River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  Perry glanced away, but when he looked back at Matt, his expression was pained. “No skipper likes to gripe about his ship. . . .”

  “Stuff is starting to wear out, sir,” Rolando finished for him. “Important things. Stuff that isn’t supposed to wear out.”

  “Like . . .”

  “Like the reduction gears,” Perry rasped reluctantly. “There appears to be excessive, uneven wear.” He held up his hand. “It’s not incapacitating yet, just troubling. I know Ellie’s were the first, and still kind of experimental, but we can’t tell if it’s a surface-hardening or alignment issue without taking the whole thing apart.”

  “Which there isn’t time for,” Rolando said.

  “Right.”

  “How bad?” Matt asked.

  Perry managed a wry smile. “I’ve heard the sound they make compared to Walker’s reduction gears—it’s about the same. And I can say from personal experience that Mahan’s weren’t as bad.”

  “So, a few thousand miles have caused as much wear as . . . God knows how many thousands should.” Matt managed a smile of his own. “Any chance it’s just been a really rough break-in, and they’ve settled in?”

  “That’s possible, sir,” Perry nodded. “But there’re other things. Even the turbines are starting to look rough. Don’t get me wrong,” he quickly added, “the hull’s sound and the patches are solid. Ellie’s combat power should be almost fully restored by the time Big Sal pulls Savoie out of here. It’s just, as the first in her class, she has . . . issues you need to be aware of that may affect her reliability.”

  “I see,” Matt said, thinking. “Well, relax. Like I said, you’ll have at least a week. You’re not going anywhere today.”

  “Whaat about Waa-kur?” Chack asked anxiously. Despite commanding a brigade of elite ground forces, probably permanently including the 1st North Borno, he still considered Walker his Home.

  “Oh, she’s in swell shape—except Spanky believes she’ll break up and sink if she slaps a wave wrong,” Matt answered bitterly. “He thinks a week or so of welding—he hates welding—will reinforce her enough, and provide sufficient framing for complete repairs. Then she’ll escort Tara down to Mahe.”

  “So . . . two or three weeks, maybe more, before we can send help to Russ?” Sandra asked incredulously.

  “Probably more,” Matt agreed with frustration. Looking at the confused expressions and blinking around him, he sighed. “First, we don’t know if Russ’s stunt will even work. We’ll prepare as if it will, and continue getting ready for our own invasion up the Zambezi with everything we’ve got. But if the Grik roll right over Santa Catalina, we damn sure can’t get caught with our defenses out of place, or some half-ass reinforcement on the way. The good news is, we should know pretty quick if he was at least partially successful.” By “partially successful,” they knew he meant that Santa Catalina and everyone on her was dead, but her carcass was still blocking the river and slowing the enemy exodus. “If that’s the case, we’ll plan accordingly.”

  “Why would the reinforcements be half-assed?” Sandra persisted.

  Matt had to remind himself that she’d been out of the strategic loop for a while and was still catching up on their dispositions. “Alan—I mean, Chairman Letts—is running around like a chicken with its head cut off, trying to get every transport and fighting ship we have left on this side of the world sent down from Madraas, Andamaan, even Aryaal, La-Laanti, and Baalkpan itself. And there’s some good stuff coming. No more carriers, but more planes, supply ships, even the new cruiser, he hopes. Maybe one of the new DDs, if they can finish it in time. To prove how seriously he takes it, he’s even mobilizing almost a Corps’ worth of militia to send, people badly needed in the factories of Baalkpan. Another half-trained Corps, probably armed with rifle-muskets, is coming from Austraal. And we’ll have more of the big PB-5D ‘Clippers’ sooner than expected, bringing Jumbo Fisher’s Pat-Squad Twenty-Two up to twenty-five planes to bomb the enemy pretty soon. Ben Mallory, Lieutenant Niaa-Sa, and Cecil Dixon are going to the Comoros Islands to help turn the squadron into a wing.” He shook his head.

  “But most of the ships’ll probably take closer to a month to get here, and our biggest problem, frankly, is transport. Second Corps, and about a division of Shee-Ree and Maroons, are at Grik City. They have no transport at all.” He hesitated. “I’ve actually been thinking hard about sending Sular down to get them.” USS Sular was a former Grik BB converted to an armored transport. “Evacuate Grik City completely,” he continued. “Trying to hold it, so far out on a limb, has been a thorn in our side from the start. Sure, we’ve got friends on Madagascar,” he said quickly, forestalling argument, “but even if the Grik take the city, they won’t go after them. They can’t for a while, and they’ll be more focused on Mahe, anyway. That might even be a plan: let the Grik have the city, then invade Africa behind them.”

