“One of,” Pete groused.
Fiedler pursed his lips. “You’ll have to make do.” He looked back at Matt. “Contrary to what you may think, Savoie wasn’t expendable. Not like U-112, which, as Oberleuitnant Hoffman pointed out, was difficult to maintain and filled with Germans. Savoie was the only long-range battleship fit for the mission she was given at the time, and Gravois squandered her for his own purposes. Given the circumstances, he may have thought he had little choice, and she was a small price to pay for destroying you, but she could be a very potent addition to whatever battle line you scrape together. Particularly if you can keep her a secret.”
Matt frowned, doubting that. The League had left spies in the Republic, and even if most had been sniffed out, some must remain. And it was obvious the Doms had spies almost everywhere. If the Doms and League were in cahoots . . .
“What about air power?” Ben asked. “How bad will they outclass us there?”
Fiedler looked thoughtful. “You know about the Macchi-Messerschmitts and there are about sixty of those, all told. If they can prepare airfields and get them ashore, they’ll be a problem. There are also dive bombers called Stuka. You’re familiar with those? A few Italian torpedo bombers are available as well, but they’ve been used mainly as light bombers and there’s been no torpedo training since they arrived. Again, perhaps the Triumvirate’s arrogance will prevent them from brushing up. Other than that . . . there are several more Ju-52s, like I brought you. Little else.”
“What can they carry at sea?” Ben asked.
“Nothing but scout planes on the cruisers and battleships, unless they convert a merchantman. Even then, there are no planes specifically designed to operate from a carrier.”
“Okay, enough of this.” Matt looked at Pete and Rolak. “All this means is we have to keep cranking out ships and training crews as fast as we can. Improve our planes and torpedoes . . .” He sighed. “And finish the Grik and take the Pass of Fire from the Doms.” He barked a laugh. “Simple.” That evoked nervous laughter.
“What’s the score ashore?” Matt asked Pete for the benefit of the others.
“We keep scratching and clawing to expand our perimeter and make room for Sixth Corps as it trickles in. Those pickup corps of Austraalans and volunteers from Baalkpan are still a ways off.” XII Corps was composed of half-trained volunteers from Austraal, and XIV Corps was militia out of Baalkpan, Sular, and B’taava. All were armed with rifle muskets, taken out of storage.
“We’ll take the Austraalans, but I’m sending the rest back,” Matt said. “We need them back in the factories.”
Pete nodded. “I guess so, but that’ll leave us even more strapped.”
“More will come from Austraal, now thaat they get training there and don’t haave to go all the way to Baalkpan for it,” Keje consoled.
“In the meantime,” Pete continued, “even as we push out, the Grik tighten up. We’ve got close to seventy thousand troops ashore, but we’re up against all the Grik in the world. They’ve built proper trenches with overhead cover, and stuck more than a hundred thousand just in the first line surrounding us. They’ve got depth, and we don’t have any.”
“Not all the Grik are in front of us,” Rolak reminded calmly. “Reconnaissance tells us maany thousaands are moving south to staand before the Army of the Republic.” He blinked amusement. “It seems they’re most adamaant thaat we not join forces with them.”
“And they don’t have that much depth,” Matt corrected grimly. “Just seventy or eighty miles, back to Sofesshk. Hij Geerki’s no expert on these new Grik troops, but he’s still convinced that if we take their Palace of Vanished Gods, they’ll fold. We’ve taken Grik prisoners now! We know they can surrender. Let’s pray he’s right.”
“I’m prayin’ hard every day,” Pete said. “But prayin’ won’t do us any good by itself. We gotta get to Sofesshk first, and that means we have to have the river.”
All the fighting in the river had left a myriad of wrecks, particularly stacked up at a narrow place named the Neckbone, which the Grik called the nakkle leg. Demolition teams ventured out night and day to blow the wrecks, but progress was slow. Wooden hulls could be blasted apart, their timbers released to sink or float downstream, but armored casemates and large machinery, like engines, were another matter. And there was so much of it, Silva had coined the term Iron Bottom Channel.
