Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  Halik flicked his crest, then sighed. “I must agree. That is how you once defeated me.”

  The Celestial Mother had begun to speak and everyone was interested in what she had to say, particularly Halik and Jash. “One more thing,” Niwa said suddenly. “With our strategy outlined, basically attacking Esshk at Lake Galk from two directions at once, we have little need or ability to coordinate tactical movements—the ‘little surprises.’ We will, in essence, be fighting two separate battles so we don’t even need to know each other’s specific plans. We must, however, coordinate their commencement.”

  Pete nodded. “That’s what those are for,” he said, waving at three more wooden crates the Clipper’s crew-’Cats had brought on the dock.

  “And they are?” Halik asked.

  Pete grinned. “Seems I remember you saying you could’ve beat me in India if you had decent communications.” Halik’s eyes went wide and his toothy jaws parted with pleasure. He had no idea how electrical communications—or even electricity—worked, he only knew it did. And the Allies’ ability to talk over long distances had always amazed and filled him with envy. “Bullshit, of course,” Pete went on, “but it would’ve made things tougher. Those crates contain batteries, an aerial, portable hand generator, and a single-frequency CW transceiver. There’s earphones of course.”

  “Single frequency?” Niwa asked.

  “One thing at a time,” Pete replied. “You don’t need to listen to everything. How’s your Morse?”

  “Rusty, but adequate,” Niwa told him.

  Pete scratched his chin again. “Well, it’s mainly a backup anyway, for emergencies, so we’ll have direct contact and you won’t have to go through Enaak if you get separated. I’ll have him loosen up what he tells you, and keep you in the big loop. I expect you to do the same for me, through him.”

  “Enaak and S’ec will stay with us?” Halik asked, surprised.

  “Yeah. You need scouts, and Colonel Enaak’ll have orders to cooperate with you more than ever before. Svec may not like it. Might even peel off. He’s not really under my orders, you know. But I expect he’ll stay. He still gets to kill Grik, and victory here is the best way to protect his people moving back into India.”

  Halik seemed almost overwhelmed. Finally, as they moved closer to where the Celestial Mother was making what sounded like a stirring oration, Halik managed to speak. “General Alden—” He stopped himself and started again. “First General Alden . . . I, I really don’t know what to say. I always knew we’d meet again, but expected one or both of us to die when we did. That thought left me . . . disquieted. Now we have met, and”—he cast a look at Niwa—“my purpose is clear and pure at last. I feel like a great weight has been lifted from me. I’m experiencing unaccustomed anticipation, even pleasure, at the prospect of fighting for a shared purpose with you.”

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t think it’s gonna be fun, but I guess I’m sorta glad we’re on the same side too.” He snorted. “How weird is that shit?”

  CHAPTER 14

  FIRES ON THE HOME FRONT

  ////// USS Walker

  Baalkpan, Borno

  May 13, 1945

  Under a stunning blue, late morning sky, almost exactly a year since she last steamed away, USS Walker prepared to return to Baalkpan Bay. A light northwesterly wind already filled the air with the . . . mixed aromas Matt had come to associate with home on this world: jungle flowers; spicy, open-air cooking; but also creosote, rotting wood, and dead fish. The hot, rancid smell of oil being rendered from the fat of great, whale-sized, predatory gri-kakka was no longer as strong, edged out by wood and oil smoke that contributed to a brownish, low-lying haze. Industry supporting the war effort, and the consequent explosion of the local population was the cause, of course, but Matt could summon little of the remorse he’d once felt over that. The reek of industrial and manufacturing pollution couldn’t even remotely compare with the stench of death he’d so often endured, that once permeated the air here too.

  Walker was bringing up the rear of the column this time, following James Ellis and Mahan, which trailed Savoie and Fitzhugh Gray. Matt thought it might be good for civilian morale if the biggest ships went first. In a nod to the pride and morale of his sailors, he allowed each ship to stream its big battle flag (Stars and Stripes over the League flag in Savoie’s case) and suitable colorful greetings from their signal halyards. Every ship was blotched and streaked with rust, and all but Savoie still wore scars from their last fight on the Zambezi, but Matt was proud of how smart they all still managed to look. Each line was taut or carefully coiled and the decks were as clean as they could be. Moreover, all their guns had already been carefully cleaned and aligned fore and aft, muzzles slightly up, after their predawn gunnery exercise off the southwest tip of Borno.