  “Then we would both haave each other’s supply lines by the tails,” Chack said, blinking distaste, swishing his own brindled tail behind him.

  “Yeah, not ideal,” Matt agreed, “but we might make it work. We’ll have to if the Grik get past Santa Catalina and the strait, because I won’t leave Second Corps to die.” He looked back at Sandra. “First and Third Corps are on Mahe Island now. We could probably move both with the transport available, including Sular; the new carrier USS Madraas; and Big Sal when she gets there. But we can’t send our damn carriers up that river carrying troops!” He nodded over at Tarakaan Island, with the French battleship in her bay. “She and Sular are really the only things we have suited for landing large forces with all their gear.”

  “Then . . . throw Savoie out and send Tara now,” Sandra pressed. “Start the invasion now, right behind Santa Catalina!”

  “I would if this war was all we had to worry about,” Matt replied with feeling. “Hell, I’d even abandon Walker if it came to that.”

  “You would never do thaat!” Keje blurted, stunned.

  “Yes, I would,” Matt countered. “If I had to . . . and it would matter. As it is, we’re still going to need every ship we can scrape up even if we finally beat the Grik. We can’t afford to just abandon Savoie—or Walker.” He looked back at Sandra. “Which brings us to the final point again. Without sufficient transport, we could only dribble reinforcements in a Corps at a time—and the Grik would chew them up. When we go, we need to be as fully prepared and equipped as possible, and hit the Grik with at least three Corps, maybe five. Just as important, we’ll need a plan and logistics train to land on them like an iron avalanche, not a drizzle.” He looked around. “That’s the deal.”

  “So . . . even if Santa Catalina holds—for a while—we won’t send anything to help her? To help our friends?” Sandra sounded just as incredulous as Keje had.

  “I didn’t say that,” Matt denied.

  “Hell, send me,” came a bantering voice from behind them.

  A colorful blur streaked past Matt’s face, and a small, furry reptile with gliding membranes between its fore and hind legs slammed into Chack and stuck to his dingy rhino-pig armor like a grasshopper. Looking up with huge liquid eyes, it must’ve realized it had misjudged its target and instantly hopped onto Sandra and flowed up onto her shoulder. “Hello, Petey,” Sandra said, fondly scratching the creature between eyes that narrowed with pleasure.

  “Hell, send me!” Petey shrieked. The laughter that followed was simultaneously amused and annoyed, but everyone turned to watch Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva take the last stair and join them on the bridgewing.

  Silva was a big man, much abused by the war, with a black patch over his left eye. Other scars too numerous to count were hidden behind a short blond beard. He was wearing whites, apparently of his own accord, instead of the habitual dungarees and T-shirt, and was unusually presentable. “Not you, you little traitor,” he growled at Petey. “I just got him back from that screwball Isak,”
he complained to the rest. “Had to promise him a cat.” He glanced at Chack and Keje. “A real cat.” Keje grinned, but Chack began to bristle. Silva quickly held his hands about a foot apart, blinking innocence with his good eye. “You know, the little four-leg kind, runnin’ around on Impie ships . . .”

  Mi-Anakka didn’t mind being called Lemurians. Many even called themselves that now. And they knew ’Cat was an affectionate diminutive. They didn’t necessarily appreciate comparisons to common felines, though, of the sort that crossed to this world in ships that founded the Empire of the New Britain Isles, centered where Hawaii ought to be. And referring to those as “real” cats was clearly intended to rile Chack. “God knows when I’ll get one,” Silva continued, seemingly oblivious. There were Imperials serving in 1st Fleet, but all their ships were fighting the Dominion in the East, on the west coast of Central and South America. “But Isak—the little twerp—took a IOU. Dumb-ass’s been pinin’ for a pet since we got here.” He pointed at Petey. “Then, after all my finaglin’, that little shit—pardon m’language—jumps ship first chance he gets, leavin’ me holdin’ the empty cat bag.”

  “He’ll soon grow bored with me, I’m sure,” Sandra said, still scratching Petey’s head. “By all accounts, I never spoiled him like you do.”

