Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  “Wow,” said Dennis. “Huh. I bet them Dom soljers’d flip if they seen their head witch doctor spattered by a cannonball!”

  “A lovey thought, and likely correct,” Blair said, grinning, “but as I said, he’ll be well protected-and better protected the longer we wait to finish this!”

  Chack looked at the Imperials, then studied the condition of the troops gathered round. “We must destroy them now, while we have the momentum, before they have time to consolidate and improve their defenses!”

  All during the conversation, the guns in the bastion continued a steady fire, demolishing houses and shops on the ground separating the two forces. The air was filled with white dust and gray smoke from shattered masonry and rampant fires. A few buildings remained standing, probably full of observers, but it was clear the Doms were making a killing ground that would be difficult to cross.

  “Big guns for a fort not designed to protect a harbor. What are they? Eighteens? Twenty-fours?” Dennis suddenly asked.

  “Twenties,” Blair said, and Silva blinked at the odd, non-“British” standard bores.

  “Watcha got in them forts Sor-Lomak’s fellas took?” he asked.

  “Thirties… but many will be damaged and none will bear!”

  “So? Look, Chackie here knows you ain’t gotta prod me to fight, but a great hero o’ mine once said, ‘Never send a man where you can send a bullet’! How long would it take to bring them thirty-pound whoppers up?”

  “Considerable time, I’m sure,” Blair said, “but they would outrange the enemy batteries and negate their efforts to improve their defenses-once we started battering them down! Mr. Silva, I’ve heard a

  … great many things about you, but the accounts have neglected your tactical value!”

  “Oh, he’s a taac-ti-caal wonder, gentlemen,” Chack said dryly. “Just pay no heed to his… straa-teegic suggestions!”

  “I’m too modest to crow,” Silva proclaimed grandly, looking at Lawrence, who stood there with the broken Doom Whomper. The artillery duel he’d proposed would make a hell of a show, but he intended to send a few well-placed bullets of his own. “Say, anybody in this dump got any glue?”

  Colonel Tamatsu Shinya strode into Waterford at the head of his column of Lemurian troops late that afternoon, still staring in wonder at the forest of blackened, skeletal trees surrounding the surely once-picturesque lakeside town. His eyes quested upward occasionally, searching the sky for “dragons,” or “Grik birds” as the fliers called them in their reports. Nothing flew, not even the blizzards of parrots and small, indigenous “dragons.” There was nothing in the air but smoke.

  It had been a grueling day. First, they’d come ashore under stiff fire from Dom positions on either side of the beleaguered town of Cork, where the pitiful remnants of the garrison had managed to hold through the night, despite gloomy expectations. The survivors were overjoyed to see them and the mighty USS Maaka-Kakja, as her massive form resolved itself offshore in the light of the breaking day. Another Imperial ship of the line had joined her in the night, and added her guns to Maaka-Kakja ’s as she shelled the enemy positions. Air strikes from the great carrier and the planes she’d recalled from Lake Shannon quickly disrupted the Doms and rebels investing the town across the Belfast and Easky roads. Unable to stop the landings, both forces withdrew as the crack Lemurian regiments streamed ashore. Imperial Marines disembarked from the newly arrived ship of the line, under the direct command of t one-armed Sean “O’Casey” Bates, who’d come to represent the Governor-Emperor himself. As soon as the enemy pulled back, Bates went aboard Maaka-Kakja to greet Rebecca Anne McDonald, his long-lost princess. It was a tearful and touching, if brief reunion, between the child and her onetime fugitive protector and guardian, but Bates quickly returned to shore to oversee his troops and the reconsolidation of the defenses around Cork.

  The Imperials remained there while “Shinya’s Division” pushed over the Wiklow Mountains and saw firsthand the results of the previous night’s action in the valley below. None had seen the valley before except the local scouts who led them, but by all accounts what had once been a beautiful, green, sprawling land of old-growth timber, now more closely resembled the bristly black back of a rhino pig. Miraculous pockets of green remained in freakish clumps or lines where the vagaries of the vortex had spared them, but most was now a charred, smoldering landscape as far northwest as the eye could see. Denser smoke still choked the sky in the far distance, fed by the awesome firestorm Lieutenant Reddy’s air attack the previous night had sparked. Nothing could have survived in the path of the monster the fire became, and Shinya doubted any of the Doms that came so close to retaking Waterford had lived.

  They’ll be lucky to save Bray itself, he thought, unless the rains come to its rescue or the wind shifts back on itself. Shinya was.. . horrified by the sheer scope of destruction, and suspected their allies would be none too pleased, but he knew Captain Reddy’s cousin and Dennis Silva-of course Silva had been involved!-had done the only thing they could to ensure the forces fighting in New Dublin weren’t cut off from Cork, or attacked from the rear. That didn’t mean he was unaffected by what he saw. Tamatsu Shinya had viewed many horrors in this terrible war, and though the dead valley couldn’t compare to the countless dead people he’d seen, it struck him in a visceral, almost-prescient way that deeply disturbed him.

  Adding to that discomfort, all the long day he hadn’t known what became of Reddy and Silva after their flight to check on the situation at New Dublin ended with a terse “bats outta hell” sent by Silva’s erratic Morse, and he’d been surprised how concerned it made him. They’d lost so much in this bizarre war, but he’d come to truly believe Silva was indestructible. And there was the issue of Captain Reddy’s cousin to consider. The captain had become such a source of moral strength to the western allies, not to mention these new ones in the east, some of that… aura… had been bound to rub off on his cousin to some degree, he supposed. How much was uncertain, but with Captain Reddy so far beyond help or even communication, and his fate utterly unknown, the possible loss of the young aviator so closely connected to his “clan” had caused a notably chilling effect aboard the ship beyond what he would’ve expected. It was… odd. Adar was unquestionably Chairman of the Grand Alliance, but whether he realized it or not, or even wanted it, Matthew Reddy had become “royalty” of a sort, and that status extended to his “family.”

  Finally, shortly before, a courier arrived from Cork on horseback with the latest intelligence via Sor-Lomaak, describing the battle at New Dublin and the evolving situation there. Included was a brief statement that Reddy, Silva, and Lawrence had survived the downing of their plane. Reddy had been taken to Salaama-Na with a concussion, but Silva and Lawrence had vanished into the swirl of battle. Shinya was relieved but still disturbed. It looked like the battle in New Dublin might require a costly frontal assault to finish, and he was anxious to get there and see the ground for himself. H of Captaired, his division was tired, and they had a long, long way to go.

  “Halt there, I say!” cried a hoarse, officious voice.

  “‘Imp-ees’ coming, sur,” the company commander walking beside him said-belatedly.

  His Springfield rifle on his shoulder, Shinya had been walking, almost oblivious to his immediate surroundings. He was so focused on the scope of the desolation, he hadn’t noticed the procession of dusty, smoke-blackened Imperial officers riding toward him from the edge of the ruined town. “Thank you for the warning, Captain,” he said wryly. “Have we no pickets to the right?”

  “Only friends to right… Nothing to left,” the ’Cat said.

  Shinya watched the Imperials bring their horses to an ashy, dusty stop. “Perhaps you have not learned human expressions well, Captain,” he said. “I’m not convinced these men are necessarily friends.” He raised his voice to the new arrivals. “I’m Colonel Tamatsu Shinya. I would speak to the person in command here. If none of you are he, please lead me to him, bring him to
us, or get the hell out of our way. We have a battle to join.”

  “The battle here is quite over!” the officious voice declared, allowing Shinya to put a face with it. The man’s expression seemed more annoyed than relieved by that.

  “Excellent. Then we’ll continue on to find another,” Shinya snapped. He kept walking.

  “To what purpose? To further destroy this land?” the man snarled.

  Shinya waved the column on but stopped himself. “It’s been a long march already today-after a predawn landing and a short fight that began it. I’m weary. It was my understanding this battle ended in victory, for which you should be thankful. The Dominion does not treat those they conquer with kindness, true? Rejoice that the fighting here is done and you still live.”

  “But… that madman and his flying machines destroyed one of the most beautiful-not to mention strategic-resources in the Empire! This valley is almost sacred to those who live within it, and the timber is essential to the shipbuilding industry!”

