Iron Gray Sea - 07

by Taylor Anderson

  “Colonel Flynn!” Rolak called, as the former infantryman/submariner-turned-infantryman-again rejoined him in a crouching rush. “I must retire. Thank you for your forbearance. General Taa-leen should join you shortly. Please express my compliments to the commanders of the Fifth and Seventh Baalkpan, and tell them I said they should advance behind a wall of fire and clear those archers from the woods! Your Rangers and Marines have done enough for now, and deserve a rest.” He paused. “But I suppose even division commanders should not expose themselves as I have.” He sighed heavily, and from another the gesture might have seemed overly theatrical, but with Rolak . . . that’s just how he was. He looked back at Flynn. “Sometimes the old way of things, for my people, at least, overcomes my senses.”

  Flynn, with his white-streaked red hair poking from under his helmet, laughed. “Aye, sir, I know how you feel. That’s how I wound up back in the infantry!” Flynn had been a foot soldier in the Great War before joining the Navy and the submarine service. “I’ll pass the word,” he added. “Then, once those archers are cleared, we’ll get back to work on the breastworks. They’ll probably have at us again before long.”

  “No doubt.” Rolak glanced around, taking in the bodies and the height of the sun once more. Then he gazed northeast, where a mighty column of smoke towered high enough that he could see it above the trees. Madras was burning. “The enemy certainly knows we are here now, Colonel. They will be back, and this position must hold.”

  Marine Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At, Flynn’s exec, scrambled behind the protective shields, her hot musket in her hand. “The enemy fire is slacking,” she said, even as the replying musketry around them continued to taper off. A Grik horn boomed in the distance. It might have been calling for a while.

  “That is a redeployment call,” Rolak said, “if Hij-Geerki described it properly.” He’d left his pet Grik aboard ship—for now. He actually trusted the pathetic creature, but no sense in tempting him, he figured. “They may have learned to use it for the same effect as a retreat call, to preserve their warriors from Braad-furd’s Grik Rout. I wonder . . .” He looked at Flynn. “Don’t rely on it, though. It is just a thought.” He blinked apologetically. “Now I must retreat, I fear.” He gestured back at the sun. “Your deeds have been noted this day, my friends! Farewell!” He turned and strode away, back up the road they’d so recently found, against the tide of marching troops coming to their relief.

  “He is a good one,” Bekiaa said. “He reminds me a little of Captain Garrett. I think troops would follow anywhere he chose to lead them.”

  “Sure,” Flynn agreed. “We did. And he is a little like that Garrett kid—just older, with a tail, gray fur, pointy ears. . . .”

  Bekiaa chuckled. She was the only Marine still with the regiment; the others had been reassigned. She’d commanded USS Tolson’s Marine contingent, and she and some sailors and Marines from Donaghey, Tolson, and Revenge had volunteered for Flynn’s outfit after Revenge was sunk by a fish, and Russ Chapelle’s Tolson and Garrett’s Donaghey went aground. Greg Garrett had inspired her by leading them through the terrible shore action that followed. Tolson had been destroyed, but Donaghey was ultimately salvaged. Bekiaa still meant to go back to sea when Chapelle got a new ship or Donaghey’s refit was complete. As much as she liked and admired Russ Chapelle, however, for some reason, she really wanted to join Donaghey—and Captain Garrett. Maybe it was because Donaghey was the last of the first new-construction frigates and still relied entirely on sails, or maybe it was because she’d spent most of that nightmare fight at Greg Garrett’s side. In the meantime, she and Flynn’s “amalgamated” Rangers had fought across Ceylon, and now they were here. Donaghey’s exec, and “Salig Maa-stir,” Lieutenant Commander Saraan-Gaani—whom Bekiaa had a mountainous crush on—had also been with the regiment for a time, but had been sent as an envoy to his native Great South Island in hopes of bringing that land into the war.

  “You know what I mean,” Bekiaa said at last.

  “Sure I do. Some folks have it, like Rolak, Garrett, the Skipper. I think General Alden and Queen Maraan have it . . . and so do you.”

  “Me?!”

  “Yep.”

