The size of their guns and weight of armor made the Repub ships pretty impressive—on paper—but Matt was skeptical about the composite wood-and-steel design they’d adopted. He figured they’d be pretty rugged, since Grik BBs relied on armored wooden casemates and had become almost invulnerable to anything but torpedoes. Repeated close range doses of 4″ and bigger armor-piercing shells could do them in eventually, and heavier, AP bombs were already available, but only the big, four-engine, PB-5D Clipper flying boats could carry them. They desperately needed better light bombers than the little Nancy floatplanes. But Matt’s biggest concern about the Repub ships was that they might be just as slow as Grik BBs, and just as hard for damage-control parties to keep in action.
Still, for now, the bulk of the Allied fleets here and in the East were wooden-hulled sailing steamers, reminiscent of the mid-nineteenth century on the world he came from. They’d been a significant accomplishment, but were now outclassed even by the Grik. The Allies’ greatest advantage at sea was its five aircraft carriers, but they were made of wood as well, and were huge, slow targets. The first had been Salissa, or Big Sal, originally an immense Lemurian seagoing Home. The rest were purpose built, getting progressively smaller and better, but they could still be amazingly vulnerable. The League of Tripoli—from a different 1939 than Matt remembered—had combined the modern warships, planes, and troops of a fascist France, Spain, Italy, and Germany to conquer British Egypt and the Suez Canal on that other world, and would make mincemeat of the Allies when they almost inevitably clashed. Likely the only reason they weren’t already—openly—at war was because the League was still consolidating its hold on the Mediterranean. And the Suez Canal didn’t exist here.
Matt rested his elbows on the green-topped table and rubbed his face with his hands. Lord, he thought. We’re scrambling to build a real navy as fast as we can, for a war we’re not even in yet, while already fighting two wars that’re bleeding us dry! And according to Walbert Fiedler, no matter what we do, it’ll never be enough to match the League. He took a breath. First things first. For now, we have to focus on the Grik and Doms.
Juan Marcos, self-appointed chief steward to the CINCAF, stumped into the compartment carrying a tray burdened with a coffeepot and several cups. He’d lost a leg fighting the Doms and walked on a wooden peg with a rolling, jerky gait. Somehow, awkward as he looked, the little Filipino never dropped such loads even in the roughest seas. “Real coffee, Cap-tan!” Juan proclaimed, setting a cup on the table and filling it.
Commander Toru Miyata, Gray’s CO, followed Juan in. “I know I’m early,” Miyata apologized. “If you’d like more time alone before our visitors arrive, I understand.”
Matt straightened, blinking tired eyes. Trying to coordinate the logistical nightmare of supplying, expanding, and protecting the Allied toehold in Grik Africa had taken a heavy toll and he hadn’t been sleeping. “Of course not,” he said. “Please be seated. This is your ship, after all.”
Miyata smiled and sat beside him, accepting a cup, but remained rigidly erect. “No, Captain Reddy,” he said quietly. “This ship—and I—are yours. It’s my honor to command her and serve you.”
Matt blinked discomfort in the Lemurian way. “Well, glad to hear it,” he said awkwardly, genuinely appreciative but always uncomfortable with statements like that.
“The rest’ll be here soon, anyway,” Juan reminded, glancing at an Imperial watch he hauled from his pocket. He gestured at the pot. “I only brought a little real coffee aboard. Can’t get those lazy Shee-ree on Madagascar to collect it while they’re busy hunting all those stranded Grik. Got their priorities all mixed up.” He ended with a grin, and Matt snorted. A large force of Grik had been sent to Madagascar to open a second front against the Allies, but couldn’t be supplied across the Go Away Strait and were eventually abandoned. After being hunted by Grik for maybe thousands of years, the Shee-ree had gleefully turned the tables. “Drink up,” Juan urged. “I don’t have enough for everyone!”
Matt managed a real laugh. “You heard him, Toru. Command hath its privileges.” He sobered. “Not very damn many. Certainly not enough to balance the weight of responsibility a good commander bears.” He grinned and shrugged. “So let’s not let this one slip by.” He took a big gulp of the coffee he needed so badly.
Miyata allowed his small smile to broaden. “If you insist. If our guests never know there was real coffee here, they won’t be disappointed when it’s gone.”
