Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  Matt nodded. Everyone might be waiting on them now, but they’d been waiting on others first. One of the big four-engine flying boats had arrived about half an hour before, flying in from the east. “Okay. Let’s get this done.” He glanced at Keje. “I don’t think the Nussies’re going to like it much.”

  Salissa’s Great Hall was less than a quarter as large as before the massive seagoing Home was smashed at the Battle of Baalkpan and rebuilt into the Allies’ first carrier. Even then, its remnant had been partitioned into many compartments, including staterooms for visitors and Keje’s own quarters. There was still a spacious conference room, however, entirely unique in the Alliance. Growing up through it, rooted in the ship’s very keel and carefully directed to the side and upward as it also recovered from the ship’s near destruction, was the flourishing remnant of the Galla tree that served as a living symbol Salissa remained a Home and not just a warship. That was important to her people. After the loss of Humfra-Dar, then Arracca, Salissa was the only carrier boasting a shady canopy between her forward superstructure and exhaust funnels, so in addition to her many accomplishments, that made her a precious symbol for the Alliance as a whole. Matt—and Keje, of course—was uncomfortably aware that, though her great size kept her more capable than smaller, newer, purpose-built carriers, she and USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), built to the same dimensions, were also slower and more vulnerable to a modern opponent. They’d have to keep that in mind.

  A soft carpet of fine, silvery-green Galla leaves reappeared each day that the overhead awning wasn’t rigged and they added a pleasant sense—and scent—to the chamber even when it was packed. Like now. Everyone stood from stools and chairs as Matt escorted Sandra to the broad head of the massive, hand-carved table, where they were joined by Keje and Tassanna, as well as High Admiral Jenks and Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan. Matt noted that Silva (without Petey, thank God), along with Lawrence, Diania, Juan Marcos, and several of Salissa’s Marines, stood behind where they’d sit. All the warship skippers (Spanky was there for Walker) and division commanders of the auxiliaries flanked the table. Nat Hardee and his XO of MTB-Ron-5 were standing by Tara’s skipper. COFOs Tikker and Orrin Reddy were with Ben Mallory, Jumbo Fisher, and a tiny ’Cat Matt remembered was called “Shirley.” Chack was down the table with representatives of their land force, flanked by Abel Cook and Enrico Galay. So many more faces, so many friends—so many legends, now, Matt realized, and so many gone. It dawned on him then that Doocy Meek and Sir Sean Bates were the only members of his “staff” that wouldn’t’ve been there anyway, but he thought differently about that now and delegated a lot more. Commanding something this size, he had to.

  Standing between Meek and Bates at the far end of the table were their visitors, and Matt gladly recognized one immediately. Commander Greg Garrett was Walker’s gunnery officer when she came to this world and distinguished himself commanding one of the first sailing frigates they built to oppose the Grik. Like Walker, USS Donaghey had endured terrible maulings and outlasted all expectations. Reliant only on the wind, she and her gallant skipper and crew had been the perfect choice for an indefinite scout into the Atlantic to make formal contact with the NUS. Their adventures along the way had made them icons of the Union, and in many ways, set the stage for the current operation.

  Matt didn’t know the two men with him, both shorter, wearing dark blue uniforms with the only apparent difference being that the older, gaunter, gray-haired man’s coat was closed with more brass buttons than the younger, blond man’s. Both wore black cravats that seemed to be trying to escape from behind tall, stiff collars.

  “Captain Reddy, Admiral Keje,” said High Admiral Jenks, “may I present Admiral Robert Semmes and Leftenant Tomas Perez Mole of the New United States Navy.” He smiled. “You remember Commander Garrett, of course.”

  “You bet,” Matt said, smiling. “Well done, Greg. And I’m very pleased to meet you, Admiral Semmes. Lieutenant Mole. Have a seat, everybody. Coffee? Iced tea?”

  While ’Cat stewards filled mugs, Matt watched their visitors thoughtfully. “Congratulations on your promotion, Admiral,” he said. “My last report had you a commodore.”

