“Transmit the position of the target,” Fred said, a rush of heat at the back of his neck, despite the altitude. Uh-oh. He’d seen enough sails from the air now to begin to recognize whose they were, just by their shape. These were even easier to identify. They were red. The Grik used red paint on their hulls, but nobody he knew had red sails except that Dominion dispatch boat. Jenks had said the Dominion sometimes used red sails for official vessels-and warships. It had to do with their screwy, bloodsucking version of Catholicism, or something. The heat at the back of his neck turned to ice. “Ah, send that we’re going to investigate the target,” he added, banking left.
“Fred,” came Kari’s voice, “I also got a weak signal from Respite, maybe bounced off sky. They pass along message out of Maa-ni-la, passed from somebody… anyway, it is general alarm.” She paused. Her voice sounded more concerned than it had over possible enemy action.
“Well, what is it?” Reynolds demanded.
“Talaud blow up. Everybody saying it ‘pull Kraak-aa-toaa,’ but worse. What that mean? Signal say Min-daanao-Paga-Daan- gone. Tarakaan, maybe even Baalkpan, Sembaakpaan, Sular, Respite, Saamir-all land places-maybe get big gaararro, ah, ‘tidal wash.’ ”
“Holy smoke!” Fred remembered that Kari was land folk from Aryaal. Big waves meant a lot more to them than they did to sea folk. Like everyone in the Navy, though, he’d heard tales of Krakatoa and what followed its eruption-ships carried miles inshore and left high and dry with no survivors. It was the boogeyman of natural disasters. Where Talaud was, Mindanao probably did get hammered. Still, he couldn’t imagine anything making a wave big enough to threaten Tarakan, much less Baalkpan or Respite. “Settle down, it’ll be fine. Just transmit the warning and let’s pay attention to what we’ve got here.” He’d steadied up on a heading toward the strangers and was beginning to descend. “I’d say they’re definitely Dominion ships,” he added grimly. “Get the word to Mr. Steele; the Skipper was right.”
Commander Frankie Steele was standing on Walker ’s bridge, hands behind his back, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. The church bells of Scapa Flow were pealing in the morning air, echoing cacophonously through the streets and alleys. Chack and O’Casey were forming the Marines on the dock as if for inspection, and the few port marshals and Company wardens left watching the ship were growing uneasy over this unexpected and unannounced activity. Blair was double-timing a company of Marines through the harbor district, and their “shore shoes” thundered in time with the ringing bells. The marshals and wardens didn’t know what was happening; it looked at first like the Marines were coming to force the “ape folk” back aboard the strange steamer-but there were a few Imperial Marines mixed with the “apes”! When Blair’s Marines arrived fully on the scene, and the lieutenant advanced and saluted Chack, all the civilian guards fled in confusion.
Ed Palmer dashed onto Walker ’s bridge with a sheet of yellow Imperial paper in his hand. “It’s here,” he said, pale.
Frankie snatched the message away and quickly scanned it. He worried about the report concerning Talaud-the ship’s receiver hadn’t caught it-but that wasn’t pertinent to them here, now. “They are going for it,” he said, almost amazed. Somehow he just hadn’t imagined he would really have to step into the Skipper’s shoes and fight the Skipper’s ship. ‘The whole damn enchilada!” he continued, looking up at Spanky. “Reynolds reports a ‘large’ enemy force making for Scapa Flow! He got close enough to identify ten Dominion battlewagons, or ‘liners,’ ten more ships like we call frigates, and what looks like a couple o’ dozen transports.” His brow furrowed. “He says only the transports are steamers, though, an’ they’re hangin’ back. That’s weird.” He shrugged. “Prob’ly mean to poke a hole with the liners and punch the transports through, fast like.”
“I’ll bet you’re right,” Spanky said.
Frankie looked at him with a strange smile. “Sure you don’t wanna switch jobs?” he asked, a strange edge to his outwardly joking question.
Spanky looked at him a moment, actually tempted. Frankie was usually steady as a rock, but he’d been through a lot, right from the start, aboard Mahan.
“Naw, Frankie,” he said in a joking tone as well. “I got a job. Bashear’s already hangin’ around the auxiliary conn.” He paused. “Why don’t you sound GQ and get this show on the road? We can’t let ’em catch us in port like the Japs did at Pearl!”
