“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.
Commander Greg Garrett paced his quarterdeck, watching with a sense of profound pride the precision with which his ship prepared to fight. He knew his crew was slowly going nuts with frustration—he was himself—and there was little he could do about it. The exercises and drills they performed—particularly running out the guns—had started out almost as a dare, to see how Savoie would respond. He had to do something to keep his crew on their toes and remind them—and their captors—that they were destroyermen. Maybe it helped. His crew remained professional and defiant, and the apparently French officer who “visited” from Savoie every other day behaved with a measure of respect, even if he was somewhat grudging and condescending. Otherwise, except for watching closely with their binoculars—as he watched them—the enigmatic strangers hadn’t further threatened them. They obviously felt immune to Donaghey’s twenty-four 18-pounders, believing that continuously pointing two of their ten 13.5-inch guns at Garrett’s 168-foot wooden sailing frigate was sufficient warning not to do any of the things they’d expressly forbidden, such as attempt to leave, land, signal the city in any way, or transmit a wireless message. Those acts would “regrettably” result in Donaghey’s immediate destruction.
“Good morning, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett,” greeted Inquisitor Kon-Choon, his large blue eyes looking about. He, at least, was always impressed by Allied military drills of any sort. He was a Republic citizen, its chief of intelligence in fact, but had also very specifically been forbidden to go ashore. Whoever these strangers were, they knew an awful lot.
“Morning, Inquisitor Choon,” Greg answered sourly. Choon loved to keep him guessing about things; his was a secretive nature. But Greg believed the strange ’Cat had been straight about not knowing any more about this situation than he did. That didn’t stop him from feeling occasional flares of resentment that the Republic snoop hadn’t figured out some way to communicate with his people on shore to find out just what the hell was going on. “They’ll be coming over shortly,” Greg added unnecessarily. Choon nodded.
“Perhaps Lieutenant Morrisette will let something else, ah, ‘slip,’ I think you say?”
“Maybe,” Greg agreed. They’d learned a few things from the Frenchman’s visits. The first had been Savoie’s name, from which Lieutenant Wendel “Smitty” Smith, Donaghey’s gunnery officer, had remembered some of the ship’s specs—such as the size of her guns—and pedigree. Built by the French just before the Great War (back home), she was about 540 feet long and displaced close to 24,000 tons. An oil burner, she was capable of around twenty knots. In addition to her main battery, she carried quite a few respectable secondaries as well, which they could see. Smitty didn’t remember what they were, but Greg supposed they were 5.4 inchers—enough alone to slaughter a fleet of Donagheys.
The second significant thing they’d picked up was that Savoie and her crew were members of something Morrisette had offhandedly and possibly accidentally referred to simply as “the League.” It was something, but still infuriating in its meagerness. They hadn’t gotten an explanation for the large goofy flag the dreadnaught flew, in addition to a smaller tricolor. But it was the same as the markings on the huge submarine Walker sank. Courtney Bradford had expressed his view at the time that the emblem was that of a French fascist party of some sort that might’ve grown in conjunction (or to supplant) the Vichy government, but that was just a guess. They had gotten the distinct impression from Morrisette that, whoever and wherever his people were, they were well established, and not alone. That was about it. What they were doing here, and why they were interfering remained a mystery.
Greg raised his binoculars and watched a heavily laden barge set out from the docks and row out to Savoie. At least the strangers had allowed the kaiser, Nig-Taak, to keep Donaghey well supplied with fresh food, and those supply runs, every other day, were the purpose for the “visits” and probably the only reason they had any contact with their captors at all. Three men, probably Morrisette and his usual guards, left the dreadnaught and boarded the boat before it turned toward Donaghey. Greg watched the men waving and shouting at the . . . beings at the oars.
“Why do they put up with that?” Bekiaa-Sab-At asked, joining them with Lieutenant Saama-Kera (Sammy), Greg’s Exec. “The mixed folk,” she added. A race of supposed human-Lemurian hybrids called Gentaa, possibly descended from ancient Chinese explorers, had sprouted in the Republic. They were taller than Lemurians with generally pale-colored fur. They still had tails, but their faces had more human characteristics. Contrary to the Allies’ first impression of their condition, Choon had explained that the Gentaa were fiercely insular and had established themselves as a kind of exclusive labor class, concentrating on controlling virtually all dockyard activity and exerting political power in much the same fashion as labor unions. It was a pretty strange setup, but Greg had seen similar arrangements in China.
