Jash was watching Ign carefully now and was astonished to hear uncertainty, possibly even disagreement, in his tone. “It will be some time before another attack can be prepared,” Ign went on. “As you observed, there was great loss and disarray. Your Slasher and the rest of the galleys you preserved will be repaired, but you will not join the next attacks in the river. Those will be”—Ign’s jaws clacked the equivalent of a frown—“more old-fashioned affairs, performed by warriors better suited to such tactics. Instead, Senior Jash, you are henceforth elevated to the rank of First of Ten Hundreds, ‘Ker-noll,’ as it has come to be known. I will need such as you when we finally break out and smite the enemy at the Celestial City itself. The galleys and warriors you saved are yours, plus however many more it takes to complete your complement. Train your warriors well, however you see fit.” He stared hard at Jash again, the seriousness of his expression plain. “Do not think, because of this, that you are free to become too creative, but I expect great things of you, Ker-noll Jash. Do not disappoint me.”
“Am I to be Senior First now?” Naxa prodded as they rumbled down the stairs to the lower gundeck. Naxa’s sudden cheerfulness was in stark contrast to his earlier mood.
“Perhaps,” Jash temporized, thinking. He was relieved, of course, but also troubled, both by his new responsibility and the fact that he and his force would be out of the fighting for a time. And even as he thought he’d had enough combat to last him awhile, he was somehow senselessly disappointed that he couldn’t return to it at once. The battle—the sheer waste of it all—had simultaneously repulsed and thrilled him. Is that normal? he wondered. Yes. Certainly for Uul. But they would have been slain out of hand for doing as I did. I was promoted. Clearly, to Second General Ign at least, the New Army does have more value than Uul. But what of First General Esshk? Ign said he’d changed the plan, probably including the part most costly to us. Then he had a more troubling thought. Why did Ign even tell me that, despite his protestations on Esshk’s behalf? It makes no sense. And does General Esshk know of my elevation? What will he do if he did not, and later discovers it? Jash flicked the thought away. NOT for me to concern myself with. I am a ker-noll now, a First of Ten Hundreds! I will soon have more than enough to worry about.
“Prepare a boat,” Jash instructed the First of One Hundred who’d greeted them so perfunctorily, only barely suppressing the urge to flare his short crest in dominance and rub the First’s snout in it. “I must return to my command.”
CHAPTER 16
////// 2nd Fleet Allied Expeditionary Force (AEF)
Army of the Sisters
Sister’s Own Division
December 12, 1944
The architecture of the Dominion city of Dulce was different from any of the other places the Allies had been, down the entire Pacific coast of South America. Other cities used as much adobe as stone, and few buildings were made with any apparent desire to impress. The alcalde’s palace at Guayak had boasted a few arches and some stacked, square columns, but even the Temple of God had been plain on the outside, usurped from local, less-demanding faiths. But seaport or not, Guayak was on the frontier of the Dominion, as were cities to the south, and hard-line Dominion control and intolerance of earlier cultures had been asserted only within the last generation there. Strict Dominion control of Dulce and points northwest (probably all the way to the desert hell just south of the NUS), and eastward down the northeast coast of the continent, at least as far south as the mouth of the Amazon River, had been in effect for 150 years. All was ruled from the Templo de los Papas in the Holy City of New Granada, twelve hundred miles away.
Dulce, like all cities “beloved by God and His Supreme Holiness,” it was said, was made of intricately fitted, carved, and painted stone. Most of the long, narrow buildings were geometrically arranged around a great central square and had two stories. In the middle of the square was a stepped pyramid temple, at the top of which people were routinely “brought to grace” by the Blood Cardinal, with the help of his priests. In other words, it was the place where slaves, prisoners, and pretty much anyone out of favor with the church was tortured to death for the edification and entertainment of the faithful masses.
Dulce would’ve been a tough nut to crack from the sea. Two large fortresses protected the fine, deep harbor the city encompassed, but it obviously never occurred to anyone that an enemy might attack by land. Only a hastily erected wooden palisade protected against such an approach, and at the moment, Major Blas, Sister Audry, Arano Garcia, and Captain Ixtli were standing on the top of a low hill three miles away, watching the palisade—and a gratifying quantity of other inflammables—burn.
