Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  “It could work,” Niwa allowed, studying the map. “If we do it, it must work, because nothing remains if it fails.”

  “Yes,” Halik agreed, sobering. “Either we achieve a great victory-or depart as originally planned. By then that might be… difficult!”

  CHAPTER 18

  New Ireland

  T he once almost-pacifistic Major Chack-Sab-At was a veteran of many battles now, but the wild melee that erupted in the darkened streets of New Dublin was something new in his experience. It was somewhat like the climax of the battle at the Dueling Grounds on New Scotland, except here it was on a completely different scale, sprawling through the congested streets of a large, unfamiliar city. He couldn’t even tell which direction was which, because the smoke from guns and burning buildings hid the sky and blotted out the stars. Few of “his” Imperial troops had ever been to New Ireland before, and even fewer had been in this Company city. Most were as lost as he was in the confusion of this bizarre battle.

  Blair’s attack down the slope and across the field toward the city had succeeded far better than expected. The enemy positions had been devastated by the aerial bombing and mortar attack, and the remaining Doms were completely surprised when assailed through the smoky darkness by a force they’d been sure was withdrawing. They broke. Blair’s regiments charged onward, yelling like fiends, flush with success-and lost all cohesion. The Imperial Marines weren’t real professionals after all, Chack had reflected sadly, and he tried to round up as many clumps as he could when his own division went in, but when they continued advancing-while trying to maintain some contact with Blair-everything fell apart. By the sound, the seaborne assault had commenced with a will, likely catching the Doms attempting to respond to Chack and Blair’s attack, as hoped, but now there was fighting everywhere, and Chack had personal control of barely a company of mixed “American” and Imperial Marines.

  “The harbor’s that way,” gasped Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar, pointing vaguely over the top of a stone barrier that she, Chack, and the rest of his remaining command had been forced to shelter behind. The barrier formed a rectangle around the Company/Government headquarters building, and there were a lot more rebels or Doms within than Chack had Marines outside. “I can hear the monstrous, great guns still firing from one of the forts,” Blas added.

  “I’m glad someone can still hear something,” Chack growled irritably. “This war gets noisier all the time.”

  “You like the exploding shells,” Blas accused.

  “They don’t explode repeatedly next to my ears,” he said. “And if our enemies ever begin using them, I’ll probably like them less.”

  “General Aalden was right about the muskets, though,” Blas insisted. “You can’t poke a bow over a rock wall and loose an arrow without showing much of yourself!”

  “A point.” He looked around. Firing had resumed in the direction they’d come from, echoing dully down the narrow, debris-strewn streets, and he had no idea who was shooting at whom, or in which direction. It would probably not be a good idea to go back that way. “If they made their buildings up off the ground in a proper fashion, we could see more,” he grumped.

  “We can’t stay here, Major. We must get back into the fight.” Blas looked around. “We need a mortar-gre-naades. Something to raise the enemy fire so we can move.” An errant roundshot, a big one, probably from Salaama-Na herself, crashed into the building before them and showered rocky fragments into the street. The strange but geometrically pleasing city was being systematically destroyed. Smoky dust filled the air.

  “Major!” cried an Imperial Marine nearby. “Look there!” A door had opened across the street, and an arm was waving them toward it.

  “A local?” Blas asked.

  “Must be. It may be a trap, though,” someone said.

  “Not all here are rebels, surely,” Chack speculated. He looked at the Marine. “Try to make it across. We’ll fire a volley as you move, to cover your sprint!”

  At Chack’s signal, the men and ’Cats behind the barrier fired their muskets at the Company headquarters, and the red-coated Marine scrambled through the rubble and disappeared safely through the door. There was little return fire from the Doms. Several minutes later, a red-sleeved arm motioned from the door in the gloom, and Chack ordered the covering fire resumed. The Marine almost made it back before he tripped and fell, but he managed to scrabble back to safety with musket balls “vrooping” by above his head, or sending shattered rock over the top of the wall.

