She also pressed the Push to Talk button near the throttle and began describing what she saw to Keshaa-Faask’s radio operator, using the made-up place-names on the island along with apparently random, nonsensical words for the various features she confirmed, as well as their relative directions and distances from the place-names. They knew the League, at least, had learned Lemurian, and they could no longer use it to speak in the clear. In retrospect, doing it at all had been a terrible mistake, and they must always assume the baad guys were listening. At the same time, however, Saansa had to report in real time in case she didn’t make it back. The easy answer was to use the apparent gibberish she’d been practicing for the last couple of days. The AVD wouldn’t respond; the enemy might have radio-direction finding gear, and Saansa worried whether she was actually being heard. But “Kay-Eff” had been chosen as the closest picket because she had the very latest comm gear. She’d have to trust to that.
She reported shore batteries, poodles, that looked like the big hundred-pounders the Grik BBs used, covering the approach to Lizard Mouth Bay. And the next such emplacements she described would be “gri-kakka.” After that would come “Dixie cups,” “akka feet,” and so on. The repair yard in the bay was a “grawfish,” and the small tent city she picked out of the jungle, probably sheltering the Grik workforce or garrison, was a “soda straw,” and it was “poot” (meaning to the south). Those names would change as well, following the list marked down the side of the map on her leg. Distances were the most difficult and would give the enemy the best chance to decode the rest, so she alternated her estimates in tails or miles, using preselected multiples. Obviously, the map must never fall into enemy hands, even if destroying it was the last thing she ever did.
The jungle was thick, but she picked out a well-worn trace meandering to the southeast and followed it down toward the gap between the “gut,” which was a gently sloping mountain near the center of the island, and Tailbone Bay due east. About halfway to the gap was a fairly large Grik encampment, a “bowl of noodles,” hacked out of the jungle. Tailbone Bay was a respectable anchorage, about five miles long and wide, and seemed better protected than the Mouth, but she only saw two ironclad cruisers, “six sticks,” there. Time to turn southwest. To her right, along the base of the gut, were more Grik encampments and, even though they were well hidden, a growing number of what had to be camouflaged industrial facilities betrayed by hazy oil smoke, as opposed to the cook-fire smoke hovering over Grik camps. When Lizard Ass Bay came in view at last, on the southwest coast of the island, she became very busy, describing all she saw—and trying to keep her excitement from throwing her codes out of order. Just as the map predicted, there were three distinct airfields and three large barracks buildings for most of the surviving Japanese sailors. There was also a lot of activity on the bay itself; at least a dozen cruisers were anchored, and a couple more were underway. None looked exactly like those she’d seen before either. More like what Mallory’s 3rd (Army) Pursuiters observed when they rounded on Kurokawa’s fleet that hit TF Alden so hard. She’d heard their top hampers had been reduced and they relied almost entirely on steam power—meaning Kurokawa must’ve improved their engines. She could confirm that now. Along the docks, several large shipyards were busy building or refitting some very big ships. They were too jumbled together to get a good count or determine precisely what they were, but at least two were becoming carriers. And there was the single large carrier she’d expected to see, moored near the center of the bay by one of the little islets they’d dubbed “the Turds,” scattered from there, up around the point to the northwest. Oh, how I wish I had just one bomb! Saansa seethed to herself. Just sitting there, the carrier seemed helpless, and no one had fired a single shot at her.
That abruptly changed. A puff of white smoke appeared off her starboard wing, then another, and she knew her pleasant sightseeing trip was over. The Jaap-Griks were waking up. And they’ve maybe built some plane-blaasting guns like the Allied DP 4″-50s, she fretted. But Col-nol Maal-lory didn’t see anything like that on their carriers, so maybe it’s Saavoie? She banked toward the airbursts as she’d been taught, to foil corrective fire. She also dutifully reported taking flak “fleas,” as opposed to “car keys”—whatever those were—that would’ve signified rockets similar to those defending Sofesshk. Swooping lower, northward and to the right, she saw Savoie at last, tied to a long dock on the upper end of the bay. The huge, light gray ship stood out sharply against the dark green jungle beyond. She wasn’t as big as Amagi had been, but her lines looked more . . . aggressive somehow. More malevolent. And far less ascetic, she had to admit. Several flashes lit her sides, in her upper works, and brown clouds of smoke blossomed around her plane, shaking it with concussive blasts she heard over the engine. Bright tracers arced toward her as well, but there were only a couple streams and they fell well short. Still . . .
