“Goddamn!” he yelped, throwing himself away from the beam where he’d crawled to resume his misery when the boat took off. His discomfort finally in perspective, he struggled forward to join Silva.
“Damn thing nearly got me!” he accused.
Silva, still straining at the line, took in his bright-eyed anger and grinned. “Cured your sea-sick, though, didn’t he? Damn, Arnie, it’s about time you got in the game an’ quit loungin’ on the deck chairs!” He looked at Horn. “I always thought the whole reason for Marines was havin’ soldiers on a boat!”
“On ships, you maniac. Not wood chips like this!”
“Marine pukery,” Silva accused severely. “Dis-gustin’. Ain’t that right up there with dereflection o’ duty an’ wastin’ beer? Help Larry with that jib before it beats him ta death, wilya?”
Still a little green, Horn moved to comply while the ’Cat made his way forward with a bundle of long, sharp lances. He laid them down, points projecting over the bulwark.
“I thought we was just goin’ fishin,” Horn grumbled, looking at the plunging monster ahead, “not hunting sea monsters!”
“Every fish in this sea is a sea monster o’ some sort, you stupid gyrene. Ain’t you figgered that out yet?” Earl barked scathingly. “Hell, what do you think I feed you devils half the time? Friggin’ guppies? Most o’ what you guys eat as meat started out as somethin’ like that!” He pointed at the plesiosaur.
Horn hadn’t been a shipboard Marine very long, and didn’t know that stuff, but it explained a lot. “Rhino pig” tasted like normal pork, but a lot of what they ate didn’t taste normal at all. He’d written that off to Lanier’s cooking.
“He gettin’ tired, run outa blood,” the ’Cat judged. “Gri-kakka blood all fat an’ slippery. Squirt out fast. We start heavin’ in now.”
The ’Cat, Earl, Larry, Horn, and even Courtney joined Silva on the line, and started hauling the boat, hand over hand, closer to the wounded monster.
“Is he gonna flip out when we get up to him?” Silva asked, his voice strained. He suspected he was doing most of the work.
“I not know what that mean. He flip boat? Maybe yes.”
“Swell,” Horn muttered. “I’ve been told that getting in the water is a bad thing?”
“You’ve been told right. We’ll all be dead!” Silva replied cheerfully.
“Swell.”
The fish didn’t flip them, although it came close once. Earl’s throw had been amazingly well placed and the creature was weakening fast, but a convulsive slap from a hind flipper nearly tipped them over. Earl Lanier hurled himself down in the bilge and the boat quickly righted. Ultimately, amid laughing fits at Earl’s expense, they pulled right up alongside the great fish as its strokes became feebler. The line secured, Silva, Earl, and even Horn stood in the bow, lances poised.
“Up around his shoulders an’ neck,” Earl reminded like an expert. “Don’t pop his bag an’ sink him now, for God’s sake!”
The first lance spurred a renewed surge from the beast, but it was short-lived, and among them, the three lancers quickly finished the fish. With a final great effort, it lifted its head from the sea and looked back, perhaps seeing its killers for the first time. Then, with a rasping moan, the great neck and head splashed back into the reddening sea.
For just a moment, they all stood there looking at what they’d done. There was pride of course; they were small and the fish was very large, and it wasn’t like they hadn’t risked their lives to kill it—but Silva didn’t feel the visceral rush of satisfaction he often experienced after battle, or after killing a super lizard. Those were always contests between him and something trying to kill him. Even his rhino-pig hunts were fun because they’d kill him and eat him if they could. Gunny Horn might not agree, especially after one nearly got him, but to Silva, this had been more like chasing a swimming cow. He shrugged. Okay, so what? What if it was like killing a cow, for food and other things? The chase was fun—and the ride was a blast.
“We tie on quick, before flashies eat-eem up!” the ’Cat reminded. Already, a few silvery shapes were darting in to snatch away mouthfuls of flesh.
“How do we do that?” Earl asked.
“We get chain ’round he neck, just behind head. Then we make sail for Madras.”
“I say, will there be enough of him left to view, at all? When we take him from the water, of course,” Courtney asked.
The ’Cat looked at him like he was nuts. “We not take him from water!” he said. “We not a Home. We got no platform for that. We take what we get off him alongside our big boat.”