“We’ll need naval gunfire to cover any push to break through toward Sofesshk,” Pete continued, “and we need the navy to keep the Grik BBs from slaughtering us on the other side of the Neckbone.” He paused. “Worse, we can’t just sit here. As you say, Captain Reddy, we have to get this show on the road. If we wait too long and lose our naval support, we’re stuck. And the longer we take, the thicker and harder the Grik defenses get too. Besides, we’re all still kind of bunched up, and I can’t believe the Grik aren’t thinking about that. We control the air, so Grik zeps aren’t a problem, and they haven’t been able to move their rocket batteries into range. They’re too obvious and vulnerable. But sooner or later they’ll come up with some way to hammer the hell out of us!” He looked at Rolak. “I know we weren’t really ready for this, the whole invasion got rushed and we chucked most of what we were working on to just get here. But we’re here now, and we need a goddamn plan for what’s next!”
Everyone nodded thoughtfully. All had ideas, Matt was sure. He did himself. But even if the overall strategy against the Grik was mostly his, he didn’t feel qualified to influence the campaign ashore. He’d tried that before and didn’t think he’d done as good a job as Pete and Rolak would. And he trusted them to get it right. All the same . . .
“Don’t forget my Raiders,” Chack said quietly, speaking for the first time. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the discussion, but then he didn’t seem to talk much at all these days. His brigade was nearly shattered and he’d lost his sister and XO, Risa, coming to the relief of Santa Catalina and establishing the first toehold for the AEF to exploit. He’d had a little time with his mate, General Queen Safir Maraan, but her II Corps had rotated back to a reserve position behind the forward trenches. What was left of his Raiders were resting and refitting here. Matt was worried about Chack—everyone was. He’d been changed so much by the war that there seemed almost nothing left of the innocent, engaging, carefree young ’Cat they’d all first come to know.
“Your brigade’s still healing and way understrength,” Matt said.
“My brigade will never heal completely,” Chack replied bleakly, then shook his head. “But thaat’s true for us aall, isn’t it? And we’re not faar understrength. Replacements haave arrived, and maany of those wounded at Zaan-zi-bar haave returned. I’m paar-ticu-laarly glaad to have Major Jin-daal back.” Alistair Jindal was an Imperial Marine from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, as were many of the Raiders. They were, in fact, the largest contingent of Impies fighting on this front and were highly motivated to repay the debt they owed the United Homes, largely composed of Lemurians, for all the blood it had shed on their behalf in the East. But Jindal had lost his left arm after Zanzibar and it had been touch and go for him. Chack blinked sadness mixed with relief. “He’ll resume his post as my XO and commaander of the Twenty-First.” He hurried on. “I’d appreciate it if you’d make Abel Cook’s brevet raank of major permaa-nent. His wounds were superficial and he’s much better. I’d like to give him official commaand of the First North Borno. The Khonaashi trust and aad-mire him.” He blinked genuine wonder. “I understaand Major I’joorka will live after all, despite his burns, but it’ll be some time before he’s fit for duty. In aany event, with Major Enrico Gaalay still commaanding the Seventh, the brigade leadership is intaact.”
“Thaat’s all good news,” Rolak said, “and, rest aassured, we’ll never forget your brigade. But whaat are you suggesting?”
“Only thaat you bear in mind, as you plaan, thaat the First
Raider Brigade has proven time and again thaat it’s capable of highly destructive, extremely distraacting, independent operations.” Chack’s ears flicked vaguely in the direction of shore. “It’s not good at sitting idle on its aass. And neither am I.”
Matt nodded slowly, regretfully, his own cockeyed scheme taking firmer shape as another missing piece dropped in place.
