Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  Lelaa’s reference to their handling of the massive vessel was not exaggeration, however, and while Irvin blushed and Lelaa blinked, both readily admitted they had a lot to learn. Neither had a clue about flight ops, for example. A few instructors from the Army and Navy Air Corps Academy in Baalkpan had been arriving periodically to teach Fil-pin cadets to fly the “Nancys” being built in Maa-ni-la, and each improvement made in the standardized model was forwarded immediately with detailed explanations. Ultimately, a few improvements cooked up in Maa-ni-la started going back to Baalkpan. Some of the most important training information was constantly being updated as well, and Captain Jis-Tikar, or “Tikker,” COFO (Commander of Flight Operations) aboard Big Sal, and ultimately First Fleet, forwarded every new, real-world combat technique his fliers learned-sometimes the hard way. Although Tikker’s and Mallory’s tables of organization had been established, there was no COFO for Second Fleet yet, and if they couldn’t swipe one of the Baalkpan instructors, Lelaa and Irvin didn’t know where they’d get one.

  “In any event,” Lelaa continued, “ Maaka-Kakja must sail within the week. She’ll be accompanied by Pu-cot and Pecos, the two new, ‘fast fleet oilers.’ ”

  “What of warships and transports?” Shinya asked.

  “They should e unnecessary. Maaka-Kakja carries fifty of the new fifty-pounder smoothbores for serious pounding at close range, and she has four of Amag ’s five-point-five-inch secondaries, tied into one of the functional fire control computers that were located above the waterline when Amagi sank.”

  Shinya nodded. “You’re right. She should have little to fear. But what of the troops? How many can we take and where will they be put?”

  “ Maaka-Kakja has sufficient space for three full regiments, all their field artillery, pack train, and supplies,” Lelaa said proudly. “It will be crowded, of course, with thirty assembled aircraft and another thirty stowed, but you forget; the ship was built for this, not merely converted from a Home. Her hull dimensions are much the same, as you can see”-she pointed at the distant shipyard, and the monstrosity dominating the fueling pier-“but inside, she’s laid out much differently and needs only a crew of about a thousand, including flight crews and support elements.”

  “We can also carry another full regiment, split between the oilers,” Sandra prompted.

  “I should think so,” Shinya said thoughtfully, gazing at the troops on the parade ground. “Roughly four thousand Fil-pin soldiers and Marines,” he mused, “would initially outnumber the existing Imperial troop levels, if Captain Reddy’s assessment is accurate. What are Saan-Kakja’s thoughts regarding sending such a large percentage of her army to this ‘other’ war?”

  “She doesn’t like it,” Sandra admitted, “but backed by Matt’s and Princess Rebecca’s arguments, she recognizes the necessity. The Empire and the Holy Dominion are very far away-impossibly far, Meksnaak, her Sky Priest, still says-but there’s nothing but the hostile sea between them and the Fil-pin Lands, and now they know we’re here. She’d much rather have a friendly Empire of the New Britain Isles as a beholden, distant neighbor, than this… perverted, expansionist, ‘Holy Dominion.’”

  “I see,” Shinya said. “In that case, four regiments it shall be.” He turned from the group and raised his voice. “Orderly! Pass the word to all commanders; I don’t care if they’re here or on maneuvers in the mountains! Mandatory officer’s call at my HQ tent at”-he glanced at his watch-“nineteen hundred hours-that’s fifteen hand-spans from now! I’ll be choosing ‘volunteers’ for a mission, and if they aren’t here, they’ll definitely miss the show!” He looked at Lelaa and grinned. “Now, tell me truly; not even a ‘girl’ could ignore such an attractively phrased invitation!”

  Suddenly, they were all alarmed by the distant, insistent gonging of a harbor alarm bell, coming from the direction of Fort Maara-vella. It was quickly echoed by others, and the wind-muffled thud of one of the great guns in the fort, firing a warning. Shinya ordered another orderly to assemble all officers immediately; then he, Sandra, Lelaa, Irvin, and Lawrence quickly followed the roughly mile-long path Silva had taken earlier down to the ferry pier. They arrived, breathing hard, to find Silva and a group of assorted prospective passengers still waiting for the wide-beamed steam ferry only now approaching from across the bay.

