“Probably sending a pilot over,” Chappelle observed, distracted from Matt’s question.
“Pilot is right,” called the signal ’Cat on the bridgewing, watching Tassat’s flashing Morse lamp. “Col-nol Maal-lory’s comin’ aboard!”
“It seems Mr. Fiedler didn’t tell us everything he could after all,” Courtney Bradford pronounced darkly, still focused on Matt’s question. His tone was grim but somewhat self-satisfied. Matt glanced at him. “We knew that. Just as we knew the League hadn’t abandoned Kurokawa entirely. And it’s possible these modern planes, whatever they are, showed up after Fiedler left.”
“Convenient,” Bradford muttered.
“Actually, his best guess is in the stack,” Chappelle disagreed, waving another half-dozen sheets. “Third or fourth page down,” he added. “Apparently, he left some notes—and a letter directly to you, Captain—stashed in the trimotor. The letter’s been sent up by air. The notes detailed some assets Gravois might’ve arranged to be transferred to Kurokawa. One sounds like what jumped the P-Forty-something.” Courtney harrumphed, but Chappelle leafed through the pages, selected one, and handed it over.
Matt quickly scanned it. “What’s a Macchi-Messerschmitt?” he asked dubiously. Everyone knew what a Messerschmitt 109 was; they’d been the bogeymen of Air Corps and Naval aviation before the old war began. It was commonly believed the British Spitfire was better, and had remained dogma in the Air Corps that Warhawks were better too—despite worrying reports from the Brits, who’d pitted export-model P-40s against 109s. In fact, the inexperienced flyers who first encountered Zeros over the Philippines thought they must be Messerschmitts, probably with Nazi pilots. Those who survived quickly learned the remarkably capable pilots shooting them down so easily were, in fact, Japanese—flying Japanese-made aircraft. Some survived long enough to learn P-40s were still better (in some ways), but they had to change the way they used them if they wanted to beat a Zero—and probably, a Messerschmitt. That Kurokawa might somehow have some of those was bad enough, but what did “Macchi” mean?
“Maybe we’ll find out pretty quick,” Mikey Monk temporized, nodding at the launch motoring toward them. He’d already ordered “dead slow.” The coded-message traffic had been flying back and forth between Mahe and Grik City—the enemy knew they were on Mahe, after all—and Santy Cat had picked off and decoded everything. She couldn’t send questions, though, since she and Arracca’s battlegroup had to remain silent. Comm discipline had been hard to adjust to, and instituting a mind-set of operational security among Lemurians in particular—naturally gregarious and prone to chatter—was no simple feat. ’Cats understood the problem, but preventing unintentional slips was a lot harder.
Courtney now believed that, despite their generally peaceful nature, Lemurians weren’t instinctively pacifistic. They couldn’t have survived long enough to accomplish their ancient exodus from Madagascar if that was the case, nor could they have become such good fighters so quickly. And the fact that isolated Lemurians still on Madagascar, such as the Shee-Ree, were decidedly not pacifistic only reinforced his new thesis.
They were talkers, though. Even among the Shee-Ree, spreading tales to other bands, tribes, even species, was their most lucrative export commodity. It was what it was, and everybody was doing their best, but it was hard to blame a ’Cat for backsliding in the stress of combat. Henry Stokes, trying to make the best of it, had even sent (with a code prefix specifying that the message be decoded only by Ed Palmer, Walker’s comm officer, and read by Matt alone) a suggestion that they try to use the inevitable lapses—which the enemy must be aware of—to their advantage. He hadn’t suggested when or how because Lemurians were also helplessly curious and other comm.-’Cats probably did decode the message. Hopefully, the seriousness of its eyes-only nature would keep them from blabbing.
With the launch away, Tassat sped ahead, taking up position. She’d recover her boat from Santa Catalina after they anchored. Very shortly, Ben Mallory came huffing up the stairs. “Getting out of shape,” he lamented, then grinned and saluted when he saw Matt; it had been a long time. Matt grinned back and shook his hand. “I’m sure Colonel Chack’ll be happy to let you train with his Raiders while they’re on the island.”
“Of course,” Chack agreed, blinking amusement. “I thought pursuit pilots had to remain fit, to overcome the stress of their aarial acro-baatics?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been more of an organizer than a pursuiter, since I got here,” Ben replied, evading the invitation. Chack’s Brigade trained very hard. He looked at Matt. “I suspect—hope—my pen pushing is over.”
Matt was nodding. “You did damn good work, Colonel,” he said. “And I’m very glad to see you. The initiative you took after Kurokawa tripped his mousetrap north of here—hunting him down and getting in some licks of our own—is one reason we’re in any shape to do anything but hunker down and wait for what comes next. The main reason, though, is how you kept your head and started organizing the mare’s nest that landed here after the battle, before generals Alden and Rolak arrived.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ben said seriously. “Honestly, though, that was as much out of fear as anything. I didn’t know if Alden or Rolak were even alive, and was scared to death I was it.” He shrugged. “And somebody had to take charge. If Kurokawa came on with troopships, we were finished.” He shook his head. “I didn’t really think he would, but he could have. I started by getting the airfield sorted out. There were gas and bombs on Tarakaan Island, but we didn’t have a single bullet or drop of fuel at the new strip.” He scratched his nose. “And there were a lot of shell-shocked people just standing around, doing nothing. I figured put ’em to work. I got the construction battalion busy improving the strip, shifting fuel and ammo and preparing for a bunch of people and planes. But then we learned Andamaan was coming in—that all the surviving troopships were coming here.” He held out his hands. “So I got everybody, even Tara’s crew and engineers, laying out encampments and setting up field kitchens—the works. I didn’t really know what I was doing on such a scale, but I had to try.”
“You did well. Better than well.” Matt smiled. “Pete’s writing you an IOU for another medal—once we get around to making some.” Everyone laughed. The subject of medals had been a running joke for years. No one wanted to divert even the relatively miniscule amount of labor and materials that making them would require from the war effort. But even Lemurians grasped how being recognized for martial accomplishments had an inspiring effect, and Adar once proposed that colorful ribbons be awarded for various acts. A census of the troops revealed that though they’d appreciate them, nobody would wear them and they’d just get lost. Most everyone liked the system that evolved: a commendation in front of one’s mates, documentation of the deed in one’s records, and the promise of a shiny medal one could wear—or be remembered by—after the war.
“Now,” Matt said, smile fading, “instead of waiting the couple hours for us to anchor, I assume you came out—risking your neck in a little boat on water with fish in it that eat ships—to tell me what the hell a Macchi-Messerschmitt is? I was looking at Fiedler’s description.” He held up the message form. “He was very helpful,” he added aside to Courtney. “But you know better what the specs mean for us.”
“Yes, sir,” Ben said, his grin sliding away as well. He lowered his voice so only Matt could hear. “And I scanned the letter he left you,” he confessed, “as soon as the Nancy pilot handed it over. General Maraan had already opened it, so I thought, What the hell?”
“That’s fine, Colonel,” Matt whispered back, “but I better have a look at it before we pass it around. If nothing else, we don’t want the enemy to know we have it.”
“Sure, Skipper,” Ben said louder, handing over a leather satchel. Matt glanced inside, seeing a thick sheaf of rough Lemurian paper covered with handwriting. “It’s in the section where he sketched out the history of the League�
�and even gave some background on the Confederation . . .”
“Confédértion États Souverains,” Courtney supplied helpfully.
“Yeah, that,” Ben agreed. “The outfit that became the League of Tripoli here. He obviously knew the League came from a different . . .” He shrugged, looking helpless.
“Progression of history,” Bradford suggested.
“Ah yeah,” Ben agreed, blinking at the Australian. They’d surmised that, and Gravois confirmed it, blithely explaining that the League was initially composed of a large Confederation task force and convoy headed for Italian Libya to conquer British Egypt in 1939. He’d refused to describe the composition of the task force, but they’d gleaned that even in that other world, the British Navy remained imposing, so the Confederation task force would’ve necessarily been robust. Matt wondered how the attack went after the convoy got . . . sucked here. He wrinkled his nose, disliking that description. Maybe they called it off? But that’s obviously why the League’s so well equipped.