Choon blinked curiosity. “I honestly do not know. If anyone else treated them as we have seen these strangers do—practically as animals—they would have thrown them to the fish.” He looked at Greg. “Understand, the ‘hybrids’ as you call them look after themselves and are not much interested in business of the Republic that does not directly affect them. They are loyal to the kaiser, but would probably not much care whether these strangers were here or not as long as they were paid for their work.” He looked back at the approaching barge. �
�But such . . . subservience is not their, um, ‘style.’ I suspect, perhaps, they understand the gravity of the situation and have decided to ‘play along.’ For now. What that means, I cannot say.”
The boat came alongside and the officer in charge—it was Morrisette again—left instructions to his men, both armed with bolt action rifles. Promptly, he climbed the side of the ship and stepped aboard. Greg met him with his officers, but didn’t pipe him aboard. For his part, as usual, Morrisette saluted them, but not the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the morning breeze, aft. Loud voices rose from the boat as the guards directed the Gentaa to begin taking the supplies aboard.
“Good morning, my friends!” Morrisette exclaimed, a false smile on his narrow face.
“We’re obviously not friends, or your ship wouldn’t keep pointing guns at us, preventing us from moving, or talking to our real friends here,” Greg replied, tightly controlling his voice.
Morrisette pouted. “But of course we are friends! Look.” He pointed below. “I even left my guards in the boat! I will continue to do so from now on, as long as you do not threaten me, or attempt to talk with the monkey men who bring your supplies.” He smiled. “Not that you could learn much from them!”
Suddenly Greg understood, remembering previous visits. Even Choon had been surprised by the hybrids’ total lack of any effort to communicate with them. They’d thought they were truly that intimidated at first, but when they kept acting dumb, even when briefly alone with one of Donaghey’s crew, they’d begun to wonder what else was at play. Now, clearly, the hybrids had been deliberately playing the brutish laborers all along. Greg saw Bekiaa stiffen with realization as well, but Choon made no reaction.
“We’re no threat to you or your ship,” Greg quickly replied, hoping Morrisette didn’t notice their surprised realization. He doubted he would. He couldn’t know Lemurian body language well—could he? And Smitty’s face hadn’t revealed any more than Choon’s.
“Of course not,” Morrisette said with a touch of condescension. “So why not enjoy each other’s company?”
“Hard to ‘enjoy’ being held hostage. You realize what you’re doing, to us and this city, is an act of war?”
“Oh no! Not war at all! You misunderstand entirely. It is merely our intention here to prevent war. The last thing we want is war, particularly with your mighty Alliance!” Greg detected sarcasm in the statement, but also an element of truth. That didn’t make any more sense than anything else.
“You’ll have a war soon enough, no matter what you want, if you don’t let us go.”
Morrisette looked reflective. “Perhaps we will have war one day, but not soon. Your forces are far too busy to worry about you for a great while yet.”
“How do you know that?” Bekiaa demanded, and Morrisette’s expression darkened.
“I have said too much,” he murmured to himself as if no one were around, then plastered the smile back on his face. “Suffice it to say that we desire peace, and are only here to keep it.”
“That’s the biggest load of horseshit I ever heard,” Smitty muttered. Morrisette’s smile cracked. Instead of responding, however, he snapped at one of the Gentaa with a pack basket full of vegetables. “Hurry up!”
“If all you want is peace, then why keep us from seeing our friends and going about our business?” Greg demanded.
“Because your business is war! And your business here is to embroil these people in your war!” Morrisette caught himself and took a breath. “Come up here,” he called to his guards, “and hurry these monkey men along. They dawdle, and I have more important duties today!” One of the Gentaa suddenly tripped and sprawled on the deck, crashing into Inquisitor Choon and spilling a load of something that looked like polta fruit to roll across the deck. Choon was almost knocked down as well.
“Idiot! Imbecilic animal!” Morrisette ranted. “No, don’t pick it up. Just leave it and get off the ship!” He whirled to Choon. “You! Spy! Stand still! Guard, ensure that that animal passed nothing to this one!” Everyone bristled at that.
“Now wait just a damn minute,” Greg growled, but Choon quickly stepped forward. “It is nothing,” he said. “After so much time among your people, I’ve grown accustomed to going naked.” Greg knew that wasn’t true. Many of his Lemurian crew wore as little as they could get away with, but Choon was always well dressed. Still, something made him keep his mouth shut when Choon simply stripped. He did note how his icy blue eyes remained intently upon Morrisette the entire time, however. “The poor creature merely tripped, and almost tripped me,” Choon explained conversationally. “We never touched otherwise. How could he possibly have passed me anything? But please, poke about among my clothes if it will entertain you.”
Morrisette glared at him, but he waited while one of his guards went through the clothing. Apparently sensing the tension, the Gentaa quickly finished the transfer of supplies and left the ship. When the guard gestured helplessly, Morrisette nodded for him to search Choon as well. Greg Garrett took a step forward, crowding the Frenchman. “You can look at him. He volunteered that, for Christ’s sake.” His expression turned hard. “But if your man touches him, you’ll never leave this ship.”
