River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  “It is a fine sight,” High Admiral Jenks proclaimed with satisfaction, nodding at the carriers, steaming in line abreast, and the vast battlegroup surrounding them.

  “Indeed,” Lelaa agreed. “It’s the most powerful fleet ever aass-embled against the Doms. With three carriers together, along with their improved planes, it might be the most powerful fleet aass-embled by the Graand Alli-aance.”

  “With the situation so desperate in the west, it makes me feel a bit guilty . . . almost.” Jenks absently twisted the long braided mustaches dangling several inches below his mouth. “I suspect I may manage to subdue my regret, however,” he added dryly. The fact was, Jenks did feel guilty on behalf of the Empire. It had required far too much in terms of “modern” ships, arms, and even blood from their mostly Lemurian Allies just to hold its own against the evil Dominion. This while the Lemurian Union could ill afford the generosity, facing an existential threat from the Grik on the other side of the world. It shamed him that so few Imperials were helping their friends in that distant, desperate struggle. If this front had been comparatively neglected, Jenks more than understood.

  Things were finally changing, though, and the Empire was getting its industrial feet under it in the wake of a brutal Dom attack, civil war, and various domestic upheavals. The three carriers and about half their auxiliaries belonged to the Union and, more specifically, the American Navy Clan, but the rest of the fleet, with a few exceptions, was Imperial. Granted, all the ships of the line were older-style sidewheel sailing steamers, but some of the newer escorts were armored copies of Union Scott-class screw frigates, or DDs. And the factories of the Empire, supplied with their allies’ plans, were making their own weapons now. The DDs here and on their way were a stopgap. Armed with technical advisors from the Union, drawings sent by Spanky McFarlane, and the Empire’s own inventiveness and impressive steel-making capacity, the shipyards on New Scotland were already working on steel-hulled warships of their own. The lightest would hopefully improve on the Walker class, and it was hoped the heavier ships might someday serve as a deterrent even to the mighty League. None of those could possibly be ready in time to impact the current campaign, however. They’d have to fight with what they had for the foreseeable future, and the war might very well be won or lost before the new designs could join them.

  Jenks wouldn’t complain. In addition to the carriers and their nearly two hundred combined aircraft, 2nd Fleet had twelve ships of the line under Admiral E. B. Hibbs. Eight sailed in front of the carriers, oilers, troop transports, and all the various support ships. Four brought up the rear. Ten of them, including the veterans Mars, Mithra, Hermes, and Centurion, represented the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and two were Dom prizes, manned by mixed human and Lemurian, Union and Imperial, crews. In partial recompense for all the gallant escorting DDs the American Navy Clan lost at Malpelo, they’d become USS Sword, formerly Espada de Dios, and USS Destroyer, formerly Deoses Destructor. Destroyer was commanded by Captain Ruik-Sor-Raa and seconded by Imperial Lieutenant Parr. They and their crew were as inseparable as their previous ships: USS Simms and HIMS Icarus, still bound by a desperate towline on the bottom of the sea.

  Surrounding all was a screen of twenty DDs and AVDs (basically DDs with the capacity to launch scout planes), including the repaired Ulysses, Euripides, Tacitus, and Achilles. Jenks and Lelaa couldn’t get enough of the awesome sight; the great carriers pounding through the swells, undisturbed by the boisterous sea, the liners a bit more jostled, and the DDs capering with what almost seemed an energetic impatience. All the sailing steamers were under staysails and reefed topsails, taking best advantage the gale, while smoke streamed from the tops of their funnels. Paddlewheels churned the sea at the sides of the older ships.

  “If we’d had this much power before Malpelo, including your carriers, of course”—Jenks bowed—“there’d be no Dom fleet left to oppose us at the Pass of Fire.”

  “Perhaaps,” Lelaa agreed, “but if so much had been spared to us then, at the expense of First Fleet, the war in the west would be lost. I too feel guilty and almost wish the caarriers had gone to Cap-i-taan Reddy instead.”

  She suddenly lowered her voice and glanced around to ensure no one was in earshot. “Speaking of feeling guilty, I suppose you read the, uh, con-taact report submitted by Raan-Goon’s cap-i-taan?”

