River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  Bekiaa’s eyes went wide with surprise before she blinked annoyance. “With respect, Gener-aal, I don’t like it either, but if we wait too long, the daamn Grik’ll make it impossible to get across—straight at ’em or any other way.”

  “Perhaps, but there are other factors to consider. First, as you know, we have confirmation that the Grik, as we speak, are finally launching the mass attack we’ve dreaded so long, across the strait at Madagascar. But with the impetuous move by Captain Chappelle and his Santa Catalina to block the Zambezi, surely soon followed by the bulk of all Allied forces along the east coast of Africa, the Grik will be hard-pressed to send more forces to oppose us here.” He nodded at Choon. “The Inquisitor suspects the enemy believes we’re a mere feint, a diversion, in any event.”

  “We are a diversion, of a sort,” Bekiaa replied bitterly, “but it’ll quit working if we stop!”

  “It’s already worked perhaps better than we can manage, my dear.” Courtney spoke for the first time, his voice full of regret. “There are more Grik across the river than is generally known. Aerial observations put their numbers closer to two hundred thousand than the one fifty we previously thought.”

  The Republic Army had a full dozen Cantets to scout for it now, though they were careful never to show more than a few at a time. Cantets were fast two-seater biplanes, roughly resembling something called a B-1 Albatross. They had no forward firing weaponry—yet—but were equipped with a Maxim on a high mount, which allowed its observer to shoot downward, in addition to engaging enemy zeppelins. They could also carry light bombs under their wings. Many more—better—planes would soon be forthcoming as Republic industry ramped up, but even the first trickle of Cantets was a great achievement, considering the Republic had neglected aeronautics for a full decade after its first aircraft flew. They’d been considered dangerous, expensive curiosities, of little military value. They knew better now, and even these first Cantets were better than Nancys over land. The next planes might rival P-1C Mosquito Hawks, and there’d be a lot of them. The biggest choke point would be training, and Bekiaa’s flying shipmates, which Donaghey left behind with her, had established a burgeoning flight school north of Alex-aandra.

  But none of that would help them now.

  “So, whaat do we do? Just sit here an’ take potshots at each other?” Bekiaa asked sharply, tail swishing angrily.

  “No,” Choon said, his large pale blue eyes reflecting pleasure at being able to bring good news—before his rival (he believed) for Bekiaa’s affections, General Taal, could beat him to it. “We will continue to provide a distraction the Grik can’t ignore, to the extent of crushing the force across from us and pushing onward—as soon as we have what we need.”

  “And whaat’s that?” Bekiaa asked dolefully.

  Taal beat Choon this time. “As a comm-aander of cavalry, I have been as frustrated as you by our immobility,” he said, “and have been scouting up- and downriver for possible fords.” He shook his head. “There are a few possibilities, but none are ideal. The river is too deep and we will have to cross on boats and barges. Surely you can imagine how costly that would be in the face of massed artillery and musketry!”

  “So we don’t do it here, not initially,” Choon announced triumphantly. “We continue building boats and barges in the forest behind us and bringing them up for the enemy to see, but our cavalry and engineers will also build them far to the east and west.”

  Bekiaa nodded, realization dawning. “We’ll keep ’em maassed here while we prepare to cross on their flaanks. We’ll still cross here too, but only aaf-ter those forces strike.”

  “Those are the bare bones of the plan,” Courtney agreed. “But it will take time to prepare.”

  “Not thaat long,” Bekiaa argued with growing enthusiasm, but Choon looked at Kim and nodded.

  “I’m afraid it will still take longer than we’d prefer. Even an attack such as that, confident as I would be of success, could be far too costly and leave us crippled. We must wait for more muscle and sinew to give the bones strength.”

  “Wait for whaat, and how long?” Bekiaa asked darkly.

  “More troops, aircraft, and particularly howitzers. And many, many more of the mortars like those the chairman of your Union was so kind to give us plans for.”

  Bekiaa slumped. “How daamn long will thaat take?” she demanded.

  “They and the ammunition they require are already in production,” Choon soothed. “They’re amazingly simple to build, after all. More and more of your countrymen have been making the long flight to Songze, as a matter of fact, and are providing tremendous technical assistance.” He shrugged modestly. “We have shared a few of our designs with them. For Derby Guns, as an example.”