  “I bet you’re wonderin’ what all the fuss is about,” Silva grumped as a greeting. He pointed at the mouth of the bay, beyond Corregidor. No one but the humans had ever seen anything like it. Creeping along, black smoke wheezing into the sky, was a medium-size freighter, a Japanese “maru” by the look of her, beneath the easily defined white flag with a red circle in the center, streaming from her foremast. She was low by the bow and seemed somewhat the worse for wear. “Goddamn Japs is inva-din’ the Philippines,” Silva growled. “Again!”

  Shinya rapidly collected an armed party of about forty Fil-pin troops and commandeered the ferry to take them out to the wounded ship. Silva went, of course, even though he didn’t have his trusty BAR, or even his giant “Doom Whomper” musket, made from a 25-mm Japanese antiaircraft gun. He did have his M-1911. 45, ’03 Springfield bayonet and the pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass he always carried. For him, those weapons should be sufficient for nearly anything. Lawrence, Irvin, and Shinya all accepted Maa-ni-la Arsenal “Springfield” muskets, and black leather cartridge boxes of ammunition. Shinya was annoyed to see Sandra and Lelaa take muskets for themselves, naturally intending to accompany him to investigate the intruder. He fumed. If those on the strange ship were hostile, a single machine gun… He had to put it out of his mind. It wasn’t as though he could order them to stay behind. Lemurian females and the few American women could be so… infuriatingly uncooperative! The women beginning to arrive from the Empire behaved more as he was accustomed to, but then he was as horrified as anyone by their formerly “indentured” status. He wondered what that said about him.

  “Take in all lines,” Silva roared, effectively taking command of the ferry’s small deck crew.

  Shinya stepped into the cramped, offset, pilothouse directly in front of the single, smoldering funnel. Inside, the small vessel’s equally small captain stood alone. The little guy was blinking nervously. “Steer to intercept that ship,” Shinya said. In the background, he heard Silva’s loud command, “Shove off!”

  “But… maybe we let Navy ships, closer in, deal with it!” He gestured at one of the speaking tubes beside the wheel. “My signalman already report!”

  “Good. Then tell him to send that we’re investigating the visitor before it has a chance to study our harbor defenses!” The defenses he referred to were already manned, their heavy guns trained on the apparent Japanese ship. Except for the warning shot, none had fired, however. Their crews were under standing orders not to fire on any “anomalous” vessels that might appear without direct orders-unless they were fired on first. “You might also recall that this ferry is a naval auxiliary and you hold a reserve Navy commission.” Shinya waved at another voice tube. “If that connects you to the engine room, do tell your engineers to ‘step on it’!”

  With the loud, monotonous, whackety-whack, whackety-whack of the early-model compound engine belowdeck, the relatively new, but already hopelessly outdated little ferry turned toward the strange intruder that seemed to be slowing in response to their approach. “Lay us as close alongside as you can,” Shinya instructed, and taking the ’Cat’s speaking trumpet, he moved back outside.

  “What do you make of her?” Silva asked.

  “Probably the same as you,” Shinya replied. “She’s a Japanese freighter from our ‘old’ world. Most likely, she arrived here the same way we did. When is the first question that strikes me. When and where she ‘came through,’ as well as how much trouble those aboard her will cause for us.”

  Silva looked at the dilapidated, heavily damaged ship, and grunted. “She don’t look in any shape to cause much trouble, unless she sinks in the main channel and we have to steer around her fr
om now on. Look at all them bullet holes!” Dennis couldn’t hide the glee the sight of a shot-up Japanese for the wve him. “I bet she got strafed by planes!” he chortled.

  “You may be right,” Shinya agreed as they drew closer. Many of the holes did appear to have been caused by heavy machine-gun fire. He let Silva’s attitude wash over him with as little notice as a clam gives the marching waves. He knew it wasn’t personal, not anymore. He’d long since become almost as “American” as the Lemurian recruits who joined the Navy. He hadn’t taken the oath they took, the same oath every human destroyerman had once taken, but he was still “one of them,” sworn to the same cause they fought for on this world. If Silva had been given to considering his words before they flew out of his mouth, even he might have been more careful of his tone. The others joined them.

