Rolak quickly intervened, concerned as always that the brindled ’Cat beside him might’ve reached that point more than once. “I believe the Legate’s point is this: At present, Third Corps and her division are fighting for inches instead of miles. Their, ah, ‘bunkers’ are empty aalready. Servius has endured quite a pounding today, laargely on a whim I haad; to test the enemy’s river defenses and haave a look for myself.” He hesitated. “One other thing as well. We’ve accomplished the first two goals and our next push will be in earnest, combined with air attaacks on those daamned guns, and enough infaantry to flaank the enemy out of their defenses. Along the river, at least.” He chuckled. “And as long as we control the river, we only haave to attaack on one side, but the Grik still haave to defend both. Don’t worry, Cap-i-taan Quinebe, we’ll see the great gates soon enough.”
Quinebe frowned. “But if we turn around, the enemy will think they bested us.”
Rolak laughed. “Let them! All the better!” Quinebe bristled, and Rolak blinked consolingly. “I once fought for ‘pride’ and ‘honor,’ but this waar haas sucked those things awaay. Survivaal for our people, through victory, caan be our only consideration now. There are still faar more of them thaan us, so we sneak, we trick, to win.” Another raspy chuckle was drowned by more drumming shot and the roar of Servius’s guns. “And thaat was the third purpose of my ‘whim’ today. I’d much raather the enemy be too confident thaan cautious. Much as my curiosity compels me, perhaaps the worst thing we could do would be steam paast everything they throw at us, look at the locks, then steam baack downriver. Turn around, Cap-i-taan Quinebe.” He grinned. “Run awaay. The enemy’s confidence will soar—and when we really hit them, it will shaatter into fear.” He blinked something Quinebe didn’t catch. “The Grik we fought at the Neckbone under Gener-aal Ign were cautious. They made me more thoughtful, and thaat’s good.” His grin faded and his eyes went unfocused. “But I prevented Gener-aal Aalden from shooting Gener-aal Ign when he haad the chaance, hoping we’d made him too careful to remain a threat. Thaat was a mistake, so I must always baalance my newfound caution with aagression. We must crush these Grik before Ign arrives to infect them with his competence. If giving them a little, temporary ‘victory’ at the expense of our—and your noble ship’s—pride is the price we paay to sow overconfidence, it’s cheap indeed.”
Quinebe stared a moment, then shook his head. He’d been startlingly thrilled by the prospect of running the gauntlet all the way to the final great bastion of the Grik. And yes, the honor of that, for him and his ship, had fueled his enthusiasm. So maybe this aged, battle-scarred Lemurian was right, even if he sounded more like Inquisitor Choon than the great Allied general he was supposed to be. But Quinebe was just a sailor, relatively new to war, and Rolak had to know the strange minds of the Grik better than he. “Bring us . . .” He paused, looking at Rolak and Bekiaa. “We’ll wait for another flurry of enemy fire, then come about and make all speed downriver.” He forced a laugh. “With this current, we’ll make twelve knots. It’ll look like we’re running for our lives!”
“Trust me,” Rolak said, matching Quinebe’s volume, “Servius will be baack, and it’ll be the Grik who flee!” There were murmurs of approval and Rolak lowered his voice, looking at Bekiaa. “We’ll all be baack. And with the Maker’s help, it’ll be the laast time.”
CHAPTER 5
////// Alex-aandra
Republic of Real People
Southern Africa
May 6, 1945
The reception greeting “General” Courtney Bradford at the brand-new train station on the southeast end of the Republic capital city of Alex-aandra actually embarrassed him. A band with lots of drums and strange horns erupted on the fresh timber platform in front of the wide, brick station house, even as venting steam from the locomotive gusted across the players. The music became chaotic for a moment before resuming its martial cadence. When Courtney saw Kaiser (sometimes still called “Caesar”) Nig-Taak himself, surrounded by his retinue, he began to wonder if the train had hooked on another passenger car in the night. He’d slept through their stop at Kavaa-la, and perhaps some notable joined them there. The comfortable passenger car he was in, along with the heated boxcars, were full to overflowing with wounded from the battles to the north. That’s it, of course, he decided. Nig-Taak’s actually a rather decent bloke, as semi-autocratic rulers go. He’s here to greet the men, Lemurians, even Gentaa who fought for him against the demon Grik!