  Jenks nodded gravely. As soon as Raan-Goon and New Dublin joined at Albermarl, in the Enchanted Isles, Raan-Goon’s captain, Rin-Faak-At, passed on a detailed description of some disturbing radio traffic they’d intercepted three days out of the Filpin Lands, apparently originating from a mysterious flight of Japanese attack planes of some sort. This was confirmed by Raan-Goon’s signals officer, who’d come to this world aboard the Japanese destroyer Hidoiame. After a brief stay in the Shogunate of Yokohama after his capture, he’d joined the American Navy Clan. No former Hidoiame sailors were sent west—the Khonashi had wanted to hang them all, with good reason—but only their officers were “bad” men. The rest were just following orders in a frightening, inexplicable situation. In any event, he’d heard the increasingly desperate calls of his countrymen, somehow swept to this world as well, as they searched for their own carrier. Obviously, it hadn’t crossed over with them.

  Interestingly, this exact possibility had been foreseen and standing orders stated that no such contacts could be answered. There was too great a chance the Allies’ unfamiliar ships—particularly the carriers—would be attacked by the modern Japanese aircraft. Even replying in Japanese might only make matters worse, because the talker wouldn’t know any current codes or call signs. It was a terrible calculation, especially since the distressed flight would almost certainly go down at sea when its fuel ran out, but there was really no choice.

  Lelaa imagined Raan-Goon’s signals officer had faced his worst nightmare and must’ve been tortured by his inability to assist his countrymen, but the fact he’d followed prescribed procedures eliminated any doubts about his commitment to the Allied cause. She honored and sympathized with him for it, and wished she could reward him. But that might make him feel even worse. . . . And even though I wasn’t even there, I still feel responsible. “I wish we were with Cap-i-taan Reddy, fighting a clean—right—war against the Grik,” she suddenly blurted. “Or that Cap-i-taan Reddy was here.”

  Jenks nodded. “Honestly, I feel much the same. I miss his quick judgment and his instincts. And his confidence,” he added, “real or affected.” Lelaa looked at Jenks. Obviously, the High Admiral knew Matt Reddy very well. Ironically, Matt’s cousin Orrin, who came to this world at a different time aboard a prison ship escorted by Hidoiame, chose that moment to step out on the bridgewing with Maaka-Kakja’s captain, “Tex” Sheider. Orrin had been a pursuit pilot in the Philippines before they fell and became Lelaa’s commander of flight operations (COFO). Oddly, the ship’s chief engineer, Gilbert Yeager, was tagging along with Orrin and Tex. All seemed surprised to see Jenks and Lelaa. Orrin and Tex saluted, while Gilbert hung back.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Tex said. “We didn’t know you were out here.”

  “No disturb-aance,” Lelaa replied, her eyes narrowing. “Unless you brought your aar-gu-ment with you?”

  Both men looked sheepish. Tex was a former submariner off S-19 and had been with Lelaa a long time. He was also relatively short compared to Orrin, who looked like a younger version of his cousin. Tex’s great ambition before the war was to become a naval aviator—little chance of that, since he hadn’t been an officer then—but he remained loyal to naval aviation and had a running dispute with Orrin over which was best: the P-40 or the Wildcat. Sometimes it got fairly heated, to the amusement, and eventual annoyance, of those around them.

  “Well, we were still discussing the merits of certain aspects of various planes,” Orrin conceded, his drawl apparent through his careful enunciation. He, Matt, and Tex, of course, were all from Texas. Surprisingly, though Orrin had moved to C
alifornia with his family some years before the war, his accent remained the most noticeable of the three. “Mainly whether air- or water-cooled is better. The Air Corps liked water because it allows for better streamlining—our Nancys notwithstanding. Nothing has more drag than they do.”

  PB-1B Nancys were an increasingly sore subject with their pilots. They were great, reliable little planes, perfect for relatively long-range reconnaissance and capable of landing on the water. They even made pretty good light bombers and ground-attack aircraft. The problem was, nothing else could do what they did, and they’d remained virtually unchanged since their inception. Part of that had to do with a general reluctance to mess with a good thing, but they weren’t good enough anymore. Against the Doms, they were vulnerable to attack by lizardbirds, or what the Impies called “dragons,” and they were slow enough that the enemy could sometimes bring them down with concentrated musket fire. Other, even more effective countermeasures had to be expected.

