Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  There were a few sharp cheers, and the ’Cats stamped their feet in approval. Admiral McClain didn’t cheer, and even the Governor-Emperor seemed dubious.

  “That will be… costly,” he said.

  Matt nodded. “Yes, it will, but believe me when I say it’s the only way.” He recalled his interview with the Dominion “Blood Cardinal,” Don Hernan de Devina Dicha. “Those guys are absolutely nuts . Hell, you know that. We beat them now, knock ’em back on their heels, make ‘peace’-it’ll start all over again in a decade.” He looked at Gray’s grim face. “That’s how it works,” he said. “We know. The only way to end a war forever is if somebody wins and somebody loses. .. bad.” He watched Ruth’s face as she stared at her husband. She wouldn’t speak, not yet, but she’d already considered the implications of another, future war. Matt helped Gerald come to the same conclusion. “If you don’t get right with that, wrap it around you, and wade through the awful fact that for us to win, they have to lose, one of these days, maybe when your daughter, Rebecca, is in your place, there’ll be another war; and honestly, they’re liable to win that one because they have the depth, resources, and manpower. Right now, we have a technological edge, but in ten years? Twenty?” He shook his head.

  “He’s right, Your Majesty,” Jenks said. “I’ve seen their war in the west, and it’s the most savage thing you can imagine, but little more so than the fighting we saw here, at the Dueling Grounds!” He was exaggerating, but only slightly. The Dominion forces that attacked, without warning, had done so with massed artillery against civilians. “The Grik are… animals, but men would never behave as the Dominion forces did. They, their leadership, this… perverted church they worship, must be erased from the world.”

  “All right,” Gerald said softly, glancing at his wife. He wouldn’t leave this mess to be faced by the daughter they thought they’d lost. “How do we beat them this time… and forever?”

  Matt nodded at Harvey Jenks, who stepped to the huge map, fingering his long, braided, sun-bleached mustaches. He paused and drew his sword; a most appropriate “pointer” under the circumstances. Matt had seen the blade many times, even faced it in “practice,” but he’d never really appreciated its workmanship before. It was heavier than his own well-battered Academy sword, with a subtle curve toward the tip. Despite all the use it had seen, there were few nicks, and the bright, almost-purple steel was unmarred by rust and lovingly tended. Jenks raised the sword against an island west of New Scotland.

  “First, we have New Ireland,” he said. “The enemy has captured it entire, it would seem, with the aid of Company traitors there.” He glanced at Matt. “Elsewhere, the Company is no more. It’s broken, along with its monopoly on trade, by order of the Governor-Emperor, and distributed among loyal shareholders. Those same shareholders will now become chairmen of their various new companies, and for the duration of the current hostilities, their ships are engaged as auxiliaries to the Imperial Navy, under naval regulations.” He looked back at the map. “The harbor defenses at New Dublin are not the heaviest in the Empire, not compared to those here and at New London and Portsmouth on New Britain, but they’re probably the most formidable. A sustained bombardment of the forts there is difficult because they’re on the windward side of the island and mount thirty-pound guns. We can match that and more with numbers, but with their elevation, not in range. Any ships attempting a bombardment will suffer heavily, ad any disabled vessel will likely be driven ashore.”

  After this had been translated to him, Sor-Lomaak leaned forward. “My fifties will outrange their thirties,” he said confidently, “and even if we are hit, with her sweeps, Salaama-Na will not go ashore!”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Matt said, grinning.

  Jenks grinned too. “Thank you, Your Excellency. You’ve just finalized Major Chack-Sab-At’s and Major Blair’s plan.” He looked smugly at Matt, and motioned the two Marines, one Lemurian-Amer-i-caan, and the other Imperial, to approach the map. They’d fought together splendidly at the Dueling Grounds and become fast friends. Blair still walked stiffly from a wound, but he was anxious to strike back at the Doms.