  And despite how disfigured and insignificant she might appear compared to the rest of the ships, particularly Savoie and Gray, Walker still outshone them all in one respect. Never one to brag on himself (Matt was raised with a “no brag, just facts” personality), he’d long considered the busy collection of flags and silhouettes painted below the rails of Walker’s bridgewings almost comically boastful. They included Japanese, Dom, and Grik ships, Japanese planes—and did they really have to add Grikbirds?—as well as a League submarine. Enthusiastic ’Cats would’ve added all their “assists,” extending the mural to the sides of the amidships deckhouse, but even Spanky had enough, declaring they’d “make the old girl look like some tin-pot dictator’s suit.” They might not’ve known exactly what he meant, but they got his drift. At the same time Matt was relieved by that, he understood the impulse. He was perfectly willing to brag on his old ship and her crew.

  Things threatened to get out of hand, in Matt’s view, when a grinning Sandra defiantly directed that an upended broom be lashed to the rail of the searchlight platform on the foremast when a lookout saw one go up on Mahan. Matt stifled an order to belay the display, based on the fact they had a lot of “sweeping” left to do, but realized that was irrelevant just now. All of First Fleet’s people had been through hell and had a right to be proud of their ships and what they’d achieved. On top of that, they were home. If they can forget, even for a time, that their greatest test still lies ahead . . . more power to them, Matt determined. I wish I could.

  “Savoie’s passin’ Fort Atkinson,” Spanky announced, peering through binoculars on the starboard bridgewing. “Joint’s bigger now, and all the muzzle-loading guns’ve been replaced with dual-purpose five and a halfs.”

  “A new fort on this side,” called a ’Cat lookout to port. “Not as big, but aarmed the same. An’ lots more barraacks at the Baalkpan Advaanced Training Center,” he mused, blinking thoughtfully. Sandra and Diania had come on the bridge, and Sandra stood by Matt’s slightly elevated captain’s chair, eye to eye with her husband. Unlike Matt, still in rumpled khakis, the two women already wore their best whites—as did most of the crew. “I can already tell a lot has changed,” Sandra said quietly. “I wonder if we’ll even recognize the city.”

  One by one, Gray, Ellie, and Mahan all passed the fort and entered the bay, but when Walker drew even with Fort Atkinson, smoke and fire started jetting from the 5.5″ guns. Moments later they heard the dull, windswept boom of the salute begin, and counted seventeen reports. Matt sank lower in his chair. “Good Lord,” he muttered, “that’s the salute for a full admiral. I told Alan—I mean, Chairman Letts—how I feel about that!”

  “Hush,” Sandra scolded. “It ought to be twenty-one, since as High Chief of the Navy Clan, you’re technically a head of state. And what difference does it make, anyway? You still run around claiming to be a lieutenant commander, while giving orders to generals and admirals—even other heads of state, when it comes to military matters. Besides, don’t you see?” She waved around the pilothouse where ’Cats were standing straighter, tails slightly arched, blinking satisfaction. “It’s mostly for
them, anyway. It makes them proud that our people—the people of the Union we all helped build and save—show respect and appreciation for you. You represent them, silly.”

  Matt cocked his head to the side with a crooked smile. “Yeah. I guess. Right, as usual.”

  “Of course I am,” Sandra smugly agreed.

  Two brand-new four-stacker destroyers met them shortly after, racing out with bones in their teeth and peeling in behind Walker. “Look at that, Skipper!” Bernie Sandison said excitedly. “The two new DDs that were undergoing trials while we were up the creek.” He shaded his eyes. “First one’s number twenty-four, so she’s Gerald McDonald. We could call her ‘Mick,’” he suggested for the traditional nickname.

  “Our Imperial Allies will be so honored,” Sandra noted dryly.