  “Most specifically, however,” General Kim continued, “we have reason to believe our navy might actually make an appearance, to cover our river crossing.” He shook his head. “Sadly, that is least likely of all, and if the navy cannot help us at the end of . . .” He hesitated. “Sixty days’ time, we will commence the operation without it.”

  “Sixty days?” Bekiaa practically roared. “The whole daamn war might be lost by then!”

  General Kim’s narrow eyelids tightened to angry slits. “Do not forget yourself, Legate Bekiaa!” He paused and his tone softened slightly. “It is my hope the delay will help minimalize casualties—and it should. The longer we wait, the more complacent the enemy will become, increasingly convinced they are a mere garrison, a check against our continued advance.” He straightened and clasped his hands behind his back. “But we will closely monitor events on the Zambezi. Do not think we will not cross, whenever we must and regardless of loss, if it suddenly appears the war is in the balance. Even if it requires the sacrifice of this entire army.” He glared around at the other officers, none of whom had spoken, but who’d all taken involuntary steps away from him. “Is that understood?”

  CHAPTER 9

  ////// USS Santa Catalina

  Zambezi River

  Grik Africa

  “Wilya look at that!” Major Simon “Simy” Gutfeld murmured, standing on Santa Catalina’s port bridgewing as the old ship led its smaller, wooden-hulled consorts upriver. Simy was short and stocky, shaped like a fireplug, but probably didn’t carry an ounce of fat. His bright blue eyes always seemed to radiate an aura of excited wonder, despite the horrors they’d seen, and this was no exception. He tilted the helmet back on his dark-haired head and pointed at the sheer south bank of the river a couple of hundred yards away. It reared up almost as high as the deck he stood on. Flocks of colorful lizardbirds of all descriptions literally swarmed around them, swooping at their wake and squirting their droppings all over the decks, but that was commonplace now, and not what he was indicating.

  They’d apparently left the swampy coastal plain behind and entered a river-gouged cut in an escarpment, where they began to see increasing signs of Grik habitation. There were just a few hovels at first, with fishing nets drying in the sun and crude skiffs tied to posts onshore. Most of the scruffy Grik attending them just stood and stared at the small squadron steaming past, mouths hanging open in apparent surprise. Occasionally, huge crocodiles flowed into the water from little beaches where they’d been sunning themselves, alarmed by the ships. Now and then, larger bands of Grik were seen on the ridge above. They were hunters, armed with long spears or dragging sleds heaped with meat, surrounded by clouds of flies. None of this was unexpected. They were still almost eighty miles from Sofesshk, and aerial reconnaissance had led them to believe they wouldn’t see anything like a town before the bend in the river. Now, however, though there were few standing structures, Gutfeld had noticed a long series of cave dwellings dug out of the bank itself and reinforced by rough-hewn timbers. That was odd in itself, since there were few real trees around. Perhaps they used driftwood?

  “Weird,” Lieutenant Mikey Monk agreed, joining the Marine a
nd raising his Imperial-made spyglass. “But they’re Grik. Weird by definition. Huh. I used to think of ’em like ants, you know? Now we see ’em living in holes in the ground.”

  “Yeah, ants . . . or crawfish. They look kinda like crawfish holes to me, the way they’re built up around the entrances and all the dirt’s just thrown out and, well, shaped.” Gutfeld, off the old S-19, was born near Shreveport, Louisiana, and knew quite a lot about crawfish holes. He’d been a “motor mac” on the lost S-boat, but like Colonel Billy Flynn, killed in India, had seen prior service. In his case, he’d pulled a hitch in the USMC before joining the Navy—and the submarine service that fascinated him. It also paid more. His size made him a good pigboat sailor, but his shipmates never managed to wash the Marine out of him. Now, without a sub, he was back doing what he was arguably best at.

  “Say, maybe so,” Monk agreed. “Not sure which gives me the creeps more either.”

  Gutfeld nodded. Captain Flaar-Baa-Ris, his XO and commander of C Company, 1st Battalion, 3rd Marines, approached, stood at attention, and saluted. Flaar was a dusky yellow–furred ’Cat from Aryaal. Gutfeld returned the salute. “Whatcha got?” he asked. General quarters had finally been sounded shortly before. There were still no enemy ships in sight, but a trio of Grik zeppelins had been seen, cruising high overhead to the north, and the bend in the river where they meant to try to block the Grik breakout was just a few miles ahead. And who knew what might be in those holes? Most of the Grik on the ridge simply crouched down and tried to disappear in the scrubby brush and tall grass.

  “First Baa-tallion has stood to, sur. Small aarms has all been issued, maa-chine guns is maanned, an’ B Comp’nee staands ready to assist gun’s crews.”

  “Double issue of ammo for the Allin-Silva rifles and shotguns, and the Blitzerbugs? All breastworks and boarding nets rigged?”

  “Ay, sur.”

  Gutfeld nodded again. He didn’t ask about drilling holes in the deck to bolt down the mortar baseplates. He’d overseen that himself, on both sides of the ship. They’d used mortars aboard ship before—not an ideal platform, of course—but Simon suspected they’d need to do it again, and the biggest problem they’d run into was getting the baseplates to bite. “Very well. Thanks, Flaar.”

  Lookouts cried out in alarm and Monk looked ahead, shading his eyes against the afternoon sun. “Oh, hell,” he murmured, raising his glass again. “Smoke. Lots of it.” Gutfeld shaded his eyes as well and saw what looked like dozens of columns of gray-black smoke rising in the distance, mixing high in the air to become a thick, dark haze. Unlike Kurokawa’s Grik steamers, converted to burn oil, whatever approached from the west still used coal.

  Gutfeld looked around. The river was very wide here, practically a lake, and recon revealed more lakes ahead, all the way past Sofesshk. But the choke-point bend was visible now, pushing into the river like a long, arched, rocky peninsula. Something like what Gutfeld imagined an extra-large mountain-fish skeleton buried in rocks might look like. Up until now, the shore had seemed most like deeply eroded soil, and little stone had been seen. That was obviously changing, and this Zambezi, clearly much deeper than it should be, had scoured its way down to the very bones of the earth, or the roots of the distant mountains.

  ’Cats on the fo’c’sle were still casting their lead lines and calling out depths. “By de maark, seven anna haaf!” came the cry, meaning there was forty-five feet of water in the deep channel they followed, conveniently marked by the enemy with painted floats. Armed and armored as she was, the 420-foot Santa Catalina displaced nearly 8,000 tons and drew 30 feet of water. It was believed the Grik BBs, which had to navigate the same passage, drew about the same even after whatever changes were made to them, so Santy Cat should be able to clear the bottom all the way to Sofesshk.

  Monk nodded at the pilothouse, and Gutfeld followed him inside. Russ Chappelle watched them enter and waved them forward. “Looks like a race to see who gets to the bend first,” he said. “The lookout in the crow’s nest can see over that hump of rock and reports six Grik BBs, leading a dozen of their cruisers. Air recon says the galleys are farther back, straggling in clumps all the way past Sofesshk, and there’re more BBs and cruisers gathering behind ’em. God knows where they all came from, maybe that river heading north, or farther up Lake Nalak. . . .” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter much to us. Not right now.” A faint smile touched his lips. “We haven’t seen it, of course, but Arracca’s planes’ve been plastering the galleys all day, which is swell, and there’s damn little they can do about it.” The smile vanished. “They’ve been steering clear of the heavies, though. They’ve got new defenses, like short-range rockets of their own. Or maybe they’re the same old canister mortars that shoot something like case shot in the air, fused to blow about where Nancys release their bombs in a dive.” He frowned. “Damn lizards must be busy as Chinamen making fireworks.” He yawned, affecting unconcern. “Our guys’ll figure a way around it,” he assured, “but we have to handle the heavies for now.”

  The river had widened to about a mile, with the channel markers spaced roughly half a mile apart. Gauging this, Russ seemed to come to a decision. “Too much river to plug up here. We have to push it. Ahead full,” he added louder, to the light-furred Lemurian at the engine order telegraph.

  “Ahead full, ay!” came the reply. Amid a clash of bells, the ’Cat heaved the shiny brass handle on the EOT back and forth three times to signal a rapid speed increase. Immediately, the corresponding pointer swung to match the order with a final clang.

  “Shit fire,” Monk said wonderingly. “We’re really gonna do this.”

  Russ turned to him. “Get aft to the auxiliary conn.” He looked appraisingly at Gutfeld. “Your Marines are ready?”

  “As ready as I can make ’em.”