“Kay-Eff, Kay-Eff!” she said in her mic, “the fleas are new haatched. I repeat, new haatched! Goofy has his own fleas!” A burst below her plane rocked it violently and something struck it loudly. That was when she decided she’d probably seen as much as she’d get to, and it was probably time to go. One last thing, she decided. Two, she amended, banking hard to the east and diving. According to the map, Kurokawa’s personal compound was near the dock Savoie occupied. If she confirmed that, it would corroborate virtually the entire map, and she’d send the coded phrase that meant it was reliable.
And there it is!
Immediately inshore of the east side of the dock, less than 150 tails distant, was a large, single-story structure much like the Japanese barracks, but wider and shorter, surrounded by a low wooden wall. Exactly as described. She was so tempted to strafe it, but they had no idea where Kurokawa was keeping his prisoners. They might be in there with him. Reluctantly, she continued on, turning southeast toward the central airfield she’d seen coming in. She wanted a better look. The airbursts turned white again—briefly—then quickly subsided as she flashed over a repair yard and one of the barracks buildings. There’d never been a lot of “aak-aak,” which either meant she’d caught them with their kilts off or they had only a dozen or so weapons, aside from Savoie’s, that could engage flying targets with exploding shells. She hoped it was the latter, and they were just high-angle muzzle-loaders or something. She’d never seen one. Even if that was the case, though, they had to have a new carriage with better pointing and training features than anyone had seen before, not to mention some means of absorbing recoil. She didn’t like it at all. Good fire discipline too, she thought, blinking worriedly, means Griks aren’t in charge of air defense—or Kuro-kaa-wa “Haaliked” his warriors as well. That was certainly possible, and extremely concerning.
It was now universally accepted that though Grik were born stupid, they weren’t naturally doomed to remain so. They’d been kept that way by a wildly constrictive culture and God-on-Earth deity personified by their Celestial Mother. It was she—and her choosers—who decided which common Uul could live based solely on apparent aggression (a trait which, when pervasive enough, often resulted in youthful demise in any event), and by sending most others to the cookpots before they reached a mental maturity sufficient to allow something as simple as the concept of “Why?” to pop in their heads. General Halik—no longer an active enemy of the Alliaance, thank the Maker—had proven that older Grik could grow wiser, and if their instinctive obedience and late-blooming cognition was rewarded with benevolence, they might yield true loyalty, an undetermined, as yet, measure of initiative and genuine, selfless courage. They already knew General Esshk had “Haliked” a fair percentage of his army, at least, and equipped it on a material level similar to what the Allies had when they conquered Ceylon. That was likely to make the campaign for Sofesshk a bitter grind, completely aside from enemy numbers. But if Kurokawa trusted all his Grik with sentience—and better weapons—“Outhouse” might be an even tougher nut to crack than they feared.
Q
uickly, the jungle closed back in—but suddenly opened again, exposing the largest airfield on the island. There were two grass strips with crude, camouflaged hangers lining both from one end to the other. Many appeared empty, but at three hundred feet, Saansa saw the noses of a lot of planes poking out. She knew they’d hammered a good chunk of Kurokawa’s air power when they sank two of his carriers, but he’d apparently been stockpiling more. Whether he had enough capable Grik pilots remained to be seen. On impulse, she pulled up and came around. Nobody was shooting at her now. Maybe they didn’t have gun emplacements around the strip. But they’d already shot at her, and that pissed her off. She decided to exercise her discretion to raise a little chik-aash “if the risk is minimal.” Lining up on one row of hangers, she watched the N3 sight reaching for it. Kicking the rudder slightly left, she squeezed the trigger.