Six hundred yards to their left, from the top of another hill, four batteries of twelve-pounder “Naa-po-leons”—twenty-four guns in all—spat sparkling tongues of fire into the moonless night. Fused case shot traced sputtering arcs across the sky and flashed brightly over the city, followed by a continuous low rumble of thunder. This was maintained by the three other grand batteries similarly situated at other commanding points, not to mention the hundred mortar tubes adding their weight to the barrage.
“They’re over here, Gener-aal,” they heard, and First Sergeant Spook and a Vengadore private led a mounted General Shinya and several Impie officers to their vantage point. They saluted as the visitors dismounted, and Shinya left the Impies holding the horses. “As you were, my friends,” he said.
“Good evening, General Shinya,” Sister Audry said.
“Colonel,” he replied. “Colonel Garcia. Captain Ixtli.” He allowed a wry smile to touch his lips. “Major Blas.”
“We goin’ in there tomorrow?” Blas demanded without preamble.
“Colonel Dao Iverson will attack with the Sixth Imperial Marines, the Eighth Maa-ni-la, and the Third Frontier Regiment.” Frontier troops were somewhat irregular volunteers from the Imperial colony of Saint Francis. Most were armed with standard Allin-Silva breechloaders now, but some still carried massive weapons designed to take down the huge, dangerous continental fauna that haunted the vicinity of their colony. Their discipline left a lot to be desired, but their tenacity in battle didn’t.
“Sure thaat’ll be enough?” Blas asked skeptically.
Shinya nodded. “More than sufficient by then. Reconnaissance has revealed fewer than two thousand Dom troops in the city. They were probably a local garrison, primarily artillerymen, trained to man the heavy guns in the forts—few of which can be moved or brought to bear on our assault.” He stroked the sparse mustache he’d begun cultivating on his upper lip. “I’m actually surprised the city wasn’t abandoned. Indications from General Ansik-Talaa, approaching Puerto Limon, are that it’s being evacuated by sea.”
“They cannot do that here, with your fleet offshore,” Captain Ixtli observed.
“No,” Shinya agreed. “But I’d expected them to retreat north, toward Corazon, or at least Puntarenas or Nicoya. Those are the last two strongholds between here and the Pass of Fire. Our scouts”—he nodded at Ixtli—“are convinced that Corazon and also Aguas Rapidas are already packed to overflowing with refugees.” He paused. “And perhaps as many as one hundred thousand troops.”
“Swoo!” said First Sergeant Spook, a word many Lemurians had adopted to simulate an impressed whistle. X and XI Corps together numbered only sixty thousand, now including more than seven thousand local volunteers. 2nd Fleet had another thirty thousand Imperial Marines embarked or on the way—the last of their reserves—which would become XV Corps when it landed.
“The Maker only knows how many civilians will be there,” Blas said thoughtfully.
“And most will be willing combatants as well,” Ixtli stated grimly.
Engines rumbled in the darkness and firebombs erupted in the city below, largely concentrated in apparent assembly areas behind the palisade. Shinya saw Sister Audry cover her mouth with her hands as more and more of the antipersonnel bombs explode
d and Nancys off Maaka-Kakja, Raan-Goon, and New Dublin bathed the city with fire.
“I do not like the merciless aspect of war against the Dominion any more than the rest of you,” Shinya said through his perpetual frown. “We may as well be fighting Grik instead of people. But as Captain Ixtli reminds us, there are few noncombatants among the enemy. They certainly don’t differentiate between ours.” He pointed at the city, now bright with lurid red flames. “They should’ve evacuated. They couldn’t have hoped to stop us here. Instead, they chose to slow and bleed us—and they will—but not enough to matter. There aren’t any lizardbirds, and our planes can attack unimpeded. Finally, with a sufficient supply of ammunition from the fleet, our artillery can bombard the city without pause. No solid shot will be used, except against walls and palisades. That should provide a minimum of rubble cover for the enemy to resist our final assault. It’s scheduled to begin in two days.”
