And the birds! The sky close to the ground practically convulsed with flying creatures of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Most were probably the size of ducks or geese, but some looked as big or bigger than Grikbirds, or even the plane-size flying reptiles Greg Garrett had described on Mauritius. Leedom had never seen so much life congested in one place, with the possible exception of flasher fish when they swarmed. It was awe-inspiring—and frightening. Particularly when he realized there were a lot of fairly typical mud-hut, warrenlike Grik settlements scattered below as well. Most were situated near streams or clustered along the massive river now curving back toward the south end of the lake from the west, but to see so many of their enemies after flying so far from Sofesshk made him contemplate—maybe for the first time—just how wildly outnumbered the Allies were. If there was a bright side, it was that they finally knew not all Grik were warriors, or even capable of fighting effectively, no matter how individually frightening they might be. One on one, hand to hand, the lowliest Uul could tear anybody apart. But the simplest weapons negated their physical advantage. And the Allies still had better weapons. Mark hoped that would be enough.
“How’re you doing, Jasper?” he called back to his backseater.
“Got a headache, an’ a little numb in the fingers. I okaay, though. Draawin’ pit-chers.”
“Good.”
“On’y one thing,” Jasper continued, and Mark knew what he was going to say.
“Yeah, we’re bingo fuel. We gotta turn back pretty soon. We should have a tailwind, though, and that’ll help. I’m gonna push a little farther.”
“I’m game . . . but I’d really raather not haafta’ waalk baack.”
“You an’ me both.”
They flew on, the roar of the in-line engine above and between them lulling their tired minds. Mark Leedom was yawning with fatigue and saw Jasper in his little mirror doing it almost constantly, the thin air probably to blame. Finally, perhaps half an hour after they should’ve turned back, and with Mark feeling increasingly irresponsible for not doing so, he moved his goggles to wipe away the dry gunk around his eyes. Then he blinked. “Hey,” he said, “does it look like those zeps are descending?”
“De-scending!” Jasper replied, but his tone sounded giddy.
I need to get him down, Mark thought. “Try to focus,” he shouted.
“Yeah. Sure,” Jasper said, more like himself. “Yeah,” he continued after a moment. “They’re lower now, an’ more bunched up. I think they’re headed for thaat clearin’ on the east side o’ the lake. Hey! There’s zeps on the ground there! Maybe a dozen. More!”
“You’re sure?” Mark demanded. Ordinarily, he’d never ask such a thing. Lemurian eyesight left his in the dust, but Jasper wasn’t quite himself.
“Sure, I’m sure,” he responded tersely. “An’ please quit yellin’. I tole you my head hurts!”
“Okay,” Mark said, banking right and turning into the morning sun, hoping there’d be less chance of them being seen. “Then let’s get out of here before they spot us.” He hesitated. “Have you been keeping up with our position?”
“Gettin’ it current now,” Jasper replied apologetically.
“Good. As soon as you do, send it. Now we know where three Grik airfields are. Maybe that’s all there is. Either way, it’s time for Jumbo and Colonel Mallory to hit ’em with the big boys. We’re getting out”—he heard Jasper’s yawn through the speaking tube, even over the roar of the engine, and grinned—“and down. Stay awake, and you’ll feel better soon.”
“Yah. Just in time for the long-aass flight back! But we gonna make them slinkin’ lizaard baas-tards pay for what they done to Saanty Caat!”
“You bet.”
CHAPTER 21
////// Kakag
Grik Africa
December 22, 1944
General of the Sky Hideki Muriname sponged sweat off his balding head with a grimy rag and readjusted his precious wire-rim glasses. Then he tried to squirm back into the narrow gap between the engine and the mount fairing on the starboard wing of the DP1M1 torpedo bomber. The planes, with their twin nine-cylinder radials, were armed with a copy of the Type 89 machine gun and could achieve 180 miles per hour while carrying a short-range torpedo or a thousand pounds of bombs. Muriname considered them his finest achievement, even greater than the AJ1M1c fighters he’d designed. The Allies had bested his fighters—rather depressingly easily—but still had nothing that could match his bombers, as far as he knew. The closest things he’d seen, their small Nancy flying boats, had been terribly effective at first and retained the advantages of range and of being deployable anywhere there was water to land on, but they were comparatively slow and couldn’t carry the load his bombers could. The problem was, the Allies had a lot of them and just kept making more.