  “They should be,” Spanky groused. “But Governor-Emperor McDonald was a good guy. He earned it.”

  “I was being sarcastic,” Sandra pointed out. “And his daughter, the current Governor-Empress, may not be impressed by the flippant handle Mr. Sandison so casually hung on her father’s namesake.”

  “She won’t care,” Spanky assured, though Matt thought she might. From all he’d heard, the little girl they’d left in charge of the Empire of the New Britain Isles had changed a lot.

  “So the other must be Tassat-Ay-Arracca, DD-Twenty-Five,” Bernie continued, then hesitated. “Tassy?”

  Matt shook his head, remembering a terrible night long ago in the strait they just left. “Tassat,” he said definitively. “Besides, we’ll be counting on his daughter’s carrier, USS Madraas, for air support. Better not aggravate her.”

  “Not to mention how thick she is with Keje,” Spanky agreed with an exaggerated leer. “She gets him to pull Big Sal’s air support, we’ll really be screwed!”

  Matt nodded ahead as the bay spread out before them. Unlike Soonda Bay, this was packed with small, swift, sailing craft, jockeying to pace the warships in. There’d be an entirely different kind of welcome here. “Supposed to be another DD almost ready to go,” he said. “USS Adar. I guess they’re the ‘dead leader’ class,” he added sadly.

  “No, Skipper, still ‘Wickes-Walkers,’” Spanky denied, deliberately misunderstanding, and trying to redirect Matt’s thoughts. “The next class’ll have the new DP five and a halfs, though. Same guns as Gray, only a little shorter so they’ll train faster.”

  “They’ll be heavier topside,” Bernie warned.

  “Nah,” Spanky disagreed. “Well, maybe, but the whole ships’ll be bigger. Genuine ‘gold platers.’”

  “Someday,” Bernie pointed out, but then lit with anticipation. “I’m excited about our new Mk-7 torpedoes!” Bernie had been their chief torpedo engineer from the start, but he’d only been able to go so far, basing his designs on the crummy American weapons he was familiar with. But they’d not only gotten their hands on some excellent Japanese fish, salvaged from Hidoiame, but some of her torpedomen as well. They’d been happy to escape Khonashi nooses that went around most of their murderous officers’ necks, and set about redesigning Bernie’s weapons, within a 21″ diameter constraint. Bernie stayed “current on practical field applications,” as he put it, and oversaw the program from afar. Long before the current radio blackout, he’d blessed the production of the new Mk-7 since it was supposed to outperform the Mk-6 in every respect; range, accuracy, and lethality—but at a cost.

  “Oh yeah,” Spanky groaned. “I forgot. Your new fish’re gonna be charged with oxygen instead of just air. Probably stored in big tanks scattered all over our ships, just waitin’ to blow the hell up.”

  Bernie shook his head. “We won’t need much. Just enough to top off leaky air flasks on the fish in the tubes.” He looked at Matt. “Unless we carry reloads?”

  Matt shrugged. Who knew what they’d have to do?

  “What difference does that make?” Spanky demanded hotly. “A single little hit that cracks a fish’ll blow the whole ship in half!”

  Matt cleared his throat. “We may be facing battleships,” he reminded. “No such thing as a ‘little’ hit. So you’re right. What difference does it really make? Stow it.” He nodded out past the fo’c’sle, off the starboard bow, as Baalkpan itself began to come in view.

  They hardly recognized it. The entire shoreline, almost from Fort Atkinson itself to the jutting peninsula where the “new” fitting-out pier used to be was nothing but heavy timber cranes and docks, backed by massive warehouses and other big buildings. Few were easy to identify, but one stood beside another new dry dock, bringing the total of such permanent structures in Baalkpan to three. Matt didn’t know how many floating dry docks there were; he saw two at once, large enough to accommodate even their biggest carriers or seagoing Homes. The old wharves for the fishing fleet had been replaced by shipyards containing a cluster of still more new destroyers under construction. None looked more than half complete, but the ’Cats in Baalkpan had certainly learned the art of large-scale mass production. Three of the shapes were a little different. Two would be the 1,500- ton “gold-platers” Spanky dreamed of, as much like a Sims Class as he’d been able to remember when helping with the initial design. Rising among them was another dream for the future: a proper cruiser incorporating many of the features USS Gray had lacked. Sadly, none would possibly be finished before Matt desperately needed them.

