Rebecca waited for the noise to subside, then continued her argument. “I regret that we were unable to bring the new carriers completing in Maa-ni-la. There have been delays. But my sister and I did not come all this way, bringing troops and weapons so sorely needed on this front, merely to bob about aboard the most powerful element of an inactive fleet!”
Jenks winced at that, but held his tongue. Lelaa didn’t. “That’s unfair, Your Highness,” she scolded, relying on their friendship and her status as the most senior representative of the “Amer-i-caan Navy Clan” in the hemisphere. “Most unfair indeed. This fleet has not been ‘inactive.’ Far from it. And we have not sought a decisive fleet action with the Doms at the Pass of Fire simply because we do not know what is there!” She nodded at Orrin. “We have tried to scout the strange strait between the continents and the enemy fleet gathered there, but there are too many Grikbirds—‘dragons’—for our planes to penetrate far enough to see anything worth the terrible losses in aircraft and crews we have sustained in previous attempts.”
“We brought more planes and pilots,” Rebecca shot back.
“Which will allow us to try again,” Lelaa agreed resignedly, “with further dreadful losses, no doubt.”
“And as for going ashore,” Selass interjected, “High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks seeks only to protect you and the troops you bring. As he has informed you, there is a terrible illness ashore that the locals call ‘El Vómito Rojo.’” She shook her head. “So far it has not affected Mi-Anakka—Lemurian—troops, but it has been devastating to the human forces.” She sighed. “Perhaps half of them are sick. Even General Shinya has fallen ill. And though the seep and polta paste seem to help prevent the secondary, more fatal symptoms, there have been several hundred deaths within the army. The civilian population of Guayak has been even harder hit.” She blinked incredulity. “Some appear to be immune, having never had the disease, but many seem to accept it as merely a seasonal part of life. I cannot imagine why they don’t simply move away. Through my correspondence with Karen Letts at Baalkpan, I am convinced the swarming mosquitoes on the coastal plain are to blame. They are not as bad at higher elevations.”
“Where the Dom ‘Army of God’ gathers under that hideous fiend Don Hernan!” Rebecca snapped. Scouts of the enemy position and preparations had secured enough prisoners to confirm that.
“Yes, but they do not have polta paste to alleviate much of the suffering. If they come down and attack now, they would be even more devastated by the disease than our people are.”
“Then we must hope they are as sensitive to losses as we,” Koratin said dryly. Everyone knew that they were not.
“If I may?” Colonel Garcia asked quietly. Jenks looked at him, unable to hide the skeptical arch his eyebrow made. He remained unconvinced that Doms could be torn away from their fanatical adherence to their twisted faith, even though they now knew not all “Doms,” the Guayakans for example, shared that faith in the first place. He’d talked with their spokesman, Suares, and through him to their alcalde, and they’d struck him as normal, if rather odd, people, just like any in the Empire. But Garcia had been a Dom officer, and his regiment was composed of men who’d fought fanatically against the Empire on the island of New Ireland. He found it hard to believe they’d just . . . stopped being what they were. Sister Audry and even Governor-Empress Rebecca were insistent, however, and he too had to admit that Garcia seemed devoted to them. “Please do,” he finally said.
“If Don Hernan senses weakness in your army, he will attack regardless of losses,” he said. “He may even calculate that he could march down from the mountains and destroy General Shinya before El Vómito could weaken his own force enough to stop it. I think it more likely, however, that he will wait until the worst of the season has passed, then strike with a healthy force while he believes yours remains weak.”
“How long?” Jenks demanded.
“Another week. Perhaps two,” Selass said. “According to Suares.”
“Can you at least wait that long, Your Majesty?” Jenks pleaded. “We will commence transferring supplies immediately, and we can set the reinforcements ashore quite rapidly when the time comes, I assure you.”
Rebecca hesitated, then nodded. “Very well. But in the meantime, we must discover what we face at sea. We all know Don Hernan, and I do not think he will be content to merely wait for his opportunity. I suspect he will move against the fleet in some fashion in conjunction with his land assault. We mustn’t let him have his way in all things, in respect to his schedule.” She looked at Jenks. “You say our aircraft cannot penetrate to the Pass of Fire without prohibitive losses to the dragons, but there is little they can do against well-prepared ships. I am directing you to dispatch a sizable portion of the fleet to investigate the pass at once!”
Jenks frowned. “I respectfully suggest that such a move would be extremely risky. We have no idea how large the Dom fleet is, and we risk losing that ‘sizable portion’ if it runs into something substantial. We should wait a bit longer. Perhaps we may even receive word from the strange ‘other Americans’ Lieutenant Reynolds and Ensign Faask encountered during their escape from the Doms.”
“But you said such a communication would likely only come after we have dealt the Doms a harsh blow at sea.”
“That’s true. But I still counsel against it—and if we must move against the pass, we should do it with all our might or none.”
