Straits of Hell (16 page)

Another P-1 just exploded, right in the middle of the Grik formation—and Tikker hadn't even seen any fire aimed at it.
What?
The plane's fiery chunks slammed into a zep, causing a spectacular aerial mushroom of fire, but it was small consolation.

“Shaat!” Araa shouted in what sounded like a mix of terror and rage. “I hit some-ting! It nearly take my staar-board wing! I gotta get down!” There was a brief silence while both squadrons swallowed that, then: “I think I make it,” she continued. “Wing's cut half in two, but the aal-eron's okay. I got control, an' the bracing wires is holding. Be aad-vised: I think maybe one in tree of these buggers not carry bombs, but is loaded wit extra swivel guns—that shoot faster than we seen. Also, I think I hit some kinda cable strung between two of 'em!”

Of course!
Tikker realized.
That's how they're doing it! Every airship on each “level” must be attached to the ones around it!
Not only did that keep them together, but it provided a spiderweb of protection from attackers darting between them! And there'd been word about some new swivel Silva had found, poking around in some wreckage. . . .

“Get on the ground, Lieutenaant Araa,” Tikker ordered. “Second Squadron, concentrate on the zeps on the outside of the formation. We get them, maybe they'll drag more down before they cut their cables!” They wouldn't be able to break the bulk of the enemy formation that way, Tikker realized, and suspected those outside zeps would be the most heavily armed, but that was all he could think of at present. “Third Squadron! We'll attack the top formation in the center from above, but do
not
pass between them! Maybe we can drop a spiderweb of burnin' Grik down on top of the rest! Make your shots count. They'll burn everything on the ground before we can land and rearm for another round!”

A chorus of “Ay, ays” answered him, and Tikker bored down on the—hopefully—still most vulnerable tops of the highest formation. Even as he did so, he saw the firebombs below begin smearing flame across the dockyard where at least some ships doubtless remained—and most of the warehouses stood. He found a dark shape in the vicinity of his invisible sights.
Gotta get some light on those somehow,
he thought absently, and pushed the spring-loaded lever at his side. Cables drew back around a series of pulleys, pulling the Blitzer triggers in the wheel pants. He barely heard or felt them fire—they were a far cry from the nose-mounted.50 cal he'd had rigged in a Nancy that nearly shook the plane apart—but the burning white phosphorus in the hollow bases of his bullets arced lazily into his target as he swept past barely thirty yards above and lined up on another. The rest of the 3rd did the same. When he banked back around, he saw they had indeed lit up perhaps a dozen zeps, their burning carcasses beginning to tumble down toward those below amid rushing gouts of flame and fireflies of burning fabric. His tactic seemed to have worked. The bad thing was, he'd run out of ammo once before in a very dire situation and had learned to carefully husband ammunition, probably better than anybody in the 1st Naval Air Wing, so he knew he only had enough left for maybe two more runs despite the increased capacity of the new magazines. The survivors of 2nd Squadron were likely already empty. There simply was no way they could get all of what looked like eighty or more Grik zeppelins still relentlessly dropping firebombs across Grik City. They'd land, rearm, and have at them again as they retired, burning many more, no doubt, but his people on the ground were going to have a very rough night and there was little he could do about it. How many irreplaceable planes had he lost so far? Five? Six? How many more would be too damaged to fly again? Somehow, he didn't think this raid was even close to everything the Grik would be sending across that cursed strait.

“Burn 'em down,” he practically hissed in his mic, his voice harsher than anyone had ever heard. “As quick as you're empty, get on the ground and load up again. We can't get 'em all,” he admitted, “but every one we do is one that won't be back!”

//////
USS
Donaghey
Alex-aandra Harbor
September 4, 1944

U
SS
Donaghey
's officers had carefully watched the mighty dreadnaught for any reaction to the confrontation with Morrisette for several days now, but as far as they could tell, there'd been no response—other than that Morrisette hadn't returned. He or his superiors probably considered that a punishment of sorts; depriving the Allied ship of fresh provisions from shore. But the embargo would have to last a very long time before it really hurt, and Greg Garrett didn't intend to remain under
Savoie
's guns that long, one way or another.

