by Stuart Slade
"Snake, I'd like you to meet an associate of ours." The Ambassador picked her ears up at that phrasing. So the woman was a friend but not part of The Seer's family. "Snake, I'd like you to meet Raven of the Shoshone Nation. Raven, may I introduce the Princess Suriyothai, Ambassador-Plenipotentiary of the Throne of Thailand."
That was why her face was so familiar. The United States was introducing a dollar coin at last; the face chosen to decorate it had been an Amerindian heroine called Sacawagea. Something to do with an expedition a hundred years or so earlier. The picture used to make the coin engraving had been in the glossy magazines. This woman was obviously the model for the face on that coin, the strength of character and steadiness were apparent. She was standing up stretching out her hand.
"Your Highness, you too are one of us?"
The Ambassador did a slight double take at that. How come she didn‘t know who I am?
"And you. Raven? We must become better acquainted."
"That would be a good idea." The Seer's voice was even, perhaps slightly amused. "Raven, we're about done here. I'll talk to Bill and see how he's getting on. Lillith's still outside; she'll take you back to your hotel. Thank you for coming over."
The woman left. The Seer relaxed back into his seat. "Now Snake, what can I do for you?"
"You've heard about the firefight this morning?"
"Firefight? Full-scale naval slugging match is the version we heard. Sinking ships all over the place. That's why I don't like naval warfare, Snake. On land, if all else fails, one can always get out and walk. At sea, that can be tricky. As far as we can make out, both sides got badly hurt. The Chipanese communication links are glowing red-hot all over the place. Their high command and top-grade links must be glowing white hot and the suggestion is they are not best pleased."
The Ambassador looked embarrassed. "Seer, I hate to say this but I'm not sure we're getting an accurate picture of what happened from the Indians. They say they took out a dozen ships or more including cruisers and destroyers and only lost a couple of small ships. The Chimps say they lost a couple of destroyers but took out most of the Flying Squadron. The Ozwalds had one of their submarines not too far away and you know what their ELINT capability is like."
The Seer nodded. The Australian submarines were superbly equipped for intelligence gathering, second only to the U.S. Navy's nuclear boats - and the margin was very close.
"Well, they say it was a slaughterhouse. They put the losses in killed and crippled very high for both sides. Seer, I need to know how bad this was. You've got recon assets like nobody else, you must have satellite shots. What really happened out there?"
The Seer pulled a file off his desk and flipped through it. "I assume you need to know so you can help resolve this conflict peacefully?" The Ambassador nodded and wasn't lying. This stupid incident was getting to be very dangerous.
"Very well, we'll give you what we know. We've picked up one thing already that's a good pointer; a light cruiser and three destroyers left Hong Kong three hours ago and are heading for Haiphong. We've got pictures and some data for you, we'll get more. By the way, what do you know about Afghan Heroin?"
Suriyothai looked slightly confused. "There's too much of it. Doesn't worry us though, we have all we can do to cope with the Golden Triangle. Why?"
"Some of its turning up in unexpected places and in unexpected ways. There's something going on and we're missing an important piece of the puzzle. Anyway, let's go eat while the staff get your package together. I have a yearning for Italian."
"Me too, and while we eat, you can tell me who Raven of the Shoshone Nation is."
The Seer shook his head. "Very long story. All to do with setting up some casinos on Indian tribal land and, by the way, righting some old wrongs in the process. Raven will tell you about it if you ask."
Conference Room, Naval Headquarters, Tokyo, Chipan.
"All the advantages won by our bombers have been thrown away. In one act, the surface fleet has snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. I say this was a craven decision that betrays everything we stand for!"
The speaker's was standing at on one side of the long table, his small mustache bristling with anger. On hearing his last words, a buzz ran around the room. Some in agreement, some in anger at the insinuation, all in amazement that words of that kind had been said at all. The four surface fleet officers the other side of the table leapt to their feet, fists clenched, eyes blazing. Admiral Kurita, with great difficulty kept his voice even.
"You were not there. You have no authority to comment on my decisions."
"I do not need to be there to see the results of the surface fleet's action! It is obvious to even the youngest child. The Indians are left in possession of their base and we cannot do anything about it. Their reinforcements have arrived, a carrier and another division of their Flying Squadron. The carrier arrived today, not three days ago."
"Gentlemen. Resume your seats." Admiral Koga's voice echoed around the room. "The purpose of today's meeting is not to allocate blame for the regrettable decisions that lead to this debacle." There was another sharp intake of breath. Koga might have said blame was not being allocated but Kurita had just been tried, sentenced and the decision announced.
"It is to decide what we do next. If it is within our power, we cannot allow this situation to stand. The fact that the South China Sea Squadron has been defeated is not, as yet, public knowledge and we will keep that so. Fortunately, the film of the damaged Indian ships is very widely distributed while our own losses have been kept secret. Indeed, our announcement that we would allow their ships to withdraw unmolested by air strikes has won us much favorable comment. That was a wise decision. The question is, where do we go from here?"
