Silva was tall, about six foot two, and powerfully built, and even his deeply tanned hands—the only visible skin besides what little of his face wasn’t covered by a sun-bleached beard—were crisscrossed with the scars of many fights. His most obvious wound hid behind a brand-new “dress white” canvas patch over his left eye that matched the rest of his best shore-going rig. Those who knew him might suspect the white eyepatch was his little way of protesting the rest of his garb, particularly since he’d slightly reinterpreted the prescribed uniform of the day. He’d added leggings, a helmet, and his ever-present web belt, festooned with a hard-used 1917 Navy cutlass, razor-sharp ’03 Springfield bayonet, and a 1911 Colt secured in a flap holster. Most of the rest of the belt was taken up by twin magazine pouches for the Colt. The only exception was space for a canteen and a small gap just large enough to accommodate an ornate, if somewhat battered, long-barreled flintlock pistol hanging by a belt hook. His philosophy was, dolled up or not, he’d needed each of those weapons many times and would never be caught without them. His sole concession to the spirit of his orders was that he’d left his primary weapon—a monstrous breech-loading rifle he called the Doom Stomper—in the tent he shared with Lawrence. The Doom Stomper was similar in appearance to the Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la Arsenal Allin-Silva “trapdoors,” except it was built around a turned-down 25 mm Japanese antiaircraft gun barrel. That made it just about twice as big as the standard .50–80 caliber Allied infantry arm in most dimensions, including bore diameter.
“It is ’ery strange,” Lawrence agreed, his tone less than cheerful as well, as he flapped at the mayflies with his tail plumage or tried to shoo them from his face with his dangerously clawed left hand. He kept the claws on his right hand carefully trimmed so he could handle cartridges for the Allin-Silva rifle slung over his shoulder. He spoke English and Lemurian almost perfectly, as long as he avoided words requiring the lips he didn’t have. How he managed many other sounds remained a mystery. He wasn’t Grik but was of the same species, if not race, and the long, sharp teeth lining his jaws should’ve made almost all human or Lemurian speech impossible. Somehow, he did it with his tongue or even in his throat. Courtney Bradford wasn’t sure, and Lawrence wasn’t about to sit and hum—or whatever—while the Australian naturalist stared in his open mouth. His unhappiness was inspired by the fact that he was also wearing whites. Others like him, the Khonashi from North Borno primarily, had joined the Alliance and even the Union, but they were all Army and wore the standard tie-dyed, camouflage combat smock he preferred himself. There were no standard-issue whites to fit his form, and Juan Marcos had quickly knocked out a set. If anything, the one-legged Filipino was too good a tailor, and the uniform covering Lawrence’s orange-and-brown-tiger-striped feathery pelt was considerably tighter than he preferred. Much too tight to fight in.
Silva stopped a moment to stare, shaking his head and swatting at bugs. To the south, beyond the nightly bombed, daily improved dockyards, was a razed area that had been the warrenlike maze of wood-and-mud huts housing tens of thousands of upper-class Grik Hij. All that was gone, the materials used to construct defensive works. What remained, except for the scars left by zeppelin raids, was a great green grass field, well fertilized by eons of Grik dung—and the blood spilled to take the place and keep it. There was grass everywhere now, in fact, which everyone found curious. There hadn’t been a single patch this side of the Wall of Trees when they conquered the Celestial City, and even Hij Geerki couldn’t get a satisfactory explanation from the several thousand civilian Grik prisoners he had laboring around the city in exchange for food—and life. The closest he’d come was to note a general consensus among his workers that the Celestial Mother—killed by Isak Reuben during the fight to take the “Cowflop”—didn’t like green. That may’ve been true. Courtney Bradford, also the closest thing they had to a sociologist (among so many other things), theorized it was probable she’d had her subjects pluck each blade of grass as it emerged as a constant, daily reminder to obey her every whim. That made the most sense to Silva. Picking grass was her version of having the hands chip paint whether it needed it or not, or make a constant “clean sweep down, fore and aft.” It had been busy work, to keep the masses in check.