Courtney frowned. “Pity. I’d so hoped . . .”
“What the hell’s that?” Horn suddenly blurted, surprising everyone.
“What?” Silva demanded, looking around, confused.
“That, there in the water!”
“Where in the water, you nitwit? There’s a helluva lot of water out there, you know.”
“There, goddamn it!” He pointed. “Two hundred yards off the port bow. Don’t you see it?”
“See what?” Silva insisted, squinting his eye. “I don’t see shit.”
Horn was still pointing, but he slumped. “It was there. I saw it. I . . . I think it’s gone now.”
“What the hell was it?”
“I think . . . I think it was a feather. “Isn’t that what you call it? A periscope feather!”
“A periscope?” Earl goggled. “An’ how the hell would you know what a periscope looks like? You’re seein’ things. Prob’ly just another pleezy-sore.”
“I’m not making it up!” Horn stated emphatically.
“Well, perhaps it was a fin of some sort,” Courtney suggested diplomatically. “A fin might certainly look like a periscope, I’m sure.”
Horn wasn’t convinced, and looked at Silva. “You believe me?”
“I b’lieve you seen somethin’, Arnie, but Mr. Bradford’s right. Prob’ly was a fish. What would a sub be doin’ around here, anyway? We couldn’t turn the old S-Nineteen back into a sub; no way them Jap-Griks built one from scratch!” He snorted. “An’ if it was one, somebody else’s, they’d’ve prob’ly figgered out the fix they’re in by now, same as we had to. They’d’ve seen us for sure. Why not bob up an’ say hello?”
Horn wasn’t convinced. He was sure what he’d seen . . . or thought he was, anyway. He wished he felt better. Maybe his affliction had left him seeing things after all, and he couldn’t answer Silva’s question. Why wouldn’t a sub that wound up on this world be glad to see them, and surface to say hello—unless they already knew what the situation was and they were on somebody else’s side.
“C’mon,” Silva gruffed. “Let’s get this critter back.” He looked strangely at Horn. “He’ll prob’ly just write it off to your Marine-ness an’ shameful pukery too, but I’ll tell the Skipper you seen a periscope fish while he’s tearin’ strips offa me.”
CHAPTER 3
////// Airborne
Six Miles NNW of Guayak
New Granada Province
Holy Dominion
South America
June 17, 1944
Orrin Reddy’s four-ship flight of PB-1B “Nancys” crossed the mountainous coastline at five thousand feet and turned north, paralleling the mighty peaks. The mountains here soared higher than aircrews could fly without oxygen, and since provisions for such were problematic for the open-cockpit Nancys, not to mention furry Lemurian faces, they formed a formidable barrier to observations of enemy activity in the interior. Certain passes could be used, but they were increasingly heavily guarded by what the Imperials called “dragons,” or what the human/Lemurian “American” Navy and Marines probably more appropriately described as “Grikbirds.” The things looked like Grik, with longer snouts and slightly different, if just as wicked teeth. Their feet sported talons better adapted to sn
atching prey than slashing it, and their plumage was much thicker, more colorful, and far better tailored for flight. Ultimately, the biggest physical difference between Grik and Grikbirds was that, instead of powerful arms with fingers and deadly claws, Grikbirds had broad, feathery, membranous wings, and could be very bad news for Nancys.
Nancys remained good little planes, considering they’d been in service for nearly two years with only minor modifications. They looked like miniature PBY Catalina floatplanes, from which their lines had been taken, and were powered by a single, four-cylinder, in-line “Wright-Gypsy”–type motor. The little engines were so reliable that they were being mass produced from Baalkpan to Maa-ni-la, with a new factory even setting up in the Empire of the New Britain Isles. They were used in everything from airplanes to powerboats, and heavier, more powerful versions had gone into the new “PTs,” or motor torpedo boats, being built in the Fil-pin Lands. There was even talk of putting them in some kind of land vehicle.