They'd also watched the now-familiar city of Alex-aandra for any developments. Even after they had stared at it day after day, the city, sprawling at the base of the high mountains surrounding it, stirred their interest. It was old, for one thing, but not in a dilapidated way. It was
obviously prosperous and well kept, but it had the air of the comfortably long established, if not the ancient about it. The architecture was a bizarre but somehow harmonious mix of the classical and the Eastern, with columns and pagodas and even domes. Greg Garrett hadn't been to the Empire of the New Britain Isles, but he'd heard its principal city of New London had architectural aspects that would be comforting to someone with European sensibilities—in a forest-island setting. But the closest thing he'd seen on this world to the “familiar” had been the South Jaava city of Aryaal, with its stone walls and structures. Alex-aandra was by far the most “advanced” and “civilized” city he'd seen, but it was just weird enough, plainly reflecting the many cultures from the likely . . . different . . . histories that influenced it, to make it the most peculiar city he'd seen as well. Maybe a bit like Istanbul with an Asian twist?

Except for a little excitement on the docks among the Gentaa when the barge returned there after its last visit, there'd been no unusual activity ashore either. Fishing boats still put out to sea before dawn, where they'd remain until after dark. As always, a pair of Republic harbor monitors with their flimsy superstructures and twin armored turrets steamed vigilantly near the harbor mouth. Choon had admitted that there were a dozen of the things, but Greg had only ever seen two at a time. All together, they might be a handful for
Savoie
, but they were slow, and could likely never get close enough for their own guns to seriously harm the dreadnaught. They'd been forbidden from closing with
Donaghey
as well. So in most respects, in spite of the cryptic message Choon decoded, each day continued to pass just like any other they'd seen since first dropping anchor under
Savoie
's guns. Greg drilled his crew, and he and Sammy inspected the latest repairs made to correct the damage the ship sustained rounding the stormy cape. Most had been made right, but they were still short on canvas, spars, and cordage that they hadn't been allowed to acquire. Smitty exercised his gun's crews, and Bekiaa drilled her Marines. Choon, as usual, paid particular attention to that—or was it her?

Finally, another day began to dwindle and with the coming of darkness, two arc lights aboard the battleship speared
Donaghey
in their rude, blinding glare. All was in accordance with what had become their grindingly frustrating routine with one exception: without revealing
how he knew, Choon had stated that
that
night might offer a “charming diversion” from the monotony they'd all endured.

Greg and his officers had assembled at the quarterdeck rail, shielding their eyes from the painful light. “What do you think will happen, Inquisitor Choon?” Bekiaa asked.

“I do not know, my dear cap-i-taan. I know what
I
would do, but I cannot be sure some circumstance of which I am not aware has made them prepare another scheme.”

“Well, what would you have done?”

Choon smiled. “I'd rather not say, lest it cause you to mentally prepare for something that will not happen.”

Bekiaa snorted frustration. “Must you always be so secretive? Even with your friends?”

“I cannot help it,” Choon confessed. “It is the way I am made.” He hesitated. “I will say that, whatever happens, I would expect it to coincide with the return of the fishing fleet, so we don't have much longer to wait.”

An hour or so after full dark, the colorful lanterns of returning fishing boats began to dot the harbor. They'd been told to steer clear of
Donaghey
as well and most did, but as usual, several seemed intent on “pushing” it. In the past, Greg had assumed it was their way of showing defiance to
Savoie
's decrees, but now he wasn't so sure. One of the boats, a broad-beamed little schooner with a bright array of lanterns rigged out on booms, was coming in fairly erratically, under full sail, and Greg watched with alarm as it grew closer.

“Are those guys drunk? They'll foul our bowsprit! Stand by to fend off!” he yelled forward.

“They do seem drunk,” Choon lamented. “The boredom of a long, hard day at sea, heaving nets and cleaning fish. Such a life is often alleviated with drink. I believe they will miss us.”

He was right. Cries of alarm echoed across the water, and the boat veered away—only to be caught with her fore and aft rigged sails rattling and flapping in the offshore breeze. “That's done it,” Sammy said with some amusement. “That bunch of drunks will never make their proper berth now.” One of the searchlights shifted slightly to glare at the troubled boat, and her people, scurrying in confusion, froze under the blinding beam and covered their eyes. The bow began to come around
and with a loud
boom
, the foresail filled and yanked the head around—just before the boom snapped like a cannon shot and the sail plunged into the sea.

“That's
really
done it!” Sammy said as the mainsail filled and the boat heeled over, dragging the wreckage in the water. All was confusion aboard the fishing boat as it began a sickening pirouette downwind—toward
Savoie
.