“You would take me hostage?” Morrisette demanded, incredulous.
“No more than you’ve done to us. But you will not come aboard my ship and molest any member of her company. Is that perfectly clear?”
“He is a spy, and not part of your crew,” Morrisette protested, but backed away a step.
“He’s no spy. He is a high official in the government of this republic you’re holding hostage as well. You say you want peace. How does abusing him further that aim?” Greg shook his head. “I don’t even want to hear your explanation. You wouldn’t give me a straight answer anyway.” He gestured at the dreadnaught. “This whole thing is an abusive farce, and there’ll be a reckoning. In the meantime, you can easily see that no message was passed to Inquisitor Choon, so get the hell off my ship.”
Morrisette hesitated, then straightened. “You may come to regret your tantrum when I do not allow the supply barges to approach your ship for a while. Good day.”
“That could’ve gone better,” Greg muttered when the barge pulled away, the Frenchman pointedly not looking at them.
“Not much better,” Choon disagreed, adjusting his kilt and reaching for his coat. When they looked at him questioningly, he merely walked casually over to one of the guns in the waist, knelt, and retrieved a purple fruit from under the carriage. “The scattered fruit, the fall—particularly when it involved me, whom they already suspect—was a simple distraction from the one fruit the operative deliberately tossed where I retrieved it.” He looked at Garrett. “You played your part quite well, by the way, adding even further to the distraction, and focusing it entirely on me.”
“Well, thanks. I guess.”
“Operative?” Smitty asked.
“Yes,” Choon acknowledged. “He was one of mine. As soon as I recognized him, I expected something like this.” He’d grasped the stem of the fruit while he spoke and slowly drew it out, pulling with it a small glass vial. Inside was a note. “You will excuse me, I’m sure, while I retire to my quarters to decode this.”
Almost all of Donaghey’s officers lingered on the quarterdeck for more than an hour, waiting impatiently for Choon to reappear. When he did, they crowded around him. “It seems there will be an effort to carry several of us ashore to meet with the kaiser, under the cover of darkness,” Choon announced.
“How?” Greg demanded, pointing at Savoie. “That thing keeps arc lights on us all night long to stop us from doing any such thing.”
Choon spread his hands, blinking. “I do not know how, only that it will be. Never fear. This has clearly taken considerable time to organize, and I doubt the kaiser would have ordered the plan to move forward if there was not an excellent chance of success.”
> “Or unless something’s spooked him,” Bekiaa suggested.
Choon blinked at her. “There is that possibility, I suppose.”
CHAPTER 10
////// USS Walker
Grik City Dock
September 4, 1944
“You’ll shove off at dawn?” Sandra asked. Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her expression betrayed her unhappiness. Matt looked at her, and his heart seemed to crack. He loved her so much and despite her evident fatigue and disappointment, the setting sun washed her upturned face with an extra touch of that angelic . . . something that only pregnant women possessed. To Matt’s surprise, she’d accepted her orders to accompany Adar and the wounded back to Baalkpan. She had argued, bitterly and intensely, but not for nearly as long as he’d expected. It was as if that something, whatever it was, (conspicuously absent during the fight to take the city), had finally asserted itself with a pragmatic protectiveness for the life she carried that trumped her conscious desire to share his fate, no matter what. Matt was profoundly grateful, but as she looked up at him, absently sweeping away loose strands of sandy brown hair, her eyes were like little pools of life for his thirsty soul. Not trusting his words, he merely nodded.
All around them on the dock, preparations continued. Salissa was already in the strait, still escorted by DES-Ron 6. Soon, her planes would start scouting the Grik coast more closely, and the DDs would split up and go hunting. It was time for Walker, already fueled and provisioned, to join them. The old destroyer’s crew was completing the transfer of ammunition from the nearest warehouse, so recently off-loaded from a pair of “fast freighters” docked nearby. They were strange ships, captured Grik “Indiamen” as so many Allied auxiliaries were, but these had been razeed to corvettes, or “DEs,” and then converted to steamers. They retained a vestigial sailing ability, with two masts rigged fore and aft, and their engineering plant took up a lot of cargo space. But they were quick and dependable—and relatively expendable—for long-range supply runs across a hostile sea. Matt knew that captured Dom ships were being similarly refitted in the Empire of the New Britain Isles to help the lagging supply effort in the East. He was suddenly struck by the irony of the ships. No longer fit for frontline combat operations even as the swift-sailing DEs they’d originally become, but too numerous and useful to retire, they’d been converted into everything from freighters such as these, to small unit transports and Nancy seaplane tenders. In the same way, so many aging four-stacker destroyers—like Walker—had been converted before the “Old War.”
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