“It’s well we marched as fast as we did, or the enemy would be stronger still,” Inquisitor Choon remarked, then sighed. The passage through the forest hadn’t been pleasant and they’d faced ambuscades, small and large, by Grik musketeers—or huge, terrifying monsters—on an almost-daily basis, but they’d actually maintained a better pace than Choon expected. That was largely because General Kim had applied the lessons learned on the Plain of Gaughala and built a real, united army at last; an army of toughened, realistic veterans, who knew they could lose—but also knew they could win. The transformation had been profound.
“Still, their force is quite formidable enough for my taste, and we must find a way through or past it with all haste,” Choon reminded. They’d received word of Captain Reddy’s victory at Zanzibar with satisfaction, but close on its heels came the rest: the Grik were stirring, TF Bottle Cap would try to stifle their movement in the nest, and if successful, General Alden would land his army ahead of schedule. That meant the Army of the Republic had to churn forward without pause, regardless of resistance, across another hundred miles of enemy territory. On the upside, if they secured a crossing—and a depot—at Soala, their supply situation would improve dramatically, by land and sea, and the growing Fliegertruppe would have a base of operation. In addition, the closer they got to Sofesshk, the more support they might expect from Allied aircraft. The ultimate question no one could answer was whether the two-pronged attack would help them defeat the enemy in detail—or invite the Grik to do the same to them.
General Kim retrieved his telescope from Courtney and snapped it shut, eyeing Bekiaa. “What do you think?” he asked.
Bekiaa blinked, then flattened her ears, looking behind them at the army still spilling from the forest in the distance, spreading out, forming up. The tawny uniforms were faded now and the army wasn’t as pretty, but it finally acted like a proper army, deploying, positioning artillery, erecting tents, and throwing up breastworks, all without a word from General Kim. The Grik had already done much the same on the other side of the river, and there were more of them. But even if the quality, armaments, and determination of their individual troops had improved, they still weren’t . . . people, with all the imagination, initiative, and personal awareness of “why we fight” that the term implied. And they didn’t have machine guns, breech-loading rifles, rapid-firing artillery. . . . She looked back at Kim. “I think it’s gonna be chick-aash—hell—gettin’ across,” she said slowly. “An’ even worse pushin’ on to Sofesshk. But we’ll do it.” She shrugged, blinking determination. “We got no choice.”
General Tomatsu Shinya’s HQ
Popayan
Major Blas-Ma-Ar flung the tent flap aside and marched inside the command HQ with Sister Audry, Colonel Arano Garcia, and Captain Ixtli in her wake. When their bedraggled, much-depleted column eventually joined Shinya’s X and XI Corps, the full “Army of the Sisters,” in the high mountain village of Popayan, they’d been cared for, fed—and left cooling their heels for a week. All while rumors of a fierce battle to the east, at the Quito road and Camino Militar crossroads, flashed through camp. None of the army’s senior commanders were present, and Blas couldn’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Finally, the day before, Generals Shinya and Blair, Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald, and Saan-Kakja arrived, looking exhausted. When there was still no summons, and growing increasingly furious and frustrated, what remained of the leadership of TF Skuggik Chase marched, en masse, to Army HQ, bypassed sputtering guards, and burst in on what was apparently a fairly heated staff meeting, judging by the loud voices they heard outside.
Blas blinked as her eyes adjusted to the canvas-filtered light, but soon recognized Shinya, Blair, Rebecca, and Saan-Kakja. There were others too that she didn’t know, but whatever was going on, she was immediately certain it was their business—at least Sister Audry’s—and they had a right to the unvarnished version.
“Ah,” Shinya said with a glare at a standing officer in the old-fashioned uniform of the Imperial lancers. “The very people we were discussing. I apologize for not greeting you sooner, but things have been rather hectic, as you may have gathered, and we”—he nodded at the other commanders—“were attending a conference with High Admiral Jenks at Quito when the . . . unpleasantness commenced. Making it here was somewhat tedious, I’m afraid. Please make yourselves comfortable.” He blinked genuine, relieved pleasure to see them. “Would you like a refreshment?”
Blas was taken aback. “Ah, sure. What about us?” she asked, taking a cold mug of beer an Impie steward offered.
Shinya gestured at the lancer. “This gentleman, Colonel Lassiter, believes you should’ve more quickly detected that the force in front of you wasn’t Don Hernan’s entire army, and a more timely warning might’ve allowed us to prevent the . . . situation that arose as a result.”
Blas bristled.
“I cannot see how that might be,” Sister Audry stated coldly, leveling an expression of distaste at the lancer. “Given our limited resources compared to what we all believed was Don Hernan’s main body, not to mention the very specific orders we were constrained to obey”—she bowed her head to Blas—“the major, in tactical command of our force, did all anyone could expect. She followed orders precisely, kept pressure on the enemy to the best of her ability, and used initiative and daring to discover the ultimate unpleasant truth. She behaved with honor and courage, and I will not hear her performance—or that of Colonel Garcia—disparaged. In fact, I will recommend them both for recognition and reward.”
“Hear her,” Saan-Kakja stated flatly, her gold-and-black eyes flashing at Lassiter.
“I still maintain that had we . . .”
“Silence,” Rebecca McDonald said softly and sighed, her little-girl voice somewhat incongruous in a council of war, but her tone brooked no argument. “Perhaps some context is in order, to familiarize our friends with recent events?”
Shinya scowled. “Indeed,” he agreed, looking at the visitors. “I think we can confirm your intelligence that Don Hernan no longer commands the Army of God. One reason is the skill with which whoever does disengaged from your pursuit without even our native allies”—he nodded respectfully at Ixtli—“discovering it. Another is how he turned a beaten rabble back into an army and wasn’t content to merely escape. As you may have pieced together, he carefully planned his, ah, redeployment in such a way, and with sufficient time and preparation, to land a devastating—some might say humiliating—blow on a third of our army, strung out, in column, on the march.” He glanced at the lancer. “Our dragoons, in particular, were handled very roughly.”
“My God,” Sister Audry whispered. “We knew something was wrong, but not that bad.”
“No one knows, yet,” Rebecca said. “We didn’t know the full extent until we collected General Blair on our way here. Communications have been spotty, and couriers have apparently fallen prey to enemy raiding parties.”
“That third of the army, troops under my command, for the most part, were not annihilated,” General Blair said, but his tone wasn’t self-congratulatory. “They gave a good account of themselves, in point of fact, once the initial confusion was contained. But they were—I was—soundly beaten.” He nodded at the lancer. “Our dragoons, cut off from the start, very nearly were wiped out. Only timely air support prevented that.” He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. “This new commander does have talent, as your warning proposed, Major Blas. And even if your dispatches arrived more swiftly, I’m not sure we would’ve prepared appropriately, given our preconceptions.” He sighed.
“So you see,” Saan-Kakja said, “all of us were deceived, with dreadful consequences. Laying blame on anyone in particular is counterproductive and corrosive when the real blame lies with our collective conviction that, not only would Don Hernaan continue in command, but after its defeat at Fort De-fi-aance, his army itself could no longer fight. I now suspect, given a competent commaander,
the Doms will prove a far more formid-aable foe.”
Blas glanced at Lassiter and saw, for the first time, how tired and sick at heart he seemed. “After what you endured, Col-nol Laass-iter, I understand your laashing out.” She looked at Sister Audry. “I’ve done it myself before.”
Lassiter waved a hand. “My apologies, Major Blas. High Chief Saan-Kakja is right. There’s sufficient blame for all. I should’ve been more careful.”
“Enough, both of you,” Rebecca said. “The question now is what do we do?”
“We must halt, reconsolidate . . .” Blair began thoughtfully.
“No!” Shinya snapped. “That will only complete their victory, and it’s exactly what they want.” He stood and strode to the painted map pinned to the canvas wall. “Our reconnaissance reports that the enemy is moving north, for the Pass of Fire instead of the Temple at New Granada, and probably means to reinforce the garrison there.” He glanced at Rebecca. “The Navy’s next objective.”
“What do you suggest?” Rebecca asked.
Shinya stabbed the Pass of Fire with his finger. “We follow him there and attack, in conjunction with an amphibious assault by sea. Admiral Jenks’s original plan, in fact. It will be costly,” he conceded. “The cities around El Paso del Fuego are loyal to the Dominion, by all accounts, and quite a few Grikbirds remain to counter our air power. They’ve had time to prepare for us, emplace shore batteries, and possibly armor their ships. With forty or more thousand troops added to the defense . . .”
