River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  With a final farewell, Kari and Captain Anson dropped down in the forward cockpit of the Nancy, squirming to adjust their parachutes and get as comfortable as possible on the modified wicker seat. Anson displayed uncharacteristic concern when Kari helped him with the parachute straps. He was thrilled by the idea of flying for the first time, but it hadn’t occurred to him that he might have to jump from the plane for some reason. “Don’t worry, Cap-i-taan,” Kari told him. “Naancys are very reli-aable. An’ if it does craap out, we prob’ly won’t jump, anyway.” She pointed at the wing struts, engine, and propeller behind them. “Ridin’ it down is safer sometimes.”

  Fred slid down the lifting line onto the wing and unfastened the hooks. Then he dropped into the aft cockpit, turned on the fuel and the ignition, and primed the carb. “Contact!” he called, rising to grasp the pusher prop in front of him. He propped the engine awkwardly, unaccustomed to what was usually Kari’s job. He finally managed it without mulching himself and then strapped himself in. With a last wave at those watching on Matarife, he gunned the engine, and the plane wallowed away from the ship, blowing spray off the wavetops. Soon, the Nancy was lost in the darkness, and the only thing Greg could see was the blue exhaust flare and the phosphorescent wake churning around the hull. Finally, the engine roared and the wake began to race away to the northeast, disappearing entirely when the Nancy bounced into the sky. Greg raised his telescope and followed the glowing exhaust as it circled around and headed west-southwest over the beach, the jungle, and the mountains beyond.

  “God help them,” he said, as the engine noise receded. Fred and Kari would suffer at least as much as any Dom defectors if they were forced down and found themselves in the hands of the enemy again, and it was clear the Doms knew about Anson. God knew what imaginative misery he’d endure if caught. “All hands, stand by to get underway. Let’s have the staysails on her, Chief Laan. We’ll weigh anchor as soon as she has some headway on her.”

  “Cap-i-taan!” called Mak-Araa, “look at the shore!” Greg raised his glass again and caught a series of lights flashing at them from the beach. “It’s a Morse lamp!” he exclaimed, surprised.

  “Yah. Did you caatch what it said?”

  “No, but I think it’s repeating.” A signal-’Cat joined them and they watched as the flashing continued, the ’Cat pronouncing the words as they came. “I’ll be damned,” Greg said. “They want us to send a boat ashore!”

  “They sent the proper code prefix,” Mak observed skeptically.

  “Yeah. I guess the enemy might’ve gotten it somehow, but that’s no Dom on the lamp. The signal’s too sure.” He paused. “And there’s no warning prefix. But it does carry the ‘urgent message’ suffix.” He came to a decision. “Send the appropriate countersign and have them stand by,” he told the signal-’Cat. “Call away the whaleboat,” he added. “You take it in, Mr. Mak, with half a dozen armed sailors. And don’t bring more than two visitors back.”

  “Ay, ay, Skipper.”

  It took almost an hour for the whaleboat to be prepared and manned, motor through the brisk surf close to the rocky beach, and then return. It was so dark, Greg suspected Mak was being extra careful, but it was past 0300 now, and he wanted to be far from shore when the sun came up. Lieutenant Mak was obviously of the same mind, because he practically bounded aboard, followed by two men in the mottled camouflage garb of General Ansik’s XI Corps. They saluted Greg.

  “Captain Andreis,” said the taller of the two, with a thick brown beard and the usual long Imperial mustaches. “C Battery, Eighth New Britain Artillery, at your service,” he said. “An’ me companion is Lieutenant Robbins, First Battalion, Twenty-First Imperial Marine Regiment. We, ah, was the ones that fired on ye earlier today, thinkin’ ye was a bloody Dom. When we saw how slow ye was creepin’ along the coast, we hoped ye’d anchor nearby. We scampered ahead tae catch ye, plannin’ tae have another crack at ye with the dawn.”

  “Then we’re both fortunate you thought better of it,” Greg said wryly. “But what made you realize we weren’t Doms?” he asked.

  “General Ansik told all forces advancin’ along the coast tae watch fer an Allied ship. USS Donaghey, in point o’ fact.” He waved around. “But this’s a Dom frigate if ever there was one. We never thought she might be otherwise until ye dropped a Nancy in the water an’ it took off. The Doms got no Nancys.”