  “Sirs,” Chack began, blinking only slight self-consciousness, “Major Blair and I believe the enemy will expect us at New Dublin, or possibly Easky in the south. We will not disappoint him.” There were murmurs, and McClain looked alarmed, but Chack continued. “A large naval force composed of the heaviest ships of the line and as many former Company ships as possible, will menace New Dublin. The Company ships will linger in sight but out of range, as though they carry troops-which they will, but not all of them by any means.” He bowed to Sor-Lomaak. “This task force will be gathered around the powerful-and ominously large- Salaama-Na, which will open a steady bombardment of the harbor defenses, supported when possible by Imperial warships. This should, ah, collect the attention of the enemy.” He grinned, showing sharp, white fangs. “The enemy may call troops from Easky or they may not, but it doesn’t matter, because Mr. Blair will land at Cork, east of there, and fortify these mountains.” He pointed at the Wiklow range that began at the northeast panhandle of New Ireland, then fishhooked back into the sea, east of Easky. “He’ll hold there until any Easky troops, or possibly some from across this other range at New Dublin, try to push him off-at which point my force, landed in the extreme north at Bray, will march down the Valley Road and slam into their flank!”

  “Lovely,” muttered McClain, “and delightfully complicated. But what will it accomplish? The enemy will still hold New Dublin, and you cannot expect me to believe you’ll scale those heights behind the city and take it from behind!”

  Chack looked at him with his big, amber eyes. “Why else would I do as I propose?”

  “You must be mad.”

  “But you believe that is my intent?”

  “There can be no oth…” McClain’s jaw clamped shut.

  “Indeed,” said Major Blair. “That will clearly be our intent and the enemy must prepare for it, regardless how imprudent it appears-and we will make the attack…!”

  “What?” McClain was incredulous.

  “In the dark of night, coordinated with an attack by boat from the sea, launched by the bombardment fleet-which the Doms will now consider a diversion!”

  “By God!” Gerald barked approval.

  “I told you those guys were clever,” Matt said, prodding him.

  “I knew it already, but this! It’s better than chess!”

  “Quite clever,” McClain muttered under his breath.

  “In any event,” Jenks said, “hopefully, that’ll sol“Butroblem of New Ireland.” He waited for the approving applause to wane, then returned to the map. He drew the point of his sword down along the coast of California, near where San Francisco ought to be. “But, even more important than New Ireland, our continental colonies are at risk,” he said abruptly. “Before, or while we do anything else, they must be secured. The vast majority of our raw material comes from there and without them, we can’t sustain this… front… in the wider war, on our own. It’s that simple. If we lose those colonies, we’ll represent nothing but a material drain on our new allies who have concerns of their own, and that just to keep us alive.” His gaze fell heavily on Lord High Admiral McClain.

  “Fast ships were dispatched, immediately after the attempted invasion, to warn the colonies of a Dom attack,” McClain said in response. “We now know the attack here was premature, that it was originally planned to coincide with the Founders’ Day festivities. The combination of the Christmas Feast, followed quickly by the New Year and Founders’ Day observances, would have left us singularly unprepared.” He paused. “We still don’t know if the Temple of the Popes is aware of the current situation, or that hostilities have already begun, but we do know that after January fifth, things are ‘automatically going to happen.’ ” There were murmurings at the now-infamous phrase that had been made public shortly before.

  “Obviously,” McClain continued, “one
of those ‘things’ was to be the attack here. We must presume other operations were meant to coincide with it. In my view, the next most logical enemy objective is our garrison on the Enchanted Isles, not Saint Francis.”

  Courtney perked up. “The Galapagos Islands?” he interrupted insistently.

  “Aye,” McClain confirmed, looking at him oddly, “though only the enemy calls them that. The ‘Insulae de los Galapagos.’ ”

  “Good God!” Courtney exclaimed. “We mustn’t allow those”-he searched for a suitable epithet-“buggerers of a… an otherwise-sensible faith to defile that place!”

  Matt almost chuckled, but thoughts of the very dark… per version… of Catholicism practiced by the Dominion stopped him. “The islands aren’t the same here, Courtney,” he reminded.

  “Of course not!” Bradford exclaimed. “But they’re liable to be different in very fascinating ways!”

  Matt sighed. “Go ahead and find a book, Courtney. We’ve got war stuff to talk about.”

  Muttering, Bradford stood and marched to the shelves.

