“Yeah.”
Together, they stepped inside Kurokawa’s HQ, through the same door Sandra first entered a thousand years ago, it seemed. They were followed by Chack, Silva, Risa, and Lawrence, who’d remained outside to watch over them from a discreet distance.
Diania met them, holding her bandaged hand, her face clouded with worry. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Cap’n Reddy. On the ship—Savoie—what of Gunnery Sergeant Horn?” she asked.
Matt frowned. “Horn’s fine,” he assured her. “But he and Pokey are the only ones left. Becher Lange, Captain Brassey, and all the Khonashi died taking the bridge. Without them . . .” He shook his head. “Horn secured a prisoner, though, a Capitaine Dupont.” He nodded to himself when he saw Sandra’s and Diania’s faces both harden. From his brief encounter with the man, he hadn’t expected Dupont had behaved in a way that would ingratiate him to the people Savoie brought here. He wanted to hang him, but might have to settle for some kind of deal in exchange for information about the League. That reminded him. “Kurokawa?” he asked simply.
“He’s dead, Skipper,” Silva piped up with a quick protective glance at Sandra. “Plumb layin’-on-the ground, starin’-at-the-sky, tongue-hangin’-out, eye-witness dead this time.” He jerked a thumb out back. “I told Minaa I’d hold him up so’s he can piss on him later. Them Shee-ree are weird like that. Course, it might be good for morale if we lined up ever-body to”—he glanced at Sandra and Diania—“uh, relieve theirselfs on his dead ass. Water the bushes, as it were,” he added cryptically.
Matt nodded. One less thing, then. He’d get the details later. His greatest personal enemy was finally dead and they’d never even met. It was probably for the best. The war had become personal enough without the dramatic face-to-face confrontation that madman had craved. Now he could focus all his attention on their bigger problems. Looking around the room at his friends, the wounded Shee-ree, and then back at Sandra, a dam collapsed and a wave of sadness finally gripped his heart. “Gunny Horn told me about Adar,” he managed. Sandra hugged him again, tight enough to hurt, but whether she was trying to take his pain or relieve her own, he couldn’t say.
CHAPTER 27
“I will miss you, my brother,” Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar said heavily, the white-streaked, rust-colored fur on his face damp with tears. He stood with Matt, Sandra, and hundreds more on the northern tip of Island Number 1. As many people as they could briefly spare from recovery operations had come to the funeral, and the only ones Matt saw who didn’t look anxious to get back to something important were Ben Mallory and the tiny female Lemurian lieutenant beside him. Shirley’s plane, stripped of everything they could take out and carrying a belly tank, would fly to Mahe when they brought enough fuel ashore. Ben’s might fly again—if they cannibalized enough parts off the plane they left behind—but the 3rd (Army) Pursuit Squadron was no more. Ben took his duties seriously, though, and wouldn’t wait for his plane. He was only waiting for another one to carry him to Grik City, where he’d take over coordinating all air operations against Sofesshk.
The island was on fire again, this time with the pyres of those they’d lost, the flames and smoke carrying their spirits to the heavens. Adar’s pyre was in the center so he could rise with the rest, guiding them in death as he’d always done in life. And for the first time, the spiraling sparks carried the spirits of every member of the Alliance: Lemurians from as far as the Filpin Lands, Imperial humans from Respite and the New Britain Isles, Khonashi, Grik-like, and human. The Republic of Real People was represented by Becher Lange and his three loyal sailors, the third exhumed for the purpose. Even a few Grik, whom Horn pointed out, were placed on the pyres beside their former enemies. As always, it seemed, a few more of Matt’s dwindling original destroyermen had been lost as well, mostly aboard James Ellis. Perry Brister seemed particularly affected by Jeff Brooks’s death. And every sailor, soldier, pilot, and Marine killed in the Battle of Lizard Ass Bay joined Adar on his journey above, because there’d be no graves on Zanzibar.
Kurokawa’s corpse had already sprouted, but no one was much concerned that a single killer kudzu plant would overwhelm the island anytime soon. There were still plenty of Grik there, though, and no reason to waste lives hunting them. They’d stay only long enough to complete necessary repairs and salvage what they could before destroying what remained and steaming back to Mahe. As Perry Brister said, they “wouldn’t leave anything there they ever needed to come back for.” Perry was on Tarakaan Island, his ship already in her dry dock, while Tara and Salissa waited for high tide to try to pull Savoie off the beach. If they were successful, they’d tow her to Mahe even while repairs to James Ellis continued.