  There was an awkward almost silence punctuated by a few occasional shots as Rangers slew the least-wounded Grik they saw. No ammunition would be wasted on the rest. The Grik were gone for now, Flynn judged. The 5th and 7th could take a break. He’d get some pickets out, though. “All right,” Flynn said brusquely, loudly. “They ain’t payin’ us by the hour. Company commanders to me! Even-numbered companies will take the first shift on the breastworks detail. Let’s move the whole thing forward a little, and get a better alignment with the Tenth Baalkpan on our right!”

  A PB-1B “Nancy” roared by overhead, its OC (observer/copilot) dropping a weighted note with a colorful streamer attached. A squad from the 1st Marines went for it and brought it to Flynn, who was acting division CO. “Okay,” Flynn drawled after he unwrapped the dispatch and read it. “This says there’s a bigger Grik force charging up the road through what’s left of the one we pushed around. Ought to be here inside an hour.”

  “That is as we expected,” Bekiaa said.

  Flynn’s face scrunched into a skeptical expression. He waved the note. “Sure, but the flyboys say there’s nothing behind that force at all. Not on the south road, anyway. Weird.”

  “Then we should be grateful. Perhaps we did achieve surprise. It might take them days to react in force.”

  “Maybe . . .” Flynn shook his head. “Never mind. Maybe I’m still spooked by how they hid tens of thousands of their warriors in those mountains east of Colombo—and I figure it would be a lot easier to stash them in a jungle!” He snorted. “Well, big-picture thinking’s not my job, thank God. There’s still a lot of Griks coming our way and we’ll be plenty busy before long. Better get at it on the breastworks—and tell the fellas to expect a million of those Grik buggers by morning, from any damn direction! I don’t care what the flyboys say.”

  CHAPTER 5

  ////// Respite Island

  February 29, 1944

  The response to USS Walker’s return to Respite Island was notably different from when she first appeared there. The beautiful anchorage at the bright-beached foot of the fortified peak overlooking the crystalline water was packed with ships of all description, and where there’d been uncertainty and hesitant wonder the first time the destroyer appeared, now there was genuine delight at the sight of her. The guns in the high, white-walled fortress boomed in salute, the reports dull in the stiff breeze, but they were repeated by many of the anchored ships, and steam whistles whooped exuberantly. Walker fired a precise, four-gun salute salvo, symbolically emptying her guns, and sounded her shrill whistle and mournful horn in reply. The harbor pilot who’d boarded the ship beyond the dangerous reef had been brought out by the same pretty little single-masted topsail cutter that met them before, but this time its crew was grinning and talkative as it paced Walker through the channel. The pilot himself made no attempt to take the wheel or assert any control whatsoever over the unfamiliar vessel, but diligently and professionally directed them through to the anchorage. He was used to steamers, but had no notion of Walker’s handling characteristics.

  The Honorable New Britain Company had been extremely unpopular on Respite, and the Governor, a man named Radcliff, had strongly hinted that if the Empire continued down the self-destructive path the Company had been leading it, his island might have no choice but to break away. The success of Walker’s mission to the heart of the Empire had clearly come as a great relief to the people here—yet now the Empire was at war with the Holy Dominion and had joined the Alliance against the Grik as well. Matt hadn’t been sure how they’d be received by the independent-minded Respitans, knowing their isolated island would become an important strategic nexus of contact between the two powers. They’d been willing to help before, with limited basing and fueling facilities and a powerful wireless station, but it had been unders
tood that the Allies would leave them alone once the situation in the Empire was sorted out. Now that was out of the question, and despite cordial correspondence via that wireless facility, Matt expected some resentment. He couldn’t be more pleased by this new attitude on display.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Busbee,” he said when the pilot pronounced them free to maneuver in the anchorage. He scanned the shoreline with his binoculars, taking note of the new fueling pier and much-enlarged government dock. “You have the conn, Mr. Kutas,” he said to the badly scarred first lieutenant and former chief quartermaster. “Lay us alongside the dock first, if you please. After we’ve paid our respects, we’ll make Spanky happy and shift her over to the fueling pier.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. I have the conn,” Norman Kutas replied formally, and Matt stepped out onto the port bridgewing. Moments later, Sandra and the Bosun joined him there.