  “Very well. I can accept that. But what ‘urgent message’ do you have for us?”

  “Two things, sir, an’ a request. First, we have wireless communications, an’ whatever yer mission, we can pass word tae General Shinya. The Doms already know where we are.” Andreis shrugged. “Aye, an’ ye can send from here for that matter, an’ none’ll be the wiser, if ye have wireless gear aboard. I assume this ship’s a prize?”

  “She is, and we don’t. I may take you up on your offer. We’ve been avoiding transmissions in case the League is listening.”

  “We suspected as much, an’ a clever precaution it is. We saw a big steamer on the horizon just three days ago, headin’ south, southeast. A lethal-lookin’ bugger she was, too, bigger than the dear Walker, which I seen when she first came tae New Scotland. She had to be a Leaguer, consortin’ with the Doms, an’ ye’ll need tae keep a watch fer her.”

  Greg looked meaningfully at Mak. “They’re getting bolder in this hemisphere,” he said. He looked back at Andreis. “Is that all?”

  “Aye, other than the request. Shinya’s given General Ansik permission tae assault Puerto Limon. The defense is scant, much like Tenth Corps found at Dulce, an’ control of a port on this coast’ll allow the NUS tae land supplies an’ troops. I can’t think of a better ploy tae help us take the port than if ye brought yer fine Dom frigate in the harbor an’ raised the devil with the enemy while we attack from shore. Can ye help?”

  Greg rubbed his face. It was tempting, and more in line with how he’d originally hoped to employ Matarife. Finally, he shook his head. “I’d love nothing better, Captain, but we have our own mission—that could get chancier than it already is if we’re seen helping you and word gets ahead of us.”

  Andreis couldn’t hide his disappointment, but nodded. “Aye. I presume ye’ll be tryin’ tae have a look at defenses on this side o’ the Pass o’ Fire? I understand. The advantage this ship’ll give ye could quickly expire.” He straightened. “In that case, we’ll take our leave an’ let ye get underway.”

  “Thanks, Captain, and good luck.” Greg extended his hand. A short time later, Mak was taking their new friends back to the beach, along with a message about the Nancy to be sent to Shinya. It didn’t take Mak nearly as long the second time, and soon he was back aboard. “Whaat’ll we do now?” he asked.

  “Accomplish our mission,” Greg replied, “which I’m confident we can do—if that damn Leaguer didn’t already reverse course and head back where we’re going. Let’s get underway.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ////// USS Matarife

  Caribbean

  December 13, 1944

  USS Matarife hated the wind anywhere much forward of directly abeam, particularly when the sea was rising and starting to pound her bluff bow. Her high fo’c’sle stayed drier than Donaghey’s would have, but taking a direct course, the frankly astonishing leeway she made would’ve had her aground in a few hours. Greg Garrett had no choice but to tack the ship back and forth in a generally northeasterly direction throughout the night and most of the following day. Lookouts reported an increasing number of ships, but Matarife didn’t draw any undue attention. With the faded red sails of a warship and her Dom flag, a surprising number of merchantmen actually drew away from her path. The former Doms among the Nussie crewmen said that was because their navy often took prime sailors from their own civilian ships—unless their owners were very rich and powerful.

  The wind and seas finally eased toward dark, and Matarife shortened sail but continued east for a w
hile before coming about and making for the southern approach to the southeastern side of the Pass of Fire. Hopefully, she’d arrive around dawn.

  “Shipping on this wallowing turd makes me appreciate the old Donaghey even more,” Smitty Smith grumbled, walking the dark quarterdeck with Greg and biting off half of a cigar. Crunching the mouthful into a wad, he put the other half back in his pocket. Greg reflected that there were probably guys in the west, still stuck with Aryaalan tobacco, who might kill Smitty for the rest of that cigar. He’d once been a smoker himself, but couldn’t stand Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert’s PIG-cigs. That helped him avoid getting readdicted here, where real tobacco was plentiful, so he guessed he owed the squirrelly Mice and their ’Cat partner one. He looked at the sky and saw that the overcast was beginning to clear and occasional stars could be seen.