The P-40-something had only two .50-caliber machine guns. Four had been removed, put back, then taken out again for this trip to save weight. There was some extra ammo for the guns Saansa had, however, and she saw no sense in taking it all back. Smoky, Baalkpan Arsenal tracers converged on the hangers and debris immediately flew. Shredded foliage from branches and fronds placed on roofs exploded in clouds of dead leaves, disintegrating limbs, and whatever lay below. Figures ran in all directions, leaping into trenches or bolting for the jungle. A few just stood and stared. The third hanger erupted with an orange flare within a roiling ball of greasy black smoke and falling timbers. Saansa flew through the smoke, trigger still down, and was rewarded by another flash of fire from a second detonation that slammed her plane. Again, she felt it shudder when something struck the underside. Releasing the trigger, she pulled back on the stick. Blowing through the last of the smoke, she twisted around and saw something flit down the strip below. A plane! she realized. At least one. Coming after me! She reported the scramble with a kacking, double snort of derision, by saying there were “bugs on the windscreen.” Something tickled her mind, however, and she concentrated on what she’d seen. Come to think on it, the plane didn’t look like the others. It’s bigger than the single-seat jobs, so like Allied Fleashooters, but not as big as Kuro-kaa-wa’s twin-engine torpedo planes. She wondered what it might be—and it dawned on her there’d been more, maybe five just like it, gathered on the downwind end of the southwest-northeast strip.
Standing the P-40 on its starboard wing, she came around, looking up to see what she’d done. She didn’t see the weird plane anymore, or any of the others she thought she’d glimpsed. But more explosions rocked the jungle, involving perhaps a third of the line of hangers she’d attacked as flames began to spread. Grik were scurrying to push planes to safety, but with the prevailing wind she doubted they’d succeed. Particularly since the rough grass strip seemed to have caught fire as well. With any luck, the flames would leap across to the opposite hangers and she’d have erased an entire airfield with almost no effort at all. A couple bombs would be nice, she wished again, In-cendi-aaries, to really get the fire lit. But I don’t have any, and I’ve only got so many bullets and so much fuel. This was a scout, after all, not a full-blown attaack. The maap was pretty good, but it’s more important now that I get back to tell anything that struck me than it is to shoot up a few more planes.
Enough, she decided. She wasn’t concerned the strange aircraft she saw taking off might catch her, even if it made it in the air. Nothing on this world can catch this plane—except another P-40E without floats dragging it down, she amended. Still reluctant—her blood was up—she finally pulled up and away, quickly climbing to five thousand feet by the time she crossed the white sandy beach near “Head Point” on the southeast end of the island, heading out to sea.
“Kay-Eff, Kay-Eff,” she said in her mic. “Am feet wet, and the Maker is good.” The last was her confirmation that Fiedler’s map was accurate. Now, combined with her coded observations and additions, they’d be better off from a planning perspective even if something still happened to her. That was a relief. Things had hit her plane after all, and it was a long way to the AVD. She eased back on the throttle to conserve fuel and shifted her rear on the double parachute cushion, settling in.
Tracers streaked past her canopy.
Saansa instantly knew what they were, but they came as such a surprise, all she could do for about two seconds was stare at the bright, arcing lines in the morning sky. And once in a while, situations arise in which two seconds can be an eternity—or make the difference between eternity and survival. This was one of those. An instant later, the big P-40 thundered with the impacts of bullets and she felt stunning blows on the armor plate behind her seat. Without further thought, she pushed the stick forward and opened the throttle wide. Her plane was hit, probably hurt, and likely leaking precious fuel. But she had to survive the next few moments to worry about the rest, and speed was her only chance. More tracers whipped past and, incredulous, she craned around to see her pursuer. It was still back there, keeping up—and there were at least two more! She rolled out and pointed her nose at the sea, mashing the Push to Talk button on the throttle.
