Straits of Hell (13 page)

Nerino must not have hidden his expression well enough, because Don Hernan regarded him with a softly quizzical look. “You are concerned that we move precipitously?”

Nerino quickly shook his head. “Not with you to lead the army, Your Holiness. I do . . . fret very slightly that with no senior officers in your
army who have faced the heretics before, there may arise similar, ah, confusions such as those that plagued my army when first we met the foe.” He didn't remind Don Hernan that he'd pleaded with him not to execute the very officers he'd soon need so badly, but feared he'd already gone too far.

Don Hernan appeared to shake off his introspective mood and smiled indulgently. “Do not ‘fret,' my dear General Nerino! Our fleet has been poised to move for some time, but it will take a little more, certainly, before it can sail and meet the enemy. This shall be a coordinated attack, and you will necessarily have
some
time to familiarize your officers with what they will face, and what is expected of them. If the Blood Drinkers arrive in time, all the better, but we must march within a week of receiving word that the Eastern Fleet has put to sea! It will take another week for the Army of God to reach the enemy, so I would estimate that you might expect as many as three to prepare.

Nerino was stunned, as much by what Don Hernan had implied as by how little time he'd have to take the reins. “You . . . You're giving me command?”

“Of course!
I
am no general, and who better than you? You shall command the army in the field, and I command you. You will provide the example the army needs to fight, and I have—and will—provide examples of the price of failure! How could either of us hope for a better arrangement than that?”

//////
Fort Defiance
North of Guayak

G
eneral Tomatsu Shinya, commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in the East, stepped carefully to the top of the northernmost section of defensive works closest to his quarters and took a deep breath. The air was full of woodsmoke from cookfires inside the fort, but it still tasted cool and clean compared to the stale, unmoving air he'd been breathing in his buttoned-up bunker. It was good to be out and about after being laid up so long, but he still felt like hell. His fever was gone at last, as was the bloody vomiting that was the most frightening symptom of the sickness, but he was still dizzy and had terrible headaches. He ached all over as a matter of fact, and the very thought of food left him nauseated. He'd turned the corner, though; that was clear. That he could move around at all was proof of that. Unlike malaria, this disease offered no temporary respite. One either got better or died. Too
many, almost a thousand now, hadn't improved, and they'd been carried outside the high earthen outer wall of Fort Defiance and buried along the road back to Guayak. Shinya gazed in that direction for a time, past the interior of the great fort, which bustled with activity and continuous improvement. The thick, earthen outer ramparts were arranged in the shape of a rough pentagon (which Orrin Reddy had described as a smushed starfish when seen from the air), and they bristled with heavy guns, particularly the bastions, or “lunettes” as Shinya called them, that rounded the points of the pentagon. Many of the heaviest guns had been captured from the Doms at Guayak; others had been brought ashore from Imperial ships of the line at Puerto Viejo and trundled here on their naval trucks with backbreaking effort. All were supported by firing steps and had thick overhead protection, as did the various magazines scattered strategically around the enclosure. Traps and barbed-wire entanglements laced the broad killing ground beyond, making the defenses even more formidable. Inside was a second wall: a sheer, earth-reinforced palisade even higher than the surrounding ramparts, with observation towers strategically placed. Within that was a compound the size of a small city, complete with covered sewers washed clean by water diverted from a stream. Despite the sickness and the concentration of nearly sixty thousand troops, Lemurian, Imperial, Guayakan, and recruits from the now desperately committed port city of Puerto Viejo, Shinya supposed it was the “healthiest” fortification ever devised on this world.

“Should you be up and about so soon?” Colonel James Blair of the Empire of the New Britain Isles inquired in a mildly scolding tone, stepping up behind him. Blair was one of the few Imperials who hadn't shown any symptoms of El Vómito Rojo. At least not yet. Did that mean he was immune, perhaps bolstered by liberal doses of Lemurian medicines, or still susceptible? There was no telling.

“I've been away from my duties too long,” Shinya replied, “not even able to take a proper report.” He rubbed his forehead. “Or in truth, understand one.” He straightened, looking up at the high mountains to the east. Low clouds hid the peaks from view. “I must know the enemy's current dispositions.”

“You've been ill,” Blair countered with a smile, “and your duties
have
been performed regardless. You have a capable executive officer, after all, who has not been sick.”

Shinya managed a pained smile at Blair. “Of course, Colonel. You're quite capable, and no offense was meant.” He frowned. “And still just a colonel,” he mused. “I should've done something about that long ago. How you've dealt with all the posturing Imperial
generals
lavished upon us during my incapacity remains a mystery.”

Blair grinned. “As your executive officer and empowered with your mystical authority, I immediately turned them back into colonels as soon as they arrived. A few were quite indignant.”

Shinya snorted a laugh. “You've become a most resourceful officer, my friend. But that does not lessen my frustration at having been so long indisposed. Please, as our American friends would say; what have I missed?”

