Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Impossible!” Don Hernan proclaimed. “No medicine can do that! It must be sorcery of the darkest sort! All the more reason to destroy the heretics without delay!”

  “But they have not been weakened as much as we hoped, and the animal warriors—the ‘Lemurians’ that constitute fully half their force—did not take sick at all.” Nerino braced himself. “I most humbly suggest that we not underestimate the animal warriors again, Your Holiness. I did, once. Why should I not? But having done so, I learned what a terrible mistake it was. They are demons,” he said almost wonderingly, as if realizing it for the first time himself. Perhaps he was. “Most unnatural demons. And I do not know, honestly, if they are in the power of the Imperials, or the other way around!”

  “They are demons,” Don Hernan somberly confirmed. “And your confusion is well founded because even I cannot enlighten you. I have known one,” he added bitterly, “and thought it just a pet. But whether its… human companion was truly that devoted to it, or it had some power over him, I cannot say. Either way, I shall certainly not underestimate the creatures, and will not rest until all are swept from the face of the world.” Nerino said nothing, stunned by Don Hernan’s admission that seemed to imply the recognition that he had once made a mistake. Nerino was tempted, but finally didn’t mention that he too had met a Lemurian; a most intimidating female captain named Blas-Ma-Ar, if he remembered correctly. It was just as well that he said nothing.

  “Too many of your former troops who fought them insist they are Jaguar demons,” Don Hernan continued darkly, “or some such creatures whose coming was foretold by the Jaguarista bandits that style themselves rebels against the temple!” He glanced at Nerino with a frown of regret. “We cannot silence them all, you know. The army needs every man—for now. A few examples should be made so the rest will at least keep their filthy thoughts to themselves. But ultimately, the only way to end this evil is to destroy it.”

  “And we shall prevail, of course,” Nerino quickly assured him. “But the Army of God will suffer no matter what we do. That may delay further campaigns for a time. Perhaps… we should delay this one just slightly longer. At least until the reinforcements—and the gift—arrive.”

  “That may be,” Don Hernan reluctantly acknowledged, to Nerino’s relief. “And I will send courier dragons to find the column of Blood Drinkers. Try to hurry them along. But if what your spies report is true, the heretics are at least somewhat weakened just now. They will only get stronger the longer we wait. It therefore remains that the time to strike—both at this ‘Shinya’ and against the enemy fleet as well—is upon us regardless.” He reflected a moment, gazing at the villagers beginning to emerge from their homes. “I had hoped to delay our naval attack a short while longer. You could not know the details, but it had to be clear to you that our Western Fleet met great… difficulty against the Heretic Navy. Otherwise, they would not have been able to land an army here. New weapons and strategies have been devised for use by the elements of our Eastern Fleet gathered at El Paso del Fuego, and I am confident we have both a qualitative and vast numerical advantage now at sea.” He paused, frowning. “But new things of any sort are always so troublesome to predict,” he confessed with a frankness that again surprised Nerino.

  “In addition,” he continued, “other things are in motion, beyond what is seen, that cause me some concern… . You know that the heretics have other enemies in Africa?” Nerino nodded, even though Don Hernan had only recently informed him of that. “I dispatched a mission across the Atlantic to contact them, but nothing has been heard,” Don Hernan admitted. “Perhaps it was lost. It is a dreadful voyage. Or perhaps our other enemies, Los Diablos del Norte, have interfered. Even in the face of our withdrawal of so many assets in the Caribbean, Los Diablos have done remarkably little—that we have seen.” He shook his head. “Far too much is unknown to me in these strange times, and that only makes it more imperative that we eliminate the most pressing, apparent threats as quickly as we can. To completely destroy Shinya and his fort, we must deprive him of all support, so we must release our own fleet at El Paso del Fuego to accomplish that task. I have sent courier dragons there as well, bearing the appropriate commands. It is time that General Shinya, his ‘Second Fleet,’ and all who aid them on land and sea were erased.”

  Nerino must not have hidden his expression well enough, because Don Hernan regarded him with a softly quizzical look. “You are concerned that we move precipitously?”

