Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “The Doms’ve marched!” he shouted back at Kari, turning right to follow the dusty dirt highway. “Send it.” He considered his fuel and added, “We’ll try to see how far, but it might be hard to tell.” The road entered a forest with trees tall and dense enough to hide an entire army. Their only hope was to catch signs of movement in sparser places.

  They flew west for an hour, then two, the sun sinking lower in front of them. Try as she might, even Kari saw nothing beneath the dense canopy. Oddly, though they hadn’t been precisely here, they’d experienced this forest and knew the ground was fairly clear around the great trunks, and visibility—though dim—was good. Little could grow in such deep shade and under the thick carpet of ferny pine needles, not even saplings of the great trees themselves. Probably, when one of the things finally toppled under the weight of its own sheer size or improbable age, saplings immediately shot up to replace it and only the fastest-growing survived. In any event, the entire Dom army out of El Penon could’ve been down there and they wouldn’t see it.

  “We gotta head to the ship!” Kari shouted. “We get low on fuel.”

  “We’re closer to El Palo than El Penon now, anyway,” Fred reluctantly agreed. “No way the Doms’ve got this far. Cap’n Anson’s Rangers would’ve sniffed ’em out. Right?”

  “Prob’ly,” Kari hedged. “If they’re lookin’ this faar. But nobody knew the Doms’d maarched until we looked. Spies or scouts might, but they couldn’t report to Gener-aal Cox faaster thaan we did. He might just now be gettin’ the word.”

  The Repub plane to their right suddenly waggled its wings to get their attention and Fred heard Kari shout “Grikbirds, twelve high!” Barreling down from above the sun (Grikbirds always attacked from above), eight of the creatures plummeted toward them in a tight, streamlined stoop, every bit as fast as a Nancy. There was no way to avoid them with maneuvers and they’d strike before the observers could get a shot past the engines in front of them. “We’ll meet ’em!” Fred hollered, advancing his throttle and pulling back on the stick. After a moment’s hesitation, the Seevogel did the same.

  Fred was unaware. Utterly focused on the sight in front of his windscreen and the rapidly growing targets, he opened fire with the single copy of a Browning .30-caliber machine gun mounted in the nose of his plane. The ship roared and shuddered as sparkling orange tracers arced toward—then across—one of the flying predators. It staggered and cartwheeled, shedding a trail of bloody, downy plumage. Its companions had to veer to avoid it. Green tracers from the Maxim in the Seevogel slashed through the cracking formation and another Grikbird tumbled away, then a third, as Fred’s tracers struck again—but then they were upon them.

  Teeth bared, toe talons extended, wingclaws deployed like great, wicked sickles, the first Grikbird barely missed Fred but slammed into the leading edge of the wing above. Liquid and furry feathers exploded all over him and he braced for the clattering impact with the engine and its spinning prop that would kill his plane behind enemy lines. But the expected jolt never came. The beast must’ve tumbled over the prop. Another Grikbird gave the plane a glancing blow below Fred’s feet, raking a gaping hole in the tough rubberized fabric covering the hull. Fred instantly felt wind gust up between his legs. Kari’s .45ACP “Blitzerbug” SMG rattled at one of their attackers and Fred pushed the stick forward before they stalled.

  Whipping his head around, he saw two Grikbirds hit the Repub plane in pretty much the same place the first hit his; they must be training them to go for the engines, he realized, only this time the combined strike of two 175-pound animals shattered the wing and engine struts in a red cloud of prop-chopped feathers and the long, broad wing folded up around them. Fuel ignited and the Seevogel dropped into the trees amid a smear of flame that rose again in a rolling orange ball licking the top branches in a pall of black smoke.

  Kari’s Blitzer rattled again, probably at a Grikbird turning to chase them. It’ll never catch us, Fred thought, but then he became aware of a nasty taste on his lips. There was blood from the Grikbird that hit them, but something else as well. . . .

  “I got gaas all over me!” Kari practically shrieked. “We losin’ gaas!”

  Fred looked up at the leading edge of the wing and cringed at the damage. Shattered spars had been mashed into a jumble of jagged wooden splinters. Strips of ragged blue fabric fluttered violently. Worse, the plane’s copper fuel tank was mounted in the wing, just in front of the engine, and had obviously been punctured.