  “Chief Silva?” Matt prompted, ignoring the distraction. “What did you mean?”

  Dennis blinked and looked at his captain. “Just what I said: send me down to give Cap’n Chappelle a hand.” He waved around. “Fightin’s all done here an’ I ain’t got to kill nothin’ in days. Killin’s mighty hard to quit when you been at it awhile,” he added matter-of-factly.

  Sandra frowned, understanding perhaps better than anyone that Silva wasn’t really joking. And everyone listening knew, despite how ridiculous the suggestion seemed, that the big man wasn’t suicidal and wouldn’t have made the offer if he didn’t have something up his sleeve.

  Matt was intrigued. “All by yourself?” he prodded.

  Dennis displayed a patently disconcerting gap-toothed grin. “Well, maybe not all alone. Look, Skipper, I overheard what you said, an’ it makes sense. Won’t do a’tall, to go tricklin’ our big landin’ in. We gotta pound ’em when the time comes. But we do hafta send somethin’ to hold the cork in the bottle for them three or four weeks you talked about. . . . If Cap’n Chappelle can stuff one in.”

  “What do you suggest?” Keje asked.

  Silva grinned wider. “I’ll take Larry an’ Gunny Horn”—his eye shifted lazily toward Chack—“an’ tag along with the First Raider Brigade.”

  “Now, wait just a minute!” Sandra flared. “Lawrence and Horn are both wounded, and Chack’s Brigade took almost twenty percent casualties in the battle here. Thirty percent in the First North Borno!”

  Silva waved it away. “Larry an’ Horn ain’t really hurt. Just little pokes.”

  “They were shot!”

  “So? They ain’t shot bad. You think they’d rather loll around in a rack or go have fun?”

  Chack was leaning forward now. “The First Raider Brigade is ready,” he said. “Cap-i-taan Abel Cook has replaced Major I’joorka commanding the First North Borno, until I’joorka is . . . fit to resume his duties.” I’joorka had been badly burned in the fighting here, and they all knew it was extremely unlikely he’d return to combat. He was lucky to be alive. Chack continued, shaking his head. “I know Cook is very young, but the troops trust and aad-mire him. More important, he has proven himself steady, imaginative, and aggressive. I recommend him for the brevet rank of major.”

  “Done,” Matt said. “But no matter how ready you are, your Raiders are still under strength.”

  Silva winked at Chack. “Actually, they might be a tad over strength—after we swoop down by Grik City an’ pick up a couple hundred of Will’s Shee-Ree an’ Maroons.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Rolando blurted. “All they’ve trained for is static defense, and that would further weaken the force we intended to leave there.”

  “Skipper just said there’s no sense defendin’ the place if the Grik get out,” Dennis replied reasonably. “An’ as for ‘static,’ tell that to the Shee-Ree who helped me an’ Chackie hammer dug-in Grik on the Mangoro River. Tell it to the Maroons who broke trail for Chack’s Brigade through the jungles o’ northern Madagascar.” He scratched his chin. “They’re fightin’ fiends, an’ none of ’em like sittin’ behind the Wall o’ Trees at Grik City. Sure, we’ll hafta mix ’em in quick, but if Cap’n Chappelle makes ’em somethin’ to defend, they’ll fight their way to it an’ hold it to the end. They got more reason than anybody to keep the Grik the hell off Madagascar for good.”

  Chack was nodding. His sister, Risa, had fought with Maroons. So had Major Galay. Both told him they were “wasted” in defense. And Silva’s point about the Shee-Ree was also valid.

  “Okay, say that’s so,” croaked Perry Brister. “How will you get the whole brigade there?”

  “Easy,” Silva said. “We take what’s left of Des-Rons Six and Ten: Saak-Fas and Clark. Skipper already said they ain’t good for much, escortin’ Big Sal an’ Savoie. There’s half a dozen AVDs an’ fast transports too, runnin’ supplies up from Mahe.” He grinned. “But what I’d really like to take is them four Grik cruisers.”

  “But . . . how can you crew them?” Keje asked, surprised.

  “With survivors from our other DDs.”

  Matt grimaced. “I want to put most of them in Savoie, as a core of officers and NCOs to build her crew around.”