“You must hurry, sir,” urged his new aide, a young female Lemurian tribune named Nir-Shaang, whom General Kim had inflicted on him. “The Kaiser’s waiting for you and they won’t unload the wounded until you’ve been received.” She turned to the soldiers blocking the aisle with crutches or legs in hard casts and barked, “Make way, there! Make way for the general!”
Courtney jumped up. “Yes, do make way,” he said loudly. “Help these brave troops off the train, if you please,” he called to the medical orderlies, “then I’ll be able to pass.” With that, he resumed his seat and utterly ignored Nir’s fuming glare. Captain Nir-Shaang had been new to the front, fresh out of field-grade officer school, and from an aristocratic family. She’d joined Kim’s staff ready to take over and win the war in a day. Kim thought he was doing everyone a favor by honoring her with the title of “tribune” and sending her off to take care of Courtney. Courtney didn’t much care. He’d passed the point in his life where intense, officious snobbery (with which Nir virtually oozed) affected him. He’d seen and done too many momentous things to be personally disturbed by petty trivialities, but he’d taken a page from Matt Reddy’s book and wouldn’t abide their being scraped off on others.
“The Kaiser is waiting,” Nir hissed at him.
Courtney looked at her. “Then he might be mildly annoyed that I delayed his appointment with some senator or other, but he won’t really be angry with me.” His eyes went wide, as if he was suddenly surprised by a thought. “But I wonder, what would happen to your career if I personally asked him for a different aide?”
The train quickly emptied. The hospitallers and Gentaa stevedores had learned from too much grim experience how to clear a train of wounded. Only then, with the band still playing and Nig-Taak’s retinue still wearily holding salutes for the wounded at the Kaiser’s command, did Courtney allow Nir to usher him down to the platform.
Nig-Taak stepped forward and heartily embraced him. That came as a surprise. Most Lemurians everywhere else were big huggers, but those in the Republic were more reserved.
“Welcome back to Alex-aandra, General Bradford!” Nig-Taak proclaimed.
“Thank you, Your Majesty, you do me great honor. But I’m not really a general, you know. I’m here again as ambassador from the United Homes, and those members of the Grand Alliance your nation joined, who entrusted me to represent them.”
“Nonsense, my friend. You can be all those things and a General of the Republic! General Kim described in detail how you heroically led nearly half his army in the crucial campaign to seize the Zambezi River from the foe!” He glanced around and embraced Courtney again, this time whispering in his ear. “I truly do honor your valor, but as you might guess, it remains . . . politically expedient that you be a general. It impresses the people, and especially the Gentaa—largely thanks to you and Legate Bekiaa—that we truly are ‘all in this together.’” He chuckled, backing away and adding loudly, “You might even find yourself appointed praetor . . . uh, admiral as well, before much longer.”
To Courtney’s consternation, that happened in an elaborate ceremony two days later at the Kaiser’s new War Palace (the new Imperator Class battlecruiser prototype), which gave Courtney another look at the type. He’d seen the finishing touches being applied to a pair of Imperators at Songze and they’d since sailed into the terrible, perpetual storm called “The Dark” off the southwest coast of the Republic. If they survived—no certain thing, even for a steamer (US
S Donaghey was the only sailing ship known to have passed through from the east)—they should arrive any time. They’d sail again as soon as any damage was repaired. Courtney was anxious to see “the real thing” up close. The War Palace was an incomplete shell, unarmed and unarmored. He was also anxious to meet the Fleet Prefect of the Republic force marshalling to join its allies in the Atlantic.
His first act as Praetor was a visit to the dock where six new “destroyers” were clustered. They were quite long and narrow, looking shockingly like the first “torpedo boat destroyers” Courtney remembered from his old world. They’d doubtless been designed by men who came to this world aboard SMS Amerika in 1914. They were just as shockingly cramped, unseaworthy-looking, and poorly armed, each carrying only a pair of 3″ “Derby” guns on naval mounts, a couple of Maxim machine guns, and four measly torpedo tubes, two in the forward hull and two more in a twin mount aft. Courtney understood they were relying on their allies to supply torpedoes. The best comparison that sprang to mind was that they looked like the runt hybrid offspring of a liaison between USS Walker and a racing shell, or “fine boat,” and he doubted they’d survive in heavy seas.