“There’s no way to prevent them from reaching there?” Saan-Kakja asked.
Shinya moved his finger east. “We could march on the temple ourselves. We couldn’t possibly reach it without support—it’s too far—but the enemy might pursue us then, particularly with our supply lines at his mercy. That might prevent his reinforcing the pass, and it’s possible we could arrange a decisive meeting.” He shrugged. “Or we might all starve in the jungle.”
Rebecca frowned. “I doubt it would work, in any event. We must give the devil his due, my friends. Based on what we’ve seen, I doubt this Dom commander would cooperate.”
Shinya nodded agreement.
“So,” Rebecca mused, “there seems little choice, and I suppose it’s past time we combined all our leaders, all our forces, in this theater once more.” She sighed. “Sister Audry, Saan-Kakja, my sisters, please stay. We may want to consult High Admiral Jenks and Admiral Lelaa further, but for now, the sisters whose army this is must discuss this. The rest of you, please excuse us.”
All but the three females filed out of the tent. In the shade of the fly, Shinya stopped Blas. “You did very well, by the way. No one could’ve imagined . . .”
“I know,” Blas interrupted. “We did do well.” She shook her head. “Don’t put me in a spot like that again.”
“I’ll try.”
Blas gestured at the tent. “What do you think they’ll come up with? They won’t have us march east, will they?”
Shinya shook his head. “No. That’s ridiculous. They’ll order an attack on the Pass of Fire, from land and sea. Admirals Jenks and Lela, General Blair, and myself—and you, Major Blas—will plan it as carefully as we can.” He frowned. “And it’ll be the biggest, bloodiest mess we’ve ever seen—on this side of the world.” Then he smiled rather ruefully. “But it makes the most sense, and a lot more than what I had you doing. Besides, it’s all there is, and it’s time.” He shrugged. “Hopefully, it’ll even work.”
USS Donaghey (DD-2)
South of Cuba
USS Donaghey’s comm-’Cat didn’t contact Fred Reynolds until the day before the two battered frigates, carrying more prisoners than crew, would’ve made Santiago Bay. It was good he finally did, because lower sea levels had choked the narrow entry and the bay didn’t exist where they thought it should. There was only a pleasant, scenic lake, made brackish by storm and tidal surges, and the land around it was only sparsely inhabited by farmers growing something similar to sugar beets and real tobacco. The “actual” Santiago Bay, founded by the Dominion and now the largest NUS naval station in the Caribbean, was in south-central Cuba, where Manzanilla Bay would’ve been. Their understandable mix-up corrected, Donaghey and Matarife altered course, and the heavy NUS steam frigate Congress was dispatched to meet them. After another night of favorable winds carrying unusual but welcome island smells, Donaghey’s lookout spotted a sail, then two, then quite a few smaller ones on the brightening horizon.
“The larger are probably NUS warships,” Greg told Pol-Heena. “They’re flying their weird, five-stars-and-stripes flag from every masthead, probably so we won’t think they’re Doms. Sparks said the little one’s a corvette that Congress invited to join her.” He grinned. “There’re two of us, and who’s to say we’re not Doms, trying a trick?”
“Everyone must be careful these days, it seems,” Pol agreed, glancing at Greg. He didn’t blink, but his tail betrayed a trace of nervousness. He tended to dwell on his behavior prior to their encounter with the League destroyer. As far as Greg was concerned, Pol more than made up for it by saving his life. But he’d been less talkative since, except to report on his conversations with the young League ensign. Greg had invited Ensign Perez Mole to a Spartan dinner with Donaghey’s officers, but Mole hardly spoke and it wound up an awkward affair. Yet he seemed more open with Pol-Heena alone. Maybe he sensed that Pol had been against a hostile confrontation, or perhaps still hoped the Republic was an uneasy member of the Alliance—something he’d confessed his superiors believed. Or maybe their appearance was enough to make people perceive Lemurians as less belligerent, more sympathetic creatures in general. They were comparatively small and furry, with long, plush tails and big eyes, after all. Mole wouldn’t be the first human to make that mistake. Citizens of the Empire of the New Britain Isles found it difficult not to pet them . . . before they saw them fight.
