Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  “Chairman Adar is fine,” he said dismissively, crouching with a stick to draw in the sand. “Now, I have been thinking about the antiaircraft guns that fired at your swift scout plane that observed the bay.” One of those guns was very close, just a few hundred yards away, but remained hidden from view by a dense band of jungle. “I believe they’re large Grik muzzle-loaders, perhaps hundred-pounders, taken from the ironclads being rebuilt as aircraft carriers. That would give them quite a few.” He scratched in the dirt. “I imagine interesting, complicated carriages, perhaps a type of barbette, which would not only facilitate rapid pointing and training at a high angle, but also absorb their recoil. They might also allow for rapid reloading, if they can depress the muzzle between shots.”

  Horn studied the sketch in the fading light. “Might be possible. ‘Complicated’ is right, though. Recoil and elevation would be the trick, muzzle-loaders or not. I wonder how they do it. Some kind of twisted-rope torsion arrangement like Grik bomb throwers use? ‘Hydropneumatic’ means ‘heavy machinery, with tight tolerances.’” He shrugged. “But they’re building airplane engines, so they’ve got that. Still, I think you’re right. They were shooting pretty fast, but not as fast as a breech-loader.” The AAA was just one of many things they’d speculated on since the P-40-something was seen. They believed its pilot had done some serious damage to one of the airfields, because they’d watched the distant column of smoke for two entire days. But they’d also seen the modern aircraft Gravois must’ve arranged rise and give chase, so they feared the “something” might’ve been caught. Particularly when the planes, minus one, returned so quickly.

  Most of all, they couldn’t help wondering if the P-40 pilot might’ve seen them, dancing and waving, and somehow reported it. The plane passed fairly close at one point. But Kurokawa hadn’t summoned Sandra, as she’d expected, to discuss what it meant, so they might never know. Kurokawa hadn’t spoken to any of them, in fact, since the move, and the only notable visitor had been a dark-haired League major named Rizzo, who stayed very briefly and seemed interested only in their living conditions. That surprised them all, and they wondered if Kurokawa had forgotten them.

  More likely, he was busy with Savoie. Without binoculars, all they could see on her was a lot of Grik activity; mostly trainees learning to operate her, apparently. But she hadn’t moved, and even her great gun turrets remained still. If Kurokawa was training a crew, it didn’t look like he’d gotten to gunnery yet. That was both encouraging and a little unnerving. Then again, everything about their situation was unnerving. They had no idea what was happening, how their friends were, how the war progressed, or what twisted purpose Kurokawa was saving them for. Most unsettling of all, perhaps, were the groups of Japanese men who came to stare at the women. Given how distracting the “dame famine” had been to Matt’s destroyermen, the same issue here, prolonged far longer, must be growing difficult for Kurokawa to control. Sandra remembered Muriname’s declaration of loyalty to his lord, but had also seen the naked lust in his eyes. He couldn’t be the only one driven half-mad by the total lack of women for so long. Unless they’d all resigned themselves to becoming warrior monks, that issue alone might eventually overthrow Kurokawa when nothing else could. Not that they’d benefit. His “protection,” for whatever reason, was probably the only thing keeping them alive. It was certainly the only thing keeping the women unmolested. Some of the men who came to watch were boisterous and mocking, shouting insults and throwing sticks and rocks over the moat, laughing among themselves. Others were silent and intense. Gunny Horn seemed most concerned about the latter, and everyone knew he’d die before such a group got their hands on Sandra or Diania.

  Lange stood, grunting, his drawing in the dirt fading as the light quickly left them. As usual, so near the equator, night fell abruptly. He kicked the sand with his shoe. “Not that it matters,” he said grimly. “Nothing we observe will do our side any good.”

  “It will,” Sandra insisted, “when we get away.” Lange snorted. “We will escape,” she stated defiantly, unequivocally. “In the meantime, it gives us something to do.”

  Diania had joined them, and suddenly cocked her head to one side. “Tss!” she said sharply. “What’s that sound?”

