Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  He shrugged and glanced at his gauges. He was flying at about three thousand feet. Fuel was . . . okay, but oil pressure and cylinder temps were nominal. The wind was currently out of the east, and the air was dry, cool, and refreshing. He looked in his mirror at Kari and saw her scanning the sea below with an Imperial telescope. So far they hadn’t seen any ships at all, besides the Dom transports, and that was an ominous sign. He’d been told to expect quite a few ships and coastal luggers—if the ships were free to move. Apparently they weren’t. That meant somebody was preventing them.

  An hour later, they were nearing the extreme limit of their fuel, and sure enough, the overlarge, misshapen forms of the Santa Cruz, Santa Rosa, and San Miguel islands appeared hazy on the southern horizon. They’d have to turn back within ten or fifteen minutes if they wanted any return cushion at all, but they decided to push just a little farther. Fred used a lot of rudder, and Kari scanned as far forward as she could bring her glass to bear.

  “I see some-ting,” she ddenly announced excitedly.

  “What?”

  “Maybe ships between them two big islands! Yes, ships! Some smok-een, others not.” She paused. “That them! It must be them!”

  Fred still couldn’t see, but he took her word for it. He glanced at his fuel gauge and cringed. “Well, we need a better look. Make a report with the position of the sighting, but we’ve got to get closer to make sure it’s the enemy and not just a few Imperial ships snugged up, hiding from them.” Soon, however, Fred could make out the distant shapes for himself. There were a lot of ships coming through the slot between the islands, and more were appearing west of San Miguel.

  “Okay,” he said a little nervously. “No luggers, just full-grown ships—and I see a few red sails. That confirms it. Make this report.” He glanced at the chalkboard strapped to his right leg, comparing his calculations of flight time, air speed, wind speed, etc., with rough, remembered distances. Except for the looming islands, he’d had no real landmarks. “Ah, we’re approximately two hundred and fifty miles, almost due south of Saint Francis. Probable enemy fleet sighted about fifteen miles southeast of our position on an apparent course of three, three, zero degrees!”

  A large, dark, winged shape suddenly plummeted past the starboard wingtip, missing it by inches.

  “Shit!” Fred screeched, his voice many octaves higher than usual. He looked up and saw many more shapes dropping toward them. “Get that off right now!” he shouted, pushing the stick forward and advancing the throttle to the max. “Then see if you can keep those devils off us!”

  The sudden dive had left them less helpless, but the giant lizard birds had tucked themselves into an almost-perfect aerodynamic shape and were still gaining fast. Kari slammed out the message and ended it with a “Mayday! Lizbirds!” Then she grabbed one of the two shortened muskets stowed in the plane. One of the creatures was right above her, beginning to flare out and extend its claws. “You hold steady,” she shouted. “I get this one!” She fired. The heavy load of buckshot impacted across the hideous thing’s chest and throat, and with a croaking cry, it tumbled away. Kari pitched the musket into the compartment at her feet and retrieved the second one. The “Nancy” had begun to accelerate away by now, and the closest monster was maybe twenty yards back. She aimed as carefully as she could at its face and squeezed the trigger. Fire and smoke trailed aft along with two ounces of shot that shattered the thing’s head. Kari began reloading the second gun but looked over her shoulder, forward, at Fred.

  “What you do?” she demanded. Fred was leveling off, just above the water, but he pointed up. High above, another flight of the creatures was nosing over into the attack.

  “I’m trying to get us closer to shore. If those devils knock us down, I don’t want to land in the water! Too many flashies!” Ahead was a narrow strip of beach. On the one side were the near-vertical cliffs; on the other, a boisterous surf. He risked a look upward. “Here they come!”