Blair nodded at two Lemurians climbing the berm to join them. One was female and the other was missing most of his tail. Shinya got the distinct impression all had been waiting to talk to him—as soon as he was well enough to know what they were saying. “Here are Captain Blas-Ma-Ar and Leftenant Faal-Pel of the Eighth Maa-ni-laa,” Blair said. “They can help me brief you more completely. I know you're acquainted with Captain Blas, but I believe Leftenant Faal-Pel is more commonly known as ‘Stumpy.'”

Shinya's smile grew more genuine. “Of course I know Lieutenant Stumpy,” he said as the pair drew near. “He was a destroyerman aboard USS
Walker
long before he took up a rifle. Good afternoon, Captain, Lieutenant,” he said louder. “I trust you're well?”

Blas and Stumpy saluted smartly, and Shinya and Blair returned it. “We're fine, Gener-aal,” Blas replied. “You doin' better?”

“I am indeed,” Shinya assured her. Blas nodded almost imperceptibly at Blair. The two had been
very
worried about Tomatsu Shinya, and what his loss might mean for the entire war effort in the East. “You two have been largely responsible for the creation of these works,” Shinya continued. “Tell me what you think of them.”

Blas glanced at Stumpy, who fidgeted slightly, then looked back at Shinya. “Well, none of us were real happy about buildin' 'em in the first place, but I guess you knew that.” Shinya nodded, and Blas continued. “Pretty much everybody was for stayin' after the Doms. That said, we know we couldn't'a done that until the supply train caught up.” Blas performed a very human shrug. “Then everybody got sick—at least the
Impies and locals did. I hate to think what would'a happened if the Doms hit us on the march, with everybody strung out an' pukin' theirselves ta' death. Stoppin' here made good sense from a supply standpoint, but even more sense now.” She looked at Shinya, who was still nodding. He well knew that whenever someone asked Blas what she thought about anything, they'd get the whole truth, complete with her unvarnished opinion. “But that's not what you asked,” Blas said, almost reminding herself. She gestured around. “We've built a helluva good fort here, Gener-aal. Way better than the defenses we threw up around Guayak, and they weren't nothin' to flip yer tail at. It was a close call, but we walloped the Doms well enough in front of them. Here? It'd take a lot more Doms to come near as close to breakin' through as they did at Guayak. As long as we have ammo and air support, I think we could stay here forever.”

Shinya looked at Blair. “And what of the Doms?”

“Our scouts report that they stopped their retreat in the mountains, near the town of Chimborazo. There was confusion for a time, before that wicked Don Hernan himself arrived with a sizable force, presumably from the north where they'd been gathering their Enchanted Isles invasion force. So whatever we've accomplished, it seems we did manage to delay that operation, at least.” He snorted. “But Don Hernan's not been content to merely halt their retreat. He's put a spine back in his army—I shudder to think how he did that—and is obviously gathering his forces to attack us here.”

“How many?”

“That's difficult to say, General Shinya.” Blair actually chuckled. “Our scouts and theirs are almost all locals who know one another. Ours are invested in defeating the Doms—and survival, of course—whereas theirs are only interested in saving themselves and their families. Sometimes they skirmish when they meet, but there's considerable fraternization as well. I suspect the scouts on both sides wind up telling their counterparts a great deal of what they have been sent to discover. I'm sure it's safer for all concerned,” he added wryly. “But it's made learning the exact number of enemy troops somewhat inconvenient. I think that would be the case in any event since it's always difficult to estimate the size of an army from within it. At the same time, we have, I think, successfully misled the enemy into believing the sickness that
struck us was not as severe as he obviously hoped. That there is some truth in that has no doubt made the larger fiction that we're quite ready for them a bit easier to accept. But our latest reports imply they're preparing to strike regardless, fearing that any advantage El Vómito might give them will be lost.”

“So
they
didn't catch it after all?”

“Not to any large extent. It appears that Surgeon Commander Selass was right about that as well.”

“Did you
know
about the Bloody Spews?” Blas suddenly blurted, and Shinya looked at her, surprised.

“The Bloody Spews?” he asked.

“That's what the sickness is called in the ranks,” Blair told him.

“Oh. Of course.” He looked back at Blas and sighed. “Yes. The vice alcalde, Señor Suares, told me to expect it, and that was largely why I chose to halt our advance. We might've finished the Doms before they could reconsolidate, but at some point we would've been stopped by the sickness. Better here, behind well-situated defenses, than on the march.”

“That's what I thought,” Blas said, glaring now at Stumpy. “Lots'a stuff makes more sense now.”

“The fever is passing from all our troops?” Shinya asked Blair. “Those who did not succumb?”

“Slowly, General, and some new cases are still reported every day, but I think the worst is behind us. Our current strength is about forty thousand, fit for duty. Mostly Lemurians, of course. Another ten thousand or so are recovering and should be fit before too much longer, but the rest remain gravely ill.”

“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.

//////
TFG-2
USS
Donaghey
August 30, 1944

D
rums 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.”