English patois that had begun to evolve—and Siska-Ta had never drawn scrolls of this region, anyway. Lelaa gauged the distance to New Ireland. They were just close enough to launch an air attack on New Dublin, but the planes would never make it back. They could set down at New Glasgow on New Scotland, however, and if “Oil Can” prepositioned fuel there as they were supposed to . . .

  “Pass the word for Lieutenant Reddy and Colonel Shinya,” Lelaa said. “Reddy is COFO, for all practical purposes, though he’s only once now flown a ‘Naancy.’ He’s formed and organized the wing even better than I expected. No doubt . . . different from the way Colonel Mallory or Captain Tikker would have it, but the inexperienced chaos is at an end. I’ll see what he has to say. As for Colonel Shinya . . . it seems we will need to land his troops. I would like his views on that.”

  Shinya and Orrin Reddy joined the group—with Dennis Silva and “Larry the Lizard.” Lawrence apparently suspected something was up, because he came dressed in his Sa’aaran battle kit, to everyone’s surprise. Oddly, Orrin and Silva had grown close over the weeks. That probably had to do with Orrin’s youth and exuberance as much as anything. He was built much like his cousin, and though he’d begun to “put some meat back on his bones” after his ordeal, he’d never be a physical match for Silva. But his and Silva’s personalities complemented each other, and Silva’s fondness for his captain seemed to have extended to the man’s younger cousin to a degree. “Maniacal giant meets fearless fighter jock,” Sandra had commented.

  Lelaa greeted them all but first turned to Orrin. “Lieutenant,” she said, “please determine whether there actually is fuel, as well as sufficient facilities at New Glasgow to service our aircraft. If so, I have two missions for the Fourth Naval Air Wing. We’ll immediately send the Ninth and Eleventh Bomb Squadrons to attack Dominion positions on New Ireland. They’ll rearm and refuel for subsequent sorties at New Glasgow.”

  “What about the Twelfth?” Orrin asked.

  “It remains here in reserve, as will the Tenth Pursuit. I want the Seventh Pursuit to scout the sea between New Wales and New Ireland”—she peered closer at the chart—“this Saint George’s Channel, and determine if any enemy forces linger beyond our fleets. The Seventh will then proceed north of New Ireland, overfly the defenses at New Dublin, and determine the disposition of the enemy before also proceeding to New Glasgow. The pursuit ships will carry no bombs, so range should not be an issue.”

  “What targets for the bombers?”

  Lelaa pointed. “The Ninth will overfly Belfast and Bray before turn- ing southeast toward Waaterford. Its objective is to destroy enemy concentrations along that route, but to focus efforts closer to Waaterford if necessary.” She huffed in exasperation. “We just don’t know what’s there! There is no direct communication with the interior! Regardless, the Ninth should have the fuel to backtrack and hit any major concentrations they spot along the way if Waaterford remains secure.”

  “And the Eleventh?”

  “The Eleventh will provide air support at Cork. They should be able to coordinate with the naval forces offshore, either by wireless or signal flags.”

  “Okay,” Orrin said. “Sounds straightforward enough.” He chuckled. “Way simpler than some of the wild-goose chases FEAF sent us on in the Philippines! Which squadron do I take?”

  “None.”

  “Now wait a sec . . . !”

  “Lieutenant Reddy,” Lelaa began severely, “like it or not, you’re something of an important person, through no fault or act of your own. You’re kin to our supreme military commander. Besides that, you’re acting COFO of the Fourth Naval Air Wing, not just another pursuit pilot! In those roles, some responsibility is inherent. You must instruct our fliers what to do, depending on what they find at their objectives. To retain a ‘big picture’ view, you must remain in wireless contact—with a scroll before you—not romping off on your own, an individual combat pilot!” Lelaa paused, deciding to toss the suddenly crestfallen young man a bone. “Besides, if needed, you’ll lead the reserve flights.”

  “Yes, ma’am, uh, Captain Lelaa,” he replied.

  “What do you need of me?” Shinya asked. He’d been studying the chart with one ear tun
ed to the conversation around him.

  “Your force may be needed to retrieve this situation. Where should you land where you can best support Major Chack, while contributing to the completion of the overall mission of liberating New Ireland?”