Protruding over four hundred feet above the fresh sea of grass was the Celestial Palace, irreverently dubbed the Cowflop. And it looked more like a stupendous heap of manure than anything anyone should call a palace. In reality, it was more like a huge, dark granite pyramid, with rounded corners and a mashed-down top. The interior was like a warren as well, or some nightmare maze. Silva and Lawrence (and Petey too, though he’d literally just been along for the ride) had been part of the team that took it, and that had been a rare fight indeed. Both were wounded; Silva too badly to go on, and Lawrence enough that he’d been unable to help much at the end. They were fit for duty now, largely due to the analgesic, antiseptic paste that was one of many things made from the ubiquitous polta fruit. Silva’s favorite was an intoxicating fermentation called seep, though he still preferred Lemurian beer for “wettin’ his whistle.” They’d also recently returned from a lengthy rehab tour, consisting of a jaunt across central Madagascar, where they met new Lemurian friends among the Shee-ree, a tribe left behind during the ancient exodus of other ’Cats from the island. And, of course, they’d capped off their convalescence with a fierce battle against a support base for an army of infiltrating Grik.
In the distance, past the Cowflop, was a wooden stockade out of an opium dream. It was practically a mountain range made of thousands and thousands of monstrous Galla trees that walled off the city from the amazingly hostile jungle beyond. Galla trees had become an almost holy symbol to Lemurians since they’d been forced to flee their ancestral home, and many considered their use for such a thing the height of sacrilege. Others, like Chack’s sister, Risa, were more philosophical. The barrier had saved them from a recent Grik attempt to retake the city, and she considered it fitting that all the stupendous effort the Grik exerted to erect the great wall, who knew how long ago (Galla trees were extremely resistant to rot), had contributed to the slaughter of thousands of Grik.
Grass was growing on the wall of trees now too, and thousands of canvas pup tents were arrayed at its base. Indeed, tents were everywhere—far more than they had troops to fill. Safir Maraan’s II Corps had been cutting and sewing them like crazy out of huge stores of canvas captured in Grik warehouses. Hopefully, they’d need them eventually, and that was one thing, at least, that wouldn’t have to be shipped in, taking the place of more vital cargoes. The tents surrounded the bay on every hand, even providing shelter for their Grik prisoners on the west side of the bay. More important at present, however, the surplus tents more than doubled their apparent numbers. The ones closest to the harbor each sheltered two men or ’Cats. Those farther out might be occupied by one, and the farthest probably had only a company of troops to stir the fires and be seen moving among enough tents for a battalion.
Long, narrow trenches were everywhere as well, in addition to the more extensive fortifications, carefully arranged along company streets to promote drainage when it rained and give troops a place to ride out the frequent raids. There wasn’t much danger from those anymore. Not only were fewer zeppelins attacking at last, their lashed-together formations sometimes consisting of fewer than fifty airships now, but the extra planes that recently arrived, crated in the holds of fast transports, meant they had nearly enough for all their pilots again and they’d savaged the latest zep formations with the new, faster, and more heavily armed P-1C Mosquito Hawks, or “Fleashooters.” Besides, oddly enough, after an initial apparent reluctance to bomb the palace, most Grik bombs now fell on or near it. That made no sense to anyone, unless losses among Grik aviators had left the rest so poor that all they could be trusted to hit was the biggest target they could see—or the raids truly were meant primarily to gall them and remind them that the Grik hadn’t forgotten them. The palace was practically
impervious to Grik bombs.
The works they stood on were the most lightly defended of any surrounding the city. Heavy batteries of captured Grik guns, carefully protected from the sea and sky, now guarded the mouth of the bay and should be sufficient to keep them secure. These works were just in case the enemy somehow got past. In that event, reserves would quickly fill them. At least that was the plan. Their greatest fear was that the Grik might manage to attack everywhere again, with a larger, more capable force than before. If that ever happened, there’d be no reserves.
