“Abaan-don?” Gutfeld’s XO, Flaar-Baa-Ris, almost squeaked at Chack. Her C Company was most involved where Chack was, and the flames seemed to turn her yellow fur to gold.
Chack looked at her. “We must be ready.”
“But . . . with respect, Col-nol, if we bail off this hulk, how’re we gonna stop the goddaamn Grik?”
“I don’t know, Cap-i-taan,” Chack replied. A heavy detonation jarred the deck beneath their feet, and flames gushed up from the ragged hole that had been the forward cargo hatch. Chack’s eyes flared. “Baack! Everyone baack! Drop your hoses, graab the wounded, and run for the stern!” He looked at Silva, who was already repeating his commands more physically, literally hurling people back.
“What is it?” Flaar asked. Chack didn’t take time to remind her that they hadn’t considered it necessary to secure any of the ammunition for the wrecked 10″ rifle in the forward magazine. The shells wouldn’t fit anything else and most of the big bags of powder in the largely flooded compartment were soaked. The terrifying operative word just then was “most.” They should’ve done something with the bags on the top racks somehow, even if they only swam in and tipped them into the water, but they’d been a little busy and actually hoped to figure out a way to retrieve the powder, without getting it wet, and use it. Now it was too late.
“Run,” Chack simply said. Most of the firefighters and those trying to help them made it past the forward part of the armored casemate before the dry powder bags—and many of the damp ones—went up. The forward part of the ship bulged outward, the fo’c’sle deck peeling up like the lid on a sardine can, scattering flaming deck planks into the sky. Then, even as the Marines picked themselves up and continued scrambling aft, one of the 10″ common shells, its fuse cap blown off and ignited, detonated deep inside the ship. When it did, it set off as many as twenty more.
* * *
* * *
“Holy shit!” COFO Mark Leedom exclaimed through the voice tube by his head at the Lemurian observer in the aft cockpit. He was flying a Nancy and had personally accompanied this protective sortie himself, not to shoot down zeps but to follow the survivors. And his plane wasn’t carrying guns or bombs, only extra fuel tanks to take it as far as it could go. “Jasper, get TF Bottle Cap on the horn right away and tell Commodore Tassanna that Santy Cat just . . . blew the hell up!”
“Jeez, wilco,” came Ensign Jaas-Rin-Paar’s shaky reply. “Whaat we gonna do?”
“Well, that blast did one good thing. It lit up some zeps hanging over the bend in the river, turning northwest. Now I know where they are, I can kind of see ’em with the moonlight and their exhaust flares.”
“We never seen Grik zeps wit’draaw nort’-wes’ before,” Jasper acknowledged. We gonna follow ’em?”
“That’s why we’re here. Pass our course along to the commodore too.”
“Ay, ay.”
Leedom glanced one last time at the roaring inferno below and shook his head. “Jesus. Poor bastards.”
* * *
* * *
Commodore Tassanna-Ay-Arracca was standing on the bridge of her great Home-turned-carrier, staring west, when a signal-’Cat brought her the reports from her COFO. She thought she’d seen a sudden pulse of light on the horizon, but believed it was her imagination. Arracca was too far away to watch the bombing, but now she knew she’d probably glimpsed the end of Santa Catalina—and an awful lot of friends. At least maybe Leedom was on the trail to another airstrip. If they could find that . . . She stiffened and turned to her talker. “Have COFO Leedom’s executive officer report to me on the double.” She considered. “And majors Risa-Sab-At and Abel Cook as well.” She turned to stare out the windows again. Abel was the first to arrive, boyish face concerned, just as the signal-’Cat informed Tassanna that they’d heard from one of the prize cruisers. There were survivors on Santa Catalina, and the cruisers were closing to render assistance. Still . . .
Risa stepped into the pilothouse, along with Leedom’s deputy, Commander Riaar-An-Fas. Riaar had been COFO before Leedom arrived but was never comfortable with the role. She’d been glad to be superseded. Now Tassanna was about to dump a COFO’s load back on her. “The ground around the former Grik villages at the mouth of the Zaam-beezi is suitable for air-craaft?” Tassanna asked, already knowing the answer. Leedom himself had gone ashore with an armed party to reconnoiter.