  There had to be new wharves somewhere, judging by the number of fishing boats, and the exponentially greater numbers of mouths they had to feed. Maybe they docked somewhere up the bay, or on the other side beyond the ATC. Perhaps the most striking differences of all, however, were that the great open-air bazaar they found so charming when they first arrived, as well as the gun-bristling earthen berm they’d helped build around the city were both entirely gone. The bazaar had been a bastion of Lemurian culture and Matt regretted its absence, but the missing wall actually troubled him more. A lot of ’Cats had died defending it when the Grik came here, but it also protected against large jungle predators. Before it was built, armed, and garrisoned, all dwellings had to be constructed on high wooden pilings to keep their inhabitants safe. Despite the haven Baalkpan otherwise was, its furry people lived with danger every day. Now, not only was the wall gone—and most of the riotous color of the city, Matt noted as well—only the oldest buildings were elevated. Maybe that’s the reason for all the unrest and war-weariness on the home front, he reflected. People feel too safe. Not only from their own land, with the worst predators hunted out or pushed into the darkest parts of Borno, but from the Grik we slaughtered back to another continent and out of their nightmares.

  “Look there,” Sandra said excitedly, pointing northeast to the interior past a smaller peninsula that used to be the “old” fitting-out pier. Alone of all the docks they’d seen, there was space at that one, apparently awaiting them, because it was absolutely packed with humans, Lemurians, even a few Grik-like Khonashi. And there was plenty of color there, at least; flags of every member of the Grand Alliance waved and fluttered, as well as red, white, and blue bunting lining the dock itself. A tall white mast stood behind the dock with the predominantly white “stainless banner” of the United Homes streaming out from one halyard under the cross spar. It was adorned with the symbol of the Great Tree, surrounded by representations of all the member states in the Union. Flying from the other halyard, at an equal height on this day at least, was the Stars and Stripes of the American Navy and Marine Clan. In Matt’s mind, it would always be the flag of the nation he’d sworn to defend. Of course, the same was oddly, indirectly true for every member of his “clan.”

  But Sandra was pointing at something else: the real Great Tree, towering over the heart of Baalkpan. Matt hadn’t known what to expect. The huge tree, hundreds of feet high (though still not as tall as its ancestral parents on Madagascar, Matt now knew) had burned during the battle here, as had the Great Hall it supported like a gigantic treehouse. The Hall had been re
built and the tree was just starting to recover the last time Matt saw it. Now the new Great Hall looked like a continuous structure all the way to the ground, but the tree itself had expanded even more grandly, thickening and branching out and almost literally scraping the sky. Matt had the impression it was trying to spread its comforting shade across the whole city and he caught himself smiling at the thought.

  MTBs were maneuvering around them and a signal-’Cat on the bridgewing called in. “They requestin’ permission to direct our ships to moorings.”

  Bemused, Matt nodded. “Very well. Honest to God, I wouldn’t know where to put ’em.” There were a lot of ships at anchor in the bay. Most were “heavy haulers,” essentially freighters based on enlargements of the old Scott Class frigate design, but there were even bigger things too, like they’d never yet seen in the west. There were ships that looked like “proper” freighters and oilers, indistinguishable from some Matt would’ve seen in any port on the old world, except these were a little smaller and old-fashioned-looking. And they apparently had wooden hulls, of course. None of the SPDs (self-propelled dry docks) were in residence, nor, sadly, any of the carriers. The SPD Tarakan Island had already sailed east, as had USNRS Salissa and USS Madraas. Matt would’ve loved to share this homecoming with the carriers’ commanders, Keje and Tassanna, but they would’ve arrived weeks before and, as soon as Big Sal completed swift dry dock repairs, steamed east as well. They were just too slow to waste time waiting around, and were probably in the Filpin Lands by now.