  “I wasn’t raised on merit, I fear, only survival,” Semmes replied cheerlessly. “Admiral Sessions is still military governor of Cuba and in charge of our overall effort against the Doms, but General Cox has the army and I’ve got the fleet—such as it is.” He nodded at the young man beside him. “Your reports may also have mentioned my aide—and future son-in-law.”

  Matt blinked confusion, but realization dawned as Greg explained significantly. “He was Atúnez’s only surviving officer.”

  “Really? That League destroyer you sank with Donaghey and your prize, Matarife?”

  Greg chuckled, glancing apologetically at Mole. “Yeah, and I don’t mean to laugh. It wasn’t funny. What tickles me is how mad he was at the time—rightfully so, I guess—but how fast he switched sides when he got to know the Nussies . . . and Admiral Semmes’s daughter. She’s a dish, and poor Fred Reynolds was sweet on her too. He might’ve moved quicker if he knew Tomas was after her.”

  Mole smiled a little shyly and spoke in near-perfect English. “It was you who taught me to act so decisively and irresistibly, Captain Garrett. At the same time that I . . . regret the violence of the lesson and resulting loss of life, I’ve come to consider it a blessing of a sort.” He looked at Matt. “I understand if you’re suspicious of me; we discussed this beforehand and I’ll wait elsewhere while you talk if you wish. But please understand two things. First, the NUS has a long history of converting—perhaps ‘rescuing’ is the better word—prisoners they take from the Dominion. It requires little effort, really.” He waved in the general direction of El Corazon. “As you’ve already discovered, a little kindness and a glimpse of a better way instead of the life of daily abuse they endure, or atrocities they’re taught to expect from us, works wonders.”

  He paused. “Yes, ‘us.’ I’m an officer in the NUS Navy now, wholeheartedly, because I was saved in much the same way. Most soldiers and sailors of the League are young men like myself who came of age under the fascist oppression and brutal intolerance of what became the League. They know nothing else, and without the examples I’ve been blessed with, they think theirs is the better way.” He hesitated. “They’ll fight for it rather mercilessly, and you can hold nothing back. They won’t. All I ask is that, if the opportunity presents itself, you’ll show individuals the same mercy I was given. You’ll only grow stronger with each one you save.”

  Matt rubbed his chin, thinking about Walbert Fiedler, Kurt Hoffman, and all his submariners. There was truth in Mole’s words. Then again, what about those like Dupont? he thought darkly. He’d always preferred to think of things in terms of black or white, right or wrong, but experience had taught him everyone harbors varying shades of gray in their soul. Over time, they’d encountered good and bad ’Cats, Japanese, Doms, even Grik. Now Leaguers. There’d been bad men in Walker and Mahan when they first came here, and if Silva wasn’t the “grayest” thing alive, he was a turnip. All you could do was oppose the darker streaks when you found them. In yourself as well as others.

  “No, Mr. Mole, please stay. I assume your assignment as aide to Admiral Semmes is based on more than your engagement to his daughter?”

  “Yes sir. I’m aware you discovered, at least roughly, what the League can bring against us, but based on my own experience and . . . clandestinely gained knowledge of what’s arrived and what’s still due at their forward base on Martinique, I’m prepared to advise you as best I can. I was astonished to see Savoie anchored among your ships, by the way. I can only hope the enemy will be equally surprised.”

  “We can all agree on that, and I’m anxious to hear anything you can tell us.” He looked around. “Well then. Let’s get started.”

  As it turned out, Mole was as good as his word and the first half of the lengthy conference dev
eloped into a polite but fairly intense interrogation of the young man, interspersed with comments and observations by Semmes and Garrett. Mole knew the League’s capabilities, and a lot of other intelligence had been gathered by spies and careful aerial observations made by a slowly growing Allied scouting force. As they’d suspected, the League had bases in the Azores and Cape Verde Islands, as well as a small outpost at Ascension. Matarife settled this, posing as a Dom frigate again. They’d actually felt fairly safe doing that, doubting the Doms would’ve reported her capture to their allies. They were right, and she’d sailed close enough to also confirm the bases were little more than way stations, supply and fuel depots, and none were strongly held. Apparently, they relied on the ships trickling through to Martinique for protection.

