Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  “I appreciate your protecting our people,” he began cautiously, “who were injured or killed protecting you—after they fought so hard to beat you.” He turned to Jash. “And make no mistake, you are beaten.” He rubbed red eyes. He was very tired too. “At the same time, in a sense, we’ve already fought together against Esshk, and that counts for something. He’s still on the loose with most of your empire at his back, but he’s our mutual enemy now and a threat to us all. Still, it’ll take more than one little scrap, with us on the same side, before we’re pals.”

  He looked at Lawrence. “Try to tell them that—and one more thing. If they’ve got to associate us with titles they’re used to, then General Pete Alden—the man who wrecked their army at the Neckbone—is First General to them. Rolak’s second, and right on down the line. We’ll see where Jash and any others fit in as we get to know them and figure out if we can trust ’em. If we can’t, we’ll just have to go back to plan A and kill ’em all.”

  He looked at the Celestial Mother. “As for me—and whoever else I say—she can think of us as her Regent Champions, like Esshk was, except now she’ll do what we tell her. How long that lasts depends on how well she behaves, how quick she can cook up a better society—maybe along the lines of North Borno.” He paused. “We might need ‘King’ Tony Scott out here,” he mused. “But it mainly depends on how fast she convinces us she’s ready to rule responsibly—by our definition—and in peace with everybody around her.”

  “Except Esshk,” Silva ground out.

  “Right,” Matt agreed darkly. “Except Esshk.”

  “That is . . . acceptable, for now,” the Celestial Mother finally replied after Lawrence explained as best he could. “We’ll join your Grand Alliance—under your guidance,” she hastened to add to Matt, “while you command the Great Hunt.” She looked meaningfully at Lawrence. “I must have a worthy senior advisor, however, to describe how I must rule the Gharrichk’k as our ancient ways are rebuilt.” Her tone sounded somewhat vulnerable for the first time.

  Matt caught the desperation in Lawrence’s voice, however, as he completed the translation, and saw the pleading in his eyes. So did Silva, who snorted and smirked and muttered, “Why, you ol’ misceggenator! You been schemin’ this all along!”

  “No!” Lawrence begged. “Don’t ditch I ’ith her!”

  Matt blinked, surprised. He’d never seen Lawrence afraid, but his terror was unmistakable now. Maybe he thought the responsibility of such an assignment was beyond him? “Major I’Joorka’s still unfit to resume command of the First North Borno,” he thought aloud, “but should be sufficiently recovered for this duty.” He smiled at Lawrence. “Tell her the greatest commander and hero of the Khonashi will be appointed as her . . . Co-Regent Champion and liaison to the Grand Alliance. I’ll try to get Hij Geerki to help him,” he added to himself.

  Then he turned to Jash. “You and I need to figure out how to keep our troops from killing each other and get them working together as soon as possible, because no matter how hard you think that’s going to be, I guarantee it’ll be harder. I don’t know if your soldiers’ll hold a grudge, but mine sure will, and they’ve been scared of Grik longer than they reckon time. They’re not scared anymore, though; they’ve replaced their fear with hate.” Matt suddenly realized he wasn’t at all sure how this arrangement would go down back home. It would’ve been impossible just a year before; the hate ran too deep. But after all the bloodshed, and with other looming threats . . . It simply wasn’t possible to kill every Grik in the world, so they’d have to force a way to get along with some.

  He blinked curiosity at Jash in the Lemurian way. “I wonder if you’ve started to learn what that kind of hate feels like? If so, you better point it at Esshk—and figure out how to brush it off when it’s aimed at you, ’cause there’ll be a lot. You’ll have to earn it away,” he said forcefully. “Maybe the best start is to have unarmed parties, from both sides, get busy cleaning up around here.” He paused before continuing, distaste clear on his face. “You can do what you want with your dead—eat ’em, whatever. But the first lizard that takes a bite out of one of ours’ll get his head blown off.”

  Lawrence told the Celestial Mother and Jash what Matt said, and though he was profoundly relieved he wouldn’t get ditched, he couldn’t ignore a certain twinge of regret. And was that disappointment he saw in the eyes of the Celestial Mother? He shook his head to clear the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. Then again, neither would the memory of what happened to Pokey.