  Nerino quickly shook his head. “Not with you to lead the army, Your Holiness. I do… fret very slightly that with no senior officers in your army who have faced the heretics before, there may arise similar, ah, confusions such as those that plagued my army when first we met the foe.” He didn’t remind Don Hernan that he’d pleaded with him not to execute the very officers he’d soon need so badly, but feared he’d already gone too far.

  Don Hernan appeared to shake off his introspective mood and smiled indulgently. “Do not ‘fret,’ my dear General Nerino! Our fleet has been poised to move for some time, but it will take a little more, certainly, before it can sail and meet the enemy. This shall be a coordinated attack, and you will necessarily have some time to familiarize your officers with what they will face, and what is expected of them. If the Blood Drinkers arrive in time, all the better, but we must march within a week of receiving word that the Eastern Fleet has put to sea! It will take another week for the Army of God to reach the enemy, so I would estimate that you might expect as many as three to prepare.

  Nerino was stunned, as much by what Don Hernan had implied as by how little time he’d have to take the reins. “You… You’re giving me command?”

  “Of course! I am no general, and who better than you? You shall command the army in the field, and I command you. You will provide the example the army needs to fight, and I have—and will—provide examples of the price of failure! How could either of us hope for a better arrangement than that?”

  CHAPTER 8

  ////// Fort Defiance

  North of Guayak

  General Tomatsu Shinya, commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in the East, stepped carefully to the top of the northernmost section of defensive works closest to his quarters and took a deep breath. The air was full of woodsmoke from cookfires inside the fort, but it still tasted cool and clean compared to the stale, unmoving air he’d been breathing in his buttoned-up bunker. It was good to be out and about after being laid up so long, but he still felt like hell. His fever was gone at last, as was the bloody vomiting that was the most frightening symptom of the sickness, but he was still dizzy and had terrible headaches. He ached all over as a matter of fact, and the very thought of food left him nauseated. He’d turned the corner, though; that was clear. That he could move around at all was proof of that. Unlike malaria, this disease offered no temporary respite. One either got better or died. Too many, almost a thousand now, hadn’t improved, and they’d been carried outside the high earthen outer wall of Fort Defiance and buried along the road back to Guayak. Shinya gazed in that direction for a time, past the interior of the great fort, which bustled with activity and continuous improvement. The thick, earthen outer ramparts were arranged in the shape of a rough pentagon (which Orrin Reddy had described as a smushed starfish when seen from the air), and they bristled with heavy guns, particularly the bastions, or “lunettes” as Shinya called them, that rounded the points of the pentagon. Many of the heaviest guns had been captured from the Doms at Guayak; others had been brought ashore from Imperial ships of the line at Puerto Viejo and trundled here on their naval trucks with backbreaking effort. All were supported by firing steps and had thick overhead protection, as did the various magazines scattered strategically around the enclosure. Traps and barbed-wire entanglements laced the broad killing ground beyond, making the defenses even more formidable. Inside was a second wall: a sheer, earth-reinforced palisade even higher than the surrounding ramparts, with observation towers strategically placed. Within that was
a compound the size of a small city, complete with covered sewers washed clean by water diverted from a stream. Despite the sickness and the concentration of nearly sixty thousand troops, Lemurian, Imperial, Guayakan, and recruits from the now desperately committed port city of Puerto Viejo, Shinya supposed it was the “healthiest” fortification ever devised on this world.

  “Should you be up and about so soon?” Colonel James Blair of the Empire of the New Britain Isles inquired in a mildly scolding tone, stepping up behind him. Blair was one of the few Imperials who hadn’t shown any symptoms of El Vómito Rojo. At least not yet. Did that mean he was immune, perhaps bolstered by liberal doses of Lemurian medicines, or still susceptible? There was no telling.

  “I’ve been away from my duties too long,” Shinya replied, “not even able to take a proper report.” He rubbed his forehead. “Or in truth, understand one.” He straightened, looking up at the high mountains to the east. Low clouds hid the peaks from view. “I must know the enemy’s current dispositions.”