“Most unfortunate,” Choon agreed. “That poor crew is liable to hear some very stern words when they are pushed against
Savoie
.” He nodded at the battleship. The light on the crippled schooner had continued to follow it. “And the visitors seem quite distracted by the spectacle as well.” He looked at Greg. “I would not be surprised if someone took advantage of that.”

“You mean this was all an act?” Bekiaa demanded. Then she blinked amusement. “They are quite good actors—and excellent sailors to pretend to be so bad!”

“Indeed.”

“Cap-i-taan,” hissed a lookout on the starboard rail. “A boat approaches in the shadow!” Greg nodded. He'd actually expected that, and had even considered using the long dark shadow cast by the arc-lights on his ship to steal ashore. The problem was,
Savoie
would doubtless see them put the motor launch in the water. They could slip the smaller whaleboat over the side, but they'd have to row so far out against the prevailing wind before they turned toward shore that the trip would take hours. And without someone waiting for them—which they couldn't coordinate—to bring them back to a point they could row back in, there was little chance they could be back aboard by dawn. And if Morrisette chose that dawn to inspect the ship . . .

“Is this what you would've planned, after all?” Bekiaa asked Choon.

“Almost exactly.”

Greg looked at him. “Okay. Inquisitor, Bekiaa.” He considered, then nodded at Chief Bosun's Mate Jenaar-Laan, a dark brown 'Cat with a bristly white beardlike mane. “You too, Boats. The four of us will go.” He looked at Sammy. “You have the ship. If the frogs get wise and try to board tonight, just act like we're still mad about the other day. Morrisette said he wasn't coming for a while, and we've decided not to let him. Same thing in the morning if we're not back by then.”

“What if they, ah, insist?”

“The boat is alongside,” the 'Cat lookout said. “Is a long, skinny thing with lots'a oars. Looks faast. They ask for Inquisitor Choon and representatives of the Alliaance. They gonna take you out where a steamer's waitin' for you!”

“Tell 'em we're coming.” Greg looked back at Sammy. “If they come aboard anyway, don't fire unless you have to. Take 'em ‘hostage.' Maybe
Savoie
won't blast you immediately then, but I have a feeling, one way or another, things are finally about to get interesting.”

The boat looked a lot like a large “shell,” much like those used in racing at the Naval Academy, but it was beamier and had a higher freeboard. The oars—ten to a side—were manned by powerful specimens of the hybrid Gentaa, but the coxswain at the tiller was a man. “Come along!” he whispered loudly. “Quickly now, if ye please!” To Greg, he sounded like a dark-haired version of Doocy Meek, but he looked Chinese once Greg, Bekiaa, Choon, and Chief Laan squeezed themselves into the cramped stern sheets and got a vague look at him in the shadow of the ship.

“Good evening, Corporal Meek,” Choon greeted him, confirming Greg's suspicions. “How nice to see you. I'd like to have passed your father's good wishes under more relaxed circumstances, but perhaps there will be a better opportunity shortly.”

“Inquisitor Choon,” Meek said with a respectful nod. “Ready all!” he commanded in a low tone. “Row!” Simultaneously, twenty oars reached and grabbed for the water, and the long, narrow boat lurched away from
Donaghey
's side. Greg was amazed by how quickly they accelerated across the windswept water—and how unerringly they remained in the darkest shadow of the ship as they sped directly away from her. Greg watched the Gentaa strain at the oars and was surprised by how effortless it seemed to them. As far as he could tell, even after a quarter hour passed and the “shell” must have achieved twelve knots or more, none of them was even breathing hard. He wondered how long they could keep it up.

“You've a lovely ship, Captain Garrett,” Meek finally said, speaking normally and breaking the silence. He jerked his head behind them. “S'a great shame that monstrous iron bugger back there's kept her still so long.” Greg started to ask how he knew his name but realized that,
underestimated by Morrisette and the League, the Gentaa had probably reported a great deal about them.

“Thanks,” he said, nodding forward. “Your vessel's pretty slick as well.”

“Thank you, sir, but this ain't mine. We'll be joinin' my ship shortly.” He looked at Choon. “How's me da?”

“Very well the last time I saw him,” Choon replied. “We've received that there has since been a great battle at Mada-gaas-gar, however, and since we cannot transmit, I've been unable to inquire about him specifically.”

“Aye, we received the same,” Meek confirmed, “as well as the signal for us to attack the ‘Grik' as ye call 'em, but”—he shrugged—“we're all in much the same situation, with that bloody great battleship pointin' her bloody great guns around.”