  CHAPTER 47

  ////// El Palo

  North Coast of Nuevo Granada

  Holy Dominion

  March 18, 1945

  Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask orbited their lone Nancy twelve hundred feet over the NUS invasion fleet just offshore of El Palo. It wasn’t a very impressive place, just a seaside fishing town near the northernmost point of the South American continent. There was no great protected harbor, nor any real defenses—not like El Henal to the west or Puerto del Cielo to the east—and that, as well as the fact that the Doms would never expect them to land there in the first place, was precisely why they had.

  There’d been controversy over that. Obviously, the western Allies—the Union and Impies—would’ve preferred the NUS invade closer to the Pass of Fire, not only to help clear the way for the 2nd Fleet AEF as it marched east, but to ease the supply of modern weapons they hoped to deliver. But only the western approach to the pass had been secured, and it could take time before the whole thing was in Allied hands. Alternatively, a practically unopposed landing of the whole NUS Army would allow it to consolidate its position directly astride the east-west Camino Militar, where it could threaten all of Nuevo Granada just by being there and still distract the Doms from what was happening in the pass. Moreover, it wasn’t much farther from the NUS’s primary base of supply in Cuba, sea-lanes in a more open sea should be more secure, and the Republic of Real People—with its base of supply actually closer—had promised modern weapons as well, including the seaplane tenders and its very first squadron of “modern” warships.

  Fred didn’t know which strategy was best, but it didn’t really matter what he and Kari thought. Still flying the only plane east of the pass since the tenders hadn’t arrived yet and USS Donaghey had only enough fuel for them, their job was spying threats from a distance, on land and sea, and reporting what they saw to Captain Greg Garrett on USS Donaghey, or Admiral Duncan aboard his flagship, NUSS Zachary Taylor. “Old Zack” was equipped with one of six small radio sets they’d flown over from Dulce. They were also strictly forbidden to fly low enough for anything on the ground or water to damage their plane, and ordered to avoid Grikbirds at any cost. Fred was fine with that, though he knew sometimes you couldn’t avoid Grikbirds. So far, at least for the past few days, the only ones they spotted were flying hell for leather, low overland, probably bearing dispatches.

  “Pretty daamn impressive,” Kari shouted behind him. “There’s nearly a hundred traansports down there, mostly merchies, but big ones,” she allowed, “an’ more thaan haaff is steamers.” There actually weren’t that many now. Quite a few had already sailed back for Santiago and more cargo, but Fred wasn’t in the mood to argue for the sake of argument. “Then they got twenty o’ their heavy liners,” Kari continued, “another twenty-five big-gun frigate DDs, like Cap-i-taan Willis’s Congress, an’ thaat maany more lighter frigates an’ sloops.” That much was certainly true. “On top o’ thaat,” Kari continued, “they’ve put fifty thousaands of men ashore, the Maker knows how maany horses an’ guns, an’ ever’thing they need to fight a baattle or two.”

  Fred snorted. Kari made it sound like it had been easy, but it hadn’t. The NUS hadn’t made a real amphibious assault in decades and never on this scale. Captain Garrett tried to advise them, based on his experience at Raan-Goon, but the operation had been a study in chaos. If the landing had been opposed, or a Dom fleet of an
y size appeared during that critical time, the NUS invasion of Nuevo Granada could’ve been a catastrophe. And they knew it would be too, Fred realized, his respect for Semmes, Admiral Duncan, and probably Captain Anson ratcheting up a notch. Another reason why they chose this spot.

  He waggled his wings at the sailors below and took a last glance at the shoreside town. El Palo, he thought. “Palo” means “stick,” I think. Or maybe “mast” or “spar.” He shook his head, looking past the town at the tall, straight timber of the forest beyond. The land looked nothing like he’d imagined it would, being more like the “Mast Tree Forest” near the New Britain Isles colony of Saint Francis—and that answered another question forming in his mind. “Nobody’s even gonna miss this joint, with everybody going to steam,” he said. “Unless they cut timber for ships’ hulls here too. But they can do that just about anywhere down here, I bet.”

