Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  “Our first priority is to reform the armies, obviously.” He shook his head. “Third Army was almost destroyed.”

  “It was destroyed, as a fighting force,” Bekiaa snapped. “Send the badly crippled legions to Fort Melhausen, escorting the wounded, but keep the rest. Integrate them into First and Second Armies.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Kim objected. “Nor is it certain we can continue. I must consult Nig-Taak, hear his views.”

  “It is that simple,” Bekiaa stated. “You command and must continue, moving faster than ever before!” She gestured around. “Other plans were set in motion when you began this caampaign. They all depend on you. If you stop now, you invite the destruction of your allies. Just as bad”—she waved around again—“all these people will’ve died for nothing. If you don’t push after the Grik that got away—stay close behind them—word of this baattle will get too far ahead and we’ll face another army sooner than we would have. Sooner than we have to. Now is the time for your forced march through the forest, supporting Gener-aal Taal’s scouts.”

  “The Grik will oppose us. Some got away.”

  “Sure, but not many. We’ll brush ’em aside and keep going.” She looked at Taal for support. The cavalry commander was blinking thoughtful agreement.

  “But our supply lines . . .” Kim protested. “They will not be secure in the forest, with raiders on our flanks.”

  “They can be strengthened by sea, when we reach the Ungee River,” Courtney suggested tightly as the healer wiped at his wound. “Songze, and certainly Fort Taak, are far enough north that at this time of year they’re rarely affected by the blasted Dark. Move supplies from them by sea.”

  General Kim seemed to consider. “That might work. It’s not as easy as you make it sound, but might be possible—if we can get the ships completed in time, or your people can supply them.” He glanced around, then back at Bekiaa. “I’ll at least do part of what you suggest and send the wounded to the rear immediately, escorted by the crippled legions.” He paused and met Bekiaa’s gaze. “What of the Twenty-third?”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s your legion now, you know.”

  “Mine?” She was surprised. She’d expected it to be a temporary command.

  “Shall it go to the rear as well?” Kim pressed.

  “No, sir,” Prefect Bele interjected. “Our losses were heavy, but not crippling. We can continue.” He looked at Bekiaa. “With her in command.”

  “Perhaps we can experiment with her notions,” Choon suggested. “Let what remains of the Tenth Legion be absorbed into the Twenty-third. It will be a start,” he explained to his doubtful general. “The survivors of the Tenth will resent it, of course. I do not blame them. But if anyone can combine two legions—from two armies—into one, it is her,” he added with certainty.

  “I caan,” Bekiaa insisted, stepping forward. “And I’ll do it on the march—if we march at once, together.”

  Kim wavered. “Very well. We will try that.” He gestured around once more. “It will take time for the rest, but I finally understand the difference between your system and ours. I did not see it before. Your First, Second, and Third Corps can operate independently, as do our armies with the same names. Except your corps, no matter how diverse, were always trained to work and fight together, as part of the same army. Even our legions, perhaps equivalent to your regiments or brigades, do not truly consider themselves part of a greater whole. Perhaps after today, and with the example you will set with the Twenty-third”—he sighed—“along with other changes I must make at last, the Armies of the Republic will begin to see themselves, itself, as the Army of the Republic. . . . If we continue the advance.” He looked at the carnage once more, hand rubbing his perpetual frown. “I truly never imagined . . .” He shook his head and stared at her. “You told me this was a terrible war, but most of us didn’t even know what war was until today. God help us if we suffer another defeat such as this, even farther from our homes.”

  Bekiaa barked a laugh that sounded almost hysterical. “Defeat?” she said harshly. “I’ve seen defeat, General. Bloody as this was, and despite our mistakes, today was a victory. How do I know the difference? Because enough of us remain to ponder whether we won or lost.” She laughed again at his expression.