  “She doesn’t handle very well, by our standards,” Greg agreed, “but she’s got teeth.” Matarife actually threw considerably more iron than Donaghey in terms of weight of shot. There were thirty-two twenty-four-pounders on the main gun deck and sixteen nine-pounders on the quarterdeck and fo’c’sle, including a pair of chasers on each. None had been as effective as Donaghey’s eighteen- and twelve-pounders, because she hadn’t possessed even the rudimentary fire-control system Donaghey enjoyed. That was no longer the case. The bronze guns themselves were good quality, meticulously maintained, with smooth, consistent bores. The iron shot was a little less consistent in diameter, but the wads would keep it fairly well-centered in the bores. More important, the same elevation marks had been made on the gun trucks, and windage marks were on the decks behind them. There was a plumb bob in a glass-sided box in the maintop, and an electrical circuit carried current for the primers, which would be inserted in the vents during action.

  That had all been the easy part, and would allow Matarife to fire relatively well-aimed salvos at a distance instead of indiscriminate broadsides at close range. The hard part was providing sufficient electricity, since Donaghey’s little wind-powered auxiliary generators were only intended to charge batteries to run her comm gear. They couldn’t make enough juice for the long runs to the guns, and no one wanted to strip Donaghey’s main generator, even temporarily. She had spares, but there was only one complete engine to power them. The problem was solved by installing one of the spares spun by the engine from Fred and Kari’s battered Nancy.

  That had caused something of a scene. The plane was in rough shape but could’ve been fixed, and nobody was happy about gutting it, least of all Fred and Kari. Greg put a stop to the argument, which grew loud enough to cause alarm a surprising distance from the Santiago docks, by roaring, “Have you both forgotten there’s a war on?” In a lower tone, he’d then promised them Donaghey’s plane—to keep.

  “It’s getting a little lighter,” Smitty now said, squinting south, raising an Impie-made telescope. The Nussies had binoculars, but the magnification was poor and their glass wasn’t as good. “I bet that’s that Boky Kreeb joint on the chart,” he said, then consulted the pocket compass now barely visible. “Probably about two, two, zero.” He looked at Greg. “Pretty impressive navigation, Skipper, considering all the mushy zigzagging we did, and we never got a good sun sight yesterday.”

  “Boca Caribe,” Greg corrected absently, “and Lieutenant Mak deserves the credit.” He still missed Lieutenant Saama-Kera, killed in action, but Mak-Araa was shaping up pretty well. Dawn was coming fast, and Greg looked for himself, quickly finding the focal length of his telescope after long practice.

  The Dom city was six or seven miles away and he couldn’t see it, especially the shoreline, very well, but all this area was very mountainous and the city crowded high into the foothills. A disconcerting number of local mountains were active volcanoes, especially to the west, probably surpassing Jaava and Sumaatra with their density. Greg didn’t know if the haze he was trying to penetrate came from them or the sea. A few lights still flickered in the vanishing darkness and helped outline the masts of ships along the docks or anchored offshore. As the light continued to improve, he saw dark smoke rising from distant funnels. That probably marked them as warships, or at least military transports. Oddly, the first Dom steamers they’d ever seen had been the latter.

  Nobody appeared to notice Matarife as she passed. If they did, they apparently gave her little thought. It was too far to see signal flags, anyway. Matarife sailed on.

  The forenoon watch trudged tiredly on deck, and Mak relieved Smitty a few minutes before 0800. “Shoreline’ll start crowding us soon as it angles northwest,” Smitty warned the XO. “Recommend you come to three, three, zero within the next hour or so.” He glanced at the sails. “If the wind’ll let you. I don’t know what it’s going to do. Don’t think it knows yet. It’s getting brisk again, but gusty.” He straightened. “I stand relieved,” he proclaimed, then slumped again and made his way below. Greg longed for his own bunk after the exhausting tack on tack the day before, but figured things would start to hop as they penetrated deeper into an area the Doms had never allowed anyone to enter. Their captured charts gave them a good idea what to expect in terms of navigation, but nobody had any idea what they’d run into otherwise.