The handful of fighters and bombers he had left, including the old Type 95 floatplane—a final relic of Amagi tied to the shore of a nearby river—totaled less than thirty planes. They’d been all he could salvage during the disaster at Zanzibar, and all the tediously constructed industry and painstakingly trained workers required to build them had been destroyed or captured. Even if he was inclined to start again, virtually from scratch, it might take years just to replicate what he’d already achieved. The Allies would have far better planes by then, and frankly, he didn’t think he had years. One way or another, he believed the war would likely be decided within a year at most.
Either the Allied gamble to go all in would finally crush the Grik—which he now knew to be in considerable domestic disarray despite, or because of, Esshk’s attempts to consolidate power—or the gamble would fail and the Allies’ fragile lines of support would collapse as the rampant Grik rolled up their tenuous trail of outposts all the way back to their source. In the first case, the best he and his people could hope for was incarceration. On the other hand, if Esshk won and the Allied threat was neutralized at last, Muriname suspected his services would no longer be required. Ultimately, however, and just as important, he wasn’t inclined to start again, not for Esshk and the Grik, so there’d be no more planes for him—from them.
It was miserably hot and humid at the little grass strip he’d had the foresight to have cleared in the jungle near the Grik city of Kakag, barely two hundred miles southwest of Zanzibar. The Grik ground crews he’d positioned there, with fuel and as much ordnance as he could divert without catching Kurokawa’s attention, had built little huts to protect his people and supplies, but overhead protection for the planes (and those working on them) was sadly lacking. Kurokawa had known about the airfield but would’ve been furious to discover Muriname’s diversion of resources to support it. Kurokawa did the same thing to the Grik, to build his base on Zanzibar, Muriname mused as he groped upward for the fuel-line attachment. The glare of the sun above made it nearly impossible to see anything in the shadow of the motor. So why does it give me such satisfaction that I used that madman’s same methods? he wondered. Then he knew. Because I did it to him, and I’m alive because of it. And he is probably dead.
“Pliers,” he said to the Grik ground crew, watching in amazement as their leader, practically their regent, performed physical labor in front of them. Muriname usually discouraged his pilots, even the Grik pilots, from doing that, but the fitting he was trying to connect was in a very cramped place and such chores were difficult for Grik. They had longer fingers, yet even those that kept their claws filed short had trouble manipulating small screws and tools in confined spaces. And Muriname didn’t have any human ground crew at all. Since his very life might depend on how well the clamp was seated on the fuel line, he preferred doing it himself.
“Your tool, Lord,” a small Grik said, passing the pliers. It spoke with an exaggerated deference that would’ve made Muriname laugh if the creature, with its jagged mouthful of teeth and scimitarlike claws—on its feet, at least—didn’t still look so terrifying. Muriname grunt
ed instead. With one hand holding the clamp on the line, he reached up with the pliers and compressed it until it slid over the bulge. When he released the springlike clamp, it tightened down, holding the line in place. He backed out and mopped his head again while the Grik stared at him as if he were magical. He sighed. Terrifying or not, he could sometimes almost think of them as people. He’d grown somewhat attached to the first draft he’d taught to fly the dirigibles he’d designed, but he’d hardened himself against such sentiments after they were so badly wasted. Still, a degree of . . . acceptance had crept back upon him regarding these Grik, and particularly the pilots he’d trained. They tried very hard and did remarkably well, even better in some ways than his remaining Japanese, since the way they had to orient themselves in their aircraft allowed them to perform maneuvers that were difficult for humans. Face it, he told himself. You are proud of them.