  “Bashear’s assembling a side party to pipe you and the ambassador ashore, Skipper,” Gray announced, anticipating the order, and Matt smiled his appreciation. “Thanks, Boats.” He knew Gray, Silva, and Stites would accompany Sandra and him ashore, no matter what he said or how safe it was, so there was no point telling them not to. Down on the well deck he could see the ambassador’s party, including his aide and Midshipman Brassey, already waiting, peering excitedly over the solid railing there. He was surprised to see Diania, Sandra’s own dark-skinned, raven-haired steward waiting to go ashore as well. Diania had been Sandra’s first human female recruit into the American Navy. She’d found the striking but somewhat . . . odd woman in Maa-ni-la, but Diania was from Respite and Matt hadn’t expected her to want to go ashore. She’d never been forced into any . . . disreputable pursuits—she’d been a “carpentress”—but he’d still supposed she’d resist revisiting her former life of forced labor. On the contrary, she seemed even more anxious to go ashore than the others. Sandra followed Matt’s gaze.

  “She still has family here—or friends she considers family.” She looked squarely at Matt with a slight grin. “She also has a kind of . . . evangelical air about her today,” she warned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Navy had a number of new recruits shortly!”

  Matt exhaled an exasperated breath, but then noticed the way Gray was staring at the dusky beauty and his eyes went wide. The Bosun glanced at him, probably expecting a response to what Sandra said, and saw his expression. He actually blushed!

  “Uh . . . that’s all we need!” Gray grumbled defensively. “More damn women aboard—no offense, Lieutenant Tucker!” Hurriedly, he excused himself and practically bolted from the pilothouse.

  “Good Lord!” Matt said, astonished. “You’d almost think he was sweet on her, and he’s what—tree times her age?”

  “He is sweet on her,” Sandra confirmed, looking sternly at him. “I know that look pretty well. What’s more, I think Diania’s sweet on him. She goes on a little too much about that ‘grate, beastly ogre, Mr. Gray,’” she added, slipping into a passable re-creation of the girl’s convoluted brogue. “And so what if he’s a little older than she is—”

  “A little!” Matt spluttered.

  “They’ve both had it rough. Diania’s been a virtual slave most of her life, with no real prospect of a decent life—not to mention a decent man. And Fitzhugh Gray lost his only son aboard Oklahoma. The only other things he’s cared about in years are this ship and you! Give him a break. I hope they do get together.”

  Matt shook his head, eyes narrowing. “You haven’t been pushing that along just a little, have you?”

  “What if I have?”

  * * *

  Matt’s full entourage, or, more properly perhaps, Ambassador Forester’s escort, included Sandra, Diania, and Lieutenant Bachman. Gray, Silva, and Stites represented the Captain’s Guard. Chack led an honor guard of six ’Cat Marines—all they had left aboard—in his immaculately turned-out Marine major persona. When aboard Walker, his Home, Chack reverted to what he considered his permanent role as a “mere” bosun’s mate who happened to be in charge of all the Marines, in spite of his growing reputation and increasingly greater status ashore.

  Governor Radcliff greeted them himself, accompanied by a large, enthusiastic gathering and an . . . unusual little band that played an oddly familiar fanfare as Walker’s party marched down the gangway and assembled respectfully as the music played. While he waited, Matt evaluated the Imperial Governor of Respite. He was dressed as finely as before, though Matt now knew his clothes were slightly out of date by the fashion standards of New London. He remained portly, but radiated the bloom of a less-taxed constitution and didn’t seem nearly as harried and concerned as he had during their first meeting. Matt briefly wondered if he’d come down the mountain from the governor’s mansion on the grounds of the high fortifications, riding his unassuming burro once again. When the music finally stopped, Radcliff strode, with an expression of happy anticipation, to face Matt.

  “My dear Captain Reddy,” he boomed warmly, sketching a return to the salute Matt and the others offered. “Ambassador Forester!” he added, returning Forester’s bow. “You come extremely highly recommended, sir!” He straightened and addressed them all. “I can’t wait to hear your news. I am still amazed by the wonder of wireless, but nothing can substitute for words spoken by one friend to another!” He beamed. “I am so happy to see you all! Please, I would receive you more properly at my home, where we can discuss in greater comfort the heady advances you have wrought. I have taken the liberty of providing sufficient transportation.”

  “Of course, Your Excellency. We’re at your service,” Matt said, then paused. “Sir, you know my other companions, but if I may present our Minister of Medicine, Lieutenant Sandra Tucker? I believe you may remember that I’ve mentioned her before.”

  To Sandra’s amazement, Radcliff snatched her hand and knelt over it, brushing it with his lips.