“Why go in at all?” Blas asked. “Why waste lives? With unlimited aammo, we could just flaatten the joint.”
“Or go around?” Sister Audry suggested, horrified by the suffering below. She imagined she could almost hear the screams of burning children.
“That would leave a concentrated, hostile force in our rear,” Shinya said. “And relying entirely on bombardment will take too long. Even while Colonel Iverson conducts the bombardment and assault, the rest of the army will press on. Iverson will rejoin as soon as Dulce is secure.” He clasped his hands behind him. “I suggest you all try to get some sleep. I hope to increase our pace as much as the more difficult terrain ahead will allow.” He started to turn away.
“I’m surprised you aren’t using the Sister’s Own Division for the aass-ault,” Blas said acidly. “We’ve got every other shitty job you’ve come up with.” The others were surprised by her bald statement, but it was significant that no one chastised her for it, even Sister Audry.
Shinya looked at Blas, his narrow eyes unblinking in the glow of the distant destruction. “Believe it or not, I understand your sentiment. But every competent workman—or general—uses his very best tools for the task at hand.” His gaze passed to Garcia, Ixtli, Sister Audry, and then back to Blas. “And I’m saving you for Corazon.” He took a deep breath while that sank in. “Hopefully, by then, conditions will have changed. Our attack there will be a joint operation involving Second Fleet and everything that remains at our disposal. It’s even hoped the New US will finally do their part and launch a simultaneous attack on Boca Caribe on the east side of the Pass of Fire, preventing the enemy from reinforcing their fleet on this side of the pass.” He shook his head. “I won’t count on that, however. I’m sure Lieutenants Reynolds and Faask are doing their best to hurry our new allies along, but my expectations are low. Perhaps now that Captain Garrett and USS Donaghey have joined them, the NUS can be better persuaded of the urgency for haste and how fleeting this opportunity might be.” Nodding, he turned back to where his horse was waiting. “We resume the march at oh-four-thirty,” he called over his shoulder.
“Another long daamn day,” First Sergeant Spook grumped.
Blas nodded down at burning Dulce. “Longer for them.”
USS Matarife
South of Puerto Limon
December 12, 1944
The former Dom frigate USS Matarife crept carefully inshore southwest of the enemy port city of Puerto Limon. The sky was dark and overcast, so even if there’d been a moon it wouldn’t have betrayed them. Approaching such a rocky shore with only captured charts of unknown accuracy was another matter, however, and Greg wasn’t sure the low visibility was a good trade. Then again, since they couldn’t broadcast their friendly intentions, they might be in more danger from their own people than the enemy. They’d seen tall columns of smoke all the previous day, marking XI Corps’ line of advance as they paralleled the mountainous coast. Once they were even fired on by a battery of what looked like Impie field artillery clattering down to the beach and unlimbering on the gravelly sand. It was a dumb move, Greg Garrett thought. If we’d been Doms, we could’ve wiped that battery out with Matarife’s bigger, more numerous guns. They’d drawn away instead. No doubt the artillerymen proudly reported repulsing a heavy Dom frigate, and Greg just hoped General Ansik didn’t have any aircraft on call. If they appeared, their only defense would be to run up the Stars and Stripes and hope their flag would save them—but that could also undermine their reconnaissance mission if any Doms happened to notice. They were probably safe from that here. Doms ashore would have trouble spreading the word, and few enemy ships had been sighted, mostly far out to sea.
Either way, the battery proved that XI Corps was on the prowl within twenty miles of the big Dom port, and the Nancy would at least have some friendly troops below if it ran into trouble. Greg wondered if General Ansik would keep pushing all the way to Puerto Limon, and whether he’d been given the word to attack the place or not.
“Six faaddoms!” came the muted cry from forward, where ’Cats were heaving the lead.
“Very well,” Greg said, trying to judge the distance to shore. It looked to be about a quarter of a mile, but it was hard to tell. “We’ll anchor here,” he told Mak.