“With care, a graass strip could be prepared,” Riaar answered, blinking caution.
“Very well. We’re about to close the shore and staart ferrying everything related to air operations on this ship over there; people, paarts, tools, fuel, ord-naance . . . everything.” She blinked consolation at Risa. “I have no news of your brother, Chack, but his brigade—your brigade—is going ashore as well. Not to fight but to provide security and help build the air-strips. I was told this would be as simple as filling holes and collecting rocks. Not very de-maanding on its face, but it must be done as faast as possible because”—Tassanna turned back to Riaar—“we will fly the entire Third Air Wing ashore with the dawn.”
“But, Commo-dore . . . What of the ship?” Riaar stopped and shook her head. “It caan’t be done in any event! We caan’t possibly . . .”
“There will be no aar-gument, and it will be done,” Tassanna stated, blinking harsh disapproval. “I haave ordered it and you have the entire crew and Chack’s Raider Brigade—praac-tically a division—to accomplish it. As for this ship, it carries fifty fifty-pounder guns in addition to its more modern armaa-ment. It was rebuilt to protect itself against sur-faace taa-gets before the enemy threat from the air became so extreme. It has fought sur-faace aactions before and will steam upriver and do it again.” She nodded at Risa and Abel. “You will be baack aboard by then, minus a security force suitable to protect the aar-strip from local predaa-tors. No Grik haave been seen in the vicinity.” She paused. “Thaat is all. You’re dismissed to begin prepaar-ations. We all have a great deal to do.” She turned to the signal-’Cat. “Inform CINCWEST and CINCAF of our intentions.”
“But . . . dawn?” Riaar practically wailed.
Tassanna’s severe blinking softened. “The wing will fly its usual sortie but laand onshore. I understaand it may take time to transfer everything required to sustain it, but time is a luxury we haave lost. So hurry.”
* * *
* * *
Dennis Silva had been blown flat onto the splintered deck, his nose slamming the brim of his helmet, the helmet coming off and sliding away. He was aware of the noise and heat of the blast behind him, but his impact with the deck had severely narrowed the degree of consciousness he could devote to anything. A single imperative glared brightly above all else, however, and he staggered to his feet, spitting blood draining down from his sinuses, and hurried unsteadily away.
Gunny Horn was already sitting up, tilting his helmet to protect his face from the heat of the blaze, but saw his friend get up and stumble aft, like he was in a trance. He didn’t see Petey, but that didn’t mean the little tree-glider was hurt, just that he was gone. He usually made himself scarce when things turned sour. Lawrence moaned beside him, snatching Horn’s attention, and the Marine quickly flailed at the Sa’aaran, knocking smoldering embers off his smock. Horn still wasn’t wearing his and supposed he’d have flash burns, at least. He wasn’t hurting at the moment, though, and quickly helped Lawrence to his feet. “You okay?” he demanded.
Lawrence nodded but didn’t look sure. Horn physically pointed him at the half-dozen ’Cats around them. Some were still, others starting to roll around and scream. “Get those guys aft. I’ll send help.” That wasn’t necessary. Other ’Cat Marines were already racing up to pull their hurt comrades away from the roaring flames.
“H’vere are you going?” Lawrence demanded.
“To check on Dennis. I’ll see you in a minute.” Without another word, Horn bolted in the direction Silva went, barely catch
ing a glimpse of him bowling some milling ’Cats aside and almost falling down a companionway toward the rear of the armored casemate. Horn followed, suspecting he knew where Silva was going—even if his friend didn’t. Wounded suddenly packed the companionway, clawing their way up from the sickbay. Some walked, others crawled, and a few were being carried. Smoke was pouring up behind them and Horn fought his way down, trying not to hurt anyone but forcing his way through. Down another set of crowded metal stairs, he started hearing shrieks of outrage. The voice was strident and very familiar.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? What . . . No! Don’t touch . . . Put me down! We have to get these people . . .” There was a series of hacking coughs before the word “out,” considerably weaker, came to him. He ducked into the sickbay and saw in the dim, smoke-hazed light of the oil lanterns and the one bright light hanging over a bloody table (they still had electricity, anyway) that Silva had thrown Pam Cross over his shoulder like a sack of grain and was carrying her back toward him and the companionway behind. Pam was kicking and writhing and raining blows on him. Horn snatched a bloody rag from a pile, dunked it in a basin, and wrapped it around his head. Silva looked steadier now, but his battered face was set in an expression of grim determination and his one eye gleamed with a singular purpose.