  Kari never got the musket reloaded. Even without the wild gyrations, buffeting, and evasive maneuvers of the plane, she was just too scared to make her hands obey the complicated orders she gave them. One mon- ster plunged into the sea directly ahead of them. Another missed aft, almost tearing the tail off with its outstretched claws. The whole plane shuddered and nearly flipped into the sea when one of the creatures—that had to be lighter than it looked—slammed into the port wifasnd just clung there, slashing at the fabric with its teeth. Another lit right next to it and went for the blurry, spinning prop. With a horrifying Splack! Smack! Whack! Crack! the prop shredded the creature’s head and sprayed blood and gore and shards of bone all over Kari. Of the prop itself, little remained but spinning stumps. Horribly out of balance, the crank likely sprung, the valiant little engine tore itself apart, and all Kari could do was hunker down and hope most of the pieces would miss her.

  “That’s done it!” Fred shouted, his voice tight with tension. The first beast had probably been torn apart by fragments of the engine, propeller, or its comrade, because it no longer tore at the wing, but the damage was done. Fred struggled against the loss of thrust and lift to coax the plane onto the beach, but they’d never make it. Forty or fifty yards short, the “Nancy” stalled, then pancaked into the surf. Kari screamed when a marching swell caught the tail and flipped the plane onto its back. There was a kaleidoscope of images: rushing bubbles and surging foam. Her eyes grew dim and her lungs felt as if they’d burst. Then, even through the seething waves, she heard the wing drag against the sandy bottom and with a terrible, rending crunch, the “Nancy” began breaking up.

  “That was it, Skipper,” Ed Palmer said, looking down. He stood in the curtained passageway leading to the wardroom from aft. “After that last ‘Mayday,’ nothing.”

  Matt merely nodded, but he thought his heart would break. Reynolds had been the youngest kid on the ship before the Squall, and he’d demonstrated buckets of guts more times than he could count, staying at his talker’s post on the bridge throughout many major actions. Kari, a B’mbaadan and daughter of that city’s greatest warrior, hadn’t been a warrior by nature, but she’d been a sweet kid with her own share of guts, doing what she had to do. Somehow, Fred and Kari had become inseparable, and their friendship and devotion to a very dangerous duty had been an inspiration to everyone. If they had to go, at least they’d gone together. Matt didn’t think either would want to go on without the other. Selass sniffed, and Matt smiled gently at her.

  “Okay,” he said gruffly, standing over the green-linoleum-topped table and peering down at the map laid out on it. Jenks was there, as were Rempel and several Imperial officers. Spanky, Selass, and Bradford were the only others from Walker. Gray had already left to join the militia so he, Stumpy, Pack Rat, and Jenks’s few Marines could try to cram some of Chack’s and Blair’s tactics into their individualistic heads. “The . . .‘Nancy’ didn’t report actually seeing it. They meant to overfly the lowlands on their way back here, but they did confirm the ships, so we have to assume there’s an enemy column approaching from the south.” He looked at Jenks. “You’ve got to stop it. I don’t have any mortars for you, but you should have plenty of artillery—if you can crew it.”

  “We have enough professionals for the artillery,” Jenks said, “but the militia will have to hold.”

  “They’ll hold, if no one else will,” Rempel said, somewhat antagonistically. “They’re ill-disciplined, and their drill is laughable . . . but this is their home. They’ll fight for it.”

  “Good,” Matt said. “That leaves us with the enemy fleet. The forts should be able to keep most of it out of the bay, but if just one ship gets through, it can raise absolute hell with the infrastructure here; infrastructure we’re going to need to take the war to the Doms. We can’t count on the forts. We must at least whittle the enemy down befor in arrives.”

  “Two hundred and fifty miles at last report,” Jenks mused. “The wind remains in our favor to a degree, so they can’t make best speed. Give
them six to eight knots. That will put them here . . . day after tomorrow. Evening most likely.”

  “Yeah, no faster than their slowest ships, and in this case, their slowest are their most powerful. All the same, the wind could change and we need depth—behind us, I mean—to chase anything that gets past us. I think we should meet them.”

  “Chase? Meet?” Rempel said incredulously. “Are you mad? After great effort, we have the equivalent of four warships, not counting yours, to meet twenty-five or more!”