  Matt closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your Majesty?” he prompted.

  “Yes. Well. Obviously, we mustn’t let the Enchanted Isles fall, but they’re well fortified. The enemy will likely bypass them and hope they wither on the vine. The colonies are the main, immediate concern.”

  “I beg to differ,” McClain said.

  “We have perhaps two weeks,” Jenks said. He pointed at the map with his sword. “The Doms may even now have an army poised to strike from the south, but the land bordering the Sea of Bones is a terrible place; a sparse, rocky desert inhabited by unimaginable horrors. Oddly, the lands on either side are just as fertile as it is desolate, but therefore teeming with vast numbers of large, terrifying beasts.” He shook his head. “Any force attempting such a march would likely lose half its number before the first shot was fired. I predict the assault will come from the sea, as it did here, and it’s on the sea we must meet it.”

  “The fastest ships, the frigates, might get there in time,” Gerald observed. “Ships of the line are too slow.” He paused. “And they will evidently already be employed elsewhere. The questions are, do we have enough to send, and will they have the weight of metal required when they get there?”

  “I mean to take Walker,” Matt announced. “We might even beat the dispatch sloop you sent. With Commodore Jenks along to talk to the locals, sound the alarm, rouse the colonial defenses, we can at least have them ready for what’s coming.” He looked measuringly at Lord High Admiral McClain. “That’ll leave you to command, or choose somebody to command, the biggest force of fast steamers you can wrangle together, including my ships here. They have to sail immediately, and for God’s sake, don’t forget my oilers!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Maa-ni-la Fil-pin Lands

  “For the last time, I’m tellin’ you to take it back!” Dennis Silva practically roared. The raggedly clad, one-eyed, sun-bronzed giant loomed menacingly over a much shorter, but entirely unintimidated (brevet) Colonel Tamatsu Shinya. Shinya no longer wore his ruined Japanese Imperial Navy uniform, having traded it for the blue kilt, white leather armor, sandals, and bronze greaves of the Lemurian-Amer-i-caan Marines. The only real difference between his appearance and that of many others on the broad “parade ground” on what should have been the Bataan Peninsula, was that he still wore his old, Imperial Navy hat, and he had no fur-or tail. He also had the vertical red stripes of an officer on his kilt instead of horizontal NCO stripes around the bottom above the hem.

  “And for the last time I’m telling you, Mr. Silva, that I will not… unless you force me to prefer charges of insubordination!”

  “Then do it! I ain’t never seen me this insubordinate before!” Silva ranted.

  “What on earth is going on here?” demanded Sandra Tucker, arriving with a small escort including the Grik-like, “ex”-Tagranesi, Lawrence, Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Lieutenant Irvin Laumer, and a small group of “graduated” Marines. Sandra had recovered considerably from her recent ordeal, as had the others, and her once-red, peeling skin was turning a dark tan. Her normally sandy brown hair still looked almost bleached blond, however. Irvin was much the same, but he’d cut his hair very short and shaved his beard. Lelaa and Lawrence looked the same as always, but they’d physically recovered from their adventure. All except Sandra (and Silva) used the brief pause in the argument to exchange salutes, even Lawrence. Trading salutes with the strange, furry/reptilian creature still seemed ridiculously odd.

  Silva and Shinya were silenced by Sandra’s appearance, and she took a moment to gaze at the adjacent parade ground portion of the Advanced Training Center (ATC) established here, away from the city, where troops could perform large-scale maneuvers, as well as small-arms, artillery, and mortar practice without disturbing or hazarding the Maa-ni-la inhabitants. It was actually quite a scenic spot. The Maara-vella mountains loomed over the closest thing to a coastal plain she’d seen since Aryaal and Baali. Herds of paalkas grazed the grassy, rolling foothills in the distance, inured to the thousands of troops and their noisy weapons. Maa-ni-la Bay stretched broad and peaceful to the south beneath a warm, clea sky. The island fortress of Corregidor was a fortress here as well, even more imposing due to the lower sea level. The small, almost-quaint town of “Maara-vella” was the only settlement on the peninsula, and it often shook with the thunder of live-fire exercises and mock battles, but the town had no cause for complaint. It had more or less evolved to support the training facility, as well as the harbor defenses. Sandra liked it. Baalkpan was too enclosed by the surrounding jungle; she preferred open spaces. She always felt lighter of heart when she visited there.