  Martinique was another matter. Its impressive anchorage had been dredged and Atúnez’s wreck was righted and moved, for later salvage, no doubt. Docks, storehouses, and fuel tank batteries had been built on ground hacked from the snake-infested jungle by five thousand Spanish troops, and at least two airfields had been completed with antiaircraft guns emplaced around them.

  “Jesus!” Spanky exclaimed. “What’ve they got on the water?”

  Semmes took a folded page from his coat pocket and began to recite from a list in a somber tone. “Arrivals have accelerated over the last few weeks, but as of our latest direct observations, there appear to be five of what you call battleships, six cruisers, and six destroyers anchored rather closely together in the harbor.” He looked up. “It’s fairly large, but not terribly deep. Other than Leopardo and another destroyer still based at Puerto del Cielo—which have harassed our positions at El Palo and Monsu—three destroyers are usually at sea around Martinique on patrol, but they haven’t ventured far.” He handed the sheet to Mole, who continued for him.

  “I’ll be happy to give you the particulars of each ship to the best of my knowledge—” He stopped and his face turned glum. “But it’s a very powerful force. And if our information is correct, it’ll soon be joined by another battleship, two cruisers, and several more destroyers. They’re currently en route, perhaps already at the Azores.”

  Matt kept a straight face. He—and a very few others—knew all that, courtesy of a surveillance report Hoffman left with Jenks before proceeding through the Pass. He also knew the bulk of the League’s oilers were accompanying that force. He was actually somewhat relieved by this ultimate corroboration of Hoffman’s . . . if not necessarily “loyalty,” at least “commitment” to the Allied cause, and wondered if there was anything Courtney Bradford could do about those reinforcements. The oilers in particular were critical to his plan.

  “Shit,” Spanky breathed in the near silence. He knew what Matt did, of course, but was more focused on the lengthening odds.

  “Airpower?” Ben Mallory practically barked.

  “Fifty aircraft altogether, split between what you call medium bombers, dive bombers, and fighters. They may get more,” Mole added doubtfully, “but that’s already more than half the modern aircraft the League possesses. Their own efforts at local construction don’t yet match your first planes.”

  “Still, altogether, a little more tonnage than we’d really hoped to face,” Matt confessed dryly.

  “Actually, more than anyone did,” Mole agreed, “and perhaps more than the League can afford to send. I can only wonder what new imperative aroused the Triumvirate to support Gravois’s scheme so vigorously. Perhaps the Pass of Fire was more important to them than we imagined?” He bit his lower lip. “Regardless, they’ve certainly sent more than they can afford to lose. I pray you have a plan to make them see that.”

  “Maybe we do,” Matt said slowly, cutting his eyes at Sandra while clutching her hand under the table. Of all his “staff,” she was still the most important. Not only did she know his plan, she knew his fears and helped him figure out ways to minimize them. “First, let me get this straight; everything they have so far is at Martinique?”

  “Everything on this side of the Atlantic, at any rate, except a large auxiliary named Ramb V and a small oiler lingering near Puerto del Cielo, possibly as tenders for Leopardo and her consort.”

  “How often do they sortie?” Matt asked.

  “Every few days,” Greg Garrett replied, “but not always to haunt the sea-lanes. Sometimes Leopardo runs up to Martinique.”

  Matt grunted. “Leopardo, huh? Interesting. We’ve met her before. I wonder if Gravois is still in her?”

  Mole cleared his throat. “Given time, the League forces will disperse, likely seizing the rest of the nearby islands, probably even Puerto Rico and Hispaniola once open hostilities commence. They must, since the Dominion still won’t allow ‘heretic’ air bases or port facilities on their soil.”

  “Stupid of the Doms—and stupid of the League to put up with it—but good for us if we can move fast enough.” Matt shook his head and looked at Admiral Semmes. “All the airfields we requested are under construction?”

  “Virtually complete, though I remain somewhat mystified why you want to conceal some and not others. Particularly those closest to Santiago.”

  Matt drummed his fingers on the table and replied starkly. “Because Santiago’s going to take a beating. Nothing for it. The League’ll eventually pound it to rubble from the sea and air if for no other reason than it’s your principal city and seaport on Cuba. You might even say I’m counting on it. . . .”

