Straits of Hell (20 page)

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USS
Walker
August 9, 1944

U
SS
Walker
was steaming north-northeast through the predawn sea south of where her charts showed the Seychelles ought to be. The islands were there, according to captured Grik charts, but so were quite a few others that shouldn't have been.
Walker
had steered that direction alone because she could inspect the area and return more quickly than any other ship, and not particularly because Matt had expected to discover a massive Grik fleet there, waiting to pounce on Madagascar from the north. Finding the Seychelles on Grik charts in the first place had been something of a surprise. The islands were relatively distant and isolated from Madagascar and the mainland of Africa, and the Grik weren't given much to exploration in the Indian, or “Western” Ocean. Too many mountain fish dwelt there, and they didn't have sonar pulses to frighten the leviathans away from their paths. There was growing
evidence that
something
was going on out there, however, based on the thickening number of Grik “Indiamen”
Walker
encountered—and destroyed—on her way. Her scout plane would fly with the dawn to inspect farther afield.

Big Sal
and her two escorts were parked just west of the Comoros Islands, near the middle of the “Go Away Strait,” and had discovered many Grik dwelling in scattered villages, as well as a large force that had appeared to be assembling. She bombed the hell out of the apparent “combatants” remorselessly, losing a couple of planes to the dangerous new rocket batteries like those they'd discovered at Grik City. But most of her efforts were focused on destroying three- and six-ship convoys that came every few days, likely carrying more warriors and supplies to join those already gathered there. That
seemed
to be the main staging area for the expected Grik counterstrike, and if so, the Allies had them bottled up fairly tight. As always, without communications, the Grik were blissfully ignorant of the peril they sailed into, and their destruction was as simple as shooting fish in a barrel. Simple enough to inspire a growing concern in both Matt and Keje that the buildup in the Comoros might even be a diversion. They were pretty sure that General Esshk either hadn't been at Grik City, or he'd escaped. Everyone agreed that Esshk was no Halik, but he'd apparently picked Halik and given him his head, so he wasn't just an ordinary Grik either. . . .

Tentative, risky scouts over the African coast (in the face of even more antiair rocket batteries), continued to reveal larger concentrations of Grik and teeming cities reminiscent of Grik City itself, but there was no sign of the massive fleet that would be needed to move and protect a significant invasion of Madagascar. There were broad, navigable rivers, for example what should've been the Zambezi, that might serve as waterways for fleets hidden inland, but the Nancys didn't have the range to explore them, and the massed, nightly zeppelin raids kept
Big Sal
and the probing DDs from lingering too conveniently near the confining coast. Jarrik-Fas had proven that these raids need not be restricted to Grik City when he took his two DDs in close to launch their scouts. Only one returned, with little new information—and the DDs were chased off by twenty zeppelins and their “suicider bombs.” The ships escaped serious damage, but the zeps had responded quickly enough that they had to be based nearby. Now, not
only did they have no better idea than before where that base might be; they had to assume there was more than one. Altogether, despite the destruction of a couple dozen small Grik ships and the slaughter of some of their warriors on land, it had been a frustrating week in the “Go Away Strait.”

Matt looked at his watch before staring back out at the darkness beyond the fo'c'sle. “Sound general quarters, if you please,” he ordered, inwardly cringing in anticipation of the strangling goose. Instead, there was the slightest pause—and a
bugle
sounded over the ship-wide circuit. He whirled in the dark pilothouse as the familiar, urgent notes blared, and stared uncomprehendingly.
Walker
had
never
had a bugler since he'd joined her on another world in the Philippines, and no one had ever stepped forward with the skill. He waited until the man with the instrument—it
was
a man—finished, then stood at attention while the crew responded to the call with delighted confusion. Only then did he notice that Bernie Sandison, at the torpedo director, Sonny Campeti, Spanky, and Lieutenant Doocy Meek, the liaison of the Republic of Real People, were all grinning at him in the gloom. Matt stepped closer and saw that the bugler was the Imperial Marine he'd seen attending Jarrik-Fas on several occasions.