“We all will, Keje,” Matt said, putting his hand on his friend’s furry arm. He cocked his head in thought. “But he did prepare us for this. He groomed Alan Letts to replace him, almost as if he’d always known he’d have to, and he made a lot more out of Letts than I ever could.”
“A better chaar-man for the Alli-aance, the Union, than Adar himself could be,” Keje agreed sadly. “But though he left a noble legaacy, his loss is no less painful.”
“I know.”
“Will Waa-kur be ready for sea?” Keje asked, concerned. “Ellie may be more sorely hurt, but I caan’t agree she should’ve been repaired before your ship.”
“Walker’ll be fine,” Matt argued. “There was plenty of plate steel stockpiled here. We covered her big holes before we started loading the surplus. As long as we don’t push her, the patches’ll last until Tara spits Ellie’s out. Other than the plate steel, the hardest things to haul off are going to be Kurokawa’s surviving heavy machinery for making guns, engines—things like that. At least we have plenty of labor.” Two hundred Japanese and nearly three thousand “yard” Grik had surrendered. The Japanese, with the exception of a few officers, had been granted amnesty and transport to the Shogunate of Yokohama. As far as the Grik were concerned . . . Matt frowned at the three remaining DDs of Des-div 2—and their four seaworthy prizes. Six frigates and AVDs had survived the sharp action with the cruisers, but only because Ellie intervened. Three of them, including Tassat at last, were so far beyond repair that they’d been scuttled. The cruisers surrendered, under Ellie’s guns, when a cease-fire was arranged and Lawrence motored out in the Seven boat to “reason” with their crews. Matt didn’t trust them enough to leave them in their ships, despite Lawrence and Horn’s assurance they’d do their duty as long as they were treated well and fed, but the ships were relatively undamaged and might come in handy. Still . . . “I’m worried how vulnerable Tara and Big Sal will be without a proper screen.”
Keje’s gaze had returned to the towering column of smoke, the only blight on the cloudless blue sky. “You worry about the planes that got away,” he said. Their best estimate, partially confirmed by a Japanese signal officer named Fukui, who actually seemed relieved his side had lost and Kurokawa was dead, was that two squadrons of the twin-engine torpedo bombers and at least one squadron of fighters—almost thirty planes—had flown west during the battle. Whether Esshk could make weapons for them was unknown, but he could probably fuel them. All Kurokawa’s raw fuel had come from the mainland. Fukui hadn’t known if there was an airstrip in Africa, but the planes were designed for unimproved fields, so they probably found a place to land. Just as interesting was a third type of plane that was spotted.
“Sure,” Matt said. “One of our AVDs in the strait saw ’em, but even if her Nancy hadn’t been over the harbor, it wouldn’t’ve had a chance.” He waited while a Sky Priest spoke some of the words for the dead. “And a Type Ninety-five floatplane was seen. Fukui said it was the same one that bombed Baalkpan so long ago, and Muriname—their air force commander and Kurokawa’s XO—has been hoarding it. It’s likely he flew it out.”
“Muriname’s a . . . complicated person,” Sandra said, frowning, her eyes narrowing. “I think he had honor once and would like to have it back.” She g
lanced at Diania, a short distance away with Gunny Horn, his arm protectively around Diania’s shoulders. Her hand was still wrapped—it would never work right again—but for the first time in a long while she seemed content. “He protected us, after a fashion,” Sandra continued, “but I never figured out if it was for honor or himself.” She shrugged. “He actually told me he’d gone insane when we first got here, but I don’t know if it’s true. He’s not as crazy as Kurokawa at least.” She shuddered. “Or Gravois. That guy may be even crazier than Kurokawa was.” She frowned. “That reminds me, though. Rizzo.”
“That League Major who Kurokawa shot?”
“Yes. He kept saying it wasn’t his war and he had his own way out.”
Keje looked at her. “I understand some of his ground crew was captured.”
