River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  Pete and Safir, of course, wanted to immediately drive the Grik that recon flights reported retreating from the nearest trench, but Matt vetoed that, seconded—to his surprise—by Rolak. Rolak calmly reasoned that any force chasing the Grik now would be disorganized, unprepared, and next to impossible to support until they got the mess here sorted out. And given the evidence of trenches and Chack’s confirmation that these Grik were soldiers, not a fleeing mob, such a pursuit would be dangerously exposed. Instead, beneath a sun that was setting on the first official day of the Allied invasion of the Grik homeland, within a bubble that formed in the middle of all the tremendous activity required to land thousands of troops and thousands of tons of equipment, munitions, and supplies, there was relative peace for the larger reunion of many old friends.

  Pam, even wearier than when Silva saw her that morning, was preparing to go out to Salissa as well. For now, she gravitated to Silva’s side, despite the eyes on them, and he had to practically hold her up. Sandra, with considerable awkwardness, considering her advanced condition, had come out from Big Sal with Keje. He, along with Diania, practically fluttered around her in concern before Matt could embrace her and take her hand in his. Somewhat shyly, Diania then moved to stand near Gunny Horn, who, just as touchingly shy, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Perry Brister came ashore from James Ellis, leaving Ronson Rodriguez in command while Ellie and Mahan shelled the Grik battery on the north bank and the MTBs scouted the blockage at the river bend. Even Abel Cook managed to attend, accompanied by Enrico Galay. Cook’s wounds were mainly painful burns on his torso and a few rocket-shrapnel fragments from the same blast that had severed his hose. Lawrence, of course, stood at Silva’s side, opposite Pam. Many others, including 1st Division’s General Taa-Leen, 6th Division’s General Grisa, and Colonel Saachic of the 1st Cavalry Brigade, had come and gone, to pay their respects or just say hello, but there was a great deal to do and they’d all have to get at it.

  The first discussions of dispositions and requirements past, the group settled into an awkward but necessary near silence while they simply absorbed one another’s welcome presence—and the enormity of what had passed and what they were about to embark upon. Inevitably, perhaps, Petey shattered the moment. “Eat now! Goddamn!”

  Silva thumped him on the head. “Silence in the ranks, you little turd. I got nothin’ for ya yet.”

  “Eaaat!” Petey pleaded.

  “Really, Chief Silva,” Sandra scolded fondly, “you shouldn’t neglect your faithful pets so.” She offered Petey a piece of the crunchy, sweet biscuit the army practically subsisted on in the field, which tasted like hardtack flavored with pumpkin and molasses. It exploded in a cloud of crumbs when Petey took it.

  “Ol’ Larry don’t bellyache about it,” Silva countered.

  Lawrence hissed. “I not your . . . goddan’ haithhul het!”

  Silva looked at Matt. “I gotta say, that last part o’ the fight was pretty weird . . . Japs killin’ Griks, an’ Japs killin’ Japs. Chackie caught some of it on the radio. What’re you gonna do with Murry-nammy?”

  Matt glanced at Sandra, at the indecision on her face. He’d left that up to her, since she knew Muriname better than anyone, even Gunny Horn, and had a better feel for his character. “We’ll have to see,” he temporized. “He did bring us those six torpedo bombers—plus two more and two fighters that weren’t in the attack.” He smiled slightly. “We may also wind up with Amagi’s old Type Ninety-five floatplane. Muriname had it flown to Zanzibar, but there’s nobody there. Spanky and Walker already left a couple of days ago. Jumbo’s going to send a Clipper up with some fuel.” He brightened. “Colonel Mallory, Tikker, and Leedom are excited about the bombers. We’ve been working on our own, of course, but these might give us a leg up—and they’re already here, where we can use them.”

  “It’ll take longer to decide if we can use Muriname and his people,” Sandra said. Then she winced, and Matt looked at her with concern, pulling her closer. She’d seemed uncomfortable ever since she came ashore. It won’t be long before our baby comes, he realized. Please, God, don’t let it be here. And let it inherit peace!

  “Hang Muriname,” Pete Alden growled, staring out at the jumble of wrecks, near and far. “Pretty damn convenient how he showed up after we didn’t need him.”