  Banking slightly left, Fred turned out to sea and began the longest leg of their search pattern, back toward Puerto del Cielo, where intelligence last reported the heavy League destroyer Leopardo lurked. That information was pretty old, however, and they wouldn’t go close enough to confirm it in any case. Leopardo didn’t have dual-purpose guns—that they knew of—but did mount pom-poms. Regardless, whether she was there or not, Puerto del Cielo was a very dangerous city, probably packed with Grikbirds, and they didn’t have the fuel if they were going to search their whole grid.

  They flew in silence until they saw El Penon to the south—the closest fairly large Dom city—and they turned due north. That next leg of their scout was relatively uneventful as well, though they saw a lot of fishing boats, and high, gray clouds began to form in the northeast. An hour and a half later, they made their routine turn to the west-northwest. They didn’t expect to see anything at all on this stretch—maybe some NUS transports bringing more supplies or heading back to Cuba. The western approach from El Paso del Fuego, Rio Grabacion, or Puerto Dominio was deemed the most probable direction enemy warships might still come from.

  As anticipated, they eventually saw smears of smoke from oil-burning Nussie ships and even passed right over one. Fred waggled his wings again, but a short time later began to settle into a kind of trance. He was tired, and the drone of the in-line engine and vibration of the plane made it almost impossible for him to stay alert on this kind of flight. Kari’ll keep watch, he told himself. That’s what she’s along for.

  “Whaat’s thaat?” Kari suddenly demanded through the voice tube by Fred’s ear, and he jerked upright from where he’d scrunched down in his seat.

  “What? Where?”

  “T’ree o’clock, ’bout eighteen, twenny miles. Lotsa smoke! Can’t see nothin’ else.”

  At fifteen hundred feet, the horizon was a little over forty-five miles away. That didn’t take haze or eye strain into account, however, and even a Lemurian’s vision was limited to identifying something the size of, say, an island at that distance. But half that far, thick smoke was easy. Even Fred could see it, now that Kari pointed it out.

  “Right,” Fred said, turning north. “Let’s have a look. Send our position and that we’re checking something out.”

  “Okaay.”

  The base of the leaning tower of smoke suddenly flashed bright, and the dark line down to the water grew indistinct and faded.

  “What the hell?” Fred murmured. “Hey, Kari, send that a Nussie merchie might’ve caught fire and blown up. I . . . I think I see another one not too far away. We’ll make for it and try to lead it to the wreck.”

  Even at a measly 90 mph, which was all Fred could coax from this older and now somewhat hard-used Nancy, they closed the distance fairly rapidly.

  “That’s weird,” Fred murmured, staring at the Nussie transport ahead.

  “Whaat?” Kari demanded.

  “Well, those guys had to see the other ship go up—no way they didn’t—and they’ve got the bearing. You’d think they’d be heading over there as fast as they can. Nobody’ll survive long in the water,” he added unnecessarily. “But she isn’t going that way at all. She’s hauling ass the other way . . . whoa!” A cluster of tall waterspouts suddenly erupted around the transport. “What the hell?”

  “Whaat the hell?” Kari demanded.

  “I, uh . . .” Fred’s first thought was that Grikbirds carrying bombs had somehow flown way out here and dropped them on the ship. Or maybe they came off one of those “carriers” we heard about, he told himself and started scanning the sky. That’s crazy, though, he realized. No damn Grikbirds could toss that tight a pattern. Could they?

  That left only one alternative. He lowered his gaze and looked beyond where the first ship was demolished. “Shit!” he shouted, just as another salvo of eight 4.7″ shells plunged around—and on—the fleeing sail/steam transport. Fred thought two of them hit, but two was enough. Half the bow was blown away in a blizzard of shattered timbers, and black smoke and silver steam gushed from the funnel as the engineering space was blasted open. The ship stalled, almost right under them now.

  “Shit whaat?” Kari roared with frustration. She could see the shattered transport, already quickly filling, but not what caused it.

  “It’s that damn Leopardo, that’s what. Sure as hell!” Fred called back. He could see the ship clearly now that it had advanced beyond the smoke of the farthest wreck, just smoldering debris on the water now. “Send it!” he shouted. “‘League destroyer Leopardo’s sinking our transports heading back to Cuba.’”