  Shinya looked around. “No one lives here now, and there are other forests in the Empire.” He waved about him. “These trees will still make fine ships; they’re only scorched on the outside.”

  “Damn you, sir!” raged the officer. “Have you no compassion? No understanding of the tragedy here?”

  “Damn you!” Shinya roared, his eyes darker than the blackened trees. “Have you no understanding of the word ‘ war ’? I desire words with the commander here, not fools. If you can’t produce such a specimen, I’ll be on my way-anticipating the day you and I meet again on the Dueling Grounds at Scapa Flow!”

  “I command here, Colonel Shinya,” another officer announced firmly, after a brief hesitation. “As of this moment. Run along now, Colonel Meems. Perhaps I can convince this belligerent gentleman not to murder you in front of your children, come the next ‘Meeting Day’ Sunday!”

  The officious officer whirled his mount and galloped away, followed by another, amid a rising, gray cloud, leaving four mounted men.

  “Major Gladney, at your service,” the “commander” said, dismounting. “Of the artillery. Meems is an excitable fellow, where his trees are concerned. He has holdings here. Please, I brought maps when I saw your column. We have recent news of the fighting across the Sperrin range, and I think I can show you some pathways your infantry might use that will place you well to support our friends. The paths are quite steep in places and utterly unsuited for artillery, but men or… your people… should be able to negotiate them in daylight.”

  “Thank you, Major Gladney. I’d hoped as much.” Shinya paused, looking at his tired troops marching by. “Can these trails be found in the dark?”

  Gladney was taken aback. “I suppose, by one who knows them. I could not recommend it, however.”

  “Nevertheless, there will be a good moon again tonight, and we must move with haste.”

  “You’re talking about a march of thirty miles-as the parrot flies!-over two rough, high ranges without stop!”

  “We will stop… now and then. I may not make it with all my troops, but I’ll certainly have my Marines. They have… practiced marches such as this.”

  Gladney shook his head. “Very well. I’ll see that you have guides.”

  Sunday, January 8, 1944

  “Well, well,” Silva said, staring through an Imperial telescope with his good eye and stifling a yawn. “I figgered it was gonna be a helluva show. Glad we got here early for a good seat, hey, Larry?”

  All night, the big guns in the bastion and the heavier ones the allies dragged forward from the ruined forts flared and snarled thunderously at one another, jetting white, orange, and yellow fire from vents and muzzles amid sparkling streaks of tiny red embers. The bastion was taking a pounding, as was the entire city most likely, but the Doms simply couldn’t give as good as they got. They were more concentrated, engaging well-placed and dispersed targets, and the weight of metal alone left them at a disadvantage enough to smother them eventually. That fact didn’t seem to discourage them, and they did their best to match the allies shot for shot. Silva had to wonder just how much ammunition had been stowed in the bastion. The Doms had to know they couldn’t last long under such a storm of iron and must’ve decided to use their artillery to cause as much damage to their enemy-and the city-as they could before their guns were silenced.

  “Are you sure our guys know we’re here?” Lawrence asked nervously when a heavy roundshot struck the building on the ground floor below, crashing through the volcanic rock wall and sending pumice and plaster dust swirling up the stairs into their second-story overlook.

  Silva turned and spat a yellowish stream of “tobacco” juice that missed Lawrence’s clawed hand by inches. “ Course they know, dummy! You think I’d lie here all comfterble an’ ser-een, careless o’ danger, if our fellas didn’t know we was in what the Doms’d expect to be a prime target for our guns?”

  “Yess!” Lawrence hissed darkly. “That was one of ‘ our ’ guns!”

  Silva shrugged in the gloom. “So? With all that flashin’ out there, some poor gunner was prob’ly seein’ triple. ’Sides, it might raise suspicion if they didn’t shoot at this shack once in a while. It was an observation post, after all.”

  Six Dom corpses kept them company in the building that had once been a drying house for a wheelwright. The Imperials made good wheels and the place was full of them. There were probably thousands of spokes and felloes of all sizes, and hundreds of hubs. Five dead Doms were downstairs where they’d been killed by Silva’s Thompson when he and Lawrence burst in upon them, utterly unexpected. A sixth man had fled upstairs, but Lawrence caught him from behind and tore out his throat before he could leap from the window they now stared through.

