Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Things are poppin,” Blas said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes. Task Force Eleven is heavily engaged with a large enemy fleet carrying many Grikbirds. The flying beasts used explosive devices of a sort to some effect, and the situation is in doubt. There’s no way to know whether we will face similar weapons here,” he added, “but we must be prepared. High Admiral Jenks is taking the rest of Second Fleet to rescue Task Force Eleven and destroy the Dom fleet. Needless to say, that means our own naval air cover will be diminished at a time we are likely to need it most. Our squadrons at Guayakwil Bay are down to the bare bones.”

  “Needless to say,” Blair agreed wryly.

  Many of Shinya’s staff was already gathering at the lunette when they arrived, including Lieutenants “Finny” and “Stumpy,” who were waiting for Blas. Gun’s crews and infantry were watching the lancers tend their animals, pulling saddles, watering, and distributing feed bags. Except for their weapons, the troopers looked just like most other Allied troops now, with their tie-dyed camouflage frocks and trousers—which was yet another source of resentment. They’d been proud of their elaborate uniforms. Ironically, the only Imperial troops still in their red coats were some “regular” Marines, and that was only because supply hadn’t yet filled the need. Shinya was perfectly happy that new uniforms to replace the older but still serviceable ones already in use didn’t enjoy the same shipping priority as ammunition and other martial supplies. A young man with sergeant’s stripes, noticing their approach, snapped to attention. “Sir,” he said, aside to another man who was examining his horse’s hoof in the light of an oil lamp. He looked up and saluted as well.

  “General Shinya. Lieutenant Freeman, sir, C Troop of the Sixth New London Lancers. Beg to report.”

  “A moment, Lieutenant, if you please,” Shinya replied, returning the salute. He noticed with amusement how the lieutenant’s lip curled at the mention of his lettered troop instead of numbered squadron. That change had been made to standardize the regimental organization of all mounted units in the Alliance and was unpopular as well. “My staff is gathering, and I’d like them to hear your news.” He nodded at the watching hundreds. “And we might not want the entire army to hear it before they do.” The fact that Shinya relied so heavily on a number of relatively junior officers for advice actually endeared him to the enlisted ranks a degree, but was yet another source of discontent among his Imperial brigadiers. Having had it once explained to them by Blair that it was a matter of long use and familiarity to Shinya and no reflection on their capabilities, they’d unhappily acquiesced. Of course, always implied had been the obvious precedent Shinya had set that if they complained too much, they might quickly find themselves replaced by relatively junior officers. Ever since the New Ireland Campaign, Shinya had lost all patience with political, egocentric commanders.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Withdrawing to the hardened comm shack/HQ for the lunette, they ran everyone out but a single wireless operator. When Dao Iverson arrived, somewhat breathless, Shinya was satisfied that most of his closest advisors, easily available, were present.

  “Very well, Lieutenant Freeman, please make your report.”

  “Thank you, sir. The Doms are on the move.”

  Shinya nodded impatiently. That was self-evident. “In what force?”

  “All of them, General. It started with some skirmishing in the heights between their native scouts and ours. Not unusual that, but there’s weight behind their thrust this time and our scouts were pushed back. Colonel Smith took the Twentieth to stiffen the local lads, and it worked for a while. The firepower of dismounted troopers seemed to come as a nasty surprise for the Doms,” he added, a touch grudgingly. “Must’ve thought we had infantry up there for a while, and they didn’t quite know what to do at first. Never occurred to them that mounted troops might actually choose to fight on foot.” He shook his head. “Didn’t last. There were just too many, and Smith’s flanks were unsupported. He had to pull back.” He paused, moving to the map on the wall and pointing. “To this descending ridge here, paralleling the road from Chimborazo. He called the Sixth up to support him, but there was little we could add. With a few light guns and some of the new breechloaders, we might’ve kept them bottled up all day in such a lovely gap, but our smoothbore carbines hadn’t the range. In the end, all we could do was watch them watching us while a full division of their lancers—more mounted troops than they even had at Guayak—swept down out of the mountains shortly before dark, screening columns of infantry.” He frowned. “We watched them pass, still mindful of our flanks, until the light failed, but they made no further effort to have us off. In the meantime, more local chaps, the ‘infiltrators,’” he said, using what many Imperials considered the more polite euphemism for “spy,” “joined us with observations of their own. Not sure how reliable they are, sir… .”