  All talking abruptly ceased and they strained to hear. At first it was hard to discern over the hiss of the nearby surf, but soon even Horn, with the worst hearing of them all, held up his hand. “It’s planes,” he said definitively. “Lots of them—or fewer, with multiple engines. Still, more than one.” They all stared at the near-black sky. Even Adar had managed to rise and, with Ruffy’s help, stepped outside the hut, looking up. “Ra-diaal engines,” Adar said, silver eyes flashing in the growing starlight. The Japanese planes all used radials, and the League Ju-52 had boasted three. But these were different, with a distinctive sound. “That new Clipper that brought Hij Geerki down to Liberty City”—Adar still called Grik City that—“was one of the first of a new class; the first of many Cap-i-taan Reddy hoped to get. It had staacked ra-diaals that sounded like that, but there is more than one!”

  They all looked at the anchorage, awash in the gleam of hundreds of lamps and even torches burning from one end to the other, as workers prepared to slave through the night on the many projects. “What a target!” Horn almost whispered. The drone grew louder.

  “I see them!” Ruffy cried, pointing with his free hand. “Exhaust flares! Blue! Very high. They block the staars as they paass!”

  The others stared again. They believed him but couldn’t see what he did. That was probably a good thing. Grik fought in darkness but preferred not to. Their night vision was poor compared to that of Lemurians or even humans. So if Ruffy was the only one to see them, the Grik certainly couldn’t, especially through the glare surrounding the anchorage. A bright flash lit the harbor, near where the ironclad BBs were becoming aircraft carriers. Another quickly followed, then a whole string of eruptions, totaling ten or twelve, boiled up in the air, followed by distant whump, whump, whump sounds. Balls of orange fire rolled into the sky and spread along the docks or the surface of the water. Moments later, more firebombs marched across Kurokawa’s harbor facilities. Then a third cluster fell, much closer, near where the HQ compound stood. A couple even fell on Savoie, lighting up her afterdeck and possibly marking her for further attention. Flames soared in the distant forest, in the vicinity of the airfield the P-40 set alight, and another string of explosions seared the ground very close, just a few hundred yards to the north near that other airfield. They weren’t loud explosions, just deep-throated, whooshing thumps of heavy Allied incendiaries, but the shouting excitement they aroused in the compound was very loud indeed.

  “Why are you all so happy?” Becher Lange demanded. “They might hit us!”

  “Yeah, they might,” Horn agreed gleefully, “but that just puts us back in the fight, doesn’t it?”

  Lange shook his head. Despite his depression and frustrated rage, Horn’s enthusiasm and disdain for his own skin was lost on him. A loud roar bellowed from the antiaircraft gun they’d been discussing. A streak of sputtering light arced into the sky, followed by a flash and a dull boom. A couple other guns went off in the distance, but then the marching explosions got louder as well, as other planes apparently dropped big, new, ship-killing bombs, heavier than they’d ever seen. There weren’t as many of those as the others, but a fair percentage fell near Savoie, raising towering, luminescent waterspouts. It didn’t look like any hit, but there were some very near misses. Maybe they did some damage.

  “Look!” Diania cried, pointing at the bay. A huge fire was building in the distance, roaring and roiling skyward from the vicinity of the carrier-conversion projects. And just as they gazed at that, another string of waterspouts marched relentlessly toward the one operational carrier. The last bomb in the cluster of six—probably all the big planes could carry—hit the carrier on the forward flight deck, sending smoldering debris and shatte
red timbers far and wide.

  “Yes!” Horn and Sandra chorused, and Horn, beside himself with excitement, snatched up Diania and spun her around. The bay reverberated with the thunder of dozens of big guns now, and Savoie, her fantail still aflame, spat dazzling tracers at the sky. The darkness overhead snapped and flashed with exploding shells, though no one could tell if they were coming close or even how the gunners could tell how high the bombers were. Still, one shot at least must’ve gotten lucky, because a bright red-orange flare unexpectedly scorched the sky. It carried on for some distance, curving slowly away to the west, then south, before suddenly growing much more intense—and shattering into a spray of flashing smears of fire that tumbled to the sea like burning confetti.