“Anyway, Fiedler knew his world was similar to but different from ours, and tried to catch us up on how stuff is different. There’s a lot in there about that,” he said, nodding at the satchel, “and he must’ve been working on it quite a while before he blabbed.” He pursed his lips. “I only focused on what he said about warplanes the triumvirate may send to Kurokawa, though.” He frowned. “It isn’t good.”
“Spit it out.”
“Some of this is guesswork,” Ben defended, “piecing together things he didn’t know we didn’t know—or that we did. Macchi was an Italian aircraft company. Hispano Suiza was Spanish. That’s the same. But apparently, they floated BFW—the company Willy Messerschmitt worked for—when a civil war cooked off in Germany about 1933. Makes sense. Old Willy had already come up with the basic design for his BF–One Oh Nine by then, and everybody wanted their hands on it. So whatever got our plane, this Macchi-Messer was probably a joint venture between Italians, Spaniards, and Krauts, with—it sounds like—most of the good points of a One Oh Nine. No way to know if it’s as good. There might’ve been too many cooks spoiling the pot”—he paused—“but it might be better. The Eye-ties call it a Lightning.” He shook his head. “I never will. That was the same name as our hottest new ship, the P-Thirty-Eight, and I never got to fly one. Anyway, they come with Hispano Suiza or Daimler-Benz engines, depending on whose they are. Kraut planes have DBs and are faster, but based on the reported markings, these were probably Italian, with the HSs.” He considered. “Apparently, the French members of the League have planes of their own. On the other hand, the, ah, US in the world Fiedler came from had P-Forties, or was about to. He knew about ’em, anyway. And the Brits had Hurricanes. The bad thing is, the Macchi-Mess was considered a match for them. Maybe more than a match. They’d never tangled—yet.”
Matt glanced at Courtney, his treatment of the German flyer apparently vindicated more quickly than he’d hoped. He looked at Ben. “So, what’s the bottom line?”
“According to Fiedler”—Ben nodded at the satchel in Matt’s hands—“performance-wise, they’re probably on a par with my P-Forties. Similar speed and range, at least. We should be able to outrun ’em in a dive because we’re heavier. And we’ve got six fifties. They have two, and a pair of seven-sevens in their wings. That said, it’ll probably be like fighting Zeros because they’re more agile. The good news? They can’t get us here. They’re not carrier planes either. The bad news? Our P-Forties can’t get to them from here—and they’ll chew our P-Ones and Nancys apart as easy as we tore up the Jap-Grik planes. Worse news? They’ve probably got at least five of ’em, not counting the one Saansa nailed. I’ve got three operational P-Forties. I might make it four, if I can fix one of our busted ships. I could make it six, if you let me order the two left at Baalkpan forward. But we can’t fly ’em in, and getting them here might take longer than we have. I wish we’d known we needed them sooner; we could’ve shipped ’em out on Madras.”
“We can get your Third Pursuit Squadron close enough to use them. P-Forties can fly off of carriers,” Chappelle mused. “Hell, you’ve done it.” He shook his head. “They just can’t land on ’em, so that’s a one-way trip. And not only are there five—or more—modern planes on Zanzibar to worry about, but the League obviously has enough of them to loan out. Should we risk any of our modern planes now?”
“Turn ’em back into hanger queens, you mean, while our Fleashooters and Nancys get creamed? No way,” Ben said defiantly. “This is what they’re for! Finally!”
“I agree,” Matt assured him. “You said they hadn’t tangled with P-Forties before? They will soon enough. But we’ve got to figure out how to get your planes there to support the operation.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Operation Outhouse Rat has an appropriate ring, and should be suitably vague.” They’d also learned to be careful about operation and task force names. “But how do we use them—that won’t guarantee we’ll lose them, along with you and your pilots? We’ll get with Keje and figure out a better way to trap them on Big Sal than just stringing a big net across her deck.” Salissa was equipped for that, but no one had ever tried it, considering it too dangerous and potentially damaging to the planes. But that might be the only answer. Matt rubbed his chin. “In the meantime, I wonder how good a night fighter this Macchi Messer is? Especially if Kurokawa’s not expecting to need one.”