  “It’s a Jap ship, all right,” Silva announced. “A ‘ma-roo.’ You can kind of tell, even without that damn meatball she’s flyin’. Jap-built ships always have a sorta funny look to ’em, like you’re lookin’ at regular ships through the bottom of a beer bottle. Not ugly, like Dutch ships,” he hastened to add, glancing at Shinya, “just

  … weird.” His expression changed. “Say, I never got a chance to ask… anybody who’d know. How come Jap freighters an’ such always hang ‘Ma-roo’ on the end of their names? Seems like it’d be confusin’.”

  A little startled by Dennis’s unusual chattiness, particularly with him, Shinya tried to explain. “There’s a… spiritual root I’ve never closely studied, since I’ve not been particularly spiritual. I suppose the simplest translation of ‘maru’ to a sailor might be something like ‘beloved home,’ but the term also implies an invocation of spiritual protection.”

  “Didn’t work,” Silva observed, poking a yellowish wad of Lemurian “tobacco” leaves in his cheek. The local stuff was even worse than the Aryaalan substitute he’d used before, but if there might be a fight, he wanted a chew. “Looks like she’s been through a shredder.”

  “Who knows?” Shinya replied absently, as the damage to the ship became more apparent. “Maybe it did.”

  Dennis looked at him. “I thought you just said you didn’t believe in all that. You gettin’ religion, after all?”

  Shinya managed a chuckle. “I said, ‘I’ve not been’ spiritual, and that’s true. I didn’t say I am not.” He shifted uncomfortably, just as unaccustomed to sharing his inner thoughts with the big man, or anyone-with the occasional exception of Pete Alden, Adar, Captain Reddy, and maybe Lieutenant Laumer-as he was to hearing them. “When I consider all we’ve been through and accomplished, in the face of such a clear distinction between our cause and the evil we resist… I find it… difficult to imagine there has not been some… divine force at work,” he admitted.

  “Me too,” Silva proclaimed with pious conviction, and sent a yellowish stream arcing over the rail. “Say, I see folks movin’ around on her now.” He squinted his good eye. “None of ’em seems to be pointin’ anything noisy at us.”

  “It may be a ‘Jaap’ ship,” Lelaa said, squinting her far better eyes, “but those ‘folks’ on her are People-’Cats, like me.” She paused. “At least most are. Some are hu-maans.”

  The battered ship slowed thankfully to a stop just as the ferry came alongside. From the raised letters on her old, straight-up-and-down bow, she was the Mizuki Maru, and the battle damage, rust streaks, and cracked, pustulent paint gave the lie to her name, as Shinya translated it. Her appearance wasn’t the only ty at us. that made a mockery of “Beautiful Moon,” but those on the ferry couldn’t know that yet. To their surprise, an oddly familiar face appeared at the rail, peering down at them. The face was all that was familiar about the man, however. He wore leather armor, similar to that used by the Alliance, but the style was more reminiscent of a traditional samurai.

  “Commander Sato Okada!” Shinya cried incredulously.

  “Yes, I am Okada, although ‘Commander’ is no longer appropriate.” The man shook his head. “That does not signify at present. I am here regarding a matter of utmost urgency, and I must speak to the highest-ranking representative of your Alliance immediately. I presume, in this place, that would still be High Chief Saan-Kakja?”

  “That’s correct,” Shinya answered, “although you must be satisfied with Minister Tucker and myself before you enter the inner harbor. Forgive me, but you made it quite clear you have no allegiance to the Alliance, and your personal animosity toward me and other prominent members gives sufficient reason to question your arrival here, even under such”-Shinya gestured at the ship-“extraordinary circumstances. I must insist this party be allowed aboard before you proceed.”

  Okada grimaced, but nodded. “Very well. I understand your caution, perhaps more than you will believe.” He looked away. “These are indeed dreadful times.” He stared back at Shinya. “You were right,” he said woodenly, “long ago, when you warned that my honor might yet make heavy demands upon me…” He stopped, nodding at a group of Lemurians who’d gathered to lower a cargo net. “Please do hurry aboard,” Okada snapped, “so you can quickly establish my benign intent. In addition to the urgency of my errand and information, you may have noticed this ship has a leak.”

  Saan-Kakja’s Great Hall

  “The world we left has gone so terribly wrong,” Sato Okada almost whispered, “I have begun to wonder whether our coming here might have been a merciful escape for us all.”