  “I am deeply honored to meet you at last, my lady!” he told her earnestly, then his smile returned. “The last time I saw this man of yours, he was prepared to raze the entire Empire to the ground if a hair on your head—or that of our own Princess Rebecca—had been harmed. I naturally assumed that you must be the beauty of the world to inspire such devotion, but now my eyes chastise my imagination for the woeful disservice it did you!”

  Beneath her tan, Sandra’s face went dark red.

  “You are . . . flattering and very charming, Your Excellency,” she somehow managed, then gave Matt a knowing glance he’d seen before that always seemed equally proud . . . and afraid for him. “And it seems you got to know Captain Reddy very well indeed.”

  “Quite,” Radcliff replied softly, gently squeezing her hand before releasing it. He turned back to Matt, his enthusiasm reborn. “There is so much I want to tell you, I feel that I may burst!”

  * * *

  They sat in the shade of the vast, wraparound porch encompassing the lower floor of the governor’s residence. Moisture condensed on glasses of cool beer arrayed on a wide wicker table, surrounded by the visitors and the half-dozen advisors and members of the governor’s staff. As when he’d first visited there, Matt was struck by the glorious view beyond the sloping parade ground of the fort. To the northeast, the sky was clear and bright. Due east, a few lazy clouds lingered. South of there, a dense, dark squall lashed the sea, and wispy white tendrils of the thing extended out to either side. The road that brought them to the summit wound around the back of the mountain, giving them a slowly rising view of the lush, scenic valley where the bulk of Respite City lay. Cultivated fields surrounded the population center, and beyond them loomed the dense, dark jungle. The contrasts were so sharp, so extreme, it was as though he’d glimpsed several entirely separate worlds since leaving his ship. The impression was similar wherever he went, he supposed, but only here was it quite so profound.

  Matt turned his attention to his more immediate surroundings. He was pleased to see Radcliff’s wife, Emelia, again, particularly when she took her place with the rest of
them, right beside her husband. The daughters he’d met on the last occasion weren’t present and he wondered about that, but he knew Chack must be relieved. Imperial ladies couldn’t seem to resist petting his soft, brindled fur, and it mortified him. Chack wasn’t the only Lemurian there, however. They’d been joined by two others, both seemingly in a state of reverential awe toward the men and the ’Cat just returned from the east. Lieutenant Haan-Sor-Plaar commanded another new Fil-pin-built steam frigate, USS Finir-Pel, and Lieutenant Radaa-Nin was in charge of a pair of fast fleet oilers and three munitions and supply ships—all new sailing steamers, and all bound for New Scotland. Matt would get with them later and brief them on what to expect at their destination. In any event, he knew Radcliff had certainly become acquainted with many more Lemurians since they’d first met, and maybe he’d banned his daughters because he’d finally noticed the . . . discomfort their attentions caused his furry guests.

  Interestingly, this time Matt didn’t sense the slightest resentment toward Emelia’s presence from the governor’s other advisors, and she smiled warmly at him when he caught her eye. That was new as well. Matt knew that, despite Imperial custom, Emelia had long been the governor’s most influential advisor, and she’d been as worried about the Alliance as she was about the deterioration of the Empire. He was glad to see that her concerns in that regard seemed to have been put to rest. He looked to Emelia’s right, where Sandra had taken a seat, and was surprised to see the older woman pat her hand occasionally as if to reassure her. He’d never known Sandra to need reassurance, particularly from strangers, but he’d never seen her around such an almost motherly, astute observer as Emelia before. . . . He shook his head.

  “Captain Reddy,” Governor Radcliff began, “first let me extend my most sincere condolences for the sad losses your people and your remarkable ship suffered during the recent, glorious campaigns, not to mention the terrible losses sustained on the Grik front. . . . I saw the casualty lists, of course, when they were passed along to you, and I understand some of them constituted direct, personal losses to you and your ship. Friends and former shipmates.” He sighed. “We have never seen such a war and can hardly imagine what it must be like. . . . I am not glad our Empire is beginning to find out, but I recognize and even embrace the necessity.” He met Matt’s gaze. “You will return home with a strong alliance with my country, for what you are doing for us, and we will help you in every way we can as well.” He straightened in his seat. “We have raised a full regiment here on Respite, for service in the west.”