“Do I smell coffee?” a voice demanded in the passageway, and Matt rolled his eyes theatrically as General Pete Alden entered, followed by Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar and General Muln Rolak. Alden had been a wayward, wounded sergeant from USS Houston’s Marine contingent that Walker took aboard at Surabaya before coming to this world. Now he commanded all the land forces in this theater except for those of the Republic. Keje was one of the broadest Lemurians Matt knew, without being fat. Combined with rust-brown fur, his shape made him look more like a bear than a ’Cat. Still CINCWEST, and therefore Matt’s deputy in the theater, Keje was also High Chief of USNRS (United States Naval Reserve Ship) Salissa, and Matt’s oldest and closest Lemurian friend.
Rolak was a gray-furred, grizzled old ’Cat, originally Lord Protector of Aryaal. He was one of only a few Lemurians in the First Fleet AEF to lead his people in combat, on a much smaller scale, before the current war. His rough, scarred appearance contrasted with an urbane, thoughtful nature. He commanded I Corps and was Alden’s second in command. Under Juan’s disapproving stare, Matt poured coffee for them. Rolak grinned, blinking gratitude. One of the first converts to the ersatz coffee they’d subsisted on so long, he already craved the “new” stuff as fervently as anyone.
“That’s it,” Matt proclaimed mournfully, setting the pot on the tray. “Better open the portholes, Juan, to let the smell out. It’ll be too hot to survive in here before long, anyway,” he added glumly.
Juan motioned for one of Gray’s ’Cat stewards to help him, and they quickly ventilated the compartment. It was still cool outside, with the sun only now rising above the sea to the east, but it was summer here and would quickly get very hot indeed. Colonel Ben Mallory, in charge of the Army and Naval Air Corps, and Commander Steve “Sparks” Riggs, the Minister of Electrical Contrivances out from Baalkpan, arrived next. Riggs had brought a new level-crosslevel for Savoie, but was still waiting for the fire-control apparatus they’d cobbled up. When it came, he’d go back to Grik City on the north coast of Madagascar, where the big battleship lay at anchor, and help sort out all her electrical issues. After that . . . He was sick of riding out the war, safe in Baalkpan. Chairman Letts insisted he get his ass home as soon as he could, but Riggs begged Matt almost every day to put him to work out here. He and Ben accepted iced tea from Juan and sat sipping from their glasses, which were already condensing moisture in the humid air.
Last to come in were Colonel Chack-Sab-At and Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, escorting three humans: two former Leaguers and one Japanese. Chack was a brindled ’Cat, wearing the camo combat smock and blue kilt of a Marine. He’d started the war as a naive youngling, but now led the 1st Amalgamated Raiders or “Chack’s Brigade,” the most combat-hardened force in the western theater of war. Silva was a blond-haired and -bearded man-monster, born to war, and even if he seemed less psychologically affected by unrelenting combat, it had taken a physical toll. Most notable of his countless injuries was a ruined left eye, covered by a clean new black patch.
The Leaguers were off the German type XIB submarine, U-112, moored between Gray and Walker in the Zambezi River fan. Both men were bearded as well, dressed in dingy khakis. And they smelled. Everybody got pretty gamey at this latitude, and the foamy lather Lemurians secreted could get downright weird. Despite their long association, human odors probably surprised ’Cats just as much on occasion. And no matter how clean they got their clothes and bodies, the smells permeated the ships themselves and alway
s lingered. The Germans brought something different; not new to anyone who’d ever visited or served aboard the lost S-19, but distinctly unique to submarines.
The redheaded Oberleuitnant Kurt Hoffman was the U-boat’s skipper. Oberleuitnant Walbert Fiedler was dark blond and, ironically, not even a submariner. He was a pilot. More interesting still, he was known to Silva, Chack, and Matt. He’d been the first good source of information they had about the League, in fact, and they’d hoped he’d remain among them and slip them more intelligence when he could. Circumstances hadn’t permitted that, but he was still their “expert.”