  Okada was the only one standing in Saan-Kakja’s Great Hall. He refused to sit, didn’t seem able, and paced almost continuously during the interview. There was a small audience for this… momentous event, despite the furor at the dock when Mizuki Maru tied up and the boarding party marched tensely ashore with Okada, his officers-and three bedraggled, almost-emaciated human passengers. Sandra’s and Laumer’s faces had been stormy as they helped the two weakest men down the gangplank. Silva’s one eye glittered murderously as he watched from the ship. He’d stay aboard and supervise the placement of more pumps and hoses, but he wouldn’t go down in the holds again. He might claw through the steel with his fingernails and sink the hideous abomination he stood upon.

  This initial gathering was only for senior personnel so they could absorb what Okada had to say and take measure of his tale before deciding if it had any bearing on current priorities. The story, or part of it, would emerge, of course; Saan-Kakja kept few secrets from her people. But sometimes a thing had to be examined before it was allowed to run loose. Her Sky Priest, Meksnaak, disapproved of this “naive” policy and sat on a cushion to her left, brooding. Saan-Kakja-s new “best friend,” Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald, heir to the Empire of the New Britain Isles, was poised on a comfortable chair to her right, her skin restored with curative lotions and her blond curls carefully coiffed. An expression of concerned distaste distorted her elfin face. Shinya and Lelaa were the silitary representatives present, although Irvin Laumer, “Tex” Sheider, Colonel Ansik-Talaa, and Colonel Busaa of the Coastal Artillery had been allowed. Okada’s officers, two Japanese “rescued” from the Grik at Sing-aa-pore, and one Lemurian, all dressed like Okada, remained silently seated. Two of the three “passengers” remained seated as well, attended by Sandra and a corpsman. They wore soft robes in place of tattered remains of what had once been uniforms. One of the men had been too weak to attend.

  Saan-Kakja watched Okada now, with her mesmerizing, ebony-striated, golden eyes. Her silky, gray-black fur lay as smooth and perfect as skin. Her ears twitched with compassion for the man. “Perhaps it was an escape for you, but your arrival also saved us from the Grik,” she said in her small, satin, but determined tone.

  “Not my arrival,” Okada denied bitterly. “I aided the Grik, as first officer of Amagi!”

  “And ultimately, it was you who warned Baalkpan that she and the ‘invincible swarm’ of Grik were on their way,” Shinya reminded patiently, but with a strange new brittleness, “and thereby saved the city.”

  “At the cost of my ship-and how many Japa
nese lives?” Okada retorted. It was the old argument again, the burden that had tortured Okada since his initial “capture” after that terrible battle. Shinya was concerned for a moment that he might retreat into his armored lair of self-pity and remorse, and for the first time, he almost didn’t care. But Okada suddenly straightened, and his face bore a new determination.

  “As I said, the world we left has gone insane, and that madness continues to spill into this one.” He practically seared the Americans present with his stare. “It appears… the war we were taken from, that showed such promise for my people, my Empire… all of East Asia… has turned against us. The Americans managed a few surprising, costly victories, and now their industrial might has begun to tip the scales.” He paused. “In response, it seems some of my countrymen have begun to behave… dishonorably.”

  One of the gaunt “passengers” struggled to rise, his pale face beginning to flush, but Sandra held him back.

  Shinya saw this and stood. “Dishonorably?” he demanded, incredulous. “Please spare us the nationalistic rhetoric of another world,” he said harshly. He’d seen the ship too; he’d entered that stinking, hellish hold, and the same smells he’d endured in the lower decks of captured Grik ships almost drove him to his knees. From that moment, all his doubts and uncertainties about the path he’d chosen melted away. His people “back home” had run mad. They’d become Grik in human form, much like Captain Reddy described the Dominion. He’d caught himself praying to whatever force he’d begun to suspect existed that his people’s madness might be cured by defeat.

  “Start at the beginning and tell us everything!” he demanded. His attempts to assuage Okada’s conscience were over, and he was building a towering rage. “Do not dishonor yourself with further ‘patriotic’ excuses, or I’ll counsel Her Excellency”-he nodded at Saan-Kakja-“to have you and that… diseased vessel expelled without delay!”