  “Not four, Admiral, nine—counting this one. We’ve reestablished contact with elements of Second Fleet. Achilles, Simms, Mertz, and Tindal will arrive early tomorrow morning, along with a pair of oilers. They’d have been here earlier . . .” Matt’s face clouded. “Let’s just say I’ve no proof of treachery, but I’m awfully glad I gave orders for them to depart company from the rest of Second Fleet if they thought its commander was advancing too slowly. Evidently, your High Admiral McClain gave the impression he was dawdling.”

  “The Lord High Admiral!” Rempel gasped. “You don’t suspect he’s in league . . . ?”

  Matt shook his head. “I honestly doubt it, but he wasn’t enthusiastic about this mission from the start. I think he believed the threat overestimated.” He snorted. “He preferred to relieve the Enchanted Isles. Evidently, he’s strung out as far south as he can manage, to intercept any word from there. In the meantime, I doubt he’ll be a factor in the upcoming fight.”

  “But still only nine ships!”

  “Four are the finest anyone could hope for,” Jenks stated, losing patience. “Three are entirely new and more than a match for any Dom ship of the line—and you forget Walker, sir.”

  “I do not! Though . . . honestly, I cannot see how she can be of any great use. Certainly she is fast, but she carries fewer guns than a brig!”

  “That may be so, Rempel,” Jenks said, “but they’re unlike any guns you’ve ever seen. They can destroy ships like the Dom’s—or ours, for that matter—from twice, ten times the range they could hope to respond!”

  Matt winced. I guess a little exaggeration never hurts when you’re trying to bolster a man’s courage. Twice the range, sure. Ten times? Not with black powder.

  “Indeed? Yet they are so small. . . .”

  Spanky rolled his eyes but turned to Courtney. “Have you come up with any bug spray for them flyin’ devils, Mr. Bradford?” he asked.

  Courtney’s almost perpetually cheerful, open expression contorted into a frown. “I’m not sure,” he temporized. “They’re not indigenous to Imperial territories, at least not specimens of such size and aggression, so little is really known about them.” He brightened. “One of the officers I had the pleasure to meet is impressively knowledgeable about the local fauna! I thought I was a naturalist! There’s so much I can learn from him. Fascinating, utterly fascinating creatures abide here! Some are even rather familiar to me, but others . . .”

  “Courtney,” Matt said dryly.

  “Oh. Bloody hell! Of course,” Bradford fumed, but inhaled to calm himself. “Based on my own studies, I feel comfortable stating that, for all practical purposes, ‘lizard birds,’ ‘dragons,’ are flying Grik! Their physiology is somewhat different, of course—their arms and fingers have become the framework for wings; the tails are longer and the plumage more specialized. They’re also lighter for their size, but the corresponding flight muscles are greatly exaggerated.” He looked at Spanky. “Your ‘bug spray’ analogy might be as good as any, strangely enough. Their lungs are immense, and they clearly rely on a great volume of air to sustain their prodigious cardiopulmonary requirements. . . .” He considered. “I don’t imagine they could thrive for long in a smoky environment, for example. Set fire to their ships, and I doubt they could loiter above them. The smoke alone might well choke them, or at least tire them quickly.” He shrugged. “That’s all I have for you, I’m afraid—besides what you already know: they’re vulnerable to gunfire, structurally and otherwise, and bleed rather copiously from any serious wound. Another drawback to their amazing ‘power plant,’ as it were.”

  Jenks was watching Matt’s face. “Does that give you an idea, my friend?”