“Quit hitting him!” Horn coughed urgently. “At least on the head. He might have a concussion!”
“But I have to get . . .” The rest of Pam’s words disintegrated in a coughing fit. Her eyes were red and streaming, and snot poured from her nose.
“You have to let him get you out,” Horn shouted through the damp rag after her, as Silva deftly ducked through the hatch. “And see to him! He’s not okay. I’ll finish up here. There’s not many left.” When Silva and Pam were gone, Horn quickly surveyed the space. Not any left that’ll live, he thought, but grabbed a pair of unconscious ’Cats by their arms and started dragging them through the hatch to the companionway. Almost there, a corps-’Cat and an SBA, also with cloth around their faces, relieved him of his burden. Another pair dove into the even smokier sickbay, checking for life and snatching crates of medical supplies. “Give me those,” Horn shouted. “Get more!”
Hours later, it seemed, Gunny Horn weaved his way drunkenly through the press of Marines on the fantail and finally found Lawrence squatting by Silva. The big man was lying on the deck with his head propped on his helmet. Lawrence must have brought it. Petey was cringing under the pile of Silva’s weapons nearby. Over the rail, one of the cruisers was standing by, and wounded were sliding over by breeches buoy. The other cruiser had added its hoses to the effort forward, and when Horn looked that way it seemed like the fire was smaller now. He was too tired to care.
“There you are, Arnie,” Silva said, his voice distorted by his swollen nose and a broken lip. “I figgered you burned up.”
“Back to your usual asshole self, I see,” Horn croaked. “No, I didn’t burn. Nearly choked, though. How are you feeling?”
“I’m swell,” Dennis replied. Then he conceded. “My head’s a little sore. Last thing I remember was hittin’ the deck with my face. Then I woke up here.” His gaze caught Pam’s approach and he added, “What the hell happened, and why’s she so pissed at me?”
Pam knelt in front of him, roughly feeling his forehead. “You got some swelling. Prob’ly have a concussion too, and you’ll have a pretty bruise. Your stupid head’s too hard to break, though.” She straightened. “I’m pissed because you took me from my duty!” she snarled, her Brooklyn accent sharp with fury. “You prob’ly killed people I could’a saved!” She turned to Horn and raised a wooden vial of polta paste. “You have burns. Lemme at ’em.”
“Sure,” Horn said, moving slightly away. Pam followed, and Horn lowered his voice. “Lay off the big goon, wilya? He wasn’t in his head.” Pam’s face clouded with fury again, but Horn plowed on. “He really wasn’t. And by the time we got down in the sickbay, you were about the only one left to save—I checked. We got as much else out as we could, and might even get back in. It didn’t burn, last I saw. But you need to cut Dennis some slack.”
“Why?” Pam demanded.
Horn hesitated. “He gets . . . focused on what he’s doing—we all know that—and sometimes he comes up with some pretty over-the-top stunts.” That was putting it mildly. “But I may be the only one who’s ever seen him like . . . he was before. Back in China,” he added. Everyone knew Horn and Silva had a history there, that something none of them talked about had taken place that bound the two men—and even Laney—in a way no one understood. Horn waved it away. “That’s for another time. Maybe he’ll tell you someday, maybe not. But the point is, he was knocked stupid then too, and the one, the only, thing on his mind was trying to save this little Chinese girl.” Horn shrugged. “All she ever did was shine his shoes and fix his blues after he blew them out in bar fights, but . . . I don’t know, she just mattered to him somehow, when hardly anybody else in the world really did.” Horn shook his head. “She was just part of the story, and it’s a doozy, but the fix she was in got me, him, Laney—and a few others in a, uh . . . ‘situation’ that ramped up into us almost starting a full-blown war between us, the Japs, the Chinese, maybe even some other countries, way before the real war ever kicked off.”
Pam was looking at him wide-eyed. “Is that how you got his tooth?”