Orrin contemplated that for a moment as he scanned the skies for enemies. His Lemurian Observer/Copilot (OC), Sergeant Kuaar-Ran-Taak, or “Seepy,” in the other cockpit behind the high-wing-mounted engine and spinning pusher prop, would be watching behind them, as well as looking for troop movements on the coastal road below. Orrin wasn’t sure how useful a land vehicle would be on this world. A sort of truck might be handy to haul stuff around in the cities—definitely more cooperative than the Asian elephant-size “brontosarries” they used for such things now. They might even be useful in places like the Empire, where there were good roads. He frowned. Might use some here, if we can ever push out beyond our foothold at Guayak, he thought. It looks like the Doms have a few decent roads between their important cities, at least. He shook his head. Some kind of armored truck, or even a tank might be better for that. But making them and then getting them way the hell out here on the longest limb of the war probably isn’t going to happen any time soon. Besides, given a choice, I’d rather have some of the new pursuit ships they’re finally turning out! He liked Nancys fine. They were good for what they’d been designed for, and they were even pretty good for ground attack and antiship operations. They could float too, which was a definite plus, but they were vulnerable to Grikbirds. They were faster than the Doms’ flying lizards, but that was about it—and either the Grikbirds or their Dom trainers had figured out tactics to get around that. In response, Orrin’s wing had finally received some of the new “Blitzer Bug” SMGs for the backseaters to use to keep the damn things off their backs. This was the first sortie, in fact, when every plane was so armed. And in addition to their scouting mission, Orrin hoped to find out how well the new weapons would defend his ships. He smiled ironically.
As a “mere” second lieutenant who refused a more exalted Navy rank, and actually still considered himself a member of the US Army Air Corps, Orrin Reddy was very much like Matt, his cousin, when it came to sheer stubbornness. His official rank didn’t much matter to him or anyone else. He was Commander of Flight Operations (COFO) for the aircraft carrier/tender USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), and also like his cousin, he’d shouldered a lot more responsibility than the rank he’d accept would imply.
Orrin was different from Matt in other ways, many of them superficial. He was shorter, with lighter hair, considerably younger, and of course he’d gone Army instead of Navy. Since he’d been a prisoner of the Japanese in the Philippines, his arrival on this world aboard a hellish prison ship had been very different as well. As for personality, he had a lot of the “fighter jock” in him, but as a destroyer skipper, so did Matt to a degree. The biggest difference in that respect came with age, experience, and the fact that Matt had lost so many people under his command. That had given him a far better appreciation for the consequences of command. But Orrin was starting to learn that bitter lesson for himself.
“Ell-tee!” came Seepy’s tinny shout through the voice tube by his ear. That was another aggravation. He’d heard the fliers in First Fleet had voice com now, and pilots could listen in on what their OCs, who also operated the airborne wireless transmitters, heard. Nobody had a voice transmitter small enough to fit in a plane yet, though First Fleet also had Talk Between Ships (TBS) capability now.
“Whatcha got, Seepy?” Orrin demanded, looking at the ’Cat in the little mirror that allowed him to see behind. Seepy was staring down through an Imperial telescope.
“More Dom in-faantry! They marchin’ down that road outa the pass east o’ here. We go down an’ shoot ’em up? They is awful purty target!”
Orrin looked down. Sure enough, another long enemy column was snaking down out of the gap in the abruptly rising mountains. Even this high, their bright yellow and red, or white uniform tunics were clearly visible. There were lots of flags and pennants too, almost like some medieval army, flapping and flickering above the column and making it look like some fiery red and gold serpent. Although he couldn’t see it now, he didn’t doubt the whole force was marching behind another of the giant, grotesquely disfigured golden crosses they’d seen at the head of every arriving division. Orrin wasn’t particularly religious, but he did recognize the thing for the perversion it was—and fully understood its significance to the troops behind it. He was sorely tempted to roll in and blast the thing. “No,” he said with a reluctant grunt. “Not yet, anyway.” General Tomatsu Shinya didn’t want them bombing the Dom columns converging on Guayak. Orrin figured he wanted the enemy massed before they made such an attack, sucking as many of them into the killing field as he could before bringing on a major battle. Orrin didn’t know if he agreed with that strategy or not.