“Kay-Eff! Kaay-Eff! I’m attaacked by three planes at least as faast as me! They big, too. Bigger than any Jaap-Grik fighters we seen!” Her English was slipping with the stress, and gone was any attempt to contemplate codes. Codes worked only when the enemy didn’t know what you were talking about. Right now, no matter what she said, there’d be no doubt about the subject of her transmission. Best to describe her situation and the threat she’d discovered as carefully as she could, she realized. She eased back on the stick, looking up. Two planes were still above, odd zigzag markings on their wings, but one blew past, rolling left, with a red ball painted—over something else, it seemed—on the side of the fuselage. Her predatory instincts took over and she turned after it, greedily willing the gun site to get just enough ahead . . . She pressed the button to talk. “They got no floats, an’ wheels is up. Liquid cooled, an’ pilot way back. Funny markings on the weengs, but there’s a Jaap meatball on the side . . .” She squeezed the trigger and two 50s roared. Large chunks peeled off the target and fluttered away. She kept firing, added more rudder—and black smoke belched from the plane, turning to a thick, steady trail. “Got you!” she snarled, still firing, and yellow flames burst from the long cowl in front of the cockpit.
“I got one!” she practically screeched as the strange plane rolled over and dropped toward the purple-blue water. But more tracers zipped past, punching through her right wing. Something made a terrible crunching sound and she fought the stick as the P-40-something tried to pitch forward to the right. That was when she saw one of her floats tumble away through the corner of her left eye.
“Shit! I in for it,” she said, her voice tight with strain. The plane was suddenly very sluggish, trying to yaw. “They knock a float off. I think it hit the other, bend it up. I in for it now! Listen, Kay-Eff, these not Jaap-Grik planes. They metal, like Pee-Forties . . .” Another burst shattered the canopy, tore through her left shoulder, and riddled the instrument panel. Panic coursed in with the smoky gust through the broken, blood-spattered windscreen, but there wasn’t any pain. Not at first. Her beloved Allison coughed, its mighty heart faltering, and more smoke burned her tear-filled eyes as she lost power. Still she fought to keep the plane from falling to the sea, but hope had nothing to do with it. There were still two enemy planes, at least, and she couldn’t even look for them. Couldn’t avoid them. Couldn’t even think about them as the pain finally surged. But she’d never quit; it wasn’t in her. And whichever Maker she was about to meet would have no cause to criticize her for giving up. The engine started rattling and she pushed the stick forward. It didn’t matter. The battered plane was still trying to stall and there wasn’t enough altitude left . . . More bullets savaged the P-40 and the right wing folded up in a gout of flame just as the plane slammed into the sea with a fire-spewing splash nine miles off the southeast coast of Zanzibar.
USS Santa Catalina
>
Nearing Mahe
“What the hell?” Matt demanded angrily, staring at another message form Commander Russ Chappelle had passed him. “What got her?” He was standing on Santa Catalina’s bridge with Chappelle, Bradford, Chack, and Lieutenant Michael “Mikey” Monk, Chappelle’s XO and current OOD. The otherwise entirely Lemurian bridge watch was studiously performing its duties while doubtless straining to hear. Mahe Island loomed ahead, darkly silhouetted by the setting sun. One of the steam frigate DDs, USS Tassat—quickly patched after a brutal mauling in the fighting around the Comoros Islands—was coming alongside. She wasn’t fit for independent patrols, still leaking too much to risk alone. Her bilge pumps never stopped, and the water coursing down from her scuppers had left dark stains. Matt knew her aggressive skipper, Jarrik-Fas, must be going nuts, his only consolation being that Tassat was next for Tarakaan Island’s attention. In the meantime, she could steam, and fight if necessary, and had sailed out to lead Santy Cat and the following battlegroup through the tricky harbor entrance, past the reefs. Right now, a motor launch was dropping to the water from her quarter davit.
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