  “Don’t . . . shoot anymore!” Fred shouted back, somewhat lamely, mind racing. There wasn’t much chance Kari would light off the gasoline with her little Blitzer. Short as the weapon was, there was still hardly any muzzle flash. On the other hand, it was a miracle the engine’s hot exhaust hadn’t already set them on fire.

  “You think?” Kari practically bellowed back. “The Grikbirds is gone,” she added a little less hotly. “They give up after we paast, like usuaal. They don’t know we fixin’ to burn up an’ craash anywaay.”

  “We’re not gonna crash!” Fred shouted, glancing up and aft. A mist of fuel still blew, but maybe the Grikbird tore the tank up high. If he could keep them level, the leakage might slow. Not that it mattered. The gauge in the cockpit suddenly read “empty” and he had no idea if it was right. The wire from the sending unit could’ve been torn away. The backup gauge, basically a floating stick in the gas cap, had been broken off as well. But even if they still had gas and didn’t lose much more, they’d never get back to Donaghey. Besides, a long flight over water, in a damaged aircraft with a possibly empty tank that might blow up any minute, wasn’t something he craved. He wanted down and out of the damn thing. “We have to make for El Palo,” he decided. “Can you send that?”

  “I don’t know. Aerial’s gone. I’ll try.”

  “They have wireless sets at the beachhead. We’ll get word to Donaghey. Maybe we can fix the plane or Captain Garrett’ll come get us. Worst case, we hitch a ride out on one of the transports.”

  “Okaay,” Kari responded with what was suddenly a very small voice.

  Fred gently descended just above the treetops and turned out over the coast so water would be near if they had to set down in a hurry. Nancys were dedicated seaplanes without any landing gear and even a smooth beach would probably crack them up. He glanced at the fluttering fabric past his feet and rudder pedals. Not that we’ll float for long. But they were still losing fuel and he was terrified it would ignite. Kari was too, of course. She was soaked in it. And as much as they feared the Doms and the swarming predators in the sea, burning was an even less attractive fate. An eternal ten minutes later, they left the trees and crossed the lathering surf on the darkening beach. Dropping lower, Fred uncomfortably remembered the last time he put a Nancy in the surf when Doms were close. “Crank the wing floats down,” he cried—just as the engine quit.

  The sudden silence was shattering.

  “Shit!” Fred shouted. “Hang on!” They were only about a hundred feet up and Fred barely had time to dip the nose and level off before they slapped down between the diminishing rollers. Fred slammed forward against the restraints he hadn’t thought to tighten, smacking his head against the windscreen frame. Bright, swirling stars clouded his vision but he saw sandy water gush in around his feet. He didn’t know it but the plane didn’t dig in; it actually kind of bounced, dropping again on the crest of a wave and riding it toward shore. The port wing tilted and plowed into sand—Kari hadn’t even started lowering the floats—and they twisted around, nose on the beach.

  A grinding rumble caught up short brought Fred back to his senses and he saw Kari already beside him, waves washing past her waist, trying to get him out of the quickly filling plane. She’d slung her Blitzer and donned a pack containing basic survival gear and two canteens.

  “Just a sec,” he mumbled, unstrapping, and practically dove out beside her. Helping each other, they quickly thrashed throu
gh the shortening waves to shore. Flasher fish rarely hunted the surf, but the instinct to escape the water was strong nonetheless. Oddly, the plane followed them in, bouncing and pirouetting on jostling waves as if it had grown as attached to them as they to it.

  “Where are we?” Kari gasped as they hit their knees in the sand.

  “Who knows?” Fred replied, wiping watery blood from his eyes and slapping his right thigh where he usually strapped a small chart tablet. It was gone. “Just guessing, I’d say we’re still eight or ten miles from El Palo, though. We better get under cover. The beach is deserted an’ I didn’t see any villages or anything, but we couldn’t see the whole Dom army from the air. Doesn’t mean they didn’t see or hear us.”