  “Major,” he wheezed, crawling up beside Chack, “it’s a New Dubliner, all right. A cobbler.” The man grinned. “He don’t know what you Lee-mooans are, and he was a touch nervous, but he seen our red coats. He’s a loyal man. Says his sons are watchin’ the fight from the rooftop. Lots of locals are, all over the city, an’ many’re with us! The Doms’ve treated folk rough.” He shook his head. “Anyway, a lot have risen up-that’s one reason we’re not takin’ much fire from above. There ain’t many of ’em armed, but those that are are tryin’ to stay out of the way, on the roofs! They ain’t fightin’ much,” he admitted, “just enough to keep the Doms down off their places, see, and not enough to provoke ’em as much against them as they are against us!”

  “That’s a larger service than they credit,” Chack mused. “But are they not vulnerable to the flying creatures the Doms control?”

  “They might be, but for the smoke. Seems the bloody damn things don’t like it. Can’t see through it, or breathe it, maybe. They don’t know why. Anyway, all them devils are gone, or stayin’ above the fight, says he.”

  “Does he know where our closest friends are?”

  “Aye. If you’ll look up, he has three stories. A fair view. There’s maybe another company just two streets yonder!” The Marine pointed beyond the cobbler’s establishment.

  “Okay,” Chack said, deciding. “Will you take me to meet your new friend?”

  The Marine looked back across the avenue he’d just crossed twice. “Aye, sir.”

  “Good. Blas? Same procedure as before.”

  They both made it again, though a few balls came close, and they bolted through the door followed by splinters and powdered, gravelly dust. The “cobbler” was still in the dark room, standing behind a substantial wall. He started to move to greet them, then stopped, his eyes going wide in the gloom at the sight of the Lemurian.

  Chack touched his battered helmet. “Major Chack-Sab-At, of the Amer-i-caan Navy and Maa-rine Corps,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “Ally and friend of His Highness, Gerald McDonald. I am at your service, sir.”

  “By all that’s holy!” blurted the balding, tall man. “The Doms said ye were demons, an’ ye do look like one!”

  “I hope we are demons to them, sir,” Chack said, “but we’re friends of the Empire.”

  “Well… that’s good enough for me,” the man decided. “If those bloody bastards fear ye, an’ men such as this Marine obey ye, I’d wager ye’re near a saint! How can I help?”

  Chack quickly scanned the room. Shadowy objects were discernible. Shoe lasts, benches, stacks of leather, tools. “I’m told you can see the battle from above?”

  “Aye.”

  “May I have a look?”

  The man hesitated only slightly before nodding. “Aye, follow me.” He opened a door that concealed a flight of stairs and retrieved a burning lamp from a step. “This way, if ye please.”

  Up the stairs they went, passing through the second-story living space. The third was much the same-possibly for the sons? Finally, the trio emerged on the roof, surrounded by a high continuation of the out- side wall. Four young men greeted them with muskets, but turned them away when they recognized the cobbler. A middle-aged woman and a girl sat huddled to one side, wrapped in blankets head to foot, to protect them from flying debris. Chack didn’t know if he’d ever seen such concern for Imperial females demonstrated by anyone other than Commodore Jenks-or Governor Radcliff on Respite Island. The reaction of t
he “sons” was similar to the cobbler, but he quickly assured them.

  “Watch yerself near the edge,” the cobbler warned as Chack started to look around. “I doubt the sods’ll hit ye, but they might get grit in yer eyes!”

  Chack nodded his thanks and began to absorb the Battle of New Dublin. The house/store/shop wasn’t the tallest building in the city by any means, several being two or more stories taller, but it afforded an excellent view of the chaotic struggle. It was surreal. Salaama-Na had moved quite close to one of the forts with her great sweeps, and the two traded heavy fire like angry volcanoes locked in a hellish embrace. The Home had the advantage in firepower, but whether the great ship or the fort was more durable was anyone’s guess. The other fort was a smoldering ruin, probably destroyed by a hit in its magazine, and Chack realized he must have missed its demolition during the bombing. He doubted it was constructed to protect against attack from the air.