  And the Grik already had close-in defenses, swatting Nancys down like flies from their capital ships. Worse, the battle for Zanzibar had shown that if they ever tangled with the League, Nancys would become useless, unsurvivable wastes of pilots. The little P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or Fleashooters, had been upgraded several times, and a C model with stacked, air-cooled radials now predominated. Yet another model, bigger and with a more powerful engine, was already in the works now that they’d faced a few League fighters (in Kurokawa’s possession) for the first time and their limited hoard of P-40Es had been almost wiped out. But Nancys were still the only small planes they had that could float. There were finally rumors of a new model with a faired-in stacked radial of its own, along with other improvements, but none had been seen and none were expected for some time.

  “And the Navy liked air-cooled for simplicity and reliability,” Tex supplied. “Not to mention that air-cooled engines—like those in Wildcats—can take more punishment.”

  “Yeah,” Gilbert interjected, his reedy voice so much like that of his half brother, Isak Reuben. Lelaa blinked at him, wondering why he was even there, and why her two most senior officers were putting up with him.

  Orrin rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how anything could take more abuse than the couple of P-Forties the Japs shot up around me. Stick to your boats, Tex—things you know something about!” Tex’s face reddened and he started to respond.

  “Gentlemen!” Jenks growled. “That’s enough.”

  “Indeed,” Lelaa agreed, “but haaving laid this aside, I thought, I’m curious why you resumed your debate.”

  Tex shuffled his feet and Gilbert ignored them all, looking at the fleet around them. “Nancys and Fleashooters, indirectly,” Orrin confessed. “I got the dope on the load-outs for New Dublin and Raan-Goon from their COFOs when they reported. Dern, those kids are green!” he digressed. “About half the new fliers are ’Cats from the Filpin Lands, a few from Austraal too, but the rest are Impies they picked up as the new carriers sailed east. Flight training in the Empire, on New Ireland, is even skimpier than what the ’Cats got, since there’s fewer planes to practice in. We have to do some refresher training and joint exercises before we hit the Doms, or it’ll be a slaughter.”

  “Of course,” Lelaa agreed. “You can commence tomorrow. The sky priests in the weather division aass-ure me the wind and sea will moderate signifi-caantly. And we will be at Maan-i-zaales for a few weeks, at least, before we move against the enemy. You may continue your training uninterrupted by me until baattle is joined.” Manizales was another coastal town that cast its lot with the Allies. Like most communities on the west coast of the Dominion, it included various equally oppressed but somewhat mutually tolerant cultural minorities. They’d been separated—and, until recently, protected—from more frequent persecution by New Granada and the denser populations to the east by vast distance and formidable ranges of volcanically active mountains. Like Guayak, Puerto Viejo, and Quito to the south, Manizales had been lured into rebellion against its Dominion masters by the possibility of Allied liberation. Strategically, Manizales was particularly important because it was closer to the Pass of Fire and had a much better harbor than Puerto Viejo.

  Orrin looked relieved. “Good,” he said. “My biggest chore will be un-teaching ’em half of what their instructors pounded into them at the Manila ANATC. I know those guys were all veterans when we sent ’em home to teach, but things’ve changed.” He brightened. “The Impies might actually be easier, since they may not’ve picked up as many bad habits yet.” He gestured at Tex. “What got us going, though, like I said, is how the Sixth and Seventh Air Wings are equipped. They’ve only got a few new C model P-Ones. Most of their ships are like ours—all the early models. It’s like we got the rejects left over when the Cs went to First Fleet.”

  “I know,” Lelaa said, “but they’re not rejects. They’re new air-craaft right off the aass-embly line in Maa-ni-la. They are the laast of the early models,” she conceded, “but shouldn’t go to waste if they’re still of use. They are, and I’m glaad to have them.”

  “You are?” Orrin and Tex chorused.

  “Of course. They’re aac-tually better suited for fighting Grikbirds. The C models are too faast.” Orrin’s eyes went wide. Lelaa was right, and he should’ve thought of that. He was the experienced combat pilot, after all. But even if she wasn’t a pilot herself, Lelaa was learning carrier and air combat tactics fast. Grikbirds couldn’t even catch a Nancy in level flight. They could almost outdive one because they were so clean, but what made them really dangerous was their incredible agility. Speed was a wonderful thing, and even the earliest P-1s had that advantage over Grikbirds. But they could also—almost—turn with them. The faster, heavier C models simply couldn’t go slow enough to stay with them without stalling. “Besides,” Lelaa continued, “as far as we know, the Doms still haave no air-craaft to contend with. Certainly not such as First Fleet recently encountered. Jaap planes, League planes—our best should go to them. They haave few enough ad-vaantages left, while we enjoy many.”