  Kari stiffened beside him. It was midnight black under the trees of the forest, but her sharp eyes caught something. “Movement,” she hissed, swiftly checking her Blitzer. Fred pulled the soaked 1911 .45 out of its holster, but then quickly fumbled in the pack between them. Retrieving a brass-framed copy of a Remington Mk III flare pistol, he mashed the button on the side and flipped the barrel up before inserting a 10-gauge flare. Glancing up, even he could now see the shadowy shapes of troops moving cautiously out on the beach about a hundred and fifty yards away. There seemed to be twenty or so, all carrying long muskets.

  “Whaat’re you gonna do with thaat?” Kari demanded, raising her Blitzer and nodding at the flare gun. Her voice was high, nervous.

  “Burn the plane. They’re not gettin’ it—or us,” he added grimly. “Cover me if you have to.”

  The stranded Nancy was only a few paces away now, rolling heavily against its port wingtip. The damage over Fred’s cockpit was spreading and cracking, loud enough to hear over the surging sea, and the whole wing flexed, starting to break. He quickly covered the distance. Dom muskets were wildly inaccurate at this range but he still half expected shots. None came. Aiming the Mk III into the aft cockpit, most inundated with fuel, he murmured, “So long, plane,” and pulled the trigger. The flare pistol bucked in his hand and a searing red ball blasted through Kari’s wicker seat. He suddenly felt like an idiot, suspecting the thing had simply blown out the bottom of the plane, but then a rush of fire gushed out of the cockpit. Sloshing quickly backward, he saw the flames lick greedily forward, up the engine struts, and across the ravaged top of the wing. With an urgent crump! the fuel tank split and the whole plane was washed in fire. Some even poured into the sea, sweeping up near where Kari knelt.

  The men on the beach were shouting now, jogging closer.

  “It’s been swell, paal,” Kari hissed through gritted teeth, taking aim.

  “Yeah,” was all Fred could say. He raised his pistol.

  “Hold your fire, for God’s sake!” someone cried. The tone sounded . . . exasperated.

  “Why?” Kari shouted back.

  “Because we’re on the same side, you fools!”

  Kari abruptly stood, tail lashing angrily. “Says who? An’ who’s a fool? I think it’s the fella runnin’ straight at a auto-maatic weapon, caallin’ people names.”

  Fred could now see that the men wore light blue uniforms with white trim and crossbelts. The man who’d spoken was an officer, in a dark blue frock coat. Uniforms of regular Nussie infantry. He began to relax. Doms dressed predominantly in yellow. Their regular infantry had white facings on their coats, but the vicious “Blood Drinkers” had red, and wore red trousers. “Don’t shoot Kari, they’re friends.”

  “They ain’t my friends, runnin’ up an’ shoutin’ at us like thaat,” she grumped, looking at the officer. “Who the hell’re you, an’ how’d you know we was ‘friends’?”

  “Lieutenant O’Riel, Company A, Fourth NUS Infantry, at your service,” the man replied curtly. Standing before them now, he didn’t look any older than Fred. “And though the enemy can fly, it seems, he doesn’t do so in machines.” He nodded at the rapidly withering plane, its burning framework sagging and hissing in the sea. “Speaking of the enemy, they’re quite close. The flames and smoke will draw them. We must be away from here.”

  Kari was looking at the burning Nancy now too. “Daamn it, that was our plane!” she said, dejection replacing her antagonistic tone.

  “Yeah,” Fred agreed solemnly. “And we’ve broken so many of ’em—not always our fault—I’m not sure they’ll give us another.”

  Brusquely, the Nussie officer and his men ushered them off the beach and onto a barely visible trail paralleling it. No one spoke and all the men were clearly making an effort to move as quietly as they could.

  “How close are they?” Fred finally ventured to whisper, catching the mood of his companions.

  “I’ve no idea. Perhaps all around us,” O’Riel confessed, less tersely than before. “We haven’t seen any ourselves. We were forward pickets in an observation post overlooking the Camino Militar. Only Rangers and local scouts were beyond us, but it seems the enemy stole a march. They didn’t come straight up the road as we’d so carefully planned for them to do,” he added wryly.