  “You’ve been ill,” Blair countered with a smile, “and your duties have been performed regardless. You have a capable executive officer, after all, who has not been sick.”

  Shinya managed a pained smile at Blair. “Of course, Colonel. You’re quite capable, and no offense was meant.” He frowned. “And still just a colonel,” he mused. “I should’ve done something about that long ago. How you’ve dealt with all the posturing Imperial generals lavished upon us during my incapacity remains a mystery.”

  Blair grinned. “As your executive officer and empowered with your mystical authority, I immediately turned them back into colonels as soon as they arrived. A few were quite indignant.”

  Shinya snorted a laugh. “You’ve become a most resourceful officer, my friend. But that does not lessen my frustration at having been so long indisposed. Please, as our American friends would say; what have I missed?”

  Blair nodded at two Lemurians climbing the berm to join them. One was female and the other was missing most of his tail. Shinya got the distinct impression all had been waiting to talk to him—as soon as he was well enough to know what they were saying. “Here are Captain Blas-Ma-Ar and Leftenant Faal-Pel of the Eighth Maa-ni-laa,” Blair said. “They can help me brief you more completely. I know you’re acquainted with Captain Blas, but I believe Leftenant Faal-Pel is more commonly known as ‘Stumpy.’”

  Shinya’s smile grew more genuine. “Of course I know Lieutenant Stumpy,” he said as the pair drew near. “He was a destroyerman aboard USS Walker long before he took up a rifle. Good afternoon, Captain, Lieutenant,” he said louder. “I trust you’re well?”

  Blas and Stumpy saluted smartly, and Shinya and Blair returned it. “We’re fine, Gener-aal,” Blas replied. “You doin’ better?”

  “I am indeed,” Shinya assured her. Blas nodded almost imperceptibly at Blair. The two had been very worried about Tomatsu Shinya, and what his loss might mean for the entire war effort in the East. “You two have been largely responsible for the creation of these works,” Shinya continued. “Tell me what you think of them.”

  Blas glanced at Stumpy, who fidgeted slightly, then looked back at Shinya. “Well, none of us were real happy about buildin’ ’em in the first place, but I guess you knew that.” Shinya nodded, and Blas continued. “Pretty much everybody was for stayin’ after the Doms. That said, we know we couldn’t’a done that until the supply train caught up.” Blas performed a very human shrug. “Then everybody got sick—at least the Impies and locals did. I hate to think what would’a happened if the Doms hit us on the march, with everybody strung out an’ pukin’ theirselves ta’ death. Stoppin’ here made good sense from a supply standpoint, but even more sense now.” She looked at Shinya, who was still nodding. He well knew that whenever someone asked Blas what she thought about anything, they’d get the whole truth, complete with her unvarnished opinion. “But that’s not what you asked,” Blas said, almost reminding herself. She gestured around. “We’ve built a helluva good fort here, Gener-aal. Way better than the defenses we threw up around Guayak, and they weren’t nothin’ to flip yer tail at. It was a close call, but we walloped the Doms well enough in front of them. Here? It’d take a lot more Doms to come near as close to breakin’ through as they did at Guayak. As long as we have ammo and air support, I think we could stay here forever.”

  Shinya looked at Blair. “And what of the Doms?”

  “Our scouts report that they stopped their retreat in the mountains, near the town of Chimborazo. There was confusion for a time, before that wicked Don Hernan himself arrived with a sizable force, presumably from the north where they’d been gathering their Enchanted Isles invasion force. So whatever we’ve accomplished, it seems we did manage to delay that operation, at least.” He snorted. “But Don Hernan’s not been content to merely halt their retreat. He’s put a spine back in his army—I shudder to think how he did that—and is obviously gathering his forces to attack us here.”

  “How many?”