“Yah,” said Frankie, straightening. “Sound ‘general quarters’! Make all preparations for getting underway! Signal flags to the yards!” He looked at Palmer. “Send back to Mr. Reynolds that he can play dive bomber if he likes, but take care of that plane!” Reynolds’s Nancy had a dozen of Chack’s mortar bombs aboard, the same bombs other Nancys had dropped by hand in combat over Rangoon. Reynolds hadn’t been carrying any in the battle with the Company ships because they hadn’t expected a fight. Now he always carried a crate of bombs whenever he flew.
The prearranged signal, “enemy in sight,” along with “southwest” as reported by the Nancy, rattled up Walker ’s halyards, along with an attention-getting shriek from her whistle. Euripides and Tacitus, both commanded by close personal friends of Jenks, already had steam up, and they acknowledged the signal. Immediately, both ships also fired signal guns and ran up additions to their own “enemy in sight” flags, announcing confirmation of a “hostile fleet” southwest of Scapa Flow. Maybe a few other Imperial ships would take the hint. Walker, now free of the dock, belched smoke and churned forward, squatting down aft as her twin screws bit deep and threw up a churning white wake as she commenced a rapid starboard turn.
Finny was on the starboard bridgewing. “The fort is flying signal!” he said. “It spell English, say ‘Amer-i-caan Ship Heave To or Be Fired On!”
“The hell you say?” Kutas grunted at the wheel.
“Signals!” Frankie shouted aft of the chart house. “Hoist: ‘Dom Invasion Fleet Headed Scapa Flow. No Shit!’ ” He paused. “Tell ’em if they shoot at us, we’ll let the bastards in,” he snarled. They waited in silence, the blower roaring behind the pilothouse, but the minutes ticked by and there was no change in the Imperial signal.
“Even if they shoot, they’ll never hit us,” Kutas said. “We’re too fast.” He couldn’t keep all the concern out of his voice, however; the fort had a lot of guns.
“ Euripides and Taas-itus are underway,” Finny shouted. “They still firing signal guns, flying flags. They flying battle flags now!”
Walker was still gaining speed, and her crew cringed involuntarily as their ship raced under the fort’s gaping guns at twenty knots. There were no shots.
“Lookout sees smokes on horizon,” called Min-Sakir, or “Minnie” the talker, so named for her size and voice. “Much smokes!” she stressed. “Nancy is pounding craap out of traan-sports!” she chortled.
“Belay sportscaster comments on the bridge!” Frankie scolded, a little more harshly than he’d intended.
“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a chastened Minnie.
Far outstripping her Imperial “allies,” USS Walker sent her own battle flag racing up her foremast and steamed into battle with a new, unknown foe.
The slick-haired man immediately went on the attack. Matt found himself fighting for his life once again with swishing, crashing blades and a blinding-fast sword point that dissolved into a blur before his eyes. The difference was, this time he really was fighting for his life and there was no padding or blunted tips. He was giving ground-he had no choice-and still he suspected his opponent was merely toying with him, showing off. The guy was incredibly quick, even faster than Jenks, and Matt knew with complete certainty that he stood no chance in this kind of fight. He’d improved tremendously-his daily exercises had seen to that-but he still felt stiff, fighting in this formal, almost ritualized style. He stuck with it, though, even after his unnamed adversary pinked him on the left shoulder, cut the back of his left hand when it inadvertently strayed from behind his back, and opened a shal
low gash on the inside of his right forearm.
He had no idea how Jenks was doing; he didn’t dare take his eyes off that cobralike blade before him. He heard grunting and stomping and the incessant rattle of blades, so he knew his friend was still alive at least. Beyond that, he didn’t have a clue. His own fight had backed him up and around, until Jenks’s battle continued at his back. The crowd, almost completely on the Imperial side now, occasionally groaned or cheered, and he suspected the groans were mostly for him. He fought on, gasping, sweat soaking his bandanna and blood streaming down to his wrist. Soon his hand would get slippery and he’d be dead. Seeing this, his opponent disengaged and took a few steps back.
