Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Now we’re goin’ to scout thaat daamn ‘Porto delsello,’” Kari continued. “They didn’t waant us goin’ either place before, scared they’d lose the only plane this side o’ the Paass o’ Fire.” She nodded to the right where a virtually identical aircraft kept formation. Painted white below, just like theirs, the only apparent differences were the darker blue above, and instead of white stars and red dots in blue roundels on its wings and fuselage, it was marked by white squares surrounding what looked—to Kari—like a “raaggedy blaack lizardbird.” It was the insignia of the naval air force of the Republic of Real People.

  “Only we ain’t the only plane no more,” Kari concluded, “so it don’t maatter whaat haappens to us.”

  Fred sighed. Part of what Kari said was true. There were more planes, now that a pair of beamy, wooden-hulled seaplane tender/oilers had finally crossed the Atlantic from the mixed-species Republic. The Republic was situated in a damp, chilly, southern Africa, populated by Lemurians, humans from different times in apparently divergent pasts, and some other folk called “Gentaa.” Fred and Kari had fought their way here across the Pacific, however, and had almost no experience with “Repubs.” Captain Garrett liked them and said they had the oldest (friendly) advanced civilization they’d met. Firm members of the Grand Alliance and now fully engaged in the war against the Grik in Africa, they’d also been preparing for a confrontation with the League of Tripoli, after a very unfriendly visit by them. Now that the League was allied with the Doms in South America—human enemies Fred bitterly considered the worst of the lot—the Republic was joining this fight too.

  Despite their wooden construction, the new “Repub” tenders looked amazingly like any small freighter on the old world Fred remembered. That was understandable, he supposed, considering who influenced their design. More importantly, each carried half a dozen near exact copies of his Nancy, though the Repubs called them “Seevogels.” If Fred understood the translation correctly, he thought it was a stupid, unimaginative name. Not that “Nancy” is much better, he admitted ironically. The Repubs also brought plenty of good gasoline their Allies’ engines liked as much as theirs, and the ships, gas, and precious planes would’ve arrived much sooner—the tenders were surprisingly swift, capable of eighteen knots—if the heavy sail/steam frigates the New United States (Nussies) sent to escort them hadn’t actually slowed them down.

  Swept to this world in 1847, Nussies were descended from other Americans that had been bound for Vera Cruz to join Winfield Scott’s campaign aimed at Mexico City. They’d retreated to occupy the south-central portion of North America (and now Cuba) after a bitter war with the Doms. That war never really ended, and though they weren’t in the fight against the Grik, they were in it to their necks against the Doms—and now the League. They’d just landed fifty thousand troops in the Dominion, in fact, aiming to capitalize on the Allies’ conquest of the Pass of Fire to the west—a natural passage between the Atlantic and Pacific, about where Costa Rica ought to be—and drive south toward the Dom capital of New Granada City and El Templo de los Papas, the lair of the enemy’s bloodthirsty “pope.” Unfortunately, depredations by the heavy League destroyer Leopardo, now possibly at Puerto del Cielo, had made supplying the NUS Army extremely difficult.

  Fred and Kari had watched from the air while Leopardo smashed a pair of Nussie transports. They hadn’t seen her go on to destroy six of Admiral Duncan’s most powerful warships guarding the NUS beachhead, but they’d witnessed the aftermath. And those ships hadn’t been pushovers. In the century since the “1847 Americans” crossed over, they’d finally reattained and surpassed the technology they’d brought with them. And though still outdated wooden-hulled sailing steamers, their ships were more advanced than anything like them and mounted substantial broadsides of rifled muzzle-loaders up to 6″ in diameter. Plenty big enough to smash Leopardo—if she hadn’t used her speed to stay out of range and assassinate them from farther than they could even shoot.

  At least the NUS Army was getting sufficient food from cooperative natives. No one outside the major cities loved the Dominion, and simply for having seen the “heretics” tread on holy soil, they were doomed to extermination by their own troops if the invaders were defeated. But battles loomed and the army must have military supplies. Nussie transports waited to bring them, but though the DD at Martinique seemed content to remain on guard, Leopardo had proven she’d attack. They had to confirm where she was.