  Semmes’s face clouded. “I protest, sir! Admiral Sessions will protest! As our ally, you should help us defend it for that very reason!”

  “We can’t.”

  Semmes looked shocked.

  “Look,” Matt said, “did Admiral Sessions agree to follow my lead in this or not?”

  “He did,” Semmes agreed cautiously. “He had little choice.”

  “No, he didn’t. And you need to get it through your head that we’re all going to take a beating.” His gaze swept the other faces around the table. “And we’re going to lose a lot of planes—our older ones—on the ground around Santiago. Is this starting to make more sense?”

  “So . . . Santiago—and your planes—will be a lure so you can strike while they’re spread out?”

  “Sure. A lure to split them up—they’ll never send their whole force to Santiago—and hopefully a way to reinforce their arrogance. They can’t know we brought every plane we could lay our hands on, airworthy or not. Some are wrecks and some’ve never even been assembled, still in their crates, stashed in freighters. But our newer planes’ll be on our carriers or at other fields. If they take out some—quite a few, I expect—and think they’ve hammered all our land-based air, they might not look for the rest. In the meantime, though, we’re going to hit them on the move, at anchor, in daylight and dark, to keep them running in all directions. What we absolutely can’t do is let their whole force bunch up and box us in, see?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” Matt frowned. “And to do that, we have to scatter for a while as well. You can’t imagine how much I hate that,” he confessed, “and we can only do it because of your help.” He couldn’t mention U-112 and her contributions. Their visitors would be heading back. If they were shot down and captured . . . “We now have a pretty good idea about the enemy’s strength and disposition, as well as one very critical material deficiency,” he added cryptically. “Just as important, it’s starting to look like they don’t know near as much about our strength as we were afraid they did, and when they finally catch sight of some of our elements, I hope their compositions and positions will only add to their confusion.” He paused and looked at High Admiral Jenks. “That brings us to assignments. We don’t need a CINCEAST anymore, so you’ll be in charge of our battle line: Task Force Jenks.”

  To his credit, the Impie admiral started to protest that he had no notion of the tactics they’d devised for the new cruisers, and certainly not Savoie, but Matt waved it a
way. “Rely on Russ Chappelle and his staff to bring you up to speed, but in the meantime you’ll focus on the logistics requirements of the overall strategy. We’re all going to split up and bunch up from time to time, and you’ll make sure the independent elements stay supplied.” Matt saw another concern cloud Jenks’s expression and guessed what it was with a smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll keep Admiral Lelaa, in one of the fast carriers.” He turned to Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan. “You’ll turn Maaka-Kakja over to Tex Sheider and shift your flag to New Dublin. Makky-Kat will stick with Big Sal, forming Task Force Keje.” He didn’t say they had to keep their two biggest, slowest carriers together—and hidden as well as possible—for a time. He chuckled at a sudden thought. “You might as well transfer Gilbert Yeager back to Walker before you go. I doubt Makky-Kat needs him anymore and I’m sick of reading his requests. Guy writes like somebody inked a mouse’s feet and chased it across a sheet of paper.”

  He looked at Tassanna. “Madraas and Gray will stick with TF-Keje until all the planes we’re putting ashore have been dispersed. After that, they’ll form the core of TF-Tassanna and head back toward TF-Jenks’s operating area. But don’t join. You’re our semi-independent reserve and I want you to disappear. Stay close enough to Jenks that your planes can keep you in contact and you can support one another if you have to, but otherwise keep your scouts up and stay as far from anything as you can.” He looked back at Jenks. “Is that clear to you, High Admiral?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Matt gathered the rest of the faces into another long gaze before fastening it back on Semmes. “Now that’s settled, and I’ve told you how we keep from getting caught and slaughtered, here’s how we’re going to win. . . .”

  CHAPTER 26

  ////// West of Nuevo Granada City

  Holy Dominion

  July 23, 1945

  I confess, General Shinya,” General Hiram Cox of the NUS Army remarked quietly, gazing intently east at the dazzling white city of Nuevo Granada and the Templo de los Papas. “I never truly believed we’d make it.”