“What are you thinking, sir?”
“Jumbo’s Pat-Squad Twenty-Two has seven Clippers.” He shrugged. “Well, six, until they fix the broken one. One’s about to take Courtney to the Republic, and we’re going to start bombing Sofesshk with incendiaries by night. We’ll see how the Grik like it for a change. The good news, which I haven’t told Jumbo or anybody yet, because it’s almost as big a secret from our friends as it is to the enemy, is”—he looked around at the uncomprehending expressions—“since everybody wants the big mothers . . .” The quizzical blinking continued. “Oh, well, I guess I better spill it. Chairman Letts is sending the entire Baalkpan production of the newest Clippers here, to us, for the foreseeable future. Yeah,” he said, gauging their suddenly glowing eyes and Chack’s happy blinking. “Six more are on their way now, and we’ll be getting three, maybe four, every two weeks. How does that sound?”
“To say ‘swell’ is a pretty big understatement, sir,” Ben said excitedly. “General Alden’s been dying for heavy bombers, and he’s liable to . . . ah, urinate himself with glee—begging your pardon.”
Matt grinned; then his face turned hard. “Good. And I hope the enemy pisses themselves with terror, because besides bombing Sofesshk almost every night, when our numbers are up”—he looked at Ben—“every now and then, we’ll send Clippers to bomb Kurokawa as well. All of them. We won’t do it often enough for them to predict us, and if the Clippers have trouble with fighters, we’ll try sneaking Big Sal close enough to provide fighter cover. I bet even Fleashooters’ll make pests of themselves against modern planes in the dark. If we’re lucky, we might even get the Macchi-Messers on the ground. Not to mention Savoie and Kurokawa’s other ships.”
“But, Captain Reddy,” Courtney said, alarmed, “won’t that risk Lady Sandra, Chairman Adar, and the others? Not only to injury or death at our own hands, but to reprisals by Kurokawa?”
Matt sighed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were like green agate: opaque, but reflecting the sunset like they were aflame. “It might,” he agreed softly, his voice rising as he continued. “But the campaign against Kurokawa can’t be just a goddamn rescue mission! You encouraged me yourself that it’s necessary, and I agree. But I can’t—won’t—let that crazy Jap bastard believe we’ll hold anything back just because he has our people. That’ll make him really test it, and . . .” His voice softened to a whisper that chilled his friends. “I honestly don’t know how I’d handle a direct this-or-that challenge, with Sandra at stake.” He looked at them helplessly. “I think I know. I hope I do. But
I can’t be sure.” He took a deep breath. “Best not to give him the chance to make one,” he said brusquely, then singled out Bradford again. “You’re right. Bombing might put our people in danger from him, or, God help me, us. But probably less than if he gets the idea he can use them—her—to get what he wants. We all know he’ll try. So I mean to slam the door on that notion as hard as I can.”
He looked bleakly out the bridge windows at Mahe, its twin peaks looming larger now. “And if we do kill her,” he said, his voice thick, “it’s got to be cleaner than what he’ll do.” He looked back to hold each gaze. “I won’t say it’s what they’d want. Nobody wants to die. But given the stark choice between death and what Kurokawa might do to them to get what he wants, to make us waste the lives we’ve lost already and maybe lose the war, I know exactly what they’d all prefer.”
Santa Catalina’s bridge went utterly silent except for the usual creaks and groans of an old, hard-used ship, the muted rush of the sea, and machinery noises that traveled through the very fibers of her form. Finally, Ben Mallory patted his shirt pocket. “Oh,” he said, his voice nearly as grim as Matt’s. He fished a folded sheet from his pocket and handed it over. “The updated map of Zanzibar, based on Lieutenant Saansa’s observations,” he explained, while Matt opened it and looked at a map just like the one he’d seen before, only with written notations and new drawings on it. “She also said ‘the Maker is good,’” he added, glancing at Bradford. He’d sensed the Australian’s hostility toward Fiedler. “So we can probably trust it. We didn’t hear Saansa’s transmissions here,” he continued. “Too far. But the AVD immediately dispatched its Nancy and it leapfrogged in. Just arrived before I headed out to meet you.”
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