CHAPTER 4
////// Forward Grik trench line
South bank of the Zambezi River
Grik Africa
January 20, 1945
What will they do next?” the Chooser asked anxiously, stretching his short, plump body and neck as far as he could to peer over the mounded-earth lip of the trench. His segmented, iron-strapped leather helmet made a comic jumble of his normally carefully coiffed crest, and the battle dress of an ordinary New Army soldier—gray leather armor with light iron plates over his vitals—looked stranger on him than his usual morbidly ornamented robes. Second General Ign practically gaped up at him from where he crouched in the trench, his own crest flaring instinctively to a position of disapproval. If the Chooser noticed, he made no sign. “First General Regent Champion Esshk—and the Celestial Mother,” he hastily added, “require your observations at once!” The Chooser managed to stand even taller. “As do I,” he continued. “After all . . .”
Ign snatched him down and threw him into the disgusting ooze filling the bottom of the position. It hadn’t rained in weeks, but the warriors had to relieve themselves somewhere. The Chooser splapped and sputtered in shock—even as a flurry of heavy bullets struck just opposite from where he’d stood and started a small avalanche of loose dirt flowing down upon him. Still croaking indignantly, he tried to rise, gooshing in the muck, but Ign caught him.
“You touched . . . You’re touching . . .” the Chooser began querulously.
“Forgive me, Lord,” Ign said, summoning his most respectful voice, “but I told you.” He motioned with his snout at where the bullets hit. “You must be very careful here.”
“I . . . Indeed,” the Chooser agreed, still haughty, but he stayed down. “That might have hit me,” he added wonderingly. “So far away? You said the closest enemy line is four hundred paces distant!”
“The closest we know of, Lord Chooser,” Ign qualified. “They constantly push their trenches closer. You can hear them working at night when things are quieter. But even then, yes. Their garraks load from the back, not the front, and shoot much farther and straighter. Small, spiraling . . . grooves in the barrel spin the bullet, like fletching spins a crossbow bolt. Very dangerous.”
“Our garraks can’t do that?”
“No, Lord Chooser.”
The Grik had painstakingly geared up to copy the best enemy weapons they’d captured on Ceylon, but no other samples had made it back to the heart of Grik empire and industry since. Like always, the enemy continually improved what they had, in small ways or great.
“Then . . . I will see what I can do,” the Chooser promised, and Ign actually thought he might. The Chooser had taken increasing responsibility for selecting the best ideas to improve the lethality of their weapons. Since the primary purpose of his order—choosing which hatchlings went to the cookpots and which were allowed to live, or even be elevated—was currently suspended, it seemed an appropriate task. He’d been First General Esshk’s closest advisor and confidante, but that relationship seemed strained of late. Ign suspected the Chooser had gotten too close to the Celestial Mother and allowed her tutors to instruct her along more traditional lines than Esshk preferred, telling her too much about what was, and less what Esshk would have her think.
Ign caught the scornful expressions of some of the warriors nearby, Ker-noll Jash’s Slashers, and he glared at them. The Chooser might’ve been fairly ridiculous, and even partially responsible for the situation they found themselves in, with enemies—prey—on their very shore for the first time ever, but it was Esshk who’d designed the battle and the war. Even Ign owned some of the blame. And since he still believed in Esshk and his reforms, he couldn’t condone the freethinking in his ranks that condemned the Chooser. Besides, ultimately, it had been Regent Consort Tsalka who started the war and bungled its beginning so badly. Tsalka had suffered the traitor’s death and would bear all the blame forever—if Ign could help it.
“What do you believe they’ll do next?” the Chooser finally repeated, talking louder as the roar of big guns, 18 pdrs, sent dozens of exploding shells toward the enemy lines. They crackled and rumbled unseen in the distance, but Ign could easily imagine the bursts of smoke, scything fragments of iron, and erupting stalks of earth. Most of that fury would be wasted, he knew, but some wouldn’t.
“They’ll keep killing us, as we kill them. There’s no end to it until we have sufficient forces to swarm them under. When might that be?”
“It depends on your definition of ‘sufficient,’ Second General. First General Esshk considers your swarm adequate now,” the Chooser warned.
“This is no ‘swarm’; it’s an army,” Ign retorted calmly, but inwardly he seethed. “It’s all that stands between the enemy and our Celestial Mother and the Palace of Vanished Gods, our holiest, most ancient shrine. No mere swarm can do what it’s done, and it mustn’t be spent like one. It takes too long to make New Army troops. First General Esshk knows that better than anyone. He made these!”
