Carnifex (61 page)

Which was . . . disappointing. Since the flotilla had arrived on station piracy in the straits had dropped to, essentially, nothing.

"It's almost as if someone's
told
them to lay off," Fosa said, looking enquiringly at Kurita standing on the bridge overlooking the calm waters.

"Someone has," Kurita answered, cryptically. "We don't know why. It could be as simple as the hope that if there's no piracy for a while the
zaibatsu
will curtail your contract and send you home. It could be just fear—well founded fear, too, I might add—of what the
classis
will do if there
are
any incidents. It could be . . . " Kurita's eyes looked skyward.

Fosa's eyes, too, traveled upward.
Fucking Earth-pigs.

High Admiral Robinson (Wallenstein understood perfectly that UE senior officials were always "High" in order to make clear to the rest of humanity that
they
were
low
) and Captain Wallenstein sat comfortably in the silverwood paneled ship's conference room, along with a few others that were in on enough of the secret to trust. None, of course, barring only Wallenstein, knew everything. Ordinarily, Robinson might have enjoyed the show in the privacy of his own quarters, watching it on the big, crystal-clear Kurosawa. Still, in odd little ways the staff had helped quite a bit and were entitled to their reward.

On the wall past the end of the conference table—the table, like the paneling, brought up from below—a vision screen showed a small flotilla moving majestically through some jungle-lined straits. It was the dry season in that part of the world below, Robinson knew. Even if he had not known, the fires raging uncontrolled that send thick clouds of smoke across the straits, often blocking the view, would have told him.

The ship was not only too far up to see in this much detail with its own sensors and camera; it was also in the wrong orbit. Instead, the real-time images were being sent by a skimmer launched by the UEPF
Spirit of Brotherhood
a few hours before daylight had arisen on the straits.

The captain of the
Hoogaboom
looked behind him, watching the last sunrise he would ever see in this life. The sun's light shone red, a result of filtering through and bending around the smoke that dominated the straits. In his hand the captain held a picture. It was a family picture, with the females' faces exposed. As such, it was not to be shared. The picture showed the faces of his wife, his two daughters and his three sons.

The captain knew that, by dint of his coming sacrifice, they'd be taken care of, in this life as well as the next. Whatever else might be said of the
Ikhwan
, it had to be admitted that it took very good care of its martyrs' dependants, lest the supply of martyrs dry up. One of the things that had hurt the movement, indeed, perhaps that infidel action that had hurt the most, was the sequestration, impoundment, and outright confiscation of funds for just that sort of reward. Living single men were cheap. Weapons and ammunition, even explosives, were cheap. To support the families of the fallen was
expensive
.

Thank Allah
, thought the captain,
that the infidel press tipped the movement off to what their governments were doing when they went after the money. What would we ever do without the First Landing Times? I could never take the action I am about to if I could not be sure my family would be cared for. Thank You, too, Beneficent One, for the money given in humanitarian aid that frees up money for the fight and to care for the families of those fallen in Your cause.

The captain looked at the covered switch on his control panel, next to the ship's wheel. It led down to the roughly two thousand tons of ammonium nitrate-fuel oil, hydrazine and aluminum powder mix in the bunkered hold. A second switch in the
Hoogaboom
's informal CIC likewise led to the explosive. The captain's executive, a Kashmiri fanatic named Ishmael, controlled that for the time being; later they would switch. Lastly, below the water line and out of the line of direct fire, was a pressure detonator. If every man on the ship were to be killed or incapacitated, as long as the
Hoogaboom
was well aimed enough to manage to hit the target or to ground near it, the ship would explode.

The captain looked at the chart of the Nicobar Straits that lay on his plotting table. It showed the positions of the major enemy vessel, and of the two torpedoes, the six cruise missiles, and the dozen fast speedboats that rocked hidden in the jungle inlets to either side of the straits. It also showed his own ship, moving, as was the enemy, to intersection with those speedboats.

Turning again and taking a last deliberate look at the sunrise, the captain told his radio man, "Per our
contract
"—which raised a slight giggle from the radio operator—"inform the infidels that we are making our passage and should pass them by within two hours.
Don't
call them 'infidels' when you do."

Ash floated on the breeze, some of it still smoldering. Because of that, Fosa had ordered that all refueling and rearming operations take place below, on the hangar deck. There were some obvious downsides to this; for one thing, the ship reeked. But it was just unwise to take the risk of a deck fire from a stray spark.

Fortunately, the Finches had very long legs, tremendous endurance. It was not difficult to keep two aloft continuously, along with another brace of Cricket Bs. The Crickets kept fairly close to the ship, patrolling the edge of the water where it met jungle.

Annoyingly, one of the Crickets hadn't called in in a while and failed to respond to any radio calls to it. Fosa had already given the order to send out another to replace it.

The Finches he had further out, in case a merchant ship under contract for protection should be attacked. Indeed, each Finch aloft was paired with a corvette, operating at a distance of about twenty five miles southeast or northwest of the main
classis
. Even further away, to the southeast, the
Qamra
, formerly
The Big ?
, churned along in leisurely fashion, trolling for pirates. Unfortunately, the best bait, the girls, had to be kept below for the most part.
Nobody
was going to be nude sunbathing on the deck with all the smoke and ash on the breeze. It would have been inherently suspicious had anyone tried.

Sealed in by thick, shatterproof glass or not, the reek of smoke still penetrated the bridge. It had to; the
Dos Lindas
was not a spaceship; it drew its air from its surroundings. Fosa was on the bridge, as was Kurita. Both scanned the waters, such as were visible, for threats or targets. There were none, just the enveloping smoke with occasional clear patches.