  “May enjoy many,” Jenks cautioned. “We must never take that for granted. It has been some time since we fought their ships, and I can’t believe they haven’t improved them in some way by now.” He looked at Lelaa. “But I agree with you. What we have should be sufficient for what lies ahead.”

  “About that,” Orrin prodded. “What’s the dope? Where are we going after Manizales? Straight to the pass?”

  “Essentially,” Jenks cautiously agreed, “but this is not yet to be generally known. There are doubtless Dom spies among our new friends ashore, and we will linger among them long enough for them to report what loose lips reveal. General Shinya and his Army of the Sisters have already reached Manizales and are marching from there to Dulce.” Jenks looked thoughtful. “Frankly, we considered embarking General Shinya’s army and carrying it by sea to the north side of the Pass of Fire. There’s a fortress there, at a city called Ahumada, and there would’ve been less opposition. But General Shinya convinced me that he must continue to advance up the enemy’s only line of retreat and supply by land. We will have to count on New United States forces to prevent supply or escape by sea in the Caribbean,” he added doubtfully. “Meanwhile, the new Dom general, a man we now know is named Mayta, is making for the fortress city of El Corazon on the south side of the pass. We have good maps now, some captured and some the result of improved—if costly—air reconnaissance. Do not doubt there are still large numbers of dragons in the vicinity of the Pass of Fire,” he warned.

  “We haave our own spies now as well, of course,” Lelaa put in.

  “Right, all those Christian and Jaguar Doms flocking to join Shinya.”

  “They are not Doms, Mr. Reddy,” Lelaa stated definitively. “At least most are not. Some are likely spies as well. But the vaast maa-jority want nothing more thaan our help to throw off the oppression of Don Hernaan’s evil church.”

  “An
y word on his sick ass?” Orrin asked, then caught himself. “S’cuse me, Admirals. Tex’s uncouth ways are starting to rub off on me.”

  Lelaa chuckled but then blinked frustration. “Nothing. He escaped, as you know, and we must aass-ume he makes his way to the Temple at New Graa-nada, if he has not aal-ready reached it. Saadly, Gener-aal Mayta does not seem to suffer from his predecessor’s mili-taary incompetence. He haandled part of Gener-aal Shinyaa’s army raather roughly when he caught it strung out on the march to Popaay-an. Worse, the closer Shinyaa gets to El Coraa-zon, the stiffer the opposition may be. And not only from the Army of God.” Lelaa shuddered to mention that most inappropriate name. To her, “God” and the “Maker of All Things” were the same, and it sickened her that all Dom depravity was practiced in His name. “By all accounts, the population on the finger of laand leading to the Paass is fiercely loyal to the Dom Pope, and we caan expect the locals to defend it and the fortress protecting El Coraa-zon just as fanaa-ticly as Mayta’s army.”

  “So we’ll be waiting while Shinya fights his way to the fortress guarding the pass,” Orrin guessed.

  “Initially, though we’ll support him from the air as best we can,” Jenks said. “Actually taking the fort and the city will require a rather more complicated joint operation.”

  Orrin sighed and waved out at the troop transports. “I get it. That’s why we didn’t just feed more troops to Shinya. Part of the joint operation will involve an amphibious assault.”

  “Yes,” Lelaa confirmed. “But we must deal with whaat remains of the Dom fleet first.”

  Orrin looked quizzically at Tex. “Looks like we have our work cut out for us. C’mon, let’s start working on a training schedule.” In addition to directly commanding Maaka-Kakja now, Tex was also Lelaa’s “flag” captain and still, essentially, her XO. Orrin, as “flag” COFO, was likewise senior to all other COFOs in the fleet. They’d have to work very closely to implement Jenks and Lelaa’s strategies. Orrin paused, blinking curiosity at Tex in the Lemurian way. “Say,” he said, “what’s your first name, anyway? I know it isn’t Tex. Every Texan in the navy was called that. I bet they called cousin Matt that before he got the rank to make ’em quit—if they ever did.” He shrugged. “Hell, it was the same in the Air Corps. I was ‘Tex’ in flight school, even though I was from California by then. Lucky there were already two Texes in my squadron in the Philippines when I got there. So what’s your real name? Spill it.”