“Actually, the situation is not the same at all,” Choon murmured somewhat sharply. “And if Kaiser Nig-Taak has not yet realized that, perhaps we can now persuade him.” Greg looked at the Lemurian snoop, surprised by his tone, but Choon said nothing more.

Much more quickly than Greg would've imagined, they reached the area patrolled by the Republic monitors, and with a word from Meek, the Gentaa shipped oars. Both monitors were visible some distance away to the southeast and northwest, their masthead lights glowing bright, but now that the oars were silent, they could hear the telltale machinery noises of another steamer close by.

“Ahoy there!” Meek called.

“Aa-hoy!” came the reply of a Lemurian voice, even as a third monitor began to resolve itself in the gloom.

“Careful as ye board,” Meek cautioned. “I'm sure ye know it's none too wise to have a dip in these seas.”

They remained on the armored deck of the monitor as it steamed eastward in a wide arc toward what Meek described as the “Navy docks.” The chuffing rumble and groaning vibration of the double expansion engines were easily felt and heard—but not as far as
Savoie
. The Gentaa rowers of the interesting shell had simply picked it up out of the water and laid it on the monitor. Greg presumed they'd ride in with them and then carry them back to
Donaghey
when the time came. With Choon's help, Greg had spoken briefly with the monitor's Lemurian captain
when he came aboard, ascending to the flying bridge. But the 'Cat's oddly Republic-accented Lemurian was further distorted by a German influence, and after Choon went back on deck, their further attempts at communication had been embarrassing for both of them. Greg had quickly rejoined his friends. The vessel's freeboard was very low, but the sea was light and at her poky speed of around five knots, water only occasionally sloshed across her deck. Bekiaa was talking with Inquisitor Choon in low tones, and Chief Laan was discussing the shell with Meek. Greg stood silent, gazing at the harbor and the city that encircled it.

Alex-aandra was brightly lit, and so was
Donaghey
, particularly now that she had the attention of both arc lights once again.
Savoie
was less distinct behind her glaring beams, inflicting her huge, dark, brooding presence upon what would otherwise have seemed a rather amiable harbor. The monitor reminded Greg of a ferry, not only because of its current purpose, but because it seemed to bull its way through the water in much the same way.
Walker
knifed through water with her sharp bow and narrow hull, and his
Donaghey
shouldered the sea aside, always with a buoyant feel beneath his feet. But the monitor didn't pitch or roll or do much of anything other than just bash its way along.
Fine for a harbor,
Greg realized,
and a good gun platform, nice and stable. But there's no way anything shaped like this could survive the perpetual storms off the cape, the “Dark,”
to join First Fleet in the Indian Ocean
. He looked at the armored turret behind him and frowned. Choon had told him that the two breech-loading bag guns in each turret were eight-inch rifles, capable of firing a shot weighing 150 pounds. They could've shredded
Donaghey
as far away as they could hit her, but they would have to get much closer to
Savoie
than anybody suspected the armored dreadnaught would let them in order to be of much use. And even
Savoie
's numerous secondaries could sink them before they got within range. Greg had been disappointed and still was. Choon, Lange, Doocy Meek—all had hinted that one of the more important contributions the Republic could make to the war effort against the Grik was superior artillery to anything the Allies had yet deployed. Greg glanced at the guns again.
Yes, still impressive, and better than most of what we're using now. But we've got pretty much the same things in the pipeline. And our new four-inch-fifties are better
. He grunted.
But Choon's so damn secretive, they might have a lot of stuff he still hasn't blown about. Bekiaa
thinks it's charming, but I'm getting sick of the game.
He knew he was growing impatient with the situation, and a great deal of his irritation was starting to wash off on Choon—and the Republic in general. It was just so frustrating to keep hearing calls from
Walker
and the rest of his friends for the Republic to attack the Grik. Not only could he not respond, but he didn't know if the Republic was even still preparing to join the fight. All he'd seen since he got here was a peaceful harbor bowing to the will of a big iron bully, and he'd had enough.
One way or another,
he determined,
I'm getting some answers tonight
. He looked at Choon and caught Bekiaa's eye, saw her slight nod.
“Charming” or not, I think she's ready to choke Choon herself. But what good would it do? He won't make a peep until he gets the okay from his kaiser. Well, he'd better get it tonight, or I'll let Bekiaa choke the kaiser too.