  “She’s right, you know,” Courtney Bradford said, rising to his elbows, the eyes beneath his bushy brows deadly earnest for once. “And now you’ve had a taste. You may not’ve known what you were getting into, but you’ve got a bloody good idea now. Get used to it, General Kim, or you may as well go home after all.” He grimaced as the healer cinched the bandage tight around his calf, then regarded Kim with sad compassion. “Not that it’ll save anything. If you retire, your armies will split and your legions return to their provinces. You can’t keep them together long, doing nothing. And after your allies, our people”—he said, nodding at Bekiaa—“have lost the war, which we will without your participation in this campaign. The Grik will finally come and snap your legions up in penny packets. You know it as well as I.”

  “Indeed, Gener-aal,” Choon said, standing. After glancing distastefully at the blood that had spoiled his fine shirt, he looked at Kim. “I must agree with the Am-baas-ador. More importantly, though the Senate may not, the Kaiser certainly will. This has been a costly first encounter, yet we learned much about the enemy; perhaps more than our allies now know. The Grik have a real army, with real soldiers and a sharply focused cause—our destruction. We must similarly redevote ourselves. Consider that the enemy likely initiated this battle fully aware they couldn’t win. They hurt us more grievously than they should have, and there were numerous reasons for that, but most revealing was that they were willing to sacrifice their entire force merely to destroy a portion of ours. That implies a dedication to their cause like none of us has seen, as well as an understanding that this war will be decided by a series of battles, not only one.” He bowed to Bekiaa. “You are used to that idea, but have you ever known the Grik to accept such a notion?” He looked back at Kim. “Only one thing hasn’t changed: there will always be more Grik, and the longer it takes us to defeat them, the more there will be.” He paused and blinked down at Courtney. “And from a purely political standpoint, we must press on. Even if our allies were not so exposed, what additional assistance could we ever expect from them if we—as they might say—took one punch and quit?”

  Courtney snorted and glared up at Optio Meek. “Don’t just stand there gawking! Help me up, damn you.” When Meek complied, Courtney, leaning on the younger man, controlled a grimace. “Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, Inquisitor,” he granted, then looked at Kim. “So, let’s get cracking, shall we? You can reshape your army, General, but do it on the march. Use this victory to weld it together. And make sure your people know it was a victory. I’ll warrant they already know how much worse it could’ve been—and why. They’ll want change now. Let’s give it to them, and push on until the end!”

  General Kim nodded, his expression hardening as decision came. “Very well,” he agreed. “So be it.” He held each gaze a moment and then nodded once more. “Until the end.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ////// Southwest of Zanzibar

  November 17, 1944

  Rough-sounding Grik-made engines blaaapped loudly in the predawn dark as the dirigible bucked the chilly, quartering crosswind at around three thousand feet. Their altitude was a guess; there was no altimeter, nor was there a light in the forward gondola, and Dennis Silva could barely see the shapes of the aircrew flying “his” zeppelin. There’d been light below earlier when they crossed the phosphorescent wakes of (probably) Allied AVDs, steaming closer to the south coast of Zanzibar than ever before. Their planes wouldn’t scout the island itself, but would continue making sure Kurokawa’s fleet hadn’t sortied, and start cutting the supply line to the mainland. Now there was nothing, not even the glimmering wave tops
reflecting the sparkling stars. At some point, they’d crossed the African shoreline, and the stars had disappeared behind a hazy overcast. Only occasional flares of Silva’s Zippo over his pocket compass kept them aimed at their objective.

  Dennis felt a prickly sensation on the back of his neck and automatically reached up to thump Petey on the head. But Petey wasn’t there. He’d left him with Isak and Tabby. Pam would’ve devotedly watched him right up until he left, then pitched him out the nearest porthole. She couldn’t stand him. Silva wondered why he could. He’d never wanted him, and on his best behavior the little lizard was an obnoxious, annoying pest. Kinda like me, he thought. But Petey was also a constant reminder of Sandra, and the Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald. Particularly the latter, when she’d merely been a scared little girl he called Li’l Sis. Petey took Dennis back to a cherished time when a little girl saw nothing but good in him, looked at him as an indestructible protector, and gave him her unqualified trust. That had changed him at least as much as Chief Gray’s example and Captain Reddy’s confidence that he’d do what had to be done, no matter what. He took off his helmet and scratched his head. Well, I guess if anything happens to me, ol’ Petey’ll be okay, at least. That dopey creep Isak always wanted a pet.