  Matt wasn’t so sure about that. There’d still been two BBs and six cruisers, a heavy load for Mahan and Ellie alone. And just one lucky hit apiece from those big Grik guns could’ve tipped the scale. “It was a mess,” he decided aloud, “but it worked. Somehow it worked. We’re established here now, and just as important, the Army of the Republic made it across the Ungee River.” He smiled at the surprised expressions. Few knew that yet. “They’ll be coming up from the south”—he nodded at Pete, Safir, and Rolak—“and we’ll start figuring out how to push the Grik from here.” He hesitated, smile fading. “Don’t get too excited. We’ve all been through a lot, but I think our hardest fighting is still to come. Everybody agrees the Grik are finally getting wise, and their rockets were an unpleasant surprise. Who knows what else they’ll come up with? We know from experience that desperation can breed brilliance. So stay on your toes.”

  An excited comm-’Cat approached, accompanied by a familiar, ancient Lemurian Marine.

  “Why, there you are, Moe, you old scamp!” Silva exclaimed. “I thought you was a goner. How come you didn’t come play with me, Larry, an’ Arnie? I thought we was pals.”

  “I didn’t waant to get dead,” Moe replied. “’Sides, Major Cook needed me more thaan you. I’m his first sergeant.”

  “Surs,” the comm-’Cat interjected urgently, trying to hand Matt a message form. “Col-nol Maallory reports from Arracca Field!”

  Matt waved the form away even though, based on the ’Cat’s happy blinking, it might not contain bad news for once. “Just tell us.”

  “Sur! The Col-nol begs to report thaat the cruiser USS Fitzhugh Graay haas aarived.”

  Covered by the pleased exclamations, Silva leaned toward Lawrence and whispered, “Right on time, huh?”

  The comm-’Cat was waving the form. “But thaat’s not all! She’s not aa-lone!”

  “Walker?” Matt guessed hopefully. He’d been following Spanky’s progress but hadn’t expected his ship for another day or two. She must be in top shape for Spanky to push her, he thought.

  The comm-’Cat looked a little crestfallen, but perked up. “Yeah! Waa-kur’s here—an’ some-teeng else!”

  “I’ll be damned,” Silva whispered at Horn this time. “First fight Walker’s ever missed. Just as well, an’ I’ll be glad to see her. B’leve I’m ready to get back in the Navy War.” Pam poked him in the ribs—his wounded ribs—with her elbow, but the blow didn’t have its usual enthusiasm behind it either.

  Matt was impatient now. “What else?”

  “A sub-maa-reen! A Ger-maan sub-maa-reen!” the ’Cat proclaimed triumphantly. “It surrendered to Waa-kur! Just popped up on the waater right in front of her with a white flaag already tied to the . . .” He looked at the message.

  “Periscope shears?” Matt prompted, amazed.

  “Yeah! I mean, yes, sur.”

  “What did her cap-i-taan say?” Rolak asked.

  “Her cap-i-taan, not much, but another maan’s in chaarge an’ says he’s known to Cap-i-taan Reddy.” The ’Cat looked at the form again. “Waal-burt Feedler? Says he’s been trying to surrender for a while, but keeps gettin’ shot at!”

  Everyone went silent as they all exchanged glances. Cook, Galay, and Moe might not know what had passed between the Alliance and Oberleuitnant Walbert Fiedler of the League of Tripoli, but everyone else did now.

  “I’ll be damned,” Matt said, eyes wide. He didn’t know what Fiedler was up to or how he, a pilot, had gotten on the sub, but he immediately worried what news he might have. It would have to be something big for him
to bolt the League entirely—and bring a whole sub’s crew with him, he thought. “I’m kind of anxious to hear what Fiedler has to say for himself,” he understated dryly.

  “I’ll be damned too,” Silva said. “In one day we got Japs surrenderin’ to us, now Krauts. The war’s as good as won!” He sobered when he saw the excitement wane and knew his stupid crack was what killed it. Chack’s arm tightened around Safir Maraan and his gaze shifted glumly to the first funeral pyres already burning. Risa wasn’t on one yet but would be soon—and there’d be many, many more. “Hey, Arnie,” he asked Horn. “What day’s today, anyway?”