“That is unacceptable,” Rebecca stated. “The larger portion of the fleet must remain here to cover General Shinya—and land the reinforcements when the time comes. You will send a heavy scout to discover what it may, at long last, about the enemy fleet. Our ships are faster than theirs. The squadron can always retire if it runs into more than it can handle. Perhaps that move alone will prompt the other Americans to signal us in some way?” Her tone hardened. “I have acquiesced on all other points. Do not fight me on this, High Admiral Jenks!”
Jenks nodded reluctantly. “Very well, Your Highness.” Rebecca turned to Orrin Reddy. “Is there no way that we can fly to meet these strangers? Circumventing the Pass of Fire, of course.”
Orrin looked doubtful. “Fred Reynolds and Kari Faask suggested that themselves,” he admitted. “Even volunteered. Nutty damn kids, after what they went through. But it’s just too dangerous. There’re the Doms and their Grikbirds to consider, sure. But we don’t even know where the hell to send ’em. They got the impression these other Americans have a fleet in the Gulf of Mexico—a, ah, body of water on the other side of the Pass of Fire. Full of fuel and nothing else, a Nancy might make it that far, but what then? Even if there is a fleet, it’d be dumb-ass luck for one plane to find it. I’m afraid we’d just be wasting anybody we sent.”
“The only other option is a land expedition from the Imperial colonies around Saint Francis,” Jenks said, “but again, they don’t really know where to go, and such a trip might take months.” He shrugged. “They know where we are, Your Majesty, and said they would contact us when the time was right for them. I see no feasible way to contact them for the foreseeable future.”
“Without a fleet action,” Rebecca prodded.
“That was mentioned as a means of getting their attention,” Jenks confessed reluctantly.
“All the more reason to send the heavy scouting force,” Rebecca stressed. “As I said, perhaps they will consider that enough.”
• • •
Orrin trotted down the steps from the bridgewing, heading for his office near the ready room. At the base of the ladder, as expected, he ran into Fred Reynolds and Kari Faask. He paused, shaking his head. “No go,” he said. “I pitched your case, like I agreed, but they didn’t go for it.” He didn’t mention how strongly he’d objected to their case. Fred and Kari both took deep breaths and then looked at the deck.
“Thanks anyway, Mr. Reddy,” Fred mumbled.
“Hey, at least you’re back fl
ying,” Orrin consoled.
“Sure. That’s something. But we’re not doing much. Most of the combat ops sortie out of Guayakwil Bay. We’re just flying around, knocking holes in the sky and watching for Dom ships.”
“Somebody’s got to do it—and damn it, folks are sick on shore! You guys are still weak from what you went through. You want to get sick and finish yourselves off?”
“I not get sick,” Kari countered.
“You want another pilot, then?” Orrin demanded. “Because Fred probably will. Him and me are still the only human pilots in this fleet, and will be until the Impies finally get some fliers out here. You don’t see me clamoring to go ashore, do you? Let this bug run its course, and we’ll all get plenty busy.”
“Okay. Afternoon, Mr. Reddy. And thanks.”
When Orrin was gone, Fred sighed at his Lemurian friend. “Would’ve been easier with his help, not to mention feeling less like running off. Nothing for it, though, I guess.”
“Nope.”
CHAPTER 7
////// Chimborazo
New Granada Province
Holy Dominion
General Ghanan Nerino, former commander of His Supreme Holiness’s Army of the South, approached Don Hernan de Devina Dicha with a familiar sense of dread. Even when he didn’t bear news he was sure the unpredictably capricious Blood Cardinal would dislike, he was uncomfortable in his presence. Bringing . . . disappointing information, Nerino had no idea how Don Hernan would react. Sitting on a padded wicker chair on the porch of the residence of the alcalde of Chimborazo, the Blood Cardinal sipped from a steaming mug in the cool, late-morning air. Seeing him gaze about with such a benevolent expression behind his immaculately trimmed mustache and goatee, Nerino would have found it easy to imagine that Don Hernan was not really a maniac after all, if he hadn’t seen such ample proof to the contrary. He was a maniac, to be generous, and a singularly dangerous one. Since he was second in authority only to His Supreme Holiness himself, Don Hernan’s power was unchecked, and he practically ruled the Holy Dominion in the name of the Messiah of Mexico who was, even Nerino believed, Emperor of the World by the grace of God. But even by the standards of God’s harsh laws, interpreted and set forth in holy tracts by His beloved priests, Don Hernan’s rule was peculiarly frightful. As prescribed, he ruled through terror, but he took his responsibility to an extreme unremembered in Nerino’s lifetime. Pain was the gateway to grace, and blood was the price of God’s love and favor; that was the way of things. The effusion of both was celebrated and ritualized throughout the Dominion, but neither was to be wantonly wasted. That Don Hernan could so casually and often arbitrarily command the deliberate squandering of so much blood from behind such a pleasant demeanor of gentle piety inspired equal measures of horror and amazement in Ghanan Nerino, and convinced him that Don Hernan was mad.