  “Damn!” Horn muttered, setting Diania down. “They got one.”

  “But out of how many? At least ten, maybe a dozen,” Sandra said, her tone more sober but still excited.

  “I think maybe sixteen, seventeen,” Ruffy said. “They go now.” Sandra didn’t know how he could tell. The ack-ack was still firing wildly, the night still flashing with lurid thunderclaps as the fused shells burst. But the bombs had stopped falling. They looked back at the bay.

  Kurokawa’s new carriers were engulfed in flames, the tinder-dry timbers left baking beneath the equatorial sun burning too fast and furiously for anything to quench. And the flames were eating the facilities around them as well. A great crane, its legs quickly withering, fell across the raging inferno amid an explosion of swirling red sparks. Quite a few other ships, cruisers mostly, had gotten underway. They’d dodged the bombs and some were moving toward the burning ships, probably to bring their hoses to bear. It was no use. Both the conversions were clearly doomed—and Kurokawa wouldn’t like that at all. Perhaps worse, his sole surviving carrier had taken a hit as well. A mall flickering fire still marked her forward flight deck, but it was shrouded with steam as hoses beat it down and it looked like her crew had it under control. Still, it might be a while before she could operate aircraft. That was something.

  The same was true for Savoie. None of the bombs had pierced the armor beneath her wooden deck, and all the planks could burn entirely away and it wouldn’t hinder her combat power. Certainly not her main armament. In any event, she seemed to have her fire under control as well, and they were too far away to see if the near misses had any effect; whether her bilge pumps were discharging more water than usual. They all remained excited, however. A serious blow had been struck. Yet even as they celebrated, they couldn’t help wonder what the cost would be to them. Within an hour, they got their first answer.

  A group of about twenty Japanese appeared on the earthen bridge, talking loudly among themselves. Some were in uniform, while others wore the simple coveralls of overseers in the shipyards and elsewhere. A few looked hurt or scorched by fire, and several wore bandages. None seemed happy. The two Grik guards confronted them, their muskets at the ready, bayonets fixed. In addition to keeping the prisoners confined, they apparently had orders to prevent something like this. The crowd hesitated, but then there was a shot and a Grik fell back and splashed in the moat. Almost instantly, the flashies swarmed and the guard screeched in agony. The other Grik lowered his bayonet and charged forward, only to be hacked down by several men with swords. Together, bolder and committed, the men rushed forward and slammed the gate aside.

  “Get back!” Gunny Horn snapped at Sandra and Diania, stepping in front of them, immediately joined by Ruffy, Eddy, and Becher Lange. Even Adar moved slowly into the line, defying the intruders, who suddenly paused again. Several had rifles and they pointed them at the prisoners. Ignoring Horn’s command, the two women joined him, one on either side. None held any kind of weapon, but Sandra had one hand behind her, fumbling at her waistband beneath the ragged, untucked shirt. One of the men yelled something at them, then exchanged his rifle for a heavy wooden staff. He pointed it at the women and yelled something else, glaring at Horn. “Please step back, ladies,” Horn ground out through clenched teeth. “I think he wants to make this man-to-man.”

  “Animal to unarmed man, you mean,” Sandra hissed. She pointed at the staff. “Why don’t you give him one of those? Are you afraid to face a half-starved, helpless prisoner? Are you that big a coward?”

  Maybe the Japanese sailor understood a little English, or maybe the meaning of her tone was universal. Either way, he grunted and snapped something at a comrade. An instant later, another staff sailed through the air and landed in the sand at Horn’s feet. The Japanese sailor confidently twirled his like a propeller and took a step forward. “Whatever happens . . .” Horn said to the others, stooping for the staff. He never got a chance to finish. The sailor raced forward and slammed his weapon down on Horn’s shoulder. Obviously expecting it, Horn rolled with the blow and came up, the heavy staff in hand. He twirled it himself, experimentally, grinning at his adversary. “You know, I was always pretty good with one of these, you dumb-ass Jap,” he said. He spun it again, but then, in the blink of an eye, stopped the rotation and slammed the hardened end into the other man’s belly. He quickly recovered to follow the blow with an overhand swing, but that was as far as he got before the other Japanese, now behind him, surged forward and grabbed his arms. The first man, still gasping, viciously rammed his own staff into Horn’s belly, making him double over in pain. Then he started beating Horn as hard as he could about the head and shoulders. Sandra’s hand found the grip of the Colt, and she knew everyone around her was tensing to surge forward.