  “You ne’er go this long wi’out talking,” Lawrence said. “You’re not scared, are you?”

  Instead of his usual bluster, Dennis chuckled. “What’s to be scared of? We’re flyin’ a string o’ gas turds in a paper bag, patched together with balin’ wire an’ gum, toward what’re likely the best-trained, best-armed Griks we ever met, led by Japs with modern fighters an’ a battleship. An’ our mission is to crash in the middle of ’em all an’ run around spyin’ an’ reportin’ what we see. Oh yeah, an’ rescue the Skipper’s pregnant wife in our spare time. I’m dozin’ on my feet.”

  Lawrence nodded seriously and Silva noted he could see him better now as the sky began to gray. “You say it like that,” Lawrence said, “it does sound kinda dull. It’ll get greater exciting ’hen the ’ig show starts, I think.” They laughed together, Lawrence’s sounding like a leaking steam line. The three aircrew, all Shee-Ree, looked at them like they were nuts, and as the light improved, Silva could see them better. The ’Cats were dyed and dressed as Grik, just like Lawrence. They wouldn’t fool anybody in daylight, but might in the dark, at a distance. It was better than nothing. They’d rely on Lawrence and Pokey (the only real Grik they had) to do any talking. But Pokey, despite his obvious glee at seeing “See-va” again, still struck Dennis as retarded, even for a Grik.

  Maybe it’s just how he acts around me, he considered. The Khonashi troops in the aft gondola might actually be more problematic. Their rust-colored plumage was darker than the average Grik and they’d had to be lightened with stuff that might wash off if it rained. And then there was Silva and Captain Stuart Brassey, of course. Dennis knew the young Imperial officer I’joorka sent to command his detachment of Khonashi very well, but neither looked like Grik in daylight or dark. Hopefully they’d pass as Japanese, though Silva, at six foot two, would be a very unusual—and memorable—Japanese sailor. There couldn’t be many, if any, like him, and they’d be very well-known. Maybe there were still some Leaguers around? Their best bet was to remain undetected.

  “Is dat it?” asked the ’Cat behind the tall, upright tiller controlling the rudders and elevators aft. He was nodding northeast over the open rail at a dark, distant shape beginning to firm up. It lay across a broad ocean gap from the mainland below. Dennis strode forward and extended the Imperial telescope in front of his good eye. “Guess so,” he said. “It’s about the right time.” He aimed the glass down at several ships in the strait. A couple were old-style, square-rig Grik Indiamen, the growing day separating their dingy white sails from the purple-black sea. One ship looked like the double-ended steam tugs they’d seen pulling troops and supplies up the West Mangoro River on Madagascar. The barge behind was stacked with barrels. “Steer for the island,” he ordered, still staring at the barge. The sun peeked over the horizon like a molten ball, battering the filmy overcast and spraying them with light. “Ever’body but Larry, remember to stay back from the rail,” he warned. “Pass the word aft.” Through the telescope he began to see multicolored streamers in the water, trailing the barge. He grunted. “Oil barrels. Leaky. Fuel oil for Kurokawa. Just like we thought, he’s done with coal. At least for his ships. An’ he has to have oil to make gas for his planes. Those casks’re so leaky, though, I bet I could burn the whole thing just by droppin’ a lit cee-gar.” He shrugged. “Oh, well.”

  Brassey climbed down the ladder from the envelope above, the only way between the two gondolas. He stepped beside Silva and peered over as well. Silva glanced at him. Brassey was about the same age as Abel Cook and looked a lot like him, except for his dark hair. The two were best friends and young enough that they probably hadn’t even finished growing. Yet they were already captains who’d earned the rank. Still, even though he was technically the senior officer, Brassey understood this was Silva’s mission and would follow his lead.