Courtney was polite to the young, enthusiastic Repub officers he met, and praised their efforts, while sadly predicting to himself they were doomed. He began to fear the much-vaunted Repub “battlecruiser” force might prove equally disappointing.
The next day, a wireless message brought by Nir (who’d seemed considerably less snotty of late) found him in the study/office of the villa he’d been granted by the Kaiser. The Imperator’s coal smoke had been seen off Kavaa-la that morning, and they’d round the headland and enter Alex-aandra Bay by dusk. Though technically outranking the Fleet Prefect, by the Kaiser’s decree, Courtney chose a delicate approach, instructing Nir to send a message that “Praetor Bradford requests the honor of informally calling upon the Fleet Prefect at 0900 in the morning, after the Fleet Prefect has docked his ships and enjoyed a full night’s rest.” An hour later, Nir returned and began reading the response. “Fleet Prefect Tigaas-Gaak—a sister of General Taal-Gaak, I believe—replies: ‘Of course the Praetor is most welcome to call in any manner he sees fit, but wouldn’t he prefer the full and proper . . .’” Nir stopped and blinked something amazingly like amusement—the first time Courtney saw such a thing occur on her face. “She doesn’t know you yet. Be gentle.”
Courtney Bradford, in the unadorned, cool-weather medium blue uniform of a junior officer, was piped aboard RRPS Imperator, the namesake of her class, and met by a strikingly tall ’Cat with bright yellow fur under a much grander uniform. After absently saluting the colors, something Repubs didn’t do, Courtney exchanged salutes with his host. “Admir—Praetor Courtney Bradford, requesting permission to come aboard.”
The tall ’Cat was taken aback by that as well. They’d’ve had a band, and probably dancing girls, if I came aboard “properly,” but a simple polite greeting like this is more customary—and far more important for what I must accomplish, Courtney mused. “You’re Fleet Prefect Tigaas-Gaak,” he said before she could introduce herself. “I’d know you anywhere! The very image of your brother, except for your fur, of course, and you’re much more attractive! Still, General Taal’s a fine fellow, and a far better horseman than I!”
Courtney could tell by the pleased blinking that he’d scored some points. Despite the rank Tigaas had reached, Courtney intuitively guessed some things about her. First, she loved her brother, but felt in constant competition with him—especially with the “opportunities” he’d had to distinguish himself of late. This would be her turn. Second, she was very vain about her fur. . . . “This is Tribune Nir,” he said, presenting his aide. “Would you kindly name your officers? Then I’d love to see your magnificent ship!”
Courtney’s first impression of Imperator, and her sister Ostia, moored just aft (apparently the rest of the class were named for Repub cities), was that someone had practically taken them from drawings of a British Lord Nelson Class battleship. That wasn’t necessarily bad. Nelsons were already obsolete when launched, but still pretty good. Just as important, it showed him the Repubs hadn’t gotten overly ambitious for their “first try.” And while their relatively small size and silhouettes screamed “Lord Nelson”—to a degree—there were a lot of differences. Tigaas could’ve just turned Courtney over to the ship’s captain for the tour, but she led it herself, answering Courtney’s every question.
The first thing he learned was, though their hulls were built entirely of steel with considerable attention to reinforcement and watertight integrity, they were then planked over with four inches of a teak-like wood from the forests east of Colonia. Another layer of steel went over that, up to six inches of the best armor plate the Republic could produce, protecting vital areas. Courtney had no idea how well this “laminated armor” would defend the ships, but Tigaas told him trials were promising.
“Wood, though,” he’d protested, “it’s bound to get soaked and rot between the plates.”
“Of course,” she’d replied, “But there’ll only ever be four Imperators, these two and the others at Augustus. We didn’t make them to last forever. We didn’t have time, and didn’t know how. They only have to survive one battle, then return their crews to better ships.” Tigaas and Kaiser Nig-Taak both soared higher in Courtney’s estimation. The Repubs could’ve tried to build a modern battleship with all the dubious advice Matt, Spanky, Letts—who knows who all—had sent them, and they’d still be working on their very first hull.
“Well, when you put it that way, it makes perfect sense. And even rotting, waterlogged wood must provide some protection. Tell me about the engines, and armament!”