  Belatedly, she noticed the staring Lemurian faces; Marine officers and Maa-ni-los in their black and gold kilts. “Silva,” she said with a sigh, “what have you done now?”

  “I ain’t done nothin ’ this time-honest! It’s what this damn, jumped-up Jap’s tryin’ to do to me!” he almost whined.

  “Mr. Silva!” Shinya warned, his tone angry.

  Somewhat shocked, Sandra realized she believed Dennis. He’d done many… questionable things during their acquaintance, but he’d never really lied about it. She honestly doubted he’d ever lie to her . After some of the stunts he’d pulled-and told her about-she couldn’t imagine why he would. Few imagined atrocities could compare to his very real, common-knowledge deeds. She looked at Shinya. “What have you done to him?”

  It was Shinya’s turn to project a defensive expression. Sandra Tucker was a tiny thing, but her authority, moral and official, had few limits. Not only was she Minister of Medicine for the entire Alliance, and few veteran soldiers hadn’t been treated or saved by her hands, or those she taught at one time or another, but she enjoyed the profound friendship of Saan-Kakja, High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands. In addition, she had-and deserved-the daughterlike worship of Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald; only heir to the Empire of the New Britain Isles. She was also, incidentally and famously, the fiancee of Captain Matthew Reddy.

  “Against my better judgment,” Shinya explained, sourly, “I informed this ridiculous oaf he’s out of uniform-still-and someone about to be decorated and promoted should set an example.”

  “See?” Silva demanded. “He said it again! ‘Promoted’!”

  “What’s the matter with that?” Lelaa asked, blinking confusion.

  “What’s the matter with that?” Silva mocked. “He’s tryin’ to make me a officer! A-a loo-tenant!” He smoldered. “I can’t be a officer! Hell, I might as well drown myself.”

  Lieutenant Laumer’s face reddened. “And what’s wrong with being an officer?” he asked darkly. He was also to be promoted to full lieutenant from a jg, a move he much appreciated. In his defense, he really didn’t know Silva well at all.

  “Well… nothin’-for a officer,” Dennis tried to explain. “They squirt up the ladder all the time. They start out officers-born to it, you might say, with no offense meant-an
d that’s what they do. But I ain’t a officer; never have been, and never wanna be. I don’t know how ! I swear, I’ll screw it up so fast, it’ll make your heads spin smooth off!”

  Sandra nodded. “I think I get it,” she said. “Mr. Silva, you must apologize to Colonel Shinya this instant! I don’t believe he’s the one who… inflicted this honor upon you; the confirmation came from Acting Chief of Staff Steve Riggs. I guess he thought your recent.. . accomplishments desrved recognition and reward. I doubt he expected you to react so negatively, though. Spanky’s a ‘mustang,’ after all. So is Mr. Chapelle now, as well as Campeti. It’s not as if you’d be a freak.”

  “Yeah, but… Spanky’s a different sort!” Dennis insisted. “An’ he ‘jumped up’ before the war. Ask the Bosun how he’d feel to get bars pinned on! You think he’d consider it a promotion?” He shook his head. “With gobs of respect, I’m good at killin’ things and blowin’ stuff up. If I was a officer, they’d wind up puttin’ me in charge of somethin’ I got no more business bein’ in charge of than a fried chicken’s ass!” He blinked. “Um, ’scuse me, ma’am… but it’s a fact!” Silva’s expression changed; it became dark-and something else. He looked hard at Sandra. “Miss… Minister, Lieutenant… whatever you want me to call you, you know me. You know what… I’ve done… an’ what I’d do again in the same situations. Give me a squad of Marines; a handful o’ mugs with guns, and that’s fine. Make me chief over a division; I can handle that.” He paused, then continued quietly. “But don’t ever put me in charge of more fellas than I can ever get to know before I wind up gettin’ ’em killed.”