“Been practicin', Captain,” the man apologized, “learnin' all the calls, down in the engine room. Just got the music before we sailed, from Commander McFarlane,” he explained.

Matt looked at Spanky. “Gettin' sick of that damn duck call,” Spanky groused. “Hope you don't mind.”

Matt concealed a grin. “I doubt I'll miss it,” he replied, then turned back to the bugler. “But who are you, and where'd you come from? You certainly didn't report to
me
.”

“He's an ‘exchange' Impie, assigned to Jarrik's Marine contingent on
Tassat
,” Spanky explained airily, waving a hand. “I traded for him, when old Jarrik told me what he could do.” Matt refrained from asking what Spanky had traded. “Glad to have you aboard, uh . . .”

“Corporal Neely, sir,” the man said. “Glad to be aboard.”

“Very well. Carry on.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“What does he do besides blow a bugle?” Matt quietly asked Spanky as the stations belatedly began reporting “manned and ready.”

“Isn't that enough?” Spanky shrugged. “He's a Marine, and we've needed a few of those aboard from time to time.”

Juan Marcos clomped up the stairs on his wooden leg, coffee cups clattering on his tray. Matt reluctantly took one and sipped the vile brew Juan poured. “We'll launch the Nancy as soon as it's light,” he said. “If there's nothing worth serious attention in the Seychelles, we'll turn back to rejoin
Big Sal
and have a look to the south.”

Ed Palmer,
Walker
's communications officer, mounted the steps and entered the pilothouse from the port side, aft. There was a worried expression on his youthful face. Matt liked Ed a lot, but always dreaded his appearance when he had that look. “Good morning, Skipper,” he said. “Got some . . . interesting traffic.”

“‘Interesting' usually means good news and bad news. Let's get the worst over with first,” Matt said.

“Aye, aye, sir—but it's kind of mixed, for context?”

Matt made a “hand it over” gesture at the message form Ed held, then read it himself in the binnacle light. The sky was turning dirty yellow, but wasn't bright enough to see by yet. “Well,” he said at last, eyebrows rising. “The good news first.
Donaghey
is safe, and will soon sail west from Alex-aandra. Had a”—he glanced at Palmer—“‘interesting' time of it too. The voyage was tough, as expected, but then Greg Garrett found our Republic friends bottled up by a curious French
battleship
named
Savoie
.” He spent a moment describing her particulars, as they'd been reported, then glanced around and caught the surprise, especially on Meek's bearded face. “She flew the same flag as that big pigboat we sank, and belongs to something called the ‘League of Tripoli.' Greg and Mr. Meek's people couldn't learn a lot about them except they really were French.” He shook his head, mystified.

“Buncha Veeshy bastards,” Spanky growled.

“Who knows,” Matt said. “Inquisitor Choon's snoops thought there might be other folks with them, and in their ‘League,' but couldn't figure out for sure. About all they did learn is that this League, whatever it is, really doesn't want us to beat the Grik.” He let that sink in. “That seems clear because they prevented the Republic from completing preparations for its attack in the south, or even communicating with us, by threatening to bombard the capital city. That kept things at a standstill for a while. Unlike the pigboat, though, they wouldn't risk a direct
confrontation, because when Greg and your kaiser”—Matt nodded at Meek—“finally told them to ‘leave or fight,'
Savoie
steamed away. Nobody knows where she went, but Greg fears she might've come this way for some reason and we should be on the lookout. Said they knew a hell of a lot about us and thinks we should change our codes too.” He considered. “‘League of Tripoli.' What the hell does that mean? Either way, unless they've got some secret base in the Indian Ocean . . .” He stopped. The
submarine
must have had such a base, he realized now, and it wasn't like there weren't plenty of places it could be. And General Pete Alden's conversations with the Grik General Halik in Indiaa left him sure that their old nemesis, Hisashi Kurokawa, had somehow survived. Could
he
be wrapped up in this? Wherever he was, on the outs with the Grik or not, he might be willing to provide a base for a rogue battleship no matter whom it belonged to if he thought it would benefit him.