There was a profound silence. It was indeed easy to cast blame and to second-guess decisions; making a constructive proposal was quite another matter. Both sides of the long table looked around, at each other or down at the papers in front of them. At the far end of the room, in serried ranks, sat junior officers, watching their seniors make decisions. For these were the picked men, the cream of the crop, the men whom their superiors had recognized as having great merit and being, possibly, worthy of high command. Given time, experience, and the good fortune to survive both.
Amongst them sat Lieutenant Commander Toda Endo, a man deeply shocked by what he was witnessing. He had imagined that such strategic planning meetings would be solemn affairs, each of the speakers providing the information their expertise gave them as contributions to a common pool, out of which a great scheme for achieving victory would arise. Instead, they were lesser men, each promoting their own factions, each scoring points off and denigrating their rivals. He had a mental picture of a flock of chickens in a farmyard, so engrossed in their own petty squabbles that they failed to see the foxes closing in.
"There is nothing the South China Sea Squadron can do. Aoba will require at least six months in dock. In terms of operational ships we have but the cruiser Asahi and the destroyer Mutsuki. Both have refueled and rearmed and can sortie at four hours notice."
"I have ordered the cruiser Yubari with a Sawari class missile destroyer and two Type C destroyers to join the South China Sea Squadron. This leaves the Hong Kong squadron with just sixteen Hayabusa missile craft but that is no great matter. We use them for coastal patrol only." Admiral Nashima, Commander of the Hong Kong Squadron, sat down. That was more in the spirit of a Japanese warrior thought Toda. A man sacrificing part of his command and his own status for the common good.
Koga obviously agreed. "A most generous gesture. That will strengthen the weakness of the South China Seas Squadron and guard the coast in that critical area." And a gesture that has just made you Kurita's replacement he added mentally. "But we are still left with the problem of the Indian occupation of the Southern Pescadores. How do we cope with that? Can our Shukas aid us now?"
Admiral Tanaka, commander of the Mihoro Kokutai stood; his expression was grave. "If ordered we will co
ntinue our attacks but I must advise that the cost of so doing will be high. The Indians have two more missile destroyers and two frigates already around the island and an anti-aircraft missile battalion on it. We can cope with that, although not without cost, but the carrier means that they also have fighter cover and together, that means we have too much opposition. We have few serviceable Shukas as it is.
"We have six diesel-electric submarines we can deploy to the area." It was the man who had spoken so scathingly to Kurita. A submarine force officer. "They may get lucky and take down that carrier."
Koga nodded, reluctantly. ‘They may get lucky.' Was that what the Navy had fallen to? They had to depend on luck to take down the enemy carrier? The chances of a diesel-electric submarine taking on a fast-moving naval task group were slim indeed. It was worse than depending on luck, they had to depend on the enemy making a mistake at a critical point as well as being just unlucky enough to stumble onto the diesel-electric. "The surface fleet? Can we send carriers of our own?"
This time the silence was embarrassed. "We have but six and three of those are in dockyard for prolonged repairs." Everybody present winced at the euphemism. Prolonged repairs meant rotting in a dockyard because no money was available to overhaul them. The carriers may be listed on the pages of world naval reference books but nowhere else were they considered operational. "At most we could deploy one, of equal force to the Indian carrier, but her aircraft are obsolete and of lesser power than those they would face. To lose a carrier..." The phrase didn't need to be repeated. The Navy could hide the loss of some surface ship, a carrier going down would be too much.
"And we cannot invade until we have air superiority, until the defenses are worn down." Commander, Amphibious Forces, simply said what everybody knew. "Can we get cover from land bases?"
"Our fighters are short-range, point defense interceptors. We do not have long-range fighters any more. The Army have some but not many and they are mostly deployed on the Russian Border."
"Must I record that we have run out of options? That the defeat of our surface fleet means we must accept this Indian occupation?" The silence that surrounded the table was eloquent. "There is nothing we can do?"
Suddenly the silence was broken. Toda couldn't bear it any longer. "There is something we can do!"
"Shut up, you young fool!" Toda's commander hissed the warning too late, far too late. All the eyes around the main table fixed on the source of the interruption. Eyebrows went in all directions, some up in astonishment at the unheard-of interjection, others down in rage that a lowly Lieutenant Commander would dare to speak in the presence of his betters. The submarine officer was about to bark in rage when Koga cut him off.
"I think one who wears the ribbon of the Falling Cherry Blossom has earned the right to be heard." And this had better be good was the unspoken message directed at Toda.
"Sir, Honored Sirs, we can get fighters into range. The main Mihoro Kokutai airbase is well inland, on the mainland part of Hainan Province. But all along the southern coast of Hainan Island are bays, many, many sheltered bays. We can base seaplane fighters in any one of them, less than 300 kilometers from Pattle Island. The range is long, yes, but our Ohtoris can cover it easily and still have fuel reserves for air combat."
"The Indians will track you back to base and their air strike will destroy you." Koga's voice was thoughtful. There was an idea here.
"Sir, we have our flying garrisons. The ones intended to fight any American offensive in the Pacific. They have infantry to guard the base, engineers to build it, surface-to-air and anti-ship missiles to defend it. All carried by flying boats. That is why we have them. Sir, we arrive at dawn and the Seiku-Kais can unload immediately. They carry everything we need. We can be flying fighter sweeps by noon.