  Shinya made a beckoning gesture.

  “Yes, sir. They told us the whole Dom army is coming. Troops, artillery, baggage trains, everything. The environs of Chimborazo are emptying as quickly as a bath with the drain plug pulled, all flooding this direction.”

  “As High Admiral Jenks and the Governor-Empress predicted,” Shinya said. “A coordinated stroke.” He glanced around. “Our enemies in this land are evil men, my friends, but not strategic fools. Let us hope their tactical sense has not improved since our last meeting!” He turned to Blair. “Who is deputy COFO at Guayak in Lieutenant Reddy’s absence?” He should’ve known that, but his mind remained muzzy at times.

  “Lieutenant Te-Aad, of the Tenth Pursuit Squadron. He has the Tenth Pursuit and Twelfth Bomb Squadrons, both ‘heavy,’ with a total of nearly forty planes between them, but less than half of what we’re accustomed to having at our disposal, of course.”

  “I want Lieutenant Freeman’s gap under continuous aerial assault, beginning immediately,” Shinya ordered, knowing full well how dangerous night ops were for his meager air force, Grikbirds or not. He looked at Freeman. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I must ask you to return to your regiment at once. We’ve lost contact with many of our forward observation posts. Enemy infiltrators have cut our telegraph lines no doubt. But we need timely reports of the enemy advance through the night.”

  “Of course, General. I’ll lead my troop back out at once.”

  “A question first, Lieutenant,” Blair said. “I understand your own perspective has been limited, but you’ve spoken with our local friends. Have you, through any source, been able to arrive at a better estimate of the enemy force approaching?”

  “The numbers vary,” Freeman hedged grimly, “and I must dismiss many reports as wild, fearful speculation. But I confess a personal confidence in the figure describing the Dom army at a hundred thousand men.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Thank you for your report. Please express my compliments to your commanding officer. Carry on.”

  When Freeman was gone, Shinya glanced around at his friends once more, studying their faces in the dim lamplight. “We’ve prepared for this,” he reminded them. “Our own flanks are secure as are the roads to Guayak and Puerto Viejo. The enemy cannot pass this fort in strength. He must reduce it to move beyond.”

  “Clearly what they mean to do,” Blas said, then shrugged. “I don’t know why ever’body worries so much how many daamn Doms there are. They all comin’ here. We’ll get to count ’em ourselves soon enough.”

  “I worry, my dear Captain Blas,” Blair confessed, “because we have half that number, and a large measure of our human troops remains indisposed. What’s more alarming, with Second Fleet steaming toward an encounter with the enemy fleet, we’ll have no reinforcements.”

  Shinya smiled mirthlessly, holding up the message form still in his hand. At some time during Freeman’s report, he’d unconsciously folded it several times. Now he straightened it out. “Untrue, Colonel Blair. Her Excellency Saan-Kakja and the Governor-Empress themselves have separated from Second Fleet and sail for Puerto Viejo with the
forces they brought from the New Britain Isles.” He snorted. “Including Sister Audry’s… interesting regiment of Dom converts. They should arrive at Puerto Viejo in two days, more likely three, and join us here within a week. They’ve decided, and I agree, that the fever is less of a threat to them than a general fleet action, and without fleet protection, they must come ashore in any event.” He shrugged. “And we will need them.”

  “We’re gonna need ’em,” Finny whispered fervently to Stumpy, but everyone heard. “Doms’ll be here tomorrow night. Day after, in force, if they movin’ like Free-maan says. A hundred thousands? More, maybe? We daamn sure gonna need a hand—if they’s any of us lef’ by then.”