Unaccountably, and unknowingly imitating the captain of the
Hoogaboom
, Kurita pulled out a wallet from which he drew a plastic encased black and white photograph. Fosa stepped over to look. He saw a much—a
very
much—younger Kurita, in dark naval uniform, surrounded by kimono-clad wife and children. The children were beautiful but Fosa was struck mostly by the wife. He knew the story, of course; Kurita had long before explained that his family had been caught in the nuclear bombing of Yamato by the Federated States near the end of the Great Global War.

Your life must have been hard without her, my friend
, Fosa thought.
Like our Patricio, losing a woman like that is like having your soul torn out.

As if reading Fosa's thought, Kurita said, "Yes . . . it was . . . difficult."

"Well," the captain of
Dos Lindas
answered, "perhaps you shall reincarnate together, someday."

Kurita rarely laughed, but at that comment he began first to snicker, then to giggle, then finally was overtaken with belly-ripping hilarity. When he recovered, and that took a while, he explained, "Oh, no, my dear friend. She waits for me in Heaven. You see, when the Federated States decided to drop a nuke, they chose a
Christian
city. We are
Catholic
."

Which goes to show that I will
never
understand Yamato. How does a Catholic believe ships and swords are alive?

This understanding had not been helped by the late night haiku duel he had engaged in with the commodore the evening before over
sake
. The subject had been the great Kosmo crisis du jour, planetary warming. And beforehand, Kurita had warned, after explaining the rules, "Never bring a knife to a gunfight unless you bring a gun, too. Never bring a sonnet to a haiku fight."

Kurita, as the host, had begun:

"Useful idiots
Without original thought
Believe in the faith"

Fosa though about that one for a moment, before submitting:

"Government money
Given for the right viewpoint
Keeps Kosmos happy."

It was a weak addendum, so Kurita, always gracious, held himself in check:

"Climate change requires
Solar output be ignored
Or lose nice funding."

Fosa nodded at that one, sipped at his
sake
contemplatively, then answered:

"Great fireball in sky,
How to explain you away
When moons' icecaps melt?"

"Oh, very
good
, Fosa-san, Kurita applauded. "You're getting the hang of this." He then declaimed:

"Wondrous hockey stick
Replaces Christ's wooden cross
Comes from white noise."

White? White?
Fosa wondered.
How to play on that? Ah, sheep are white.

"Climate change white sheep
Hate being out of the flock
Lest they be shorn . . . baaaa"

"Bah! Bah, indeed," Kurita exhulted.

"Great Climate Change!
For heretics, deniers,
Jail cells are waiting."

Fosa answered:

"Even Progressives
In Fed'rated States Senate
Say, 'Piss on Kosmos!'"

From Kurita:

"Climate change loonies
Shriek, 'Heresy! Blasphemy!'
Whenever questioned."

Fosa expanded:

"Gathering firewood
To burn up the deniers.
We've seen this before."

After he stopped laughing, Kurita gave:

"Virgin SUV
Cast into the volcano
As the faithful dance."

At that point, Fosa gave up. The image of ten thousand grass-skirt clad Kosmos, deep in religious ecstasy, sacrificing an innocent automobile to the dark earth gods was too much. No doubt much of his mirth was found in the
sake
, not the poetry. Even so, Fosa was rolling on the floor laughing when, to cap his victory, Kurita gave his last recital:

"High Kosmo leeches
Attend luxury conference
Always fly first class."

Fosa's reminiscences were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a Cricket on the flight deck. With a plane needing as short a landing run as the Cricket, and landing into the wind, to boot, all arrivals tended to be very sudden.

No sooner had it landed, and the pilot killed the engine, then that pilot was out the door and
racing
across the flight deck to the tower. He disappeared from view, only to emerge on the bridge moments later.

"My fucking radio went down, Skipper," Montoya announced, even before formally reporting. "I'd have come back right away but there was something odd, a boat, I saw hidden in the jungle."

"Odd?" Fosa asked.

"Three ways, Skipper. One was that it was pretty well hidden. Another was that it looked fast, what I could make out of it. The last was that there were armed men aboard, and they
didn't
shoot at me."

Kurita's finger beat Fosa's to the alarm:
Battle stations, this is no drill.

Lovely word, 'karma,'
the
Naquib
thought.
Pity we don't have quite the equivalent in Islam. But it was karma, or Allah's will, that the infidel aircraft spotted us. Maybe I should have ordered that aircraft engaged. Maybe I did right in not ordering it engaged. I'll never know in this life. What I do know is we must attack now, even though the enemy is not in the optimal position for our ambush.

One hundred meters up a half choked inlet,
al Naquib
's boat wound its way through the maze of fallen logs and sand bars. To either side, he heard the distance-dissipated roar of large marine engines coming to life and doing likewise. He could not hear the motors of the half dozen boats on the other side of the Straits. Yet his chief assistant had told him they were likewise on the move.

Unseen and unheard by
al Naquib
, crews for the cruise missiles and torpedoes were frantically unmasking, activating their guidance systems, and preparing to fire. Hopefully they would launch in good time.

"They're launching aircraft!" Robinson shouted. "Why the fuck are they launching aircraft?"

It was true. It was
more
than true. Robinson had watched this ship, off and on, for months and he'd never before seen such a frantic attempt to get as many aircraft into the air, as quickly, as he was witnessing now. As soon as a plane came up the elevator, a deck crew was manhandling it into position and sending it off. Pilots were lined up waiting for any bird to fly. Once, when an engine refused to start, the deck crew had unceremoniously dragged the protesting pilot out and pushed the thing over the side. Pilots, themselves, were boarding with small arms, an indicator that the planes were being thrown up either unarmed or so lightly armed that even a rifle could make a difference.

Robinson relaxed slightly when he saw the two trails of underwater torpedoes streaking from under the jungle layer which had hidden them. His spirits revived considerably with the appearance of a larger number of cruise missiles coming from the same jungle.