  Fred grimaced. NUS troops and sailors were professionals, well-trained and equipped to face the Doms, but aside from their navy, which performed very well against this enemy, their army hadn’t engaged in a major land campaign in a generation. And it had been a century since it faced the Doms on their own soil. Fred doubted they were as ready for this as they thought they were.

  O’Riel continued. “Our first hint something was amiss came when a pair of Rangers galloped through, informing us we’d been bypassed and must withdraw to El Palo.” He paused. “There’d been nothing on the field telegraph and we discovered why. The line had been cut at another OP behind us, and those manning it annihilated without a shot. We weren’t that far apart and should’ve heard any firing.”

  “Infiltrators sneaked up on ’em, or passed themselves off as friendly locals,” Fred guessed.

  “Precisely. In light of the apparent fact that some enemy elements, at least, are between us and El Palo, I thought it best to stay off the main road. Fortunate for you, or we wouldn’t have seen your awkward landing.”

  “We reported that the Doms had marched,” Fred told him, “but only a couple hours ago. We were trying to spot them from the air but couldn’t do it along the road. That’s why, I guess. Soon as they got under the trees, they left the road, or took another one.”

  “That’s what I suspect as well,” O’Riel confided. “Our local advisors describe a rather extensive network of well-worn paths connecting a number of villages. Our planners didn’t consider them substantial or direct enough to move large forces. Perhaps the enemy isn’t as concerned with ‘directness’ as we were, eh? Now there’s no telling where they are unless the Rangers or dragoons can find them. I don’t envy them that task in these woods at night.”

  “Well, we know where they’re headed,” Kari said, also whispering.

  O’Riel glanced at her. Lemurians weren’t unknown to the NUS, but remained something of a novelty. “Indeed, but General Cox had hoped to have at them on the march. Pure hubris, I suppose, to expect the enemy to accommodate us so. But worst of all, Cox may be slow off the mark but he’s a fairly aggressive fellow, not much given to defensive tactics. If the enemy holds the initiative when they approach El Palo, from whatever direction they choose, we could find it difficult to deploy quickly enough to give them a proper welcome,” O’Riel added worriedly. “It all depends on our scouts.”

  “Caap’n Anson’ll sniff ’em out,” Kari declared confidently.

  O’Riel seemed surprised. “You know of him?”

  “Not ‘of.’ We’re old paals.”

  Fred couldn’t see, it was quite dark now, but he suspected Lieutenant O’Riel’s eyes had widened.

  “That’s as may be,” the Nussie said at last, “but we’ve a long walk ahead. There may be hostiles—not to mention frightening beasts. I hope you two can manage in the infantry for a whi
le.”

  “No sweat,” Kari replied offhandedly. “We tromped haaff-waay across the whole daamn Dominion before you were even in this waar.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ////// Ramb V

  Puerto del Cielo

  Holy Dominion

  You’re not going after them?” Contrammiraglio Oriani asked Capitaine De Fregate Victor Gravois, as he leaned back in a creaking wooden chair in the wardroom of his “flagship,” Ramb V. Obese, pallid—except for a strikingly black mustache—and sweating profusely in the humid heat offshore of Puerto del Cielo, Oriani had been the resident supérieur at the League’s outpost on Ascension Island. He was also the highest-ranking OVRA official outside the pretentiously named Palace of the Triumvirate in Tripoli. The “Palace,” actually somewhat closer to where Tunis should be, was an ancient, drafty, somewhat gothic edifice, built by locals long ago. It was also the most impressive intact structure in the League’s new empire. A few more imposing buildings, in what should’ve been Italy and Greece, had been demolished in the fighting there.

  As always, Gravois was as impeccably turned-out as circumstances allowed, in a fresh uniform and brilliantly polished boots. Not a hair was out of place and his mustache was carefully trimmed. Yet despite his position in French Naval Intelligence, the Italian Oriani was his immediate superior. The OVRA (Organization for Vigilance and Repression of Anti-fascism) had increasingly accumulated responsibility over foreign (and domestic) intelligence for the entire League. To Gravois’s dismay, Oriani and Ramb V had unexpectedly arrived the day before, and the man had assumed the grandiose title of “Gouverneur Militaire du Protectorat des Antilles.”