Grunting again, he tossed the rag on the ground and paced away, leaving the Grik to wrap things up. His HQ was a mere shack at the edge of the cleared strip, but at least there was shade. Heading for it, he was intercepted by Lieutenant Ando—his XO, now that Iguri was dead or captured. Ando was very young for the job, but he was a good pilot, passionate about flying. He was pointing to the southwest.
“Another messenger approaches, General of the Sky!” he said loudly. Muriname shaded his eyes and saw the Grik airship approaching low over the trees bordering the strip. “They’ll probably insist more vigorously that we move our planes south, to support their attacks against the enemy on the Zambezi,” Ando speculated with a side glance at his superior.
Muriname slapped his thigh with a fist. “No doubt.” He sighed. “Assemble a detail to assist them, then bring them to my headquarters. I’ll refresh myself and await them there.”
“Of course, General of the Sky.”
Muriname paced on, brooding. Entering his hut, he stripped his shirt and quickly washed his face and torso in a basin. Then he pulled on a new tunic. At least we have plenty of clothes, he mused. The Grik had been making such things for them for a long time, and stores had been quickly diverted here. Glancing briefly at the roughly sewn seams, he didn’t wonder how they did that, but he was always curious how they weaved the material itself so fine. He shook his head and stepped into his open-sided “office” and sat on a wooden chair by a table. His Grik servants had already placed four bowls of water on the table, and that meant they’d seen how many Grik dignitaries were approaching. There’ll be two of them, and one bowl each for Ando and myself, he suspected. He was right. Ando followed the Grik inside and motioned them to a pair of rough wood, saddlelike stools the servants had also brought. Muriname stood, immediately recognizing one Grik as Hij Sich’k, the same interpreter that came here before, and several times to Zanzibar. He was dressed in common Hij fashion, in a red breechcloth arranged like a diaper and a short red cape with slashing Grik characters painted in black around the hem. He wore no armor and carried no weapons and was remarkably thin, with an extraordinarily narrow snout.
“May I present Seventh General Gookir,” Sich’k carefully enunciated in Grik—which Muriname understood well enough when spoken slowly.
“We’re honored by his visit,” Muriname replied just as carefully, gesturing at the bowls of water. “Would you care to refresh yourselves after your flight?” Both he and the interpreter could speak some of the other’s language by now; Muriname had to speak a little Grik to communicate with his pilots, but each continued to pretend they couldn’t. Since Sich’k wouldn’t stoop to “foul” his mouth with Japanese in front of General Gookir, Muriname wouldn’t say a word of Grik. Sich’k performed a sharp, diagonal nod and spoke to Gookir. Gookir was as large and powerful as Sich’k appeared frail and wore the polished breastplate, helmet, and short cape of his office. The only thing different that Muriname hadn’t seen before was that the leather armor on his arms and shins up past the knees was dyed or painted as red as his cape. Gookir snapped a string of guttural, hissing syllables, emphatically gesturing southward, essentially demanding why the General of the Sky and all his flying machines remained here so long after they’d been summoned.
“Tell him we continue repairs, and all the fuel and ordnance we sent south in carts were drawn by mere Uul laborers, plodding at the pace of a slug. It will do First General Esshk no good if my planes are there, exposed to enemy attack, without even the fuel or weapons to fight.”
Sich’k conveyed this to General Gookir, who obviously didn’t understand any Japanese.
“The airfield they demanded has been finished,” Muriname understood Gookir to say, “and the Uul laborers have been joined by others; those that die are replaced. They make good time now and will have their things in place in a matter of days.”
“Very good,” Muriname said, nodding. “Tell the general to summon us again when all is ready, and we will come.”