  “That’s difficult to say, General Shinya.” Blair actually chuckled. “Our scouts and theirs are almost all locals who know one another. Ours are invested in defeating the Doms—and survival, of course—whereas theirs are only interested in saving themselves and their families. Sometimes they skirmish when they meet, but there’s considerable fraternization as well. I suspect the scouts on both sides wind up telling their counterparts a great deal of what they have been sent to discover. I’m sure it’s safer for all concerned,” he added wryly. “But it’s made learning the exact number of enemy troops somewhat inconvenient. I think that would be the case in any event since it’s always difficult to estimate the size of an army from within it. At the same time, we have, I think, successfully misled the enemy into believing the sickness that struck us was not as severe as he obviously hoped. That there is some truth in that has no doubt made the larger fiction that we’re quite ready for them a bit easier to accept. But our latest reports imply they’re preparing to strike regardless, fearing that any advantage El Vómito might give them will be lost.”

  “So they didn’t catch it after all?”

  “Not to any large extent. It appears that Surgeon Commander Selass was right about that as well.”

  “Did you know about the Bloody Spews?” Blas suddenly blurted, and Shinya looked at her, surprised.

  “The Bloody Spews?” he asked.

  “That’s what the sickness is called in the ranks,” Blair told him.

  “Oh. Of course.” He looked back at Blas and sighed. “Yes. The vice alcalde, Señor Suares, told me to expect it, and that was largely why I chose to halt our advance. We might’ve finished the Doms before they could reconsolidate, but at some point we would’ve been stopped by the sickness. Better here, behind well-situated defenses, than on the march.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Blas said, glaring now at Stumpy. “Lots’a stuff makes more sense now.”

  “The fever is passing from all our troops?” Shinya asked Blair. “Those who did not succumb?”

  “Slowly, General, and some new cases are still reported every day, but I think the worst is behind us. Our current strength is about forty thousand, fit for duty. Mostly Lemurians, of course. Another ten thousand or so are recovering and should be fit before too much longer, but the rest remain gravely ill.”

  “So many still sick?”

  “I’m afraid so.” Blair hesitated. “On that note, we do have significant reinforcements prepared to join us. Saan-Kakja and the Governor-Empress have arrived at last, but High Admiral Jenks refuses to allow them to land until the fever season has passed entirely.”

  “Quite right,” Shinya murmured. “We can’t risk a resurgence of the disease, and Selass is sure that the fever is spread by mosquitoes. As long as any of our people still carry the sickness and mosquitoes remain abundant, the infection could be transferred to any who joined us.” He brooded in silence for a moment. “But how many Doms are there?” he demanded.

 
Blair spread his hands. “We don’t know. Chimborazo rests at an altitude nearly high enough for our pilots to require oxygen—which we cannot provide. And there are enough dragons, ah, ‘Grikbirds,’ to further discourage adequate reconnaissance from the air. I understand our planes and pilots can both fly somewhat higher, but the performance of both—and particularly the machines—degrade enough to make them easy prey for the enemy air… creatures.”

  “I’ve talked to some of the scouts myself,” Blas said, “and some flyboys too, who got as close as they could. We’ve lost a good many planes, General,” she interjected. “The only thing that all sources seem convinced of is that the Doms are coming soon, and there’ll be a lot of ’em.” She shrugged again. “All we can do is be as ready as we can, however many there are.”

  “And hope the fever passes sufficiently to allow our reinforcements to come ashore—if there are too many of them for us to handle,” Blair added. Blas and Stumpy both looked at him, then turned their gazes to Shinya. “That seems to be about the size of it,” he agreed.

  CHAPTER 9

  ////// TFG-2

  USS Donaghey

  August 30, 1944

  Drums thundered and the alarm bell rang as USS Donaghey went to general quarters just as she did every dawn since she’d dropped anchor at the southern African port of Alex-aandra, capital of the Republic of Real People. Bekiaa-Sab-At’s Marines climbed to the fighting tops with their rifles or aided the gun’s crews in running out their eighteen-pounders, while youngling powder monkeys stampeded from below with pass boxes. Shot garlands near the guns stood full of stacked canister rounds, on the off chance some attempt was made to board the ship. Keeping solid or even exploding shot at hand was pointless. They’d have little effect against the monstrous and mysterious dreadnaught Savoie that also lay at anchor a quarter of a mile away and had kept Donaghey effectively imprisoned for the last weeks.