"We can try and find the Indian naval fighters and pick them off, anything else we can locate. At night we can escort our comrades in the Shukas while our comrades in the Submarine force can provide a picket line out to sea to warn us of any attacks. Our tender, the Nisshin can follow us down, but there is no reason why we cannot be supplied by our flying boats. That is how the Flying Garrisons are supposed to operate."
"And if the enemy fighters attack our flying boats? They are helpless against fighters."
"We must hope that is what the Indians do - for then they will be throwing their handful of fighters into a battle where we have the edge. We won't sink their carrier, but what good is the carrier without aircraft? And the Indians have no replacement aircraft nearer than Trincomalee. Sir, this way, at least we will be attacking and while we attack, the Indians must defend."
A murmur of acknowledgment spread around the table. The submarine commander rose, his eyes shining. "Our young friend had shown true valor, not just in having his plan but in daring to speak it here. The submarines will be proud to assist this effort."
Koga nodded again. The seaplane fighters were orphans, not carriers, not surface fleet, not submarines. They tended to be forgotten, yet the part they could play here was decisive. This young Lieutenant Commander Toda Endo had done well to remind everybody of that. Now was the time to test his mettle further.
"Very well. The proposal is adopted. Lieutenant Commander Toda Endo, you will ready your command and pick your bay. A Flying Garrison will be alerted to take possession of your selected bay and establish a base there. You will move into that base and engage the enemy. Good luck, Toda-san."
Bone Airfield, Defensive Area Annaliese, French Algeria
Major-Doctor Pellatiere stared at the paper in front of him, almost as if he wished the words would appear by themselves. More than anything else, at this precise moment, he did not wish to put down the words that ran though his mind because putting them down would make them real. Words in the mind were insubstantial things, they came and went, leaving no trace. Once written down, they were tangible, real and could not be denied. Pellatiere desperately wanted to deny what the words would say because their meaning was horrible. Bone Airfield was closed down as effectively as if the Americans had dropped one of their atomic bombs on it. He almost wished they would, death by an atomic bomb would be merciful compared with what was happening here.
It had all started two weeks earlier with an outbreak of infection. He'd thought it was just influenza or a particularly bad outbreak of the common cold. The victims suffered from fever; they were coughing and sneezing, then they started to develop pains in their muscles and stomach. That had been the first danger sign. Was it cholera? Typhoid perhaps? Or something worse? Now he knew just how much worse; but he couldn't have known that back then. He'd even traced the outbreak back to Case Zero, the original source of infection. It had been the ground crew of one of the Super Mystere fighters. They were all the first cases and they'd all thought they had a cold, or something like that. So, they'd kept working bravely. Also stupidly because in doing so they'd infected almost everybody else on the base. That ground crew were the pathfinders, they were the ones who showed the rest the horrors that were to come. By the seventh day, the disease had spread to their stomachs and they'd started vomiting. That was when the pain and exhaustion had finally forced them to the sick bay. Too late, far too late.
Five days ago, the unseen attacker had finally unmasked himself. The earliest victims had found pimples erupting around their mouths, like little grains of rice embedded in the skin. Within hours, they had spread to the hands and arms and, by the end of the day, their whole bodies were covered. The pimples were called macules and they were the undeniable, absolute confirmation of what had struck. The unseen attacker was smallpox.
Major-Doctor Pellatiere had reacted fast and decisively,. He'd sealed the base off; all visitors were turned back at the gate. Not by contact but by signs and a burst of machine gun fire in front of those who ignored the written word. He'd called Algiers and told them the news, expecting to be reprimanded for his stupidity and foolishness in spreading groundless rumors. Instead, he'd been told that four border villages had also expe
rienced smallpox outbreaks over the last few weeks. They, also, were quarantined.
The French Air Force had tied the location to a Slime that had been intercepted at roughly the right time. Pellatiere had taken less than a minute to confirm that the ground crew whose infection had started the outbreak at Bone were the ones who had serviced the Super Mystere when it had landed. As it was, Pellatiere had been told, the Center for Disease Control in America had been alerted. The Americans had responded with speed and their usual efficiency. A C-144 Superstream, the executive jet version of their B-58 Hustler bomber, had been loaded with the latest vaccines in an attempt to help treat the outbreak. They'd proved useless.
Pellatiere had been worried but the situation was still containable. After all, smallpox was a disease whose lethality was greatly overstated. In its most common form, variola minoris, its mortality was around one percent. It crippled, mutilated and blinded; but it did not. often, kill. Over the last three days, the first victims had continued to deteriorate, even as the later cases started to filter into the hangars that had been turned into emergency treatment centers. Their pimples had filled with pus, turning them first into blisters and then into pustules. This was the critical point, after three or four days, the pustules would slowly start to deflate and then they would begin to dry up. Eventually they would be completely dry and the skin covering them would start to flake off, leaving a deep pit that the patient would carry for the rest of their lives. At that point, the patient would be considered cured; if cured was the word for the ravages smallpox brought with it. One percent mortality, although mortality did not measure lives destroyed but not ended.