  “Don’t sell our defenses here short, Lieutenant Finny,” Shinya scolded, but then his tone turned hard. “And don’t ever even whisper a sentiment like that where anyone else might hear. I’ve no concerns about our Lemurian Marines, or even our Imperials.” He nodded at Blair who’d been just as frustrated as he in the past. “But we have whole regiments of local, largely untried troops now as well. If they hear you, officers, respected veterans talking like that, they’ll flee their posts like water at the critical moment, and what I’m morally certain would have been a resounding victory will end in all our deaths. Do I make myself clear?”

  Finny and Stumpy both gulped, blinking furiously. “Clear, sur,” they chorused.

  • • •

  The morning was late in dawning on Fort Defiance, as usual, in the shadow of the great mountains to the east, and the Chimborazo road that snaked up into the heights remained lost in gloom. Flashes of light and burning trees and clumps of foliage still lit the pass, however, as they had throughout the early-morning hours, as flight after flight of Nancys out of Guayakwil Bay swooped on the advancing columns approaching the crossroads. The pounding had been vicious, if very difficult and hazardous in the dark, and doubtless large numbers of casualties had been inflicted on the serpentine host. But accurate bombing under the conditions was impossible, and Shinya had ordered it more as an assault on the enemy’s nerve. Staring through his Imperial telescope, he hoped it had been worth the three planes and crews he’d lost. Two had collided, and one might’ve fallen prey to Grikbirds, but so far few of the winged devils had made an appearance. He wondered if that meant the Doms were saving them for a bomb attack on the fort, or if the distant fleet action had drawn most away. It was impossible to say since no one had any idea how many Grikbirds the Doms controlled.

  Despite last night’s losses, Shinya meant to keep bombing the Doms this time, even as they deployed, to give them no respite. He wanted them to rush their attack before they were ready, if only to relieve the torment from the air. With the numbers they were bringing, he hoped not to allow them any more time than possible to coordinate their assaults. His heart sank a bit, however, as he observed the first Dom lancers appear out of the smoky shadows to the east in a long, loose column with a very broad front. They were well-appointed troops, he had to admit, with bright cuirasses, plumed helmets, and flowing banners. Red pennants, like miniature versions of their twisted-cross flags, fluttered at the ends of their lances high above their heads. Looking more carefully, Shinya noted that a number wore bandages, likely earned in the bombing, but they maintained a haughty, professional bearing.

  “Don’t seem much perturbed by the predawn festivities,” Blair observed beside him, also gazing through a glass.

  “No. They’ve experienced our bombs before and expect them now. They stay less bunched up too, as you can see.”

  “Their infantry as well,” Blair grumped, refocusing. Beyond, and somewhat within the advancing lancer formation, was a column of Dom regular infantry, with their white-faced, yellow coats, white knee breeches, and black hats. It was a dense column, perhaps ten files wide and extending beyond view, but still less congested than they’d ever seen before. The better to maintain cohesion while avoiding mass casualties from the air. They’ve learned a lot, Shinya realized. They were still vulnerable, and a stooping Nancy chose that moment to smear fire among their ranks, but the casualties were fewer than they would’ve been before and there was no panic, no scattering, and the beleaguered force marched relentlessly on.

  “I don’t like to see that,” Blair commented.

  “Neither do I. They do learn quickly. More quickly than Grik. I expected their soldiers to learn lessons from the Battle of Guayak, but not their leaders. I’d hoped they’d be less open to change.”

  “Not many of their ‘old’ leaders left, if our spies have the right of it. But Don Hernan kept Nerino,” Blair added almost wonderingly. “Quite a surprise. But he must be responsible for the changes. Learned his lesson, at least.”

  “Too well.”

  Blair chuckled. “Do you suppose he’ll seek to entertain us before the battle again, as he did last time? I thought that was quite civilized.”

  “I doubt it,” Shinya replied. “He knows us now. And I wouldn’t give him the chance if he tried. I’ve already passed the word to our air to target anything that looks like a command post.” He waved. “Nerino commands the army, but Don Hernan commands him, and has their army more afraid of him than us. I’d dearly love to murder that walking pit of wickedness, and maybe we will. Perhaps Nerino might even be reasoned with after that. But Don Hernan’s too canny to show himself, and if he even approaches this field, he won’t give us an easy target. He knows us too,” he finished, remembering how the war had started, and doubting any order he could give would prevent every rifle, musket, and cannon in the entire expeditionary force, human or Lemurian, from opening up on Don Hernan if they caught a glimpse of him.