Sich’k spoke, but Gookir’s eyes flared and his crest stood up. “No!” he snapped in Grik. “They will come now. They will come with the fuel and weapons they carry and attack that troublesome wreck that blocks the river. Then they may await their things at the airstrip!”
“That’s not only unwise but also impossible at present. Less than half my planes have had the proper maintenance for such a long flight. I’d lose a third—a ten—of them before we ever got there. And they’re quite irreplaceable,” he reminded.
Gookir began to pace. “Then send those able to make the trip now. Follow with the rest when the maintenance is complete,” he snapped.
“It’s never wise to split one’s forces,” Muriname began to lecture, Sich’k translating word for word, and Gookir whirled to face Muriname and Ando. “You talk to me of what is wise? Then I remind you that it is most unwise to antagonize First General Esshk! We need your flying machines now, and you will deliver at least some of them at once.” He paused. “Let me also remind you that the sword that is never drawn has no use. It is never cleaned, its edge never sharpened . . . and, occasionally, it is discarded. Only the useful sword is looked upon with favor, fed with blood, and kept always at one’s side. Come at once; come today. Be of use or be discarded.”
Muriname clouded. “How dare you speak to me that way? A seventh general! I’m first General of the Sky, second only to General Esshk himself in the chain of command!”
“I speak as First General Esshk has commanded me,” Gookir rumbled. “I speak his words, directly from him to you.”
Muriname stared. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Return to First General Esshk and tell him, directly from me, that some of us will come today. The rest will come when our maintenance is complete.”
“I will tell him what I see, not what you say. We remain here until the first flying machines depart.”
“You will not!” Muriname practically roared. “I won’t be watched over like an Uul laborer! Leave now. You’ll just be in the way otherwise, and I have much to do.” Gookir began a strong retort when Sich’k told him what Muriname had said, but Sich’k continued, speaking softly, placating. Finally, he turned to Muriname.
“I have learned you Japhs quite well, I think, and assured him you would come to battle because you have said so. Your word, your honor, drives you beyond what threats can accomplish. I also told him that his remaining here would insult you to such a degree that you might change your mind. In that case, it would be his fault, not yours, if you stayed away.” He took a long breath and exhaled loudly through his long, narrow snout. “Therefore,” he continued, “we will leave.” His eyes narrowed. “But you must come. As he said, the weapon not at hand when needed is of no use. And in warning, First General Esshk has grown more difficult to please, even as his power to see his will done has increased more than you can imagine.” He snapped his jaws shut, then ventured, “That is all I may say on that matter. But I strongly urge you to show yourself of use. . . . Or the next time I come, the visit will be most unpleasant for us both.”
> * * *
* * *
“Such vile, loathsome creatures!” Ando burned breathlessly as they strode back across the airstrip, the Grik zeppelin fading in the distance over the trees. “For them to imply you might avoid any task you’ve committed to . . . It’s beyond bearing!”
Muriname watched him as they walked, surprised by Ando’s genuine outrage. They’d all avoided certain death in Kurokawa’s service, after all, when they flew here as the defense of Zanzibar collapsed. But they’d been unable to find the enemy carrier, all their own airfields had been overrun or were under attack, and they had only so much fuel. They would all have died to no purpose if they’d remained. Besides, even Ando recognized that Kurokawa had been mad. Perhaps that’s how he reconciled their actions? “I’ll take the fighters down,” Ando continued, “if that meets with your approval, of course. If so, how soon can you bring the bombers?”
Muriname stopped walking, forcing Ando to pause and look at him. “None of this meets with my approval, Lieutenant,” he said. “None at all. It never has.”
Ando’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Simply this: I will no longer serve the Grik. They are vile and loathsome and don’t even remotely understand honor.” He gestured. “That Hij Sich’k believes he does, to the extent he thinks he can use our concept of it, backed by threats, to control us. But there has been no real honor in anything we’ve done since we came to this world—and I’m sick of it!”
River of Bones_Destroyermen Page 33