  Fred jerked his head at the plane nearby. “Somebody has to show these newies around or they’ll just fly off in all directions until they run out of gas. We’re the ‘old salts’ in this outfit,” he told his friend somewhat wonderingly. He was barely nineteen. “Even most of our own people coming across are pretty green. New-fledged Impies who never saw a plane two years ago. And after the beating it took taking the Pass, they’re all Second Fleet can spare. Our loss might be less tragic for the war effort now,” he conceded, “but I don’t think anybody’d just throw us away. Captain Garrett wouldn’t,” he defended loyally. Garrett had always been nice to him, even when he was Walker’s gunnery officer and Fred was just the youngest kid on the ship.

  “Yaah, maybe,” Kari allowed. “An’ maybe it don’t hurt thaat your gurrl is the daughter of the Nussie’s Commodore Semmes.”

  Fred’s face reddened and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat while making a show of looking around for threats. Grikbirds—aptly named flying monsters the size of a man that looked like Grik with wings—were dangerous to the slow-flying Nancys if their pilots weren’t alert. They hadn’t seen any “greater dragons,” giant Grikbirds capable of carrying a man—and a bomb—on this side of the Pass, but there hadn’t been any to the west either, before they suddenly made such a nuisance of themselves. They’d damaged all three of Second Fleet’s carriers and one, Raan-Goon, was probably beyond repair.

  “I, ah, don’t really think Tabitha and I have much of a future,” Fred admitted.

  “You finaally figure out she’s got nothin’ in her head but air?”

  Fred was tempted to lie. “No,” he relented, “but I don’t hang around Santiago much, see? And lots of high-up young Nussie officers do.”

  Kari said nothing for a little while, then finally retorted, “She faall for them over you, she’s stupider thaan I thought.”

  Neither spoke as the hazy green, hilly coastline approached. Even hazier mountains reared to the south, almost indistinguishable from the sky. Fishing boats appeared more frequently below and for the first time Fred didn’t avoid overflying them. None would have radios of course, but they’d report their sightings when they made port. It didn’t matter. They’d probably been seen inspecting Martinique, and Leopardo had spotted them before so the enemy knew the Allies had planes in the Caribbean.

  “That’s gotta be Puerto del Cielo ahead,” Fred said, pointing. The greenery had given way to a large white city quickly resolving against it. Fred squinted. The masts of quite a few ships rose above the sea, anchored offshore or snugged against the docks, but none had the shape of warships. As far as they knew, the Dom fleet had been annihilated in the west, and eastern elements sent to defend the Pass had also been destroyed. Obviously, the Doms now depended on the League to protect them at sea and these must be merchantmen.

  “Wish we had bombs,” Kari groused. Fred nodded. Captain Garrett hated the League above all their enemies, or at least he had. Their friends fighting in Africa probably hated the Grik the most. But Fred and Kari had actually been in the hands of the Doms before, personally enduring their depraved cruelty. Fred was tortured until he pretended to embrace the perverted blood rite faith of their foes. Kari, perceived as an animal at best, and possibly a demon, was seemingly tortured just for hoots and kept on display in a cage. Both escaped with the help of a Nussie “Ranger” calling himself Captain Anson, and a diverse group of rebels. Needless to say, neither was keen to fall into Dom hands again.

  �
�Whaat’s thaat to the east of the city?” Kari said, not really asking. Her eyesight was a lot better than Fred’s and she had an Imperial telescope as well.

  “Where?”

  “Looks like two big forts to the east, on each side of the mouth o’ thaat river. They’re taall as the pyramids they tol’ us to look for—which I see . . . maybe five? But the forts is faat an’ round. See ’em?”

  Fred thought he did. “So?”

  “There’s a couple steamers, no maasts, aanchored under their guns.”

  Fred believed he saw the ships as well, now, though it was difficult to tell. The shapes were light gray, not much different from the water. “Get on the horn. Tell our wingman to keep his eyes peeled,” Fred warned. The Repub pilot was a ’Cat, and regardless how separated they’d become through the ages, most Lemurians—with a few exceptions—retained a strikingly common tongue. The accents varied wildly, almost unfathomably, but they could usually make themselves understood. To each other, at least. Fred could speak Kari’s “’Cat” as well as she spoke English, but figured he was lucky to catch one word in three that an ordinary Repub said. Their senior officers were different, some even speaking English, but the other pilot was an “optio,” whatever that was, and Fred barely understood a word he said.