Matt nodded for his wife. Between Dupont and six others taken aboard Savoie, and the twenty-odd pilots and mechanics, they finally had plenty of Leaguers to squeeze, giving them a plausible means of obtaining the same information Fiedler left him in his private letter. He’d kept it private too, except for Ben and Safir, who’d read it already, not only so it couldn’t “spill” and possibly compromise his source, but also because everyone already had enough to worry about. The pertinent parts came toward the end, detailing much of what the League had in terms of ships, planes, armor, and manpower, not to mention the murky political situation and barbaric methods the League used to fortify its position in the Mediterranean. He’d read that part often enough to memorize it, and it was daunting indeed. He considered the final lines:
You understand honor, Kapitan, and know why I am torn between assisting your cause and my conscience. Yet your humane treatment of me after all you’ve endured at the hands of the League has convinced me that my honor cannot allow me to sit by and watch those who have none destroy your people. I will pass what information I may, to help you defend against League schemes—yet I cannot help should it ever come to open war between our people. To that end, I close with a plea: no matter the provocation, you must never allow yourself to be lured into direct conflict with the League. Not only could I no longer aid you, but you cannot possibly hope to prevail. The disparity of forces is simply too great. Please do be insulted when I say, no matter how valorous the mouse, it cannot slay the wolf.
With their new prisoners, Matt could finally share the letter and the list of ships that, to the best of Fiedler’s recollection, composed the League fleet—not that he was certain even now that was a good idea. But when the squeezing started, they’d learn, anyway. He mentally shook himself. “There were no League planes left,” he said.
“Then how did Rizzo mean to escape?” Keje asked.
Sandra shrugged and Matt said nothing. According to Fiedler, there’d been at least one more League sub in the Indian, or “Western,” Ocean. If that was true, where did it fuel? Where is it now? That was another reason Matt was anxious about Salissa’s and Tara’s screen. Maybe we’ll get it out of Dupont. . . .
The funeral was winding down and the usual big drunk that normally followed had been postponed until they returned to Mahe. Dozens of boats were waiting at the dock, ready to return the attendees to their duties. Matt was surprised to see Spanky step ashore from the Seven boat, which must’ve brought him across. He’d skipped the funeral because of repairs to Walker, but now he was here, wearing a very grim expression. Sandra took a sudden sharp breath and clutched Matt’s arm.
“Esshk is out, isn’t he?” Matt demanded, throwing out the worst possible scenario he could imagine.
“Uh, no, Skipper,” Spanky said, taking a message form from his pocket and unfolding it.
My God, Matt thought, how I hate the very sight of those things! He glanced to the side and saw Keje, Bernie, Tikker, Silva and Pam, Horn and Diania, Jarrik-Fas, and dozens of others watching. “But it’s bad enough that Ed asked you to bring it?”
“Bad enough I took it from him,” Spanky countered. “He already thinks you hate looking at him.”
“Not him,” Matt sighed.
“I know.” Spanky held the message out.
“Just tell me what it says.” Matt waved around. “Tell us all.”
Spanky cleared his throat. “Esshk isn’t out,” he stressed, “not exactly. But a flight of Nancys off Arracca on a dusk raid must’a caught ’em by surprise. The Grik’re getting ready to come out, sure enough. Their fleet’s assembling in that lake west o’ Sofesshk, and the Nancys spotted hundreds of oared galleys on shore, bein’ carried down close to the water—goddamn galleys, for Christ’s sake—practically floatin’ on Grik, rarin’ to go.”
“Galleys,” Matt said, shaking his head.
“Hundreds were seen. There may be thousands of ’em,” Spanky pointed out. “If you think about it, galleys make perfect sense. Not too many troops stuffed in fewer, bigger ships, an’ they can move against the wind, tide, an’ current. There’s barges too, big ones, probably ready for towin’ by Grik BBs or little tugs, like we seen before. Either way, there’s no stoppin’ ’em. We can bomb the crap out of ’em now while they’re wadded up or as they come downriver, but once they hit the strait they can scatter an’ cross wherever they want, land wherever they want. We can kill ’em all the way to Grik City an’ never get a tithe of ’em.”
“What will we do?” Keje demanded. “We must go at once!”