“Ay, ay, sur,” replied his XO, immediately calling for the sails to be taken in and the anchor released. “Aan-chor prob’ly won’t hold on this bottom,” he advised.
“It won’t have to for long. I only plan to be here long enough to see our flyers on their way. Put the Nancy in the water as soon as you’re ready, if you please.”
The anchor splashed and the ship slowly swung around downwind, away from shore. Sure enough, the anchor started to drag, but it would arrest their progress sufficiently. A boom rigged specifically for the purpose dipped toward the Nancy, which had only been brought on deck, assembled, and fueled after dark. Greg watched the shadowy shapes of men working under the supervision of his own petty officers. Most of Matarife’s crew were members of the NUS Navy at present. It wouldn’t do to have ’Cats running all over the ship when they poked their noses in the Pass of Fire. But though the Nussies were all experienced sailors, they’d never launched an airplane before, and Greg hoped they wouldn’t damage the fragile craft.
“Easy there, you tailless freaks!” shouted Chief Bosun’s Mate Jenaar-Laan, his rough voice carrying throughout the ship. Greg winced, sure he’d be heard onshore. “I’ll poke a hole in every one o’ you fishy-skinned, furless baas-tards for every hole you poke in that plane! Belay there! It’s staart-in’ to spin!”
“Boatswains are the same in every navy, and regardless of their species, it would seem,” Captain Anson remarked with amusement, appearing beside Greg with Fred and Kari.
“I guess,” Greg agreed distractedly as the Nancy swayed out over the water. Finally, the boom lowered and its hull kissed the relatively calm wave tops, and he started to relax.
“Okay,” Fred huffed. Understandably, he’d been at least as concerned as Greg. “I guess we’re up,” he said. The few belongings they’d take were already in the plane. These amounted to Blitzerbug SMGs and several magazines for each, a single change of clothes, and food and water. With a third passenger and extra fuel, they’d even removed the .30-caliber machine gun from the nose. Fred hadn’t been too sorry to see it go, since he’d never flown with one, anyway, and his plane would be nose-heavy enough as it was.
“Be careful,” Smitty Smith told them. “Dulce’s closest, and with part of Second Fleet parked in the harbor, landing there should be safe enough. Last chatter we picked up, before splitting off from Donaghey, was all about a fight brewing in the city, though.” He shrugged in the darkness. “Up to you. But you should have enough fuel to make Manizales. It’s a good ways back from the front, and that’s where the bulk of the fleet still is.”
“That’s our primary destination,” Fred confirmed. “We’ll only divert to Dulce if we have to.”
Kari raised a board with a chart pasted to
it. It was the most up to date they had, combining certainty with Anson’s best guesses. They knew Second Fleet had compiled much better charts now, and bringing back copies would be a priority. “We’ll get there,” Kari said. “If we ever get going,” she added.
“Yes, the time has come,” Anson agreed. He looked at Greg. “Honestly, though, what do you think your chances are of managing the second part of your mission?”
Greg scratched the stubble on his chin. He’d have to shave twice a day to fully tame it. “Pretty good, or I wouldn’t risk my people.” He glanced at the rigging surrounding them. “We had to rig Matarife back like she was so the Doms wouldn’t catch on too quick. That’s a shame, because the changes made her faster. Other than that, her quarterdeck and poop are too high, her bow’s too bluff, and her foremast is raked too far forward. Compared to Donaghey, she’s a slug—but she’s still faster than anything we’re likely to meet. If the wind is kind, that includes Dom steamers. Still, our best bet is to keep the enemy thinking we’re all on the same side. The ex-Dom sailors who came over to us should help with that—if they’re on the level,” he added worriedly. He’d never trust a Dom officer—of any age—again, but the Nussies swore the common sailors they captured were another matter. Almost invariably, as soon as they realized their enemies weren’t the monsters they’d been conditioned to believe they were and their own officers were the true monsters in comparison, they were happy to become devoted residents of the NUS. A surprising number even joined the NUS Navy. Considering what would happen to them if they were recaptured, that took more guts than could easily be imagined.
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