  “Wilco,” Kari told him, then jabbered in her microphone. Fred sighed, wishing for the old days when they thought just talking in ’Cat made their comm secure. It never really had, of course. The League had abducted enough Lemurians to learn the language before the Allies even knew about them. They’d been reading their mail—and passing it to their enemies—almost from the start. Everything was coded now, and codes changed all the time. The naturally loquacious ’Cats still let real intel slip in the clear from time to time, but that was deliberate. Fred figured the snoops back in Baalkpan might use it to their advantage someday. In any event, there was no need for codes now. Alert lookouts on the ships should’ve seen them already.

  Fred squinted again. Details of the city were sharpening and he saw it wasn’t all white. The forts and walls around it were, but the roofs of the buildings, few over three stories, looked dark, reddish. Lots of the bloodred flags with jagged gold crosses whipped in the stiff coastal breeze, and Kari was right; there were five large stepped pyramids geometrically placed, with the biggest in the center. Fred looked back at the ships, just a couple miles distant now. There was the same dilapidated oiler he’d been told to expect—Leopardo’s personal fuel cow—but the other vessel looked different, bigger than Leopardo, with an indistinct outline.

  “There she is!” Kari snapped.

  “Where? That’s not her, it’s something else.”

  “Yaah!” Kari insisted. “Is something else aalongside Leopaardo!”

  Fred blinked. Sure enough, the sleek, predatory shape of the Italian destroyer was snugged to a longer, fatter ship shaped like a small cruise liner. “Tell our friend to follow our lead. We found what we’re looking for and it’s time to go.” Even as Kari passed the word and Fred turned sharply to the east, bright flashes lit both ships. Dark clouds of smoke burst right where they’d have been in another few seconds and Fred pushed the stick forward, accelerating into a dive to change his speed and altitude. More explosions cluttered the sky above and behind them. “Not bad shooting,” he snorted, voice strained, as he turned north and steepened his dive. A final cluster of ragged black puffs pursued them. “And they said Leopardo’s guns weren’t on dual-purpose mounts,” Fred accused loudly. “Shouldn’t have been able to shoot up so high.”

  “I guess they were wrong, or thaat other one did all the shootin’.”

  Fred nodded, but he was pretty sure both had fired. “Whatever. But what’s that other ship? Where did it come from?” He shrugged. “Send the ‘go’ code to Commodore Semmes.” That meant they’d spotted Leopardo and it was safe—for now—for transports to proceed to the Nussie beachhead at El Palo.

  “Done,” Kari confirmed a few minutes later. “Hey, maybe thaat other ship’s the one Matarife met with at Ascension Islaand before Caap’n Garrett captured her. The ‘Raam,’ er somethin’.”

  “Ramb Five,” Fred agreed. “Could be. The one with the League’s area commander. That’s what the prisoners off Atúnez said.” He hesitated. “Which could mean the Leaguers are about to ramp things up.”

  “Them workin’ at Maartinique, specially buildin’ a airstrip, already proved thaat.”

  Fred pursed his lips but didn’t reply. Now just a thousand feet above the sea, they flew north until Puerto del Cielo faded into the distant, greenish shoreline. Turning west, they crossed a prominent peninsula that would’ve been the Island of Trinidad, surrounding a little land-locked lake where Port of Spain should’ve been. It was risky flying over Dom territory, but there was no port, or even—supposedly—many Doms there. The Repub tenders were safely at anchor at Santiago and the two planes had been carried down by USS Donaghey and Captain Willis’s NUSS Congress, currently just about in the center of the plane’s operational radius. They’d head back for them after a quick look at El Penon. Local scouts said a Dom army was assembling there prior to pushing west along their military road, the “Camino Militar,” toward NUS forces at El Palo. The final objective of their flight was to see if the Doms had moved.

  “Draagons!” Kari suddenly snapped. “Three o’clock high!”