Dennis and Lawrence had been heading toward the great, long docks on the south side of the bay, and Silva waved at mayflies and pointed. “Looky there,” he said. Not far away, where the docks began, a huge, counterbalanced wooden crane was hoisting iron plates off the wreckage of a half-sunken Grik battlewagon, while the exposed carcass swarmed with Lemurian yard workers, troops detailed to help, and even a few civilian Grik. The latter were performing the most dangerous tasks, but Hij Geerki, General Muln-Rolak’s pet, was acting as the Grik “mayor” and had assured Safir Maraan they’d volunteered. Silva kind of doubted that. Ol’ Geerki’s a slippery little lizard, he thought, tryin’ to make the nasty critters he’s responsible for seem worth feedin’. Either way, he didn’t much care. Grik were murderous animals, as far as he was concerned, and he genuinely enjoyed killing them. It even struck him as ironic that he’d learned to discriminate Grik from Grik-like so well. After all, Lawrence was one of his very best friends, and he liked I’joorka and the Grik-like members of the Khonashi in northern Borno just fine. But killing “real” Grik had become his very favorite thing to do, and the fact that they’d slaughtered such a high percentage of the relatively few people he ever cared about was enough to make him want them all dead, even if that resulted in an end to his calling. Oh, well, he consoled himself. I’ll find a new hobby. Wherever you go, somebody always needs killin’.
A multiton plate cleared the wreckage, the crane swiveling to the side to lay it on a stack piling up on land. Beyond that, several more cranes were doing the same, and another erected on a massive, flat barge was salvaging a wreck farther out from the dock. And the bay was crowded with more than just wrecks. The great Home-turned–aircraft carrier, USNRS Arracca, was moored in the center of the bay, surrounded by what remained of her battlegroup, consisting of four steam frigate (DDs) of Des-Ron 9, and more than a dozen auxiliaries. Hopefully, she’d soon be joined by Madras and her brand-new air wing and battlegroup. Two fast transports were alongside Arracca now, sending crated aircraft aboard, while one of the first of their big steam oilers waited to top off her bunkers. The former general cargo hauler and now protected cruiser Santa Catalina crouched between Arracca and the shore, her still slightly unusual “dazzle” paint scheme distorting her lines. Four PT boats of MTB-Ron 1 patrolled inside the harbor mouth, and what remained of Des-Ron 10 sailed offshore, keeping watch, their engines secured.
There was an unusually large number of planes overhead today as well, flying in formation back and forth, ostensibly practicing maneuvers. The primary reason for that was the two “strangers” in the bay. The first was a small, nondescript Spanish oiler, looking considerably worse for wear. But the second was long and sleek, with a sharp, straight-up-and-down bow lying just inside Santa Catalina. She was the Leone class destroyer, Leopardo; a third longer than USS Walker, twice as heavy, and armed with twice as many, bigger guns. More unnerving, not only did she most assuredly not look like she’d been beaten apart and patched together several times, but in addition to the flag of the Kingdom of Italy fluttering at her fantail, the bizarre fascist banner of the League of Tripoli stood straight out from her foremast, high above the first of her two stacks. The only consolation, such as it was under the circumstances, was that Leopardo couldn’t be anxious for a fight. Her decks, and those of the oiler, were crammed with what was reportedly the majority of Savoie’s crew.
“Santy Cat could take her,” Silva said, nodding at what he considered an enemy ship. “Close as they are, just sittin’ there,” he qualified, beginning to walk again and picking up the pace. He could see the group he’d been ordered to join assembled on the dock. “She’s got bigger guns—those five-fives—and can probably take more hits. But if that Leopardo gets on the loose, with her speed—an’ prob’ly torpedoes too—I wouldn’t give a chicken’s ass for Santy Cat’s chances.”
“Then us should sink her now,” Lawrence said simply. “’Hy not us just sink her?”
“Beats me, little buddy. But the Skipper’s got a reason, sure. You know he wants to.” Dennis could tell who was who now. Captain Reddy was there, as was Colonel Chack-Sab-At and his beloved Orphan Queen of B’mbaado, General Safir Maraan. Courtney Bradford was holding another wide hat, practically a sombrero, on his balding head, and Silva realized he must have a dozen of the things, as many as he’d lost. Major Alistair Jindal of the Empire of the New Britain Isles stood beside him, acting prepared to catch the hat if the breeze took it. A number of guards stood a little back. These were Lemurian regulars and Marines, a couple Impie Marines, and even a few “Maroons.” Maroons were distantly related to Impies in the sense that all their earliest ancestors had been part of a three-ship convoy of East Indiamen brought to this world in the middle of the eighteenth century. After they arrived, the Maroons sailed west, trying to make their way back to England, and wound up here. The other two ships went east and founded the Empire.