  “January first or second—I think. Hard to keep track. But no earlier.”

  “The first,” Sandra confirmed, “and Chief Silva’s right. It’s hard to imagine now, but things are looking up.” Her hand rested on her swollen belly and she looked up at Matt with a tender smile. “It’s a whole new year, full of new beginnings, and if the war isn’t ‘as good as won,’ it’s farther from being lost than it’s ever been. I thank God for that, and I’m grateful to all those we’ve lost who brought us to this point.” She turned to face the others, and her voice turned hard. “Now, as I promised Adar as he was dying in my arms, let’s finish the job!”

  EPILOGUE

  ////// The Palace of Vanished Gods

  Old Sofesshk

  “Do not concern yourself: the prey will never tread the soil of the sacred city,” First General Esshk told the newly elevated Celestial Mother. He’d risked a flight in the black airship shortly after dark and arrived at the palace to find his nominal ruler in a state of great apprehension, actually pacing outside with a harried-looking Chooser and her sister guards.

  “But the Final Swarm was thwarted!” the Celestial Mother challenged. “Even now it straggles back in darkness, the warriors abandoning their galleys and fleeing ashore!”

  “It was not thwarted, Giver of Life,” Esshk defended, “merely repurposed, and the warriors do as I commanded. They do not flee! I beg you to consider: the Swarm was dispatched to cross the Go Away Strait and destroy the prey at the Celestial City.” He paused and dramatically glanced about as if bewildered. “Yet even as it proceeded to do so, the prey came here! Never could I have imagined such a fortunate turn of events!”

  “Fortunate?” the Celestial Mother demanded, amazed.

  “Of course. They have served themselves up to us in our own lair! What prey ever did such a foolish thing? As surprised as I by such abnormality, the Swarm was cast into some disarray,” he conceded. “But now we can gather it upon the land, where proper battles are designed, and crush the prey at our leisure.”

  The Celestial Mother, her grand, young, coppery frill tentatively lying flat, finally stopped pacing and faced him. “Truly?” she asked. “My tutors who tell me of the past say nothing like this has ever happened.”

  “Of course it hasn’t!” Esshk responded, deciding her tutors would probably have to be replaced. They’d been specifically warned against informing the new Celestial Mother that anything that happened—or anything Esshk did or told her—was in any way unusual. “Does the prey embrace the predator? Does it step blithely into its open mouth?”

  The Celestial Mother looked away. “No,” she said at last. “But there is much that makes no sense. . . . I wish I were older and knew more.” She faced Esshk again. “And with you away so much and only the Chooser to counsel me, I sometimes cannot decide what to think.”

  What has that ridiculous Chooser said? Esshk wondered, glancing at the shorter creature at the Celestial Mother’s side—now apparently trying to make himself even smaller and inconspicuous. “It is not for you to waste a single thought on,” he assured. “Go inside. Rest. Eat. I must begin reorganizing the Swarm. The sooner that is done, the sooner we will devour the prey.” He regarded the Chooser. “Come, Lord Chooser, I would consult with you—and there is one I would have you hear.” He looked back at the Celestial Mother. “By your leave, Giver of Life?”

  He hurried away with the Chooser in his wake, and as soon as the Celestial Mother and her entourage were out of earshot, Esshk hissed, “What nonsense have you been filling her head with?”

  The Chooser’s crest would’ve flattened in panic if he hadn’t kept it rigid by artificial means. “Nothing! Her tutors . . .” He paused. “And distant as it has been, the flashing and smoke of battle has been visible at times. She questions.” He took a few more breathless steps to keep up with Esshk’s longer strides. “Who would you have me hear?” he ventured. Esshk stopped abruptly when they met a gathering of warriors and several . . . other beings in the gloom. Humans! the Chooser realized. Japhs!

  “This is . . .” Esshk paused. “Tell me again what you are called.”

  One of the men bowed. “I am Lieutenant Mitsuo Ando. I was General of the Sky Muriname’s executive officer.”

  “Where is your lord?” Esshk demanded.

  Ando hesitated. “I have no lord now but you.”