  The harbor glowed and pulsed with burning ships of all sizes, and buildings and warehouses all along the waterfront were in flames. Small flashes lit the night in all directions, like granules of gunpowder trickled in a fire, and he finally gained a semblance of understanding where the general respective lines were. A light gun barked in the street to the south and canister crackled down an alleyway amid foreign screams. Must be one of our light six-pounders, he thought. Bringing it down the mountains behind them would have been a nightre. I wonder how many there are? Few pieces were firing anywhere in the city; the Doms must’ve had all of theirs pointing outward, and spiked them as they were overrun. The only other big guns still in the fight were those of the fort, a few light pieces firing inward that the landing Marines must have brought, and what appeared to be a Dom bastion of some kind far on the northwest side of the city. Guns from there belched fire in all directions.

  “Maarine,” he snapped, “what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Private Shmuke, sir.”

  “ Corporal Shmuke, after I talk to Mr. Blair,” Chack said. “I need you to contact that company fighting to our rear. I presume it’s they who have the gun. Tell them to bring it up here to support us. We can’t link up with anyone until we get past that building there.” He pointed at the one they’d stalled in front of. “I assume that’s this city’s Government House?” he asked the cobbler.

  “Aye, or at least it was. As ye may imagine, it was taken over by the Comp’ny several months ago when the Doms first started coming in,” he seethed.

  “Months?” Chack asked.

  “Aye. Didn’t anyone know?”

  “No one who mattered, apparently,” Chack said. “None of the shipping from here reported it, but it rarely touches at Scapa Flow.. ..” He paused. “Or anywhere I’m aware of except for New Britain Island, come to that. There’s been… suspicion of late.”

  “Aye,” the cobbler said, “an’ naught but Comp’ny ships’ve been allowed to come an’ go this past year!”

  “That explains a lot,” Chack murmured, “but not why.” He looked at Corporal Shmuke. “Bring them up!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Corp’ral,” said the cobbler, “one of my boys’ll lead ye. Ye can get quite close moving along the rooftops. He’ll know those ye meet, an’ which dwellin’s are safe to descend within.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Another broadside thundered from Salaama-Na in the harbor and other Imperial ships had joined her at last, risking their comparatively thin skins in an effort to overwhelm the fort. The fort wasn’t finished yet, however, and the night lit up with a terrible eruption as an Imperial “liner” disintegrated as a result of a lucky shot.

  “Ye asked why,” the cobbler said softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Many of us here, on New Ireland an’ elsewhere, adhere ta the Catholic faith-the old, true faith some of the Founders brought with ’em. Even if it weren’t for the Doms an’ their perversions, the ‘Old Church’ is frowned upon. Its practice is legal, but grounds for revocation of citizen- ship. One cannot be an open Catholic an’ vote for the court, so those of us who’re honest to our God an’ our emperor have no say. The dishonest sell their votes ta the Comp’ny. Some here, the ‘rebels,’ would have independence. Most would be happy just ta worship as we would. The Comp’ny, as separatist rebels, or for reasons of their own, p’raps hoped the Doms would help us gain independence and just be happy ta have us move a tad closer ta their way of thinkin’.” He spat. “Madness, o’ course. The ‘Old Church’ has nothin’ in common with the filthy version the Doms advance-an’ any fool could see they don’t accept half measures. If they’re in, they’re in, an’ the suffering here, especially after whatever transpired on New Scotland, has been enough to kill a man’s soul. I an’ me family’ve been lucky ta survive the ‘cleansin’,’ an’ me poor daughter’s been hid ever since they arrived. Most females of childbearin’ age… The sacrifices, ye see…”

  Chack could bear no more. He hadn’t really considered the lot of those on New Ireland who didn’t support the new regime. He looked once more at the dying city. “There will be a reckoning for this, sir, I assure you. Now I must return to my Marines. You’ve been most helpful and kind.”

  “I thought you said your ‘beloved ass’ wouldn’t fly!” Second Lieutenant Orrin Reddy shouted through the voice tube to his passenger, as the NC-1B “Nancy” achieved a cruising altitude of about five thousand feet. There were no lights on the plane-something that needed fixing-but his “passenger” knew enough Morse to confirm the other ships in the 10th Pursuit Squadron had converged on the orange exhaust flare from the lead plane’s engine. Orrin hoped they wouldn’t “converge” too close! He couldn’t make out any details in his little mirror, but he suspected he’d see Dennis Silva’s gap-toothed grin if it was light.