Facing the Allied delegation was a tall, dark-haired man named Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, dressed as a French naval officer. The slightest mustache, grown a bit unruly of late, adorned his upper lip, and he was clearly making an effort to appear undisturbed by the swarming, biting insects. He’d been joined on the dock by several of Leopardo’s officers, dressed all in white, and Silva finally understood why he’d been told his usual T-shirt and dungarees wouldn’t do. If the goombahs are gonna get all duded up, I guess we should too, he thought, smoldering. And then there’s that Gravois bastard. . . . He’s slippier’n Geerki, in all the worst ways. At least Geerki’s kinda one of us, an’ he’s tryin’ to help. Gravois’s a bad frog, just out for himself—an’ his goddamn League. Silva still hadn’t figured out which enjoyed the Frenchman’s greater loyalty.
His eye went to Captain Reddy, searching for a clue as to what was going on in his skipper’s mind—and maybe a hint about how the captain expected him to play this. Ol’ Gray always knew what to do or say in situations like this, Dennis lamented. Whether to rant an’ rave, threaten, or poke—to throw a scare at whoever he was talkin’ to—or keep his damn trap shut. He smirked. Or do somethin’ to crack ’em up an’ break the tension. I don’t know if I’m cut out for that, even if that’s prob’ly why the Skipper wants me here. I’m just used to gettin’ pointed at what needs killin.’ But try as he might, he caught no sign from Captain Reddy as he and Lawrence approached. He looks tired, sure. We all are. He still looks mad too. Well, he ain’t alone in that. That bastard Gravois an’ his League gave Kurokawa a goddamn battleship! I don’t care how he says it happened. There’s no way it could have if he didn’t want it to. Silva also knew his captain was desperately worried about his wife, but nothing of that leaked past his fury. He’d never let them see that. Guess mad’s the order o’ the day, Silva decided, so I reckon I’ll poke.
Gravois finally swatted at a mayfly that landed on his nose and took a bite, but turned the motion into a gesture encompassing the bay. “But where is your poor little ship, your Walker?” he asked. “I’d hoped to bid her farewell myself—and show her specifically to Capitano di Fregata Ciano, of course.” He nodded at one of the Italian officers. “Ciano is always trying to distinguish himself,” Gravois explained, “and your ship’s example cannot help but make an impression on him, regarding how he might accomplish that.”
“It’s none of your concern where USS Walker is,” Matt snapped. “In fact, the only reason we’re letting you go instead of hanging you as
an accessory to the murder of thousands of wounded troops and the sinking of three of our ships—not to mention the intelligence and material aid you’ve given our enemy—is so you can personally convey our ‘greetings’ to your leaders”—his lip twisted—“your triumvirate in Tripoli. And you better tell them that we finally know exactly what you’ve been up to out here.” If possible, Matt’s expression hardened. “We don’t give a damn what you do in the Mediterranean, but you better quit sneaking around and sniping at the edges of our fight, here or in the Pacific. From now on, you stay the hell out of our war—unless you want in it. All the damn way.”
Gravois raised an eyebrow, but nodded. “In all honesty, Captain Reddy, that’s precisely what I will tell them.” He gave a long-suffering sigh. “It’s what I’ve told them from the start, in fact. The League has concerns enough of its own, as I’ve alluded to; the very reason we’ve been unwilling to lend greater resources to either side in this—please pardon me for characterizing it so—this backwater struggle.” He shrugged. “As you now know, it has merely been our desire to ensure that neither you nor the Grik—with Kurokawa’s aid—grew strong enough to become a threat to us.” He paused thoughtfully. “That strategy was perhaps misguided. Particularly in respect to the ‘horse’ we bet on.” He shook his head sadly. “That couldn’t have been made more abundantly clear than by Kurokawa’s sinking of the hospital ship you refer to and the abduction of . . . certain members of its company.” Chack bristled, and Courtney Bradford took a step forward, his face turning red. No one believed Kurokawa already controlled Savoie at that point. The fact that there’d been some survivors was sufficient evidence of that for most. And then to refer to Sandra and the others being in Kurokawa’s hands . . . It had to be an attempt to rattle them. But if he’d meant to get a rise out of Matt, he failed.
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