Imperators had sixteen coal-fired boilers with oil sprayers. Oil wasn’t as plentiful in the Republic as coal, but the sprayers would give them a boost and extend their range. The boilers powered two triple-expansion engines that turned twin screws and drove each 15,000-ton ship at twenty knots, or eight thousand miles at ten. Also unlike the Lord Nelsons, they were “all big gun” ships, with three large gunhouses, or turrets. One was on the fo’c’sle, half under the bridge. Another was amidships, between the funnels, and the third was aft. Each protected two built-up 10″ rifles. They’d hoped to give them 12″s, but realized they’d never have them ready in time. For defense against smaller ships, like torpedo boats or destroyers—and aircraft, as an afterthought—there was a platform over the amidships turret packed with a cluster of 3″ Derby guns on dual-purpose mounts. Several more were scattered around the ships for a total of twenty, each.
The tour ended, they adjourned to Tigaas’s spacious quarters for refreshments while the noisy, dusty job of coaling the ship began. Courtney wasn’t disappointed. Twelve inchers would’ve been nice, to go up against the League’s heavy hitters, but Imperators packed a lot of punch for such small ships. And of course their size makes them harder to hit! Smiling over the rim of a mug of excellent beer, he had to ask, “But why call them ‘battlecruisers’? You must know the meaning of the name if you’ve heard it.”
Tigaas smiled back, blinking mischief, and Courtney knew they’d be friends. “As I understand it, ‘battlecruisers’ were designed fast and light and powerful to catch anything they could kill, and escape anything they couldn’t. Sadly, as proud as I am of them, I don’t think that describes my Imperators very well.” She made a very human shrug. “We chose to call them ‘battlecruisers’ for two excellent reasons. First was misdirection. We know the enemy has spies among us and we couldn’t hide their construction, so why not sow confusion about their capabilities, if we can?” She laughed. “But the main reason was, it makes no difference to us what things were called on your old world, and many just thought ‘battlecruiser’ sounded good.”
Even very junior officers exploded with laughter, and Courtney leaned back on the comfortable human chair Tigaas had provided him, smiling broadly. “Well, whatever you call them, I’m impr
essed.” His smile faded lightly. “More so than I was by your new destroyers, I must confess. If they’re to be used at all, I suggest they be used very carefully.” He cleared his throat, getting down to business. “In any event, I’m anxious to sail for Augustus and join the rest of the fleet. After that, we’ll train and train and make every effort to appear as though we’re preparing to defend the Republic from League assault.”
No one spoke, but he was surrounded by questioning, even somewhat angry blinking. These people were ready to fight, and that was good, but they had to do this right.
“How long will we . . . ‘appear’ to do this?” Fleet Prefect Tigaas tentatively asked.
“Until Inquisitor Choon’s intelligence network tracks down all transmissions our movements inspire, and every League spy it can find. Then, if unforeseen events don’t force us sooner, we’ll begin our real mission.” He held up his hand and looked steadily at Tigaas. “Let me be clear. I’m not here to fight your ships. I wouldn’t even know how. But the Kaiser put me in overall command for a reason, and it wasn’t just ‘political,’ as he implied to others. He knows I know Captain Reddy’s basic plan, and I have a good idea what he’ll do and need. So the ultimate purpose of the Republic ships under your command, Fleet Prefect Tigaas, is to lull the enemy and draw them out, then lunge to seize the opportunity I know will be presented.” He smiled. “And be where Captain Reddy needs us, when he needs us, of course. That’ll be the hard part.”
CHAPTER 6
BLOODY BABY STEPS
////// El Palo
Holy Dominion
May 7, 1945
Fred and Kari had been treated with bemused cordiality by General Cox and his staff during the four days they’d spent with the NUS Army at El Palo. No planes were available to retrieve them, and Donaghey and the Repub seaplane tender/oilers had been busy escorting transports halfway down from Santiago. No warships came closer, for now. The Doms had no navy left and wooden warships were subject to destruction by Leopardo to no purpose. Yet transports loaded with munitions had to make the run, taking their chances with allied planes overhead to warn of the enemy’s approach. Donaghey already had a new plane of her own, but it was busy with the scouts as well. Besides, it couldn’t carry passengers and its own crew. So, specifically ordered by Captain Garrett not to risk passage on a returning transport, Fred and Kari were left to cool their heels in a somewhat . . . awkward environment.
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