  “I missed Bocaa Caa-ribe,” Mak said, glancing astern. There were occasional settlements, little more than fishing villages along the coast, but there’d be nothing bigger, as far as they knew, until they saw Rio Grabacion seventy-five miles to the north. The Doms liked big forts, but apparently relied more on their navy to protect this side of the pass.

  “Didn’t miss much, as far as I could see. We didn’t get close. Maybe a squadron of warships. Probably a fort. Strategic position or not, they seem to have some kind of fort at every town big enough to support one.”

  Mak nodded and swished his tail. “Prob-aably more worried about raids, in the paast, thaan anybody aac-tually trying to take the paass itself.”

  “Probably. The NUS didn’t want it. Hell, we wouldn’t want it if we didn’t need it to link up with the Nussies and whip the Doms. I can imagine advantages to having it, if we ever do, the biggest being keeping it away from the damned League.”

  Greg Garrett probably hated the League even more than he hated the Grik. After more personal experience with the Dominion, he hated its leaders and depraved culture just as much, but considered the League the biggest long-term threat to all they’d accomplished. Granted, he’d been off the Grik front for a while and knew things were desperate there, but Captain Reddy was there to handle it. Like many in the Alliance, he had much more faith in his former skipper and current clan chief than Matt would’ve considered appropriate. “We have to keep the League’s claws off the pass,” he continued. “None of the Allies can stand against them alone. The NUS damn sure can’t, and the League’ll pick the Nussies off at their leisure if they can keep us out.”

  Lieutenant Jeremy Ortiz, the officer who came aboard with the NUS sailors and was acting as Matarife’s first officer, had joined them. Like most Nussies, he wore thick muttonchops on his cheeks—despite the fact that he looked much too young to support them. Probably has the same problem I do, Greg thought, scratching the dark bristle already spreading on his face. Ortiz nodded very seriously. “I agree with your assessment entirely, and admit I believe that our alliance with you now was the result of divine providence.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Greg demurred, “but it’s a good thing for both of us.”

  Mak had been quiet, apparently deep in thought. Finally, he spoke, changing the subject. “Cap-i-taan Gaar-rett, I under-staand there’s some kind of ca-naal near here, made by people, on the world you came from, but nothing like the Paass of Fire. How do you think it got here?”

  Greg shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve heard lots of theories. Courtney Bradford leans toward the notion of a big meteor—a giant rock falling from the sky—way bigger than the ones we see at night. . . .” He hesitated. Many Lemurians believed falling stars were souls sent fro
m the Heavens to inhabit younglings at birth. “Anyway,” he continued, “a great big rock, maybe a mile wide, might’ve hit, fast as a bullet, and blown a hole in the ground. Over thousands, maybe millions of years, the hole washed out and turned into the pass. Mr. Bradford—and others—also think all the volcanoes in the region might’ve blown their tops all at once and done the same thing.”

  “That is the consensus of many natural philosophers within the NUS,” Ortiz agreed.

  Greg rubbed his chin. “Or maybe a smaller meteor lit the fuse on the volcanoes, and that’s why there’s so many still around?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. Not my problem.”

  “Unless they all blow their top while we’re close by,” Mak suggested with an edge. “It’d be our problem then.”

  Greg laughed. “They might, I guess, but I doubt it. Some of the volcanoes on the west coast spew all the time, I’m told. That’s why they call it the Pass of Fire. But relax. I figure they’re like a pop-off valve on a steam line, making sure the pressure bleeds off before it splits wide open.”

  Mak chuckled nervously.

  As it turned out, Matarife had to tack back out into the Caribbean as the wind came around more out of the west. More Dom ships were seen, a few steamers able to sail directly into the wind, making for the pass itself. Greg suspected they were carrying troops and supplies to El Corazon to face General Shinya and Second Fleet when they arrived. He also knew there were only certain times of day they could squirt through with the tidal race, and that was supposed to be an interesting ride. Maybe some of ’em crack up, he hoped. The afternoon watch had just come on when the lookout at the masthead warned of dark smoke on the horizon, which quickly resolved into a column of approaching ships. All had red sails furled on their yards.

  “Four steamers, staar-board bow, eight t’ou-saand five hunnerd tails—yaads!” came the confirmation. “Dom ships o’ the line!”