The Chooser’s battered crest fluttered, and Ign had to wonder if it was truly Esshk doing the prodding. Then again, Esshk was under tremendous strain. With the Chooser’s full agreement, perhaps even urging—Ign wasn’t sure—he’d culled the elite, soft Hij of Old Sofesshk, literally feeding them to his troops. That had removed resistance to his leadership and reforms within the principal regency, but word of his ruthlessness would undoubtedly spread to others, giving them pause as he demanded their support. The southern regencies, sparsely populated as they were, had already been lost under the advance of the long-discounted “other hunters” from the Republic of Real People. Now Sofesshk itself was in danger. In the perfect world Esshk’s reforms would’ve made, with all the Gharrichk’k Empire literally as well as figuratively united behind the Celestial Mother, with Esshk behind her, time would’ve been their greatest asset, as warriors swiftly flowed to their aid from across the empire. But only a quick victory would sustain Esshk, the Chooser, and Ign now.
“And too many New Army troops are rushed south to reinforce Fifth General Akor,” Ign complained, though he’d sent some of them himself. Akor needed a large force indeed, since he was engaged in a campaign of maneuver with the Army of the Republic in fairly open ground. If he dug in, the enemy would just go around him, and he had to stay between them and Sofesshk at all costs. “To attack decisively, I need more warriors, even of the old kind, from the far regencies.”
“They’re coming,” the Chooser assured. “They are. The regents may have dragged their claws in the dirt for a time, possibly to weaken us before they commit,” he confessed, confirming Ign’s suspicions and adding another element to the internal battle Esshk was waging, “but they’re on their way. Still, just supporting such movements is difficult. Warriors must be fed as they march, or they’ll consume each other to the point of uselessness before they ever arrive. We have little experience maintaining armies that don’t advance to feast on prey,” he reminded darkly. After a tense silence, the Chooser gestured to the east, changing the subject. “In the meantime, however, how long can the prey remain content to just keep killing us, as you say?”
“For a while yet, I think,” Ign snorted. “That’s precisely what they came here for. To kill us all.”
“But they can’t do that just sitting there.”
Ign considered. “No, but they gather their forces as well. Such takes longer for them, coming as far as they do. But they’re better at maintaining armies, I think. They must be, since they don’t feast on us and they do keep growing—and never seem to run
low on ammunition.” His last statement was punctuated by a reply to the Grik artillery, only it seemed to come from hundreds of cannon. They weren’t as big; their preferred field pieces—here, at least—were 12 pdrs, but their shells were more reliable and far more lethal. Ign dragged the Chooser down to the bottom of the ditch again, and they remained in the stinking muck for quite a while as shards of iron whistled overhead or tore at screaming bodies.
“Terrible,” the Chooser murmured. “It is terrible!”
“And it goes on day after day,” Ign shouted back over the din of another blast almost overhead that sprayed iron slightly behind the line. Screams rose from the next trench back. “In all honesty,” he continued, “I don’t know what they’ll do. Their flying machines can’t see all our movements—we’ve grown better at concealment and misdirection—but they see far too much and shatter any force I try to amass against their lines. We, on the other hand, see nothing at all. No army can move on the north side of the river—it is far too rugged—and it seems we have them blocked here. But without a view from above I can’t say whether they mass or not.” He was silent a moment as the shells stopped exploding. “Tell First General Esshk I think it will continue like this for a time, but I can’t know for certain. I must rely on him—and you—to tell me what the enemy does. With that information, I can counter their moves, but absent significant reinforcements, I can’t force them to counter me. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I will tell him. And I’ll do what I can to enlighten you. There may be a way. . . . Their flying machines are the biggest problem, are they not? And our hunter spies”—he lowered his voice—“our Dorrighsti Night Hunters know where they nest. Little can be done about the ships that carry them—as yet—but we may try something against their land nest soon.”
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