  “Maybe.” Matt glanced at his watch. “In any event, you should probably go ashore and start sorting out your ‘army.’ I expect the enemy to try a coordinated attack of some kind, but we all know how hard that can be. You had better be in position as early as possible.” He looked at Rempel. “The ‘fleet’ will make all preparations for getting underway.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Grik East Africa Primary Industrial Site

  General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa smoldered with anger as he stepped onto the dock from the deck of his stately yacht. His Grik protectors hurried after him, but he ignored them. Once again, he was being forced to do something against his will, before he was ready, and the results might well be catastrophic. Word had arrived on a few ships that managed to run the Allied blockade that Generals Halik and Niwa hoped to hold Ceylon after all. General Esshk still doubted they could; they now knew the Allied fleet had thoroughly invested the place and had deployed a variety of highly effective attack aircraft there. This news didn’t come from Halik, but from the sole survivor of a supply convoy they’d tried to push through on the heels of the successful breakout. Lord Regent Tsalka seized on the notion, however, as a possibility that his beloved regency might be preserved, and he’d convinced the Celestial Mother to instruct Kurokawa to deploy his own as yet “idle” airpower to counter the enemy and ravage the Allied fleet.

  Kurokawa objected as strenuously as he dared, citing the many obstacles to deployment: the craft weren’t ready in the numbers he desired for a decisive blow, the crews were barely proficient, and even navigation would be a problem. He laid out his argument as carefully and respectfully as he could, even referencing the disaster that ensued the last time his advice was ignored, all to no avail. Esshk was on his side, as was the Chooser, but in the end it was Tsalka’s argument that they must resist the conquest of Ceylon with every asset available if they hoped to save the sacred “Ancestral Lands” from the corrupting tread of former prey that won the day.

  Kurokawa did manage to gain a major concession from the Celestial Mother. She understood his and Esshk’s desire to prevent another disaster and valued their opinions. Therefore, if there was a “setback,” on Tsalka would be blamed. Kurokawa was still enraged but managed to hide his temper—a skill he’d worked hard to master, and one that had served him well of late. He took the reversal with an apparent grace that visibly surprised General Esshk, but he’d secretly resolved to do everything in his growing power to ensure Tsalka took sufficient blame for any number of things to cost him his miserable life.

  At least Tsalka hadn’t insisted that Kurokawa’s New Navy be involved in this fiasco, but likely only time and distance preserved it. That could have been a real disaster. The Navy he was building would soon be invincible, but upon learning of the threat from the air, he’d realized overhead protection was now essential, and his projected date for completion had been postponed accordingly. He slowed his pace and gazed out into the massive, artificial harbor and marveled at his own genius. Once his fleet was complete, nothing the ridiculous “allies” had, or could conceivably make, would be able to stop it. Certainly, there’d be losses. His machinery was crude and many of his ships might simply break down, but the rest—the best—would be impervious to anything but modern weapons. He looked at his flagship, which was undergoing topside reinforcement. Not since Amagi was lost had there been anything like her on this world, and he felt a thrill at the prospect of “taking her out” against the foe. It would be a very different meeting from the last one, he swore.

  He growled and slapped his boot with his macabre riding crop. Damn Tsalka! Kurokawa had confidence in his fleet, but an unexpected combined attack would’ve been utterly irresistible, and he’d have had his own revenge at last! He paced the dock, watching the dronelike labor of the Uul
, and hearing the harsh commands of his own Japanese officers as they instructed their overseers. He’d finally begun to forgive some of his old crew. Not all could have been traitors, he convinced himself, and they worked now with an apparently single-minded passion that mirrored his own. Perhaps they knew, with victory, a new order would emerge, and they wanted to be a part of it. Whatever the reason, most of his surviving “old crew” now worked with a will, and even if it was only to improve their own lot and not necessarily to advance the glory of Kurokawa or Emperor Hirohito, he was satisfied with what they’d accomplished on his behalf.

  He left the dock, his unspeaking Grik close behind. The guards themselves signified a shift in his personal fortunes; they were there to protect him with their lives, not monitor or curtail his activities. They belonged to him. He managed a brief, snorting smile at that and worked his way quickly past the tightly constructed buildings holding the acid baths, trying to hold his breath the entire length of the structures. It was impossible. He finally took a gasping breath and inhaled some of the fumes. “Aggh!” he said, and worked his way upwind. Soon the smell was gone, and he beheld the dozens of massive structures built to protect his mighty flying machines from the elements. Only one craft was currently in view, and he stopped to marvel at the scope of this, his second greatest achievement.