  • • •

  Far to the east, in a comfortable, shaded overlook, Don Hernan de Devina Dicha and General Ghanan Nerino observed the proceedings as well.

  “The Army of God has endured its first cleansing!” Don Hernan hailed sweetly, his arms outstretched. He wore the usual vestments of a Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness—red and gold robes and a bizarre white hat. But there was no great entourage, and only a small concentration of troops around him. Even from the air, he’d be difficult to see, and with the thousands of troops and endless stream of military equipment coursing down the road a short distance away, there were much more tempting targets for the enemy flying machines. “Do not pace, my dear General Nerino!” he scolded lightly. “Rejoice! Your troops have passed their first test! The enemy bombs have flayed them, burned them, but they will not break again,” he chortled, confident in the power he held over their lives.

  Of course not, Nerino thought impiously. March to battle under threat of an agonizing death at the hands of the enemy, or run away and ensure an even worse end at the whim of Don Hernan. They won’t break. Not yet. But this is nothing. Don Hernan cannot know what it will be like when the real battle starts. Then? Who can say. He silently rubbed the burn scars on his hand. I cannot honestly answer that for myself anymore, he realized.

  “I am… eager to join my army, Your Holiness,” he said, and even as the words left his lips, he realized with some surprise that they were true. He’d had enough of battles, and his burns remained painful enough that the last thing he wanted was to risk more injuries, but something had… happened to him during his convalescence. He’d suffered terribly, just as so many of his soldiers had, and though he had no new illusions that his troops were his equal in some way, he’d learned much about what was important to them. They didn’t want to die or be hurt, but perhaps most important, they wanted to believe there was a reason other than punishment for what they risked. If their leaders were unwilling to risk themselves, how important could the reason be for them? Nerino knew his—Don Hernan’s—army would fight. It had no choice. But how much more likely was it to achieve its goal, was it—and he—to avoid punishment, if he was there to lead it himself?

  “Your chosen officers know what to do,” Don Hernan reminded. “And they know the price of failure. They will perform their duties, and you may join them soon enou
gh. Your experience is of no use to me if you are slain during these opening moves.” Don Hernan, a wistful smile on his face, watched another pair of the blue and white flying machines swoop down on the column in the distance, fire bursting within it. “Fire is so beautiful,” he murmured, then frowned. “The heretic flying machines are a nuisance. I tried to cause the creation of our own, you know,” he added bitterly, “but progress is slow. So many of our first efforts were deliberately flawed.” He clenched his teeth in silent rage at Ensign Fred Reynolds. “We do make greater use of the small flying dragons than I ever imagined possible,” he suddenly enthused, his whipsaw mood clenching Nerino’s gut, as usual.

  “But few remain at our disposal,” Nerino pointed out delicately. “So many were sent to the fleet for their attack that we can no longer counter the enemy here, as we’d begun to do.”

  “Concern yourself not, my general. The enemy has only so many machines, and your spies are now certain that few of the ones with markings most associated with the great ship that carries them are present here. That means my broader plan to draw their fleet to its destruction must already be bearing fruit! If all goes well at sea, I assure you that you will see fewer and fewer flying machines above your battlefield.” He gestured grandly down at the great, fat serpent of men. “Your officers will absorb the pinpricks from the air and complete your initial investment of the fort throughout the night, and launch the army’s first assault with tomorrow’s dawn, as planned.”

  “It seems such a waste to attack with but a tithe of our army,” Nerino lamented, again hinting at his disagreement. Despite giving him “command” of the Army of God, Don Hernan had tinkered incessantly with his plans. This aggressive, daylight movement and the first attacks were Don Hernan’s additions, designed to test his dream that El Vómito might’ve left Fort Defiance fatally weakened after all. Nerino was convinced that even if it had, the first hurried assaults could not succeed.