  Fred looked up to the right—past the plane flying off their starboard wing—and sure enough, two of the giant Grikbirds were soaring along a mile away, paralleling their course, dark against the white clouds beyond. They’d been told Dom “dragons” were colorful creatures, even more than Grikbirds, but they couldn’t see any detail. Their wingspan was as wide as a Nancy, however, and Kari confirmed Fred’s first concern. “They got riders!”

  That meant they could be controlled to an unknown extent. Just as important, riders could report what they saw and that gave the Doms a capacity for reconnaissance the Allies had never guessed they had. For an instant, Fred wondered what it would be like to fly like that, without a sound but the rushing wind. Then again, he suspected dragons were a lot like Maa-ni-la cavalry me-naaks, only with wings. Young “meanies” newly paired with riders often tried to eat them.

  “They’re faster than Grikbirds in level flight, but can’t keep up with us,” Fred reasoned confidently. “They’ll see where we head, though. Might’ve been kiting around on the lookout just in case we showed. We were bound to sooner or later, and they probably hoped we’d show ’em the way back to our ships.” He shook his head. “Well, we weren’t heading to the barn yet, anyway. Keep your eyes on ’em, Kari, and make sure our Repub pal does too.”

  Over the next half hour, they crossed the peninsula and flashed over the water again. The enemy flyers diminished to specks, then finally disappeared. Fred turned southwest, followed by the Repub plane, and climbed to three thousand feet. The shadows of the clouds on the sea were beginning to lengthen when they made their approach to El Penon.

  It was another coastal city with a respectable harbor, but not as large as Puerto del Cielo. It also lacked a broad river into the interior. But the architecture was identical, complete with a fort and wall around the older part of the city that boasted a single stepped pyramid at its heart. All Dom cities of any size on this side of the Pass of Fire featured a fort of some kind, probably a legacy of their hundred-year hostility with the NUS. They called Nussies “Los Diablos del Norte,” and Fred figured that first, century-old conflict must’ve left quite an impression.

  “Not maany ships down there,” Kari observed. “No waarships at all. A couple traansports. The rest is just fishing boats. Where’s this aarmy s’posed to be?”

  “South side of the city on the flanks of the hills,” Fred replied. The Allies had always been at a disadvantage from an intelligence perspective, particularly compared to the League and those it helped, who’d long monitored their communications, observed the
m from bases in the Indian Ocean, and even planted spies in the Republic. And the Doms weren’t slouches when it came to that sort of thing. They’d infested the Empire of the New Britain Isles with spies, which then radiated into the United Homes from the Filpin Lands to the Malay Barrier. But the Allies had their own spies now: long-repressed subjects of the Dominion’s bloody tyranny, prisoners, and even asylum-seekers from the League, disaffected with its fascism and brutal conquest of the Med, or perhaps just the neglect of certain factions within it. Even some Grik were on “their side” now. Sort of. Regardless, the Allies knew more about their enemies than they ever had, but for “right now” intelligence, they needed air recon.

  Fred gazed down at the city and saw the same reddish roofs and profusion of fluttering Dom flags. Mighty patriotic bunch, he thought grimly. Or spiritual. Not much difference here, I guess. Hundreds of people, maybe thousands, were looking up from the streets below, garbed in a surprising riot of colors. They can’t all be crazy, can they? He grimaced and looked ahead. Can’t count on that, he reminded himself. And the closer we get to their “El Templo,” the more rabid they get. The city folk, at least, he qualified. The vast majority of the people around El Palo were friendly enough, but they’d been serfs or even slaves. The high-ups in the city skedaddled when the Nussies landed.

  A great camp sprawled on the open ground past the city walls ahead, invading a significant percentage of the nearby cropland. What used to be a camp, Fred corrected as they neared. There were still a lot of large tents and quite a few troops and wagons. Hundreds of giant, spiky, armadillo-like draft animals called “armabueys” were enclosed in vast, partitioned pens. Other pens held horses and Fred saw a column of lancers emerge from the forest to the east, trotting down the Camino Militar in a dense cloud of dust. But despite what was obviously a substantial supply depot an army on the move might leave in its wake, hundreds more tents had been recently stricken—he could see where they’d been—and their occupants were gone.