Come to that, maybe Pol-Heena remained tense because of the nuggets he gleaned from Mole? Greg had no idea what Captain Reddy might’ve discovered about the League in his absence, but they’d always assumed it must be large and powerful if it could send Savoie, a submarine, and now a destroyer and its armed tender—at least—to far-flung places, solely for the apparent purpose of stirring up trouble. (Tomas had warned them not to tangle with Antúnez’s tender, the Ramb V, which was apparently armed similarly to the Allies’ Santa Catalina.) The reason he named and described the ship was undoubtedly to spare his own captive crew in the event of a meeting. And one of the last, fragmentary, cautionary messages Greg received from Captain Reddy, via Alex-aandra, had been to watch for a powerful League ship named Leopardo. Perez Mole refused to elaborate on her or itemize the League’s resources, but confirmed with conviction that the Alliance hadn’t seen anything yet. This had been the universal contention of every League officer they’d met.
“If they’re so damn powerful, why don’t they just finish us off?” Smitty had demanded, as frustrated as the rest.
“For the reason they always give,” Pol had replied. “They’re preoccupied elsewhere. They expect us all to weaken ourselves sufficiently, fighting one another, to minimize any threat we might pose.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed, then asked, “But what are they preoccupied with? Another enemy? Internal strife? Sealing their hold on the Med? Or just a lack of resources, like fuel, for instance.”
“Whaat-ever it is,” Lieutenant Mak-Araa had said, “it must be less bothersome than before, based on recent aactions.” His point had caused gloomy blinking around Donaghey’s wardroom table.
Now there was an air of excitement, however, as Donaghey and Matarife closed with Congress, her consort, and half a dozen small sloops, apparently curious fishing boats. Soon, the NUS ships were near enough to see clearly, and Greg was impressed. They were amazingly similar to the Allies’ Scott class, but he couldn’t tell how many guns they carried. Their sides were painted black, their gu
nports closed. Both ships took in their sails, closing under steam, with blue smoke wafting to leeward.
“Back the foresails,” Greg told Mak. “Signal Matarife to do the same. We’ll heave to.” He was about to order the cutter over the side when Congress lowered a boat from a quarter davit. Men climbed in, along with a small figure with a tail that could only be Kari-Faask. Greg’s heart quickened with pleasure at this confirmation their friends were safe. “Stand by the side party,” he told his Marine lieutenant. Haana-Lin-Naar called her people and they stood easy at the gangway as the boat rowed across. Greg quickly surveyed his ship. A few remnants of her battles remained: shot-gouged decks and bright new timbers along the bulwarks, not yet painted. And he could only imagine how dingy Donaghey’s white stripe between her gunports must look. But the crew had done him proud with respect to squaring everything away as best they could. The boat came alongside, and Jenaar-Laan raised his whistle.
The first man up the pilot’s ladder was short and portly, with large muttonchops and a hawk nose. A wide smile covered his face, and he wore a dark blue shako and double-breasted coat. Laan blew his whistle, and the Marines saluted. To everyone’s approval, the visitor saluted the Stars and Stripes before facing Greg and rendering another open-palm salute. Greg returned the gesture, palm down, and the Marines crisply returned to order arms.
“Captain Ezra Willis,” the man said, extending his hand. “Honored to command the New United States frigate Congress. Beg permission to come aboard.”
Greg beamed and shook the hand. The pleased expression seemed out of place on his youthful but careworn face. “Permission gladly granted, Captain Willis. I’m Captain Greg Garrett, United States Navy.” He paused, then added ironically, “Commanding the American Navy Clan ship USS Donaghey for the United Homes.”
Willis chuckled. “Indeed, indeed. The world’s full of surprises. A very few, like this, might still be pleasant from time to time.” On the tail of his comment, Ensign Kari-Faask hopped on deck, grinning hugely and blinking fast enough to blur her eyelids. She also saluted the colors and Greg, then embraced him. Greg was taken aback. He knew of Kari, but they’d never met. She’d joined Walker’s special air division after he already had Donaghey, and with her and Fred’s capture by the Doms, escape, and continued activity with Second Fleet, they’d been half a world apart ever since. That didn’t seem to matter to her. Finally, she stepped back and simply said, “Is good ta’ be home, sur, with my own claan.”
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