The Japanese officer, Hideki Muriname, was another matter. He was thin and young but already balding, and wore small, round spectacles. Formerly General of the Sky for Hisashi Kurokawa, he, like Toru Miyata, had come to this world in Amagi. Instead of being a navigator, however, he’d been part of the ship’s aviation division, flying a Type 95 floatplane. The more important difference was that he’d stayed with Kurokawa and served him to the last, developing fighters and light bombers, as well as the ubiquitous dirigibles the Grik never seemed to run out of. He’d come over with a handful of bombers and a couple fighters during the last Battle of the Zambezi, even as his XO tried to destroy him with the few fighters he took to the Grik. It had been a crazy mess. He swore he hated Kurokawa and the Grik, and would’ve switched sides before if he could.
The thing was, only a few people knew the “old” Muriname. Matt’s pregnant wife, Minister of Medicine and Surgeon Commander Sandra Tucker Reddy; her companion/steward/bodyguard Diania; and Silva’s pal, Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, formerly of the 4th Marines, remembered him as their captor while they’d been in Kurokawa’s hands. There was also Commander Miyata himself. He’d taken his chance to bolt Kurokawa long ago and served the Republic, then the United Homes, ever since. He hadn’t known Muriname well, but was the only pre-Squall character witness. None of the Japanese they’d captured at Zanzibar were present, and their reliability must remain in question as well, for a while.
Sandra had told Matt what she thought of Muriname, and Horn and Diania had made their reports. Now they’d hear from Miyata and from Fiedler, who’d met him as a fellow aviator when he was on Zanzibar. Hopefully Matt could decide what to do with him and his flyers—two of which were Grik!—as well as sort out a number of other things they all had to worry about.
“Let’s start with you, Lieutenant Muriname,” Matt said, leveling his gaze at the Japanese officer. There was no way in hell he’d address him as General of the Sky, but he’d been a lieutenant before his leap in rank and that would suffice. “I appreciate the assistance you rendered during the last action and know you lost people, but it could be argued you only helped after the outcome was decided and you left the Grik to save your ass.” He shrugged. “I’m not so sure about that, but I have to consider it. What do you say?”
Muriname adjusted his spectacles and frowned. “I can understand how that misconception might flourish,” he conceded, “but in my defense, I’ll cite what you just recounted: pilots loyal to my former executive officer, Lieutenant Mitsuo Ando, attacked and destroyed some of my planes while practically ignoring yours. If Ando survived, he’s now most likely First General Esshk’s new General of the Sky.” He paused. “I must add that Ando’s not a bad man. He’s fiercely loyal and quite industrious, as a matter of fact, which may prove problematic. He did not tell Esshk I intended to defect and only attacked me when I helped you against his new lord.” He looked down. “In a sense, he didn’t turn on me so much as I failed him, by releasing him from his obligation to me. Without that, he considered himself honor-bound by his commitment to Esshk, through Kurokawa.” He closed his eyes. “That madman continues to destroy the lives of Amagi’s crew, even after death.”
He looked back at Matt. “Neither I nor any of my surviving aircrews feel the slightest urge to serve Esshk. We want to serve you, an honorable lord, and the clan you lead.” He glanced at Fiedler. “As the Oberleuitnant might attest, by the time we met, my loyalty to Kurokawa had already been stretched to the breaking point.” He straightened. “And even your wife must remember that I did my best to protect her and her companions from the worst of Kurokawa’s madness.”
Matt steepled his hands in front of his face, fixing green eyes on Muriname. “Captain Miyata?” he asked aside. Miyata shifted and cleared his throat, distinctly uncomfortable. He and Muriname had been equals in Amagi. Now he sat in judgement of the other man aboard a powerful ship he commanded for Muriname’s former enemies. He sighed.
“Captain Reddy, as I’ve told you, I never knew this man well. I saw him, but we were both new to Amagi and I can’t remember if we ever actually spoke.” Miyata reached absently for his coffee cup but let it lie. “And honestly, I can’t say for certain what I would’ve done if Kurokawa hadn’t sent me to the Republic on what he must’ve thought was a suicide mission. I hope I would’ve found a way to escape and join you, and become what I am, but who knows if the opportunity would’ve ever come? Kurokawa might’ve eventually found some purpose that would’ve corrupted me as thoroughly as some of his other people.” He pointedly didn’t look at Muriname when he said that. “The only real difference between this man and myself could very well be that I was considered expendable at the time, and he wasn’t.”