  Three shots popped in the darkness, the muzzle flashes blinding. For an instant, Sandra though she’d done it herself without realizing it, but her hand was still behind her. To her amazement, Hisashi Kurokawa himself strode through the knot of men, leading Maggiore Rizzo and a squad of musket-armed Grik. “How dare you!” he shrieked, his purple face and bulging eyes reflecting the light of the distant fires. “If I wanted them dead, I would have killed them myself. Release that man at once.”

  Hesitantly, almost rebelliously, his sailors dropped Gunny Horn to the ground. The last couple of blows had been telling and he only groaned. Kurokawa turned to the man with the staff and shot him in the chest. With a little cry that turned to a bubbling moan, he collapsed in the sand. Kurokawa leveled his Nambu pistol at the others. “Now throw this ungrateful traitor in the moat, before I feed you all to my guards. I may do it, anyway. Such treachery!” Without the slightest hesitation, the Japanese sailors snatched up the body and did as they were told. Maggiore Rizzo, the highest-ranking League representative left on Zanzibar, stepped to stand by Kurokawa. With the water seething and splashing around another body, the sailors waited, eyes lowered. Kurokawa holstered his pistol. “Let them through,” he shouted at his Grik. “I will decide what to do with them later. Half of you will remain here tonight, to make sure nothing like this happens again. The rest will escort Maggiore Rizzo and me back to my quarters.” The Japanese sailors bolted, and with a harsh command from their captain, NCO—whatever—ten Grik, uniformed just like their guards had been, arrayed themselves at the far end of the land bridge. Sandra stooped beside Horn and began examining him. She wished she had a light, but feeling his head, at least it wasn’t bashed in.

  “You may tend him in a moment,” Kurokawa said. “Follow me.” He turned to walk where they’d all stood watching the raid on the harbor. Rizzo followed him. “Help him,” Sandra whispered to Diania, and stood, hitching up what was left of her trousers, feeling the weight of the Colt. She almost drew it out at last. Now would be a perfect time to kill Kurokawa, and Rizzo as well. She and her friends would surely die, but at least the snake before her would be dead at last. Maybe in a minute, she decided. I’ll see what he has to say. And I don’t know enough about Rizzo to decide if killing him’s a good idea or not. When she joined the two men, their faces now easier to see, she thought Kurokawa looked unusually controlled. Rizzo, on the other hand, his fingers absently stroking the large, dark mustache on his face
, seemed to be pleading with his eyes. For what? Forgiveness?

  “So,” Kurokawa said at last, “another debt you owe me. That is the second time I have saved one of your people, not to mention you, from perhaps worse than death.” He smirked.

  “Why did you kill that man?” she blurted. “One of your own?”

  “To protect you, as I said.” He shrugged. “And as an example. Events such as the one tonight, an unexpected attack where we felt most secure, tend to encourage . . . impulsive behavior. Now, perhaps, I won’t have to kill the others.”

  “But even one . . . You can’t have many of your old crew left, and with so many probably engaged in manufacturing, training, flying some of your planes, commanding ships . . .”

  “I have more than enough that I can kill any who disobey me,” Kurokawa said flatly.

  Maggiore Rizzo glanced at him, incredulous, then looked pleadingly back at Sandra. “Signora Reddy,” he said, “I fully understand if you do not wish to share certain particulars regarding your, ah, martial dispute with General of the Sea Kurokawa. And I believe you may have even told him all you knew at the time of your interview. But the happy coincidence that brought us here in time to intervene in this unpleasant business occurred at my request,” he continued urgently, waving at the bay. “I must appeal to you as a representative of a power not at war with your Alliance. Signora, please. After tonight, what do you believe your marito, Capitano Reddy, will do?”