“Wipe your arm,” he said harshly. At least he was breathing hard as well. “I’m enjoying this, and I want it to last!” He turned his back and walked in a circle, slashing at the air while Matt pulled the bandanna from his neck and wiped the blood away. He held the cloth against his face, soaking up the sweat, then wrapped it around his bleeding left hand, clasping the ends in his palm. There was polite applause from the stands. He looked over and saw that Jenks and his adversary were still going at it.
“Thanks,” Matt said. “Sorry, I don’t know your name, so I hope ‘shithead’ is okay?”
The slick-haired man snarled and came at him. As quick as that, the battle was rejoined with the same intensity as before, maybe even more. Matt kept at it, still a little awkward in the stiff form he’d practiced. The other man had a number of advantages besides his vastly greater experience. He was smaller, faster, in much better condition, and his blade wasn’t as heavy. On Matt’s side was his reach, his thus far almost entirely defensive strategy-and his mind-set. Unknown to his opponent, Matt wasn’t fighting a duel, he was battling a rabid animal, a Grik, a creature bent on killing him so he couldn’t perform his greater duty of protecting the people he’d brought here. The man had been right about one thing-his name meant nothing to Matt.
There was a thunderous cheer, a cheer Matt had been waiting for, praying for, as his arm began to tire. He’d been counting on it, but it drew his opponent’s attention just the slightest bit. With a roar, Matt dropped all pretense of form and style and lunged forward, plowing his opponent’s sword aside with his own, then grasping the blade with his “bandaged” left hand. Bringing his guard up, he smashed the man in the face again, drew back, and drove his Academy sword into the slick-haired man’s chest, all the way to the hilt.
The crowd went almost silent, then erupted once again. Chances were, a few might scoff at his tactics, but they weren’t against the rules. Besides, most likely, hardly anyone saw what he did. Attention had probably been focused on Jenks. Matt took the slick-haired man’s sword from his loosening fingers and let his body slide off his own blade onto the ground. The crowd was ecstatic. He looked at Jenks and grinned, gasping for every breath. A squad of marshals, muskets on their shoulders, were trotting toward the opposing box where Reed leaned on the rail beside Don Hernan, his face set in stone. Matt watched, perplexed again as to why Reed would so publicly associate himself with the weird foreign priest-or whatever he was. Obviously, the Governor-Emperor also considered it tantamount to treason. Everyone would think so, even the Company. Reed just stood there, waiting for the marshals to come. It didn’t make sense.
Something stirred near the bottom of the stands and Matt looked down. About four feet off the ground, the blue bunting parted and exposed five, six, eight! dark, ominous muzzles. Matt spun and sprinted toward Jenks. Just as he performed a classic open-field tackle on his friend, eight medium-weight cannons erupted with breath-snatching force and spewed their double loads of canister into the “Imperial” bleachers.
“My God, it is here!” Jenks coughed as the white smoke billowed over them. The cheers in the stands had turned to screams. “No wonder Reed went to that side!”
“Not so much a political statement as self-preservation,” Matt agreed, coughing too. He heaved Jenks to his feet. “Cannons! How the hell did they get Those here without anybody seeing? Didn’t anybody think to check?”
“For cannons on the ground level under the viewing stands? Be serious. They may have been sneaking them in for months, in carts or wagons…” Jenks seemed disoriented. “The Governor-Emperor!”
“C’mon!” Matt said. “We gotta get out of here before they reload!”
“I must go to Gerald!”
“Jenks, he’s either dead, well protected by now, or too busy to notice you!” Matt said sharply. “Let’s go!” He sprinted back in the direction they’d previously walked, dragging Jenks by the arm. Stites, Juan, and a puffing Gray met them in the smoke. Stites had a BAR and Gray carried his Thompson. Juan had two 1903 Springfields and he handed one to Matt, along with his other belt with his scabbard and Colt.
“Did you shoot the flare?” Matt demanded. The air was still thick with the white haze of gunsmoke. Muskets began to pop, stabbing orange flame in all directions, but most was aimed at the Imperial stands.
“Aye, sir, as if I needed to,” Stites replied. “Goddamn cannons! If Chack didn’t hear that, he’s… well, been around cannons too long!”