“What good will that do?” Matt asked sharply, bitterly. “You could go, but we really need Salissa to tow Savoie. And neither Walker nor Ellie is in any shape for a high-speed run to the strait. Even if we made it, we couldn’t fight our way out of a wet paper sack when we got there.” He shook his head, his hand tightening on Sandra’s. “We’d do more harm than good.” He added, “So. We have to stick to the plan: repairs and evacuation here, but kick it into high gear.”
“And Esshk is free to swaarm our base at Grik City with hundreds of thousands of troops!” Keje growled.
“No, sir,” Spanky said bleakly, “not if Russ Chappelle’s plan works.” Hundreds of expectant eyes were on him now and he shifted uncomfortably.
“What is Commander Chappelle’s plan?” Matt asked in the sudden silence.
“He’s goin’ in,” Spanky said. “Takin’ Santy Cat up the Zambezi to block the river—with her sunk carcass, if he has to.”
“My God,” Sandra murmured.
“That’s the style, Russ!” Silva exclaimed admiringly.
“What an asshole!” Pam snapped at him. Then she saw Matt’s face. “Wait a minute! You can’t let him do that!”
“Lettin’s got nothin’ to do with it,” Spanky countered. “He’s gonna do it. Tassanna’s backin’ his play with Arracca’s planes. She’ll probably back him with Arracca herself if she has to.”
Keje looked devastated. “Of course she will,” he murmured softly, blinking rapidly. His tail lashing like a whip.
“Okay,” Matt grated, his voice like hot iron. “Like I said, we pick up the pace on repairs. Meanwhile, First and Third Corps on Mahe will embark aboard Andamaan and Madras, and steam for Grik City to pick up Second Corps. Everything on Mahe goes, including anything that’ll float and anybody who can hold a weapon. Clear? And every single thing that flies will start hammering the Grik choked up behind Santa Catalina. If Russ’s stunt and air attacks can’t stop the Grik, Generals Alden, Rolak, and Maraan will deploy at Grik City to defend against the biggest bunch of Grik we ever saw. But if the stunt works, the entire Expeditionary Force will follow Santy Cat up the Zambezi and land behind her. They’ll never expect that”—he suddenly grinned—“because it’s crazy. But that’s open country. If Pete gets ashore with his whole force, all his artillery and every machine gun we can get him, and gets dug in”—Matt shook his head—“he’ll kill Grik like cutting wheat.”
There was murmured approval, but Matt held up his hand. “Either way, two more things have to happen. First, Courtney Bradford and Bekiaa-Sab-At n
eed to get General Kim to kick his Army of the Republic in the ass and keep it moving toward Sofesshk from the south. Second”—he looked around—“I know we just had a helluva fight, and the smoke over there will remind us what it cost if anybody starts to forget. But we need to get patched up good enough to fight, not just show up, and do it faster than we’ve ever done anything in our lives. Santy Cat’s going to buy us time. We won’t waste a minute of it, and we will, by God, get there before she runs out.”
EPILOGUE
////// Army of the Republic
South Bank of the Ungee River
Grik Africa
“Oh my,” Courtney Bradford exclaimed, gazing through the telescope General Kim handed him. “I’ve never seen such birds before—and so many! They carpet the river in their multitudes. Quite like geese, the way they bob about, but with long, toothy jaws—for snatching fish, I’m sure!”
“Oh my, indeed,” General Kim growled sarcastically. “But you might also, incidentally, note the multitude of the enemy massed on the far side of the river.”
Courtney blinked. “Well,” he replied primly. “That goes without saying. But I’ve seen large numbers of Grik quite often, you know.”
Bekiaa-Sab-At rolled her eyes and flicked her tail in amusement. Just because Courtney had devoted his life to defeating their enemies didn’t mean he’d forsaken the pleasures of discovery, and she considered that a good thing. She, Courtney, General Kim, Inquisitor Choon, General Taal, Prefect Bele, and Optio Meek were standing behind a low adobe wall on the north end of the city of Soala. Like all Grik cities, the place reeked of filth, rot, and excrement. They’d also found it utterly abandoned when they finally emerged from the Teetgak Forest. The reason was obvious: the Grik clearly meant to contest their crossing of the Ungee and hadn’t wanted their backs to the river. The strategy was disconcertingly sensible.
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