  “Okay, Major. You might as well stay for now and see how this shapes up.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Goddamn it!” Dean Laney snarled when the EOT gnashed to “Ahead Full.” Instead of sullenly waiting awhile, however, as he usually did, he instantly responded and spun on his elaborately carved (and cushioned) stool, bellowing, “All right, step on it, you greasy little chimps! It ain’t enough they wanna kill us—they can’t wait to get at it!” Glancing automatically at the steam-pressure gauge, fluctuating around the 180 mark, he made a “spin it” motion at the ’Cat standing by the high-pressure steam valve. Other Lemurians, naked except for gray-blue kilts and the occasional filthy Dixie cup, blinked nervous acceptance and stiffened at their posts as more steam gushed to the huge four-cylinder triple-expansion engine crowding the compartment. A little steam fogged the space, seeping past worn seals, but very quickly the heavy heartbeat thump-thump-kerthump! of the engine sped up, just like a runner shifting from a jog to a sprint, and the massive, oil-streaked piston rods accelerated their eccentric pace.

  Laney stood and stepped to the fireroom hatch, looking through. Four ’Cats on watch peered intently at the eight fiery ports flanking them, occasionally glancing at gauges above or tumultuous feedwater swirling in cloudy sight glasses. Compared to Walker’s fireroom snipes, tending equally old but far more finicky “high-performance” boilers feeding her demanding turbines, these had little to do. Uncharacteristically, Laney hurled no obligatory abuse at them. He merely said, “Dog this hatch,” and backed away.

  For a fleeting moment, he caught himself almost missing Walker and all the people he’d known in her engineering spaces—even those moronic “Mice,” Isak and Gilbert. He’d never really liked any of them, but he felt their absence now. Particularly since so many were dead. Covertly, he studied “his” ’Cats. He had no illusions that they liked him, but they respected his knowledge. They might even take a measure of perverse pride in their ability to endure him, and seemed to get a kick out of his weird, rebellious relationship with the skipper. That was particularly odd, since they obviously liked Captain Chappelle.r />
  Maybe it was the stool stunt that welded them together—and to me, he reflected. When some deck apes, on a lark, swiped all the stools out of engineering—including Laney’s favorite—his entire division was outraged. In complete agreement, probably for the first time, he and his snipes retaliated. Using careful planning and precise timing, they stole every single stool and chair on the entire ship—except Captain Chappelle’s on the bridge—and threw them over the side. Then, despite serious pressure to blow, mainly by the XO, nobody in his division ratted him out. The result was new chairs and stools on the ship—including the princely one he’d just left, which just appeared one day, and a complete end to any more bullshit from the apes. The disproportionate response, he mused. One thing I learned from that asshole Silva.

  In the end, despite his brief moment of nostalgia, he was relatively content with his lot, sensing a swelling . . . benevolence toward the ’Cats under his command. They don’t like me, but they maybe don’t hate me either. That was enough. Almost. He reflected back on his conversation with Kathy McCoy and the vague encouragement she’d given. What a dish, he thought. After all this time, maybe she’ll finally give me a chance. I’ve got my “baby”; I’ve got a home. Maybe I’ll finally even have a girl I don’t have to pay to like me. . . . Then he frowned.

  Not very goddamn likely, he fumed. We’re steaming as fast as we can to slam into the whole lizard navy! What’re the chances me an’ my baby—or Kathy—will make it through that? Shit! “I never get a break,” he mumbled, walking slowly past the throbbing engine. Shaking out a PIG-cig, he looked at it with a bitter snort, remembering it was Isak, Gilbert, and others who’d figured out how to make the waxy Aryaalan tobacco fit to smoke. Don’t miss those little turds at all. Putting the vile thing between his lips, he lit it with a battered Zippo and sucked in the acrid pollution it discharged. He barely noticed how bad it was anymore. Even PIG-cigs couldn’t compete with the reek of rancid sweat and hot, oily iron pervading the compartment—even with half the ’Cats in his division smoking now. He returned to his comfy stool. Cap’n Chappelle’s fighting for the damn cause, and down deep, just about everybody in the American Navy Clan, human and ’Cat, is probably really fighting for Cap’n Reddy. Well, that’s okay, he grudged. I guess I am too, in a way, even if Reddy don’t like me either. But he gave me chance after chance until I wound up here. I gotta prove I deserved it. In the end, though, my main cause is this engine. . . . He considered. And “my” ’Cats too. And Kathy, he added emphatically. We’re all probably gonna die, but it damn sure won’t be because my baby quit on ever’body—or I did.