“I suppose that’s possible,” Matt conceded, still looking at Muriname, “but we’re defined by our actions, regardless of the circumstances. I actually believe most of what you said, and Fiedler corroborates your disaffection with Kurokawa. But you were pretty industrious yourself, designing zeps and planes that killed a lot of our people.” He shrugged. “I get that. It was your talent, and the reason you weren’t just thrown away like Captain Miyata. Considering the attrition among Amagi’s original crew, it’s probably the only reason you’re alive.”
His eyes turned icy. “But don’t you dare throw ‘I helped your wife’ at me! I’m just as sure as she is that you had personal, ulterior motives. And if you wanted out from under Kurokawa so bad, I’m sure his General of the Sky could’ve found some way to skip. Bringing out the hostages in a ship or plane before we had to come get them would’ve added credibility to your story and saved a lot of lives.” He paused and took a breath. “To be honest, though, in spite of how my wife feels about you personally—that you’re a slimy creep—she also thinks you had a rough time and really do want to redeem your honor. I left it up to her whether to use you or hang you, and you can thank your lucky stars she dumped it back on me.”
He snorted. “On the other hand, I’m probably less objective and even more inclined to hang you than she was, so I passed the buck to Colonel Mallory.” He gestured at Ben, who nodded gravely back. “He wants you. You and your people won’t fly for us, not for a while anyway, but you’ll give him any assistance you can think of and answer every question he asks about your planes and the ones Ando wound up with. You’ll draw pictures, re-create plans we didn’t capture at Zanzibar, and tell him everything you think the Grik might know or Ando might tell them about. . . .” He shrugged. “Anything. Do I make myself clear?” His voice hardened. “You have one chance, Muriname. Screw it up, and I’ll put the rope around your neck myself.”
Muriname nodded. “I understand. And thank you.”
Matt flicked his eyes at Silva and the big man grinned, stepping to the table from where he’d been leaning against the aft bulkhead with Juan, massive arms crossed over his chest. “C’mon, Jap,” Silva said, not unkindly. “Let’s leave the grown-ups to their business.” He waved at Fiedler, whom he’d befriended at Grik City, and escorted Muriname from the compartment.
“I hope that was right,” Matt murmured.
“Sure it was,” Ben said. “I’ll get to squeeze him, at the very least. He obviously knows his planes. His fighters aren’t as good as ours, but their engines ain’t bad. Not only did we capture a lot of the engines themselves, we got a lot of the machinery to make ’em.
Still want to send all that stuff to Madras? They might use it in the Republic.”
Steve Riggs coughed. “From what I’ve heard, the Repubs already have water-cooled engines as good as our stacked radials, from a power-to-weight standpoint, and they’re working on better. With their production gearing up, we might just distract them. I say Madras.”
Matt shrugged. “Up to you guys. What about the bombers?”
When it came to something that could carry a torpedo or the new, bigger bombs, all the Allies had were Clippers. They made decent high-altitude heavy bombers, but were way too big and slow to use in a torpedo attack. Even the Grik could shoot them down. After the Battle of Mahe, when Kurokawa’s—and Muriname’s—little bombers cost them so dearly, they’d started a crash program to come up with something, but they were flailing.
“They’re okay,” Ben granted, “but they’re slow. And the best they can carry is that dinky short-range fish they used against us. Those were bad news, and a big surprise, but against anything with an armor belt”—he was clearly thinking about the League—“I’d rather have something that can carry more weight. Maybe even one of our Mark Sixes.” An example of such a thing existed. A wrecked Bristol Beaufort from their own world (or one much like it) had been found in a Shee-ree village by the West Mangoro River on Madagascar. ’Cats had been flown down in Fiedler’s old Ju-52, taken it apart, and ferried the pieces back to Grik City, where they were loaded in empty supply ships headed back for Baalkpan. The wood-and-fabric construction was familiar to them, but the engines and variable pitch props, as well as the overall design, would be very helpful. Clearly, Ben was dreaming of something like a Beaufort: big and powerful enough to carry a two-thousand-pound weapon and small enough to fly off a carrier. “Maybe Muriname can help us get our kinks straightened out.”
Pass of Fire Page 5