First, and he just couldn’t help it, but Shinya was a “Jap.” He knew Matt liked and trusted Shinya, but Orrin had had an entirely different experience with the Japanese in the Philippines and didn’t know if he could ever forgive them, one or all. Second, despite reinforcements from Second Fleet and the Enchanted Isles, the Allied Expeditionary Force at Guayak still numbered only about eighteen thousand men and ’Cats. There were already upward of forty thousand Dominion troops encircling the “rebel” city. Shinya and High Admiral Jenks were sure that deploying all those troops essentially back to this area from where they’d been drawn would weaken or at least delay the massive Dom fleet accumulating in the vicinity of El Paso del Fuego, most likely aimed at another attempt to take the Enchanted Isles. Those islands, better known to some as the Galápagos, constituted the Allies’ best and most convenient staging point for operations against the Doms.
El Paso del Fuego had come as a stunning surprise, and Jenks was still trying to sort out its implications—and how to deal with them. They thought they’d destroyed the entire Dom fleet, but now they knew the bastards had a whole other one to draw from—in the Atlantic! The pass was a large navigable strait between South and Central America, carved through what should’ve been Costa Rica. It might have been caused by volcanism, or who knew what—they’d long since learned this world wasn’t exactly like the old—but whatever made it, it was much, much larger than any Panama Canal. Apparently, it was plagued by terrific tidal races and was therefore only passable at certain times, but no one had ever even dreamed it existed. They hadn’t been able to get close to the place with ships or planes, and if it hadn’t been for Fred Reynolds’s and Kari-Faask’s escape from Dom captivity, they wouldn’t have known about it at all until it was too late. Fred and Kari had told them a number of other interesting and useful things, but the existence of the pass was the most immediately pertinent. The two friends were still recuperating from their ordeal, but a day didn’t pass that they didn’t ask to be returned to flying status.
“Send it out,” Orrin ordered. “Inform . . . General Shinya he’ll soon have even more guests to entertain, but we’ve got other business today.”
“Ay, ay,” Seepy replied reluctantly. Orrin banked the Nancy slightly east, toward the mouth of the mountain pass the troops were flowing from. He glanced left to ensure the other planes f
ollowed his lead.
“Grikbirds! Grikbirds!” came Seepy’s excited shout. “Ship number nine’s got ’em, ’leven the clock high!”
Orrin looked up and a little to the left. Maybe a dozen dark shapes were hurtling down to converge on the four-ship flight. They were tucked in like stooping hawks and would’ve slashed through the formation, ripping wings, control surfaces, or bodies with their terrifying claws in mere seconds.
“Break right!” Orrin shouted, wrenching the little plane over. His order was unnecessary, and Seepy couldn’t have relayed it in time in any case. Already alerted, the rest of the Nancys followed his lead, and the four planes quickly formed what was essentially a battle line in midair. The Grikbirds tried to compensate but were diving too fast and simply couldn’t correct their angle of attack sufficiently. What resulted was much as Orrin hoped: all the creatures tried to throw on the brakes, flaring out to come at the flight from the side. Such a braking maneuver had to put a lot of stress on the monsters and was probably very painful. About half the Grikbirds gave up and retucked their wings, instinctively realizing their attack had failed. They plummeted away. The rest couldn’t resist the equally strong instinct to drive their strike home, however, and for a moment they just hung there, their swoop having brought them up, their bleeding speed leaving them relatively motionless alongside the planes.
“Blast ’em, Seepy!” Orrin roared. Seepy had already yanked the bolt back on his Blitzer Bug, and he quickly sighted down the top of the tubular receiver. Almost simultaneously with the OCs in the other planes, he squeezed the trigger. Smoky tracers sprayed out with a rattling buzz. The little guns were hard to handle with their high rate of fire and heavy .45 ACP cartridges, but the ammunition was the same being issued to the new P-1 Mosquito Hawks (better known as “Fleashooters”) in First Fleet for zeppelin hunting. The burning phosphorous in the base of the bullets meant to light hydrogen helped the shooters correct their fire. Two Grikbirds immediately folded, hammered by the heavy slugs. The rest beat their wings to close the gap as the shooters redirected their initially wild fusillade. Another Grikbird staggered, a shattered wing throwing it out of control. A fourth monster fell, its shrieks audible over the drone of the motors. The final two appeared to decide to go for Orrin’s lead ship, probably thinking the others would scatter like any other flying prey they hunted.
Deadly Shores Page 6