Men in yellow and red uniforms were becoming visible at the base of the “visitors’ ” stands, loading the heavy guns.
“Hose ’em!” Matt ordered. Juan fired the first shot and a man with a rammer staff crumpled to the ground. Gray stitched the blue bunting around each gun, while Stites unleashed several clips horizontally along the base of the stands. Matt held his fire, looking for Reed, Don Hernan, or any of the bigwigs, but the viewing box was suddenly empty. Musket balls vrooped through the air around them, and they were driven to cover. All the while, the screaming in the stands to Matt’s right continued unabated. They scrambled over a hasty barricade that Courtney had erected around the reinforced crate. He’d added some heavy benches and other odds and ends he’d managed to gather before he drew the enemy’s attention.
“Bloody good show, Captain Reddy!” he exclaimed, when they dropped behind the meager protection. A stack of helmets awaited them, and everyone discarded their hats and put one on, pulling the straps under their chins. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have bet against you myself. I almost believed you were outclassed there for a moment. Bravo!”
Stites heaved one of the ship’s. 30-caliber Brownings up onto the crate. Juan banged open a box of belted ammunition.
“Yeah,” said Matt. “Me too.” He peeked over the crate. “Damn!” he said. “Where are they all coming from? There must be a company of infantry out there, maybe more. Hurry up, Stites!”
“I suppose if the marshals had been attentive enough to discover cannons, they might have found that as well,” Jenks said wryly, referring to the Browning. He seemed to have gathered his wits. “Bringing weapons to a duel… It just isn’t done!” He crouched beside Matt, fiddling with the chin strap of the unfamiliar helmet. “They must have staged the infantry in the woods before dawn, perhaps keeping people out with men posing as marshals.”
“Or they had real ones helping,” Matt said. Three cannons fired into the opposite stands again, raising another chorus of screams.
“Filthy murderers!” Jenks cried. “They’re deliberately killing unarmed civilians!” he exclaimed to Matt. “Give me a weapon, I beg you!”
“Welcome to the kind of war we’re used to, Jenks,” Matt said grimly. He handed over the Springfield Juan had given him and picked up the BAR, checking the magazine. “You remember how to use that?” he asked.
Jenks looked doubtfully at the ’03. “You showed me once.”
“You’re going to love it,” Matt assured him, opening fire with the BAR. Stites joined him with the. 30-cal.
Against Kari’s adamant warnings, Reynolds took the Nancy into a final dive. The strangers on the ships below were starting to shoot back now, and being mainly infantry, they had a lot to shoot back with. The speed of the plane made individual accuracy from smoothbore muskets poor at best, but with so many firing, even accide
ntal hits were likely. The last dive had resulted in seven or eight brand-new holes in the little ship, one of which was causing a little trouble with the starboard aileron.
Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask had left three ships burning already, though, and they still had one bomb left.
“Hold on to your hat!” Fred cried. “Just one more run, and we beat feet back to Scapa Flow! We’re almost out of fuel anyway.” He pushed the stick forward and Kari reluctantly finished cranking the wing floats back down. She was panting from raising and lowering the contraptions and cursed herself for the idea. She’d popped off that they needed to “slow down” in their dives so she could get a better feel for her release point. Fred said they needed more drag and she suggested the floats. Since then, they’d discovered the things made pretty good dive brakes, but improved mechanical advantage over the prototype or not, it was a hell of a lot of work.
Kari finished cranking just as the Nancy lined up on an undamaged transport, and she reached into the nearly empty crate of bombs. Fred was staring at the ship, imagining a set of sights was mounted on the nose of the plane-across the large “NO” painted there. The target was a weird-looking thing, as were all the “enemy” ships. It was a steam-sail hybrid like the Imperial frigates, but the lines remained more classical. There really wasn’t much difference between the American and Imperial steamers except that the Americans used screw propellers and the “Brits” used paddle wheels. The Dominion steamers might almost have been galleons, or Grik Indiamen, and their paddle wheels were exposed. As far as Fred could tell, the Dominion warships-and a couple were real monsters-still relied on sail power alone. He knew that could be an advantage as well as a disadvantage, depending on the wind, and their sides seemed to be pierced for an awful lot of guns. “Get ready!” he shouted.
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