He took a breath, noticing that the others must be thinking the same thing. “Chances are,
Savoie
steamed back into the Atlantic. That's where Choon's people think she came from. But we need to be watchful—and change our codes,” he added to Ed.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“In the meantime, obviously, the Republic's offensive has been delayed. Maybe by months.” He glanced at Meek.

“It's winter there, you know,” he explained. “Some snow, high up, but cold an' wet. Especially on the escarpment. It'll be difficult to move men and guns.”

“We'll make do,” Matt said. “
Arracca
and
Santa Catalina
will be here soon, and much as it goes against my grain to trust to luck and think rosy thoughts, we really don't have any indication the Grik are ready to jump on Madagascar as soon as we'd feared. Now”—he waved the sheet—“the rest of this is mostly routine stuff, but I can confirm that
Santa Catalina
and
Arracca
and her battle group have sailed at last.”

“Good. Will they hug the coast, looking for Grik on the way down?” Spanky asked.

“No. They can scout, sure, but I don't
want
them to run smack into any Grik until they get here!” Matt answered, and there were chuckles. “We'll look together when they do.”

“Anything else, Skipper? Any other news?” Bernie asked.

“Another air raid on Grik City last night, mostly just tossing the
rubble around and killing starving Grik. We lost another plane and pilot.” He brightened. “But the Clipper came in this morning with Lieutenant Leedom to take over as COFO there, and he brought Rolak's pet Grik down with him. There can't be twenty thousand Grik left alive northeast of Grik City. Maybe Hij Geerki really can talk 'em out. Mr. Bradford's mission down the east coast of Madagascar in the Seven boat hasn't turned up anything yet, but they're fine. Otherwise, nothing new out here. Things are heating up in the East, though. Governor-Empress McDonald and Saan-Kakja have joined High Admiral Jenks.” He frowned. “Rebecca has ordered Jenks to make a heavy probe toward the Pass of Fire, where Costa Rica ought to be. I sure hope they know what they're doing,” he added softly. “But if they can figure out what the deal is, it may not be long before things start shaking loose in the East. Shinya's been sick, and so have a lot of his people. Something like malaria, Selass says. But they're getting over it. Maybe just in time, since it looks like Don Hernan is stirring.”

“Too much war for us to fight all by ourselves anymore, Skipper,” Spanky said with mock sadness, recognizing the frustration that had crept into his captain's tone.

“Lookout says ‘laand,' Cap-i-taan, bear-een seero two seero, 'bout twenny miles,” came “Minnie's” squeaky voice. She was the shortest adult Lemurian Matt ever knew, and though she was studying navigation and striking for quartermaster's mate, her occupation at battle stations was always bridge talker. She'd actually taken the ship's wheel in battle before, but she was too short to see out the windows without something to stand on.

“We've always got plenty of war wherever we are, Spanky,” Matt replied without humor.

“I'll say,” Bernie Sandison agreed with conviction. “And I'm glad
Amerika
is already on her way to Baalkpan,” he blurted, then looked around self-consciously. “I mean, with the bombing raids on Grik City every night,” he added.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed softly. “And a probably hostile
battleship
on the loose. I'd really like to know more about those guys”—his expression hardened—“and why their sub attacked us. They may not want an ‘open confrontation,' with the Republic, but sinking
Respite Island
sure kicked one off with
us
, as far as I'm concerned.”

“Might've been an accident,” Spanky muttered doubtfully. “Somebody misunderstood orders and got trigger-happy, or something.”

“Either way, they'll have some explaining to do if we run into them here,” Matt said, a little surprised by the hubris that a few primitive torpedoes and a sound powerplant inspired in him—and in everyone else, judging by the sounds of agreement he heard.
They feel it too,
he realized.
After all we've been through, what's an old French battleship to us?
He snorted and glanced at his watch again. The sky was much brighter now. “Call the special air detail, and stand by to launch our plane,” he said. “Slow to one-third.”

“Ay, ay, sur,” Minnie cried.