“Huh? Well, yeah. When he was . . . like that. Knocked some sense into him.” He chuckled. “Didn’t stop him, but made him start thinking—which probably saved all our lives.” He looked at her. “Anyway, my point is, when he got that way this time, the only thing on his mind was to protect you. Would it have made any difference if there was still something you could do in the sickbay? No, he would’ve done it anyway, because just then you were the only thing in this whole screwed-up world that mattered, see? So if you love him like I think you do, just . . . lighten up a little. God knows we’re liable to need him, and even if he doesn’t show it, it distracts him when you’re sore at him. Especially when he doesn’t know why.”
“And he really won’t know why right now?” Pam pressed.
Horn shook his head. “Not a clue.” He suddenly grinned. “I take a little of that back. I think he gets a kick out of it when he knows why you’re sore, but right now he’s just hurt. Take care of him.”
Pam bristled. “I have a buncha guys to ‘take care of,’ thank you,” she replied with terse sarcasm, but then her firelit face softened somewhat. “Including you. Lean down so I can smear some o’ this goop on your back.” As she did so, she quietly said, “Thanks, Arnie.”
Colonel Chack-Sab-At was suddenly beside them. He looked terrible: his smock was torn and charred, his brindled fur was singed, and his amber eyes were puffy and wet. Horn hadn’t seen him since the blast and was afraid he’d been killed. That would’ve left Simy Gutfeld in charge. Gutfeld was a good Marine, but they needed Chack—just as they needed Silva.
“Yes,” Chack said, his voice rough, “help Chief Silva as best you can.” He stared forward, apparently distracted. “I believe we’ll soon have the fire under control. The explosion in the maag-a-zine blew the whole bow away, which let most of the remaining oil out of the daam-aged bunker.” He blinked, but the gesture—usually so full of meaning among Lemurians—conveyed nothing but exhaustion. “The forwaard four-point-seven guns are gone, and perhaaps half the four-inch-fifties are out of aac-tion. We’ve suffered many caas-ualties, and those still fit to fight are worn completely out.”
He looked at Pam. “The only consolation is, if the Grik haad been ready to come at us now, they already would haave.” He gestured around. “And they could’ve swept us off this wreck with a feather duster.” He scratched at the singed fur around his nose and it crumbled away. “But they will come,” he declared with certainty, “and even if we’re able to remain aboard, it’ll be haarder than ever to repel them.” He sighed. “So please do ensure that Chief
Silva is ready to supervise repairs to some of our guns and finish his flame weapon—we still have fuel in the aft bunkers—and that he caan fight, of course. We may need that most of all.”
* * *
* * *
Dawn, behind and to the right, was creeping up on Mark Leedom and his backseater, slowly brightening the alien landscape of Grik Africa below. It was cold at nine thousand feet, and they were higher than Lemurians found comfortable. Part of this had to do with the temperature—only ’Cats from the Republic of Real People seemed truly used to the cold—but it was mainly because they seemed to require more oxygen than humans. They were prone to hypoxia at anything much over seven or eight thousand feet. Fortunately, the Grik had the same problem, maybe worse, and only flew their airships at high altitude to make attacks. Ordinarily—like now—they flew much lower, and the zeppelins Leedom had pursued all night, slowly increasing in numbers from the initial three to the current eleven, had been cruising below three thousand feet.
As far as they knew, Grik zeps still had no stations on top of their envelopes for observers, but the enemy flight was a formation in name only. A scattered gaggle was a better description, and Leedom had climbed so high only shortly before to avoid being seen by any stragglers as the light improved. That same light began to glare sharply on the enemy aircraft and further reveal the weird land below.
Leedom had never been to Africa—any Africa—except to bomb Sofesshk. He hadn’t even seen real photographs of the old one before he came to this world. All he knew came from Tarzan pictures, and he’d imagined the whole thing choked with jungle, just like Borno. The scrubby floodplain with islandlike clumps of trees along the Zambezi had seemed an aberration. Apparently it was, but it was even stranger here. High, jagged, snow-capped peaks jutted to the west, and an enormous lake, like an inland sea, was appearing just ahead. Down below looked like a patchwork of . . . different-colored jungles, mostly greenish, but some tinged with blue, even red. All were separated by grassy prairies teeming with groups of massive beasts or huge herds of smaller ones. Mark couldn’t even try to describe them at this altitude but got the impression he’d never seen anything like them before.
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