  He nodded at the dark island ahead, its prominent features reflecting the rising sun. “It’s fairly obvious we’re heading the right direction. Kurokawa must get all his supplies from the mainland.”

  “An’ he’s gotta have tank batteries for all his oil somewhere close to the harbor. I’d love to find those.”

  “We will,” Brassey assured. “I’ll prepare my troops. It won’t be long now.”

  “Nope. An’ be sure to arrange them nasty dead Griks around. I know they stink, but we can’t afford for ’em to find the damn things still wrapped up like mummies.”

  Brassey frowned but nodded, and climbed back up the ladder. “The rest of us better ease back now,” Dennis said, as much to himself as the others. “Except you, Larry. Time to put your new artistic skills to use.”

  Lawrence had discovered that he loved to draw, and had often used sticks on the ground or rocks on rocks. Now, with his rifle-loading claws filed away, he’d learned to hold pencils and brushes. He stepped to the forward rail in the gondola, wind whipping the crest on his head, and prepared to make additions to his already updated copy of Fiedler’s map. He’d call out any changes so Silva, now crouching near the tiller, could mark them on his own map. They’d decided to make for the central airfield closest to Kurokawa’s HQ, suspecting that was where the Grik usually went. But they also knew it had been hammered, both by the P-40-something, and the big night raid. They’d veer off, crossing the anchorage a second time, and head for the strip on the northwest side of Lizard Ass Bay before “losing power,” and apparently falling prey to the prevailing wind. That would be when things would get interesting—unless they were already shot down for flying over something Kurokawa had ordered other Grik to avoid. That was Silva’s main concern: that there was only one acceptable approach. He hoped if there was, under the circumstances, Kurokawa would let his desire for news from Esshk overrule his pique.

  “We’re crossing o’er nunder three island now,” Lawrence said. “I don’t see anything there. Nunder one is co’ing ut.” There was a long pause while the airship bucked the morning breeze, now beating on its starboard bow. “There’s cranes and things,” Lawrence finally reported, confirming what they already knew. Then his voice grew more excited. “There’s the carrier that got a’ay! It got hit in the raid! They’re ’orking on the launching deck! And o’er at the great docks, south-southeast, it’s all gone! ’Urned a’ay!”

  “So we burned out all the new carrier conversions too,” Silva muttered gleefully, scribbling on his map. “Kurokawa’ll be one unhappy Jap—if the fit it musta gave him didn’t croak him.”

  Lawrence’s monologue continued as the sun climbed, beginning to glare inside the gondola as they swept across the docks, over one of the Japanese barracks—exactly where it was supposed to be—and neared the central airfield. As expected, it was gone. The scorche
d remains of the strips were clear but surrounded by burned-out hangers, charred fragments of aircraft, and a two-mile-wide blackened hole in the jungle. And what looked like some kind of factory complex east of the airfield had burned as well. All that remained were rusting heaps of metal, which might’ve been heavy machine tools of some sort, amid fallen, fire-blackened timbers.

  “Turn us around,” Silva told the ’Cat at the tiller, handing him his compass. “Head due west.”

  “Ay, ay,” the Shee-Ree said, using the term he’d heard so often now. He was clearly nervous but trusted those he was with, and their methods, to see them through. After what happened on the Mangoro River crossing, he had good reason for his faith, though the scope of that action was miniscule compared to what likely lay ahead. They flew back over the bay, and all of them half expected to come under fire at any moment, but nothing happened. A couple of Jap-Grik fighters, so similar in appearance to the Allied “Fleashooters,” roared past, in formation, but after a cursory glance, banked away to the south.

  “There’s Sa’oie,” Lawrence said, his tone relieved, as he moved to the starboard side of the gondola. “Still on the north end o’ the anchorage. She’s got stean.”