Nerino moved through the priests gathered behind Don Hernan, standing in silence. Their lord had decided that morning that he didn’t want to see any people, only the unspoiled beauty of the mountain village and God’s creation surrounding it. Therefore, all the troops encamped east of town had been forced to move with fanatical urgency in the predawn dark, and every villager had been warned to stay out of sight until midday. It hadn’t been necessary to remind them what would happen to them if they were seen. No doubt, Don Hernan would watch their execution with the same expression he now wore. This was yet another example of how erratic, impulsive, and stunningly profligate in time and resources his whims had become, even as he constantly urged haste in preparing the Army of God to expel the invaders infesting the coastal lowland.
Ghanan Nerino had tried that once already, and had lost an army in the attempt. He was fortunate, he supposed, that he’d been so painfully wounded by the flaming bombs dropped by the invader’s flying machines. That had isolated him from blame for the debacle, and doubtless granted him some grace in Don Hernan’s eyes. The filmy bandages still covering his face and hands were a constant reminder of his suffering—his “grace”—and had probably allowed him to speak more freely to Don Hernan than he would otherwise have dared, but grace was transient, he knew quite well, and he always wondered when his would finally run out.
He still wasn’t sure precisely what his status was. Don Hernan still called him “general,” even though he led no troops; Don Hernan himself was in sole command of the Army of God. Nerino assumed the Blood Cardinal had, initially at least, suffered his presence as an advisor because he actually did know more about the heretic army than anyone else. He’d since taken upon himself the task of coordinating the gathering of even more information about the enemy since, to his surprise, no one else was doing it. To be fair, he hadn’t expected much intelligence from his own staff before the Battle of Guayak, but he knew better now. His rank remained good for something. He started appropriating and evaluating the reports of spies, and passing what he learned to Don Hernan during their increasingly frequent meetings. “Spymaster” was his new “status,” he supposed.
A musical chime within the residence proclaimed noon, and Don Hernan started as if released from a trance. “Ah, General Nerino!” he said without turning. “You continue to improve, I trust? Surely God has sped your recovery for the task ahead!” Nerino was taken aback by the address. He’d approached so quietly, there was no way Don Hernan could have known he was there. But then again, he would have known, because he’d commanded Nerino’s presence, and of course his general would be waiting upon him at the appointed time.
“Thank you, Your Holiness. I am sure of it,” Nerino respectfully replied.
“Join me, General,” Don Hernan invited, gesturing grandly at a chair across the small table beside him. “Have refreshment!”
“Thank you, Your Holiness,” Nerino said, stepping forward and easing into the chair. His burns were healing well, and even his chin whiskers were beginning to return, but he’d lost a great deal of weight during his recovery, much of it muscle. He’d once been somewhat round; the result of a soft, well-fed life, but now he was almost thin and felt weak and sore.
After the usual pleasantries that prefaced any conversation with Don Hernan, even a sentence of death, the Blood Cardinal leaned back in apparent satisfaction before gazing intently at Nerino. “And what have you heard from our spies? Most particularly, what is the state of the heretics’ army, now that El Vómito Rojo is upon them?” Don Hernan’s voice had a sudden predatory tone.
Nerino nodded, but cringed inwardly. The Army of God had mustered almost a hundred and ten thousand men, composed of what remained of Nerino’s Army of the South, more troops originally intended for the conquest of the Galápagos, and still other forces hastily gathered from all over the Nuevo Granada Province. A division of the elite Blood Drinker infantry was even rushing southwestward from as far away as the Templo de los Papas, in Nuevo Granada City itself. It was scheduled to bring a “special gift” from His Supreme Holiness, from the mountain village of Popayan several hundred miles to the north, but they’d received no word as yet whether the division had even arrived at that remote place, much less resumed its difficult march. The “gift” will make its journey even more arduous, Nerino reflected, but might prove decisive if it comes in time. The Army of God was already larger than the one the heretics had destroyed around Nerino, but the heretics had also been reinforced—within a strategically dangerous fortification. Don Hernan didn’t want to wait for the Blood Drinkers to arrive, despite his excitement over the special gift, but he had been willing to delay his final assault long enough for El Vómito Rojo to decimate the enemy. El Vómito was a seasonal, often deadly, lowland fever. On this coast it was associated with rotten air rising from stagnant pools created by spring melt and late-summer rains, but was much less prevalent in the more wholesome air of the higher, cooler clime the Army of God now occupied. Unfortunately, Nerino’s spies had reported that while the fever was upon the heretics, it had not had the expected effect.
&nb
sp; “The position the heretic general has taken—Shinya is his name, you may recall—is most formidable, and . . . awkward for us, as you know,” Nerino generalized. “It is supported by sea from both Guayak, and now Puerto Viejo as well.” He nodded grimly. “Indeed, it is confirmed. The people there, culturally related to the Guayakans, did not, ah, ‘successfully resist’ the heretics that landed there to cut that narrow segment of the Camino Militar.”
Straits of Hell Page 11