  Esshk grunted. “Muriname turned against us,” he explained to the Chooser, “but Ando remained loyal, destroying or driving away others who went with Muriname. He has only a few flying machines left, but proposed a scheme that may have merit. You know more of our ability to make weapons. Hear him.”

  “Very well,” the Chooser said, looking at Ando. “What will you say?”

  “First, I must ask: Can you still build airships? I understand the enemy destroyed some of your facilities for doing so.”

  “We can and will,” the Chooser declared, “though it will take time to restore our capacity. And aircrews must be trained.”

  Ando gestured to his companions. “We can help with that. Another question: How many of the piloted bombs remain?”

  The Chooser glanced at Esshk. “Many, though few have been retained ready for use. Your former lord considered them extremely wasteful in time to build them and train their operators, particularly since our airships can only carry one, and the enemy’s ability to intercept them improved. Ordinary bombs, in larger numbers, were deemed more effective.”

  “Very true,” Ando nodded. “But what if you could put dozens, hundreds of piloted bombs in the air at once without even risking your airships?”

  “But . . .” The Chooser glanced at Esshk again. “How?”

  Ando smiled. Unlike Muriname, he had no regard for the lives of the Grik pilots he’d trained. The fact that none he’d had in his fighters survived only proved they could never be as good as humans. Trusting them with planes had been a terrible waste of good machines. But Grik pilots were good enough for what he had in mind now. “You have flying bombs, plenty of potential pilots . . . and rockets to get them in the air. We will have to build bigger rockets and probably ramps or cradles to launch them from, but they should fly. Long enough, at least.”

  The Chooser gaped. “That can work!” he agreed enthusiastically, but his excitement quickly faded. “But perhaps only once. And the smaller, faster enemy ships that plague us so will be very hard to hit. With much of the war to come likely confined to land, they might just leave.”

  “The enemy will still have to supply his army,” Ando disagreed. “And supply ships are not hard to hit. Besides, you still have a powerful fleet on the lakes. For the enemy to advance, he must counter your ability to bombard his troops onshore. He will still need his navy, and with piloted rocket bombs and more airships, you can still destroy it.”

  The Chooser looked thoughtful. “What will we call this new weapon and those that use it? Something so ingenious should have a name.”

  “May I have the honor of considering that?” Ando asked.

  Esshk looked at him. “If it works, you will be the new General of the Sky. Naming the weapon you devised will be up to you.”

  At the Mouth of the Zambezi

  The German (League) submarine U-112 rode at anchor just offshore from Arracca Field in the broad fan of the Zambe
zi River. It was a very large Type XIB boat, inspired by the same design philosophy as the French submarine the Allies sank after it attacked their raiding force headed for Madagascar more than half a year before. With a length of 115 meters and breadth of 9.5, it was longer than USS Walker, anchored to port, and probably as heavy as the new Allied cruiser lying to starboard. Amazingly, U-112 was almost as heavily armed as the cruiser as well, fitted with four 127-mm (5″) guns mounted in two twin turrets positioned forward and aft of the conn tower. The tower itself sported two 37-mm and two 20-mm antiaircraft guns. Of course, its most lethal weapons could be fired from four torpedo tubes in the bow and two more in the stern. Capable of more than twenty-five knots on the surface and with its tough pressure hull protecting essential running gear, it was more like a submersible light cruiser than a typical U-boat. To support that role, it was equipped with a cramped, watertight compartment intended to accommodate a folding Arado AR 231 floatplane for scouting purposes, but the 231 turned out to be a piece of junk, and nothing else was ever built to fit. Ultimately, the space was used to augment the boat’s already respectable fuel capacity and further expand its impressive range.

  For all that, U-112 hadn’t been a very successful design. It was slow and difficult to trim underwater (also similar to its French counterpart in that respect), and several damaging bumps from large, inquisitive predators hadn’t helped. Just as significant, few of its class were ever made, and even fewer spare parts for its unusual features were aboard the tenders meant to support the multinational fascist fleet that somehow wound up on this . . . different Earth to become the League of Tripoli nearly six years before. And those years of diminishing maintenance and long clandestine deployments hadn’t been kind. Probably one of the reasons the League had essentially written it off—along with its crew of a hundred German sailors.