  No more salvos fell around the sinking ship. What would be the point? It was doomed. Swiftly, Leopardo accelerated and turned almost due south. She’d apparently veered slightly to starboard to exercise all her guns. Target practice, Fred supposed bitterly. Realizing the Leaguers had to see them and they were getting a bit too close, he turned away. “Tell Captain Garrett and Admiral Duncan Leopardo’s settled on a heading of”—he paused and glanced at his compass—“about two zero zero. Speed, maybe twenty-five knots. She’s making right for the invasion fleet.”

  Leopardo

  “They’ve seen us,” stated Capitano Ciano, disappointed, lowering his binoculars. In the distance, the small plane was easily visible to the naked eye, turning south.

  “Excellent,” replied Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois.

  Ciano looked surprised. “How can that be good? I thought you wanted to destroy as much NUS shipping as we can.”

  Gravois shook his head. “No.” His voice took on an official aspect, as if speaking at an inquiry—or award ceremony. “It was our intention to protect the territorial integrity of our Dominion allies without provoking the North American continental power calling itself the New United States. Sadly, numerous”—he smiled tightly and inserted—“we don’t know how many yet, of course—NUS merchant vessels and warships chose to defy us. Some actually fired on us!” He added that with something that sounded like genuine surprise.

  “But, Capitaine,” Ciano objected, “we’ve seen no warships yet, and nothing fired on us!”

  “Not yet, my dear Capitano Ciano,” Gravois said, “but they will.”

  Ciano was clearly still confused, and Gravois sighed. “Part, if not all the NUS fleet, will meet us as we approach their beachhead. How can they not? I hope the alarm that plane delivers will warn most of them away, but some will surely stay and provide your crew additional exercise. Don’t sink too many,” he cautioned. “If necessary, I’ll tell you when to stop.”

  “But why . . . ?” Ciano shrugged. “Why all this? Why not just destroy the entire NUS fleet, and all their transports too?”

  Gravois laughed. “You’re too new at this, my friend, and Don Hernan thinks he’s too clever by half. Very well. It’s really quite simple: It’s my aim to terrorize the NUS, not defeat it, until it better serves my purpose. We must make them cautious, however; afraid to commit too much shipping to supply their forces ashore. It’ll take more to defeat their a
rmy than Don Hernan thinks, and it might strike deeply indeed if we don’t slow its progress. . . .”

  “By limiting its supplies,” Ciano agreed, but he still looked mystified.

  “On the other hand,” Gravois practically leered, “His Holiness Don Hernan won’t know we limited ourselves and will be suitably impressed by the havoc we wreak. Quite appreciative as well, I’m sure. Particularly in light of other possible developments,” he mused absently.

  They knew an action had commenced at the Pass of Fire, but had no word of its outcome. Gravois suspected Don Hernan’s Blood Priests would’ve already been crowing about a great victory, so either the battle still raged or it hadn’t gone as Don Hernan predicted. Gravois smiled. That might serve his purposes as well.

  “But with the bulk of the NUS fleet intact,” he continued, “he’ll understand he still needs us very much. Can’t have him thinking one of his little problems has been eliminated entirely. That wouldn’t do at all. He is quite clever,” Gravois warned. “Rather dangerously so. Therefore, we have to keep him dependent on us, and can’t allow ourselves to become the only problem he has to worry about.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “We have to scatter the fleet!” Greg Garrett said, speaking directly to Admiral Duncan over the radio. Feet thundered on the deck above as Donaghey’s crew was already racing to make sail. Donaghey was the only warship with the NUS fleet that relied on sails alone. Greg had sent his Dom prize, Matarife, on a reconnaissance cruise toward Ascension Island.

  “Nonsense,” Duncan retorted, “we’ll go out and meet her!”

  Greg sighed. “At Leopardo’s reported speed, she’ll get here just at dark, probably coming in so we’ll be lit up by the sunset and she can stand off farther than we can even shoot, and pick us off. She’ll slaughter the entire fleet! Our only hope is to scatter now. Maybe she’ll just get a few of us.”