  “What a load of crap,” Orrin said as he, Silva, and Lawrence trotted down the companionway from the comm shack where he’d just determined that New Glasgow at least thought it had everything they needed. He gestured at a “Nancy” perched on its launch truck. “Flying those things is a cinch . . . and what’s this crud about being ‘important’?”

  “Maybe it is a cinch; I wouldn’t know. Scared ta death o’ flyin’ myself. But why do you want to? To fight, or just zoot around? Can’t have gen’rals leadin’ cavalry charges,” Silva clucked. “An’ you have wormed your way to the top of the flyboy heap.” He stopped and shook his head. “That Cap’n Lelaa’s got brains. She knows what she’s doin’. You do as she says; go brief your ‘Nancy’ boys—an’ don’t treat it like a chore.” Siva’s scarred face turned uncharacteristically serious. “I know you’re still new here, but these little guys, these ’Cats, are good people, an’ they’re in this fight in a big way.” He shrugged. “You had a rough war. We all did. An’ maybe this ain’t your war yet, the way it is for me an’ hisself, your cousin.” He held out his big hands. “I ain’t gonna wave no bloody shirt er nothin, an’ I know how tough it is to go from hatin’ Japs to gettin’ along with Colonel Shinya.” He snorted. “An’ maybe I still have trouble now an’ then thinkin’ of him as a good guy—but I trust him, an’ if you’ll take anything from me, take this: he is a ‘right’ guy.”

  He waved his hands. “’Nuff o’ that. As you know, there’s still plenty o’ bad Japs, but your pilots—an’ they are yours, like it or not—know you zapped a couple of ’em that were flyin’ shit as far beyond a ‘Nancy’ as Amagi was beyond my ol’ Walker. That’s big joss to them. Hell, it’s a big deal to me after seein’ you Army guys get whupped on by them Zee-ros over Cavite. The point is, the little guys look up to you, an’ they’re fixin’ to fly off an’ risk their stripey asses on your word, with the stuff you told ’em rattlin’ around in their furry little heads. So, if you’re with ’em or not, you’re their leader, an’ just like them, you gotta follow orders.” He grinned. “That’s one of the problems with bein’ a officer. Extra pressure to do the ‘right thing’!”

  Silva studied the contemplative, introspective expression on Orrin’s face, then burped. “Besides, it’s my experience that the best laid plans o’’Cats an’ men still foul their screws all to hell, ’specially on this goofy world. I bet you’ll be flyin’ before this is done.”

  Sperrin Mountains New Ireland

  Major Chack-Sab-At worked his way down the shallow black rock trench on a secondary ridge overlooking the sprawling city of New Dublin. From what he saw, the city was about as big as Scapa Flow and the architecture was similarly alien to him: squat, blocky buildings with tile roofs and little color. Nearly everything was white and nothing stood on piers, as he was accustomed to seeing in Baalkpan. There were really big buildings along the harbor front, warehouses probably, and the Company headquarters in the center of the city looked like the Government House mansion of Gerald McDonald with its multiple stories and classical columns. Beyond, lay the harbor with its forest of masts and formidable defenses. Out at sea, Salaama-Na still held station, dwarfing countless Imperial warships and transports, fuzzy with the haze of the day and the occasional drifting cloud of gun smoke.

  Chack’s was a lousy position with a very exposed avenue of support and retreat, leading upslope to the grassy, craggy peaks behind. He’d chosen it because it was such a crummy spot, hoping to lure the Doms into coming up after him. An impressive force, perhaps three or four thousand men, had assembled on the flanks of the mountains below, but didn’t seem inclined to do anything other than lob the occasional roundshot or volley of musketry. Suspecting that meant they were aware how close the force out of Bray was getting to Waterford, he realized he’d soon have to retire or risk being cut off and surrounded. No question about it, he wasn’t facing Grik. This enemy was perfectly able to make detailed plans of their own—particularly when, as it seemed, they had advance knowledge of the one Chack and Blair had devised.

  So, Plan A was in the crapper, obviously, but that didn’t bother Chack too much. Something always went wrong, and he was preparing—he hoped—to do what the enemy least expected under the circumstances. As usual, his Plan B was risky; actually more so than usual, but that just made it even more unexpected . . . didn’t it? The only real problem, besides the added danger, was that he had no direct communications with anybody other than a lengthy semaphore chain back to Waterford, over the Wiklow Mountains to Cork, and from there to the fleet offshore. Hopefully, Plan B had been transmitted to Sor-Lomaak by now, because he needed it to kick-start certain elements of Plan A all over again if he was going to have any support. If it hadn’t, his only other option was to make such a ruckus that Sor-Lomaak would recognize the signal—and the opportunity—when it came.