  “ I ain’t flyin’; you are!” came the reply.

  “I thought you were afraid to fly!”

  “I am! That’s why you’re doin’ it, damn it!”

  “Well…” Orrin shook his head in frustration. “What difference does that make?”

  “I ain’t at the controls!”

  Orrin started to ask at what point a maniacal gunner’s mate in the Asiatic Fleet had ever controlled an aircraft, when something bumped into the back of his leg. “What the hell!” He looked down but saw nothing in the darkness.

  “It’s cold!” came a strange voice from within the fuselage/hull of the plane.

  “My God, Lawrence! Is that you?” Orrin demanded.

  “Course it is! Who else do you think could get in here?”

  “But what are you doing in there? I thought this thing was heavy.

  …”

  “Look, Mr. Reddy,” Silva yelled. “I work for the Skipper, an’ my job’s to take care of stuff for him, you know, the gals an’ such. Well, Miss Lieutenant Minister Tucker an’ the Munchkin princess are safe as can be right now. They both think maybe you need a little watchin’ over right now, you an’ the Skipper bein’ related an’ all.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Sure it is, an’ I said so, but they made me come! It was a face-to-face, direct order!”

  “But… what’s Lawrence doing here?”

  “He kinda thinks of himself as my sidekick, see? Sometimes I let him carry one of my guns.”

  “I ain’t no sidekick!” Lawrence said.

  “Hey, there’s the moon!” Silva said, diverting the conversation. The bright orb, nearly full, had begun emerging from the sea. “Boy, it sure looks close! Hey! How come it always looks closer when it rears up than when it’s right overhead, Lieutenant? I’ve always wondered that.”

  “You’re kidding? Well… there’s more atmosphere between us and it when it first comes up. It acts like a magnifying glass… I think.”

  “So… it’s because there’s more air between us and it now than when it’s straight up?”

  “That’s what I just said!”

  “Then if you had a glass tank and filled it with compressed air, you c
ould really see somethin’, right?”

  Orrin shook his head but didn’t reply. What a dopey question, he thought. Now it’s going to drive me nuts! He was glad to see the moon, though; it would make setting down on that lake in the dark a lot easier. He looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouettes of the rest of his flight. Maybe we won’t be as likely to run into each other either. The silhouette of New Ireland had appeared as well, as the moon rose higher, looking like a mountain range surrounded by a sea of mercury. “We should see the southern elements of Second Fleet soon. Start keeping your eyes peeled, in case any of those damn lizard birds are waiting for us.”

  The four-cylinder engine droned companionably above them as the coastline neared and the dark shapes of ships emerged. On shore, northeast and southwest of Cork, a battle raged, with vertical slashes of fire in both directions pinpointing artillery emplacements. Occasionally, clusters of mortar bombs sputtered where observers must have spotted enemy troop concentrations. The ships weren’t firing much, since all were Imperial vessels and had no explosive shells, but they’d probably rejoin the fight in earnest at dawn, once they could see what they were shooting at again.

  “Anything on the horn I ought to know about?” Orrin asked.

  “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Silva confessed. “I ain’t no spark catcher, but I can hold my own. Every time I start pickin’ up a thread, somebody stomps all over it. Sounds like a mess, though. Everbody’s screamin’ for those swell new mortar bombs. Apparently, they’re about all that’s keepin’ the bad guys back. Must be runnin’ out.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Orrin said. “This turned into a lot bigger fight than anybody expected, and all the artillery that fires exploding shells are with Chack and Blair, or left behind at Waterford.” He looked down at the fighting around Cork as they flew above it. “They’ll get more ordnance in the morning when that Jap colonel comes ashore-if they can hold that long.” Orrin’s tone revealed he still wasn’t comfortable relying on Shinya. He liked and respected Sandra, Laumer, and Captain Lelaa (he’d taken to the ’Cats as quickly as anyone). He even liked Lawrence right off, but, of course, he’d never seen a Grik. In many ways, Orrin Reddy was still entranced and fascinated by this bizarre “Oz” he’d found himself in, and it sure beat the fate that awaited him aboard-or beyond-that hellish ship he’d ridden to this world. But no matter whose side he was on, Shinya was still a Jap.