  “I wonder why the ene’ee doesn’t shoot at us,” Lawrence said. “It’s not as if we send any signals. They ha’ to think we’re here.”

  “Naa. What would we do if we was them dead Doms? Run back ’n forth ’mongst all that iron an’ shit out there? Make a light? They prob’ly had ’em here for daylight spottin’, or to holler if we was doin’ somethin’… like we did. Now, quit bein’ a weenie!”

  Dawn began to break at last, and the cannonade slowly tapered off. It was as if each side yearned for a look at what they’d done to the other. Then, by some unspoken, mutual consent, all the guns on the north side of New Dublin gradually fell silent. Sunday was a holy day to all present, except Lemurians, and perhaps no one wanted to be first to resume the killing under the bright sun creeping above the eastern sea and displaying for all to view what that terrible night had wrought. Dark smoke towered into the sky from a large percentage of the city, rising above the mountains and joining a purple-brown haze moving west. Dennis, and likely the rest of the allies, caught their first real glimpse of the “dragons” then, spiraling high above on rising thermals in the clear air to seaward. There weren’t many, maybe half a dozen in view, and they weren’t nearly as scary in the daylight-at least to Dennis, who’d seen far more frightening things. They did look like big Grik, though, with longer, more feathered tails-and broad, almost batlike wings, of course-and he knew if Lieutenant Reddy had been able to see them they’d have never brought his “Nancy” down. One of the creatures approached the battlefield from upwind and swooped down to light on a corpse, savagely tearing into it. Where the body was, it had to be a Dom.

  “Eww. Not particular about the menu, I guess,” Silva said. “Flyin’ Griks, all right. Nasty bastards. Can’t even tell whose side they’re on down here!” He blinked. “Hey! Maybe they can’t tell, with everything so mixed up. I wonder what good they are? They would’a had to already be here before the Doms ever saw a plane! Maybe they use ’em for goin’ after ships or somethin?” He shrugged. “Get a load o’ this, Larry! Your lofty relations got shitty table manners!”

  “Not relations!” Lawrence snapped. “You’re a ‘right guy,’ Sil’a, usually. You’re also an asshole!”

  “Well, this world is so screwed up, I gue
ss it’s up to me to balance the scales,” Dennis replied philosophically. He continued to watch the creatures kiting lazily above. “Not real energetic this mornin’,” he muttered to himself, “and they don’t seem to care much for smoke. Every time one gets close to any, he veers off, soon as he notices it. Huh.”

  The “cease-fire” persisted, and it started getting hot in their upstairs lair. Eventually, a distant church bell tentatively rang, then another. Still the Doms didn’t fire.

  “I’ll be damned,” Silva said. “I was hopin’ for somethin like this!” He was peering through the telescope again, adjusting the length to sharpen the focus.

  “What?”

  “Everbody’s takin’ a break from the killin’, for a prayer meetin’! Since that didn’t poke the Doms into shootin’ at the ‘heretics,’ maybe they’ll have a ‘God save my murderin’ ass, ’cause I’m fixin’ to die ’ meetin’ of their own!” He shifted his view to the steep mountains beyond the enemy stronghold, refocusing and examining, then returned it to the bastion. Quite a few guns had been dismounted, their carriages shattered, and the walls were largely battered to rubble. There were probably still more than two thousand men inside, some near remaining guns and others milling around. Corpses had been piled in heaps, and the yellow-and-white uniforms of Dom “regulars”-“Salvadores” he’d heard them called-and the yellow and scarlet of the “Blood Drinkers” were spattered and smeared with blackening red. He stiffened when a group, not nearly as soiled as most, emerged from what looked like a companionway in the ground, near the most heavily reinforced portion of the structure.

  “Yes indeedy! That goofy-lookin’ devil’s gotta be ol’ Bunny Crap hisself!”

  During the night, Silva’s name for the Blood Cardinal had changed many times. First, it was simply “B.C.,” but that didn’t seem right for a lot of reasons. Finally, he’d taken the initials and expanded them in numerous ways, ultimately settling on “Bunny Crap” with a vigor Lawrence didn’t understand. Of course, he had no idea what a “bunny” was. Maybe their excrement was particularly notable?