  “Still can, Skipper. We don’t need many. The new Grik CAs don’t need many hands to sail. They hardly got any sails. All they need’re officers an’ gunners. Chack’s Brigade can handle the guns.”

  “What about engineers?” Perry asked.

  “Hell, use the Grik snipes.” Silva waited while their expressions of disbelief spread. “Don’t you get it? They ain’t warrior lizards a’tall. They just run the machines. They surrendered, an’ far as they’re concerned, they b’long to us. Those Grik snipes in the tug that pulled Chackie out of Madagascar might’a been the first to do it, but ask Larry or Pokey. They talked the cruisers into givin’ up. Hell, ask Gunny Horn how the Griks in Savoie’s gunhouse joined him in the fight. They’ll do their jobs just fine unless more lizards swarm aboard an’ take ’em back.” He looked thoughtful. “An’ after what Horn said, I ain’t sure they’d change sides again so fast. Weird.”

  “You have given this a lot of thought, Chief Sil-vaa. Also ‘weird,’ considering you usu-aally tend to make things up as you go,” Keje observed.

  “Doin’ a little o’ that now, Ad’mral,” Dennis confessed.

  “It could work,” Chack urged.

  Matt was nodding. “Yeah. If Santy Cat survives the night—and however many days it takes you to get there.” He looked at Chack, Silva, Keje, then Sandra. “Start putting it together. I want the First Raider Brigade embarked and underway by dawn.” He glared at Chack’s surprised blinking. “You wanted to do this. There’s no point if you get there too late, so you’ll have to hustle. I’ll send a preparatory order down to Grik City, to get the Maroons and Shee-Ree ready.” He paused. “And remember, if it is too late, you’ll stop wherever you are and whatever you’re doing and head straight for Mahe, clear?”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Silva and Chack chorused. Silva turned and started back down the stairs aft. “Where are you going?” Chack demanded. “We have to plaan!”

  “Sure, Chackie. Just a couple things I have to do. First, I gotta go tell Larry an’ Horn what they volunteered for. . . .” He was already gone. He hadn’t added that he had to tell Pam Cross as well.

  “That’s something,” Matt said, allowing a little relief to enter his voice. He really hadn’t known how he was going to support Chappelle, other than from the air. He’d still do that, of course, and it would help, but probably not enough. “Spread the wo
rd: the new priority for everyone not actively working on repairs to our ships is to do whatever they can to get Chack’s Brigade underway.” He rubbed his forehead. “That’s about all we can do at the moment. I sure hope we get better news from Second Fleet and General Shinya in the East.”

  CHAPTER 4

  ////// USS Maaka-Kakja

  2nd Fleet

  Eastern Pacific

  CINCEAST High Admiral Harvey Jenks and Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan stood on the high starboard bridgewing of the massive carrier USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), steaming northeast from the Enchanted (Galápagos) Isles. Two new, slightly smaller Fleet carriers, built in the Filpin Lands—USS New Dublin (CV-6) and USS Raan-Goon (CV-7)—had joined her at last, already sporting the new “dazzle” camouflage scheme the Alliance had adopted and Maaka-Kakja had received during her extensive repairs at Albermarl. The sky was bright and almost cloudless, the equatorial temperature moderated by a stiff southwest wind that had turned the Pacific a brilliant marbled blue, its wave tops hazed by blowing spray of perfect white.

  Lelaa had to admit that, particularly with the sea so scattered, the ugly new paint scheme was very effective at altering silhouettes. The idea wasn’t so much to hide the ships; that was practically impossible, considering their size and vast wakes, which, snowy white by day and phosphorescent at night, would give them away from the air. Mainly, the jagged shades of gray and blue were intended to spoil the aim of enemy gunners by making it difficult for them to estimate ranges. Faat chaance that I’ll take carriers into a surfaace aaction again! Lelaa thought. She’d done it at Malpelo and probably tipped the scales toward victory, but it nearly cost them her ship. And the months she’d spent laid up had deprived their land forces of vital air cover while fighting the Doms on the South American coast. In retrospect, it might’ve almost been better to lose at Malpelo and preserve Maaka-Kakja. The enemy would’ve still been too badly battered to capitalize on their victory. But retrospect is too distaant to consider in the heat of baattle when your fleet is dying, Lelaa honestly assessed, and realized the new paint scheme was a good idea after all. Given the same situation, she’d probably do the very same thing.