  A heavy roundshot struck the slope below the trench, showering the inhabitants with sharp, gravelly pumice and fine black dust. He spat dark mucus that had accumulated after hours of similar treatment. “Stay cool, Marines!” he cried. “They might hit us with shot rolling back down from above, but we’ll just throw it back at them!” Tired cheers answered. It’s easy to stay cool, he thought. It’s actually cold up here near the top of the range. And the troops have a right to be weary, he reflected. They’d faced tough, unexpected opposition taking the heights. There shouldn’t have been any Doms in the mountains at all, but that was what they’d encountered. No militia, no rebel troops, but Dom regulars! Professionals, he admitted grudgingly. That was when he first suspected a trap. It was reasonable to assume they’d gotten word of the Battle at Waterford back over the mountains, and some response was understandable, but they shouldn’t have had the sheer numbers they’d responded with, both here and elsewhere. There could be only one explanation: there’d been more Doms on New Ireland than they ever knew; they’d been there longer than anyone considered possible, and the Imperial invasion had been expected.

  Further treachery was the answer, but by whom? He blinked dismissively. It didn’t matter at the moment. He’d been victim of treachery many times now, and humans held no monopoly on the practice. He looked forward to helping sort it out later—if he lived.

  “Lieutenant Blas,” he said, nearing her position in the trench.

  “Major.”

  Chack looked at the sky. The sun was still visible over the mountains that trailed into the northwest. “Where is that Sky Priest, the lieutenant from Mertz?”

  “Dead, Major, back at the town.”

  Chack sighed. “Are there any of Sister Audry’s converts in the ranks?”

  Blas blinked confusion. “Not that I know of. Strange buggers, them. Always either at you about your soul . . . or they don’t make a peep.” She considered. “Seen some Marines doing that funny thing with their hands. . . .”

  “No matter. Where is Major Jindal?”

  Blas motioned a little farther down the trenchline to their left. “That way, sir. Came by here just a few minutes ago.”

  “Thanks,” Chack said, and moved on. Blas shrugged and followed him. She still considered it her job to watch over him—just as he’d once taken such good care of her.

  “Major Jindal,” Chack said, finally catching the Imperial, “any questions?”

  Jindal paused uncertainly. “None, sir,” he finally answered.

  “Good. I . . . know it will be dangerous and the risk is high, but I see no alternative.”

  “Nor do I, except failure,” Jindal agreed.

  “We will not fail,” Chack said, blinking certainty, “but given our situation, it’s customary among many of my people, Lemurians—MiAnaaka—to perform a . . . prayer ritual, and to some, Aryaalans and B’mbaadans most notably, it’s important that the
sun be visible at that time.” He looked at Jindal. “Your people use prayer as well, do they not?”

  “We do, but our chaplain is upslope with Major Blair.”

  “Our priest is dead,” Chack said, “so I will lead our prayer. It’s a communal thing—I have never led before, but it’s brief and I know it well. I just wanted to make sure you had no objection before I begin.”

  “Ah . . . no, I suppose not, as long as it’s not terribly . . . unusual or . . . frightening.”

  Chack laughed. “It will not scare your men, I assure you, Major. I doubt those still with us are capable of fear.”

  Jindal chuckled. “I hate to disillusion you, Major, but I remain terrified!”

  Chack grinned back and patted the man on the shoulder. He was near the center of the line and decided this was as good a place as any. He stood atop the gravelly heap thrown up in front of the trench within full view of all the troops lining the lower ridge, not to mention the enemy below. He faced the sun and spread his arms wide.

  “Maker of all things!” he roared in that special tone peculiar to his people that let their voices carry a great distance. A few musket balls began kicking up small dark clouds around him, but they were well beyond the effective range of small arms. Even if one struck him, it would hurt a lot, but probably wouldn’t do him serious harm. Roundshot was another matter, but it would take the enemy time to aim their pieces, and still the chance of a deliberate hit was remote.