Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Then we stand on the defensive at present,” Cox approved, “but what exactly is your ultimate plan?”

  Shinya waved that away. “It’s impossible to tell you exactly just yet, but if Mayta does as I suspect he must, once Eleventh and Fifteenth Corps arrive, we should be able to combine certain historical operations Mayta can’t expect and I’ve always admired. We can’t count on any air support of our own,” he lamented, glancing up at the circling dragons, “but unless those things see better in the dark than I’ve been informed, we should still be able to apply a few tactical improvements.” He looked back at Anson. “Better maps of the area are essential: every road, trail, ravine, and promontory. There’s also a river somewhere ahead, and we need its exact course, and any fords and bridges.”

  Anson pursed his lips but nodded. The information Shinya wanted might be costly to obtain.

  “Whaat then?” Blas pressed.

  “Then, Colonel,” Shinya replied, expression hardening, “we’ll amuse General Mayta with an escalating series of engagements unlike anything he’s ever seen.”

  CHAPTER 27

  ////// Leopardo

  Puerto del Cielo

  July 25, 1945

  Capitano Reddy has come through the Pass,” announced Capitano di Fregata Ciano, almost dashing into the wardroom where Gouverneur Militaire du Protectorat des Antilles Victor Gravois sat alone in the compartment under an oscillating fan, legs crossed, drinking a kind of spicy local tea. He’d just arrived from Martinique in Ramb V that morning, after further tedious consultations with all the officers now under his command. (It still amazed him that all his machinations were finally bearing fruit.) He’d only be here a couple of days, pumping Don Hernan for information from his spies in the vicinity of the Pass of Fire, but he’d immediately shifted back to Leopardo for the duration of his stay. Ramb V was larger and more comfortable in every respect, but the presence of Oriani’s living corpse, sequestered in his stateroom, bothered Gravois almost as much as it seemed to disconcert Ramb V’s crew. He’d thought getting them away from here might help them—and it did—until they had to turn back to Puerto del Cielo. Now he glanced up from the report he’d been writing for the Triumvirate and saw the Italian officer slapping a yellow sheet of paper in his hand.

  “Indeed? And how can you possibly know for certain?”

  “Because our Heron saw him off Jamaica!” Ciano exclaimed indignantly. The Heron was a CANT Z.506, the only one of its kind on this world. It had been sent out on one of the cruisers now at Martinique, and Gravois was stunned the Triumvirate (and Field Marshall Messe in particular) had been willing to part with it. He’d been pleased, of course. With its three engines, long range, and heavy construction, it was arguably the best scout plane the League possessed.

  “Saw him? Don’t be ridiculous. What was he doing, walking on water?”

  Ciano clenched his teeth. Gravois was in one of those moods. He waved the yellow paper. “It reported seeing two enemy destroyers screening several other ships, heading north, clearly bound for Santiago!”

  Gravois frowned. “Then perhaps it’s true. Just two destroyers? Our latest intelligence gives the enemy at least one, possibly another copy.” He sniffed. “Then again, the Americans will have had to rely on their animal friends to make them, as well as their supposed new ‘cruiser’! Ha! Perhaps they couldn’t complete the voyage. What else did the Heron report?”

  Ciano almost enjoyed telling Gravois the rest, if only to see the look on his face. “That it was under air attack by swift little blue planes. Without floats,” he stressed. “The transmission was cut off, mid-sentence, so we must assume the Heron was destroyed.”

  Gravois stiffened. Derisive as he might be about Allied shipbuilding, he recognized and respected what they’d done in the air. He’d even tried to get the Triumvirate to authorize converting one of their precious cargo ships into a carrier. They still might, eventually, but there was little point at present. They had no carrier planes. But he’d been persuasive enough about the threat to get a lot of the League’s airpower sent to counter it. “Carrier planes,” he stated flatly. “Here, in the Caribbean. It must be their ‘Maaka-Kakja,’ already repaired. Survivors from the dragon raid said she was least damaged.”

  “What if they sent another one?” Ciano asked.

  Gravois shook his head dismissively. “They couldn’t have. We know for a fact the war against the Grik still rages in Africa, and victory there has always been their primary focus. I’m surprised enough that Captain Reddy would abandon that other front. No choice, I suppose, with us here, but just as well in the end.” He stood, beginning to smolder. “But as instructed, I’ve waited and waited for all our forces to arrive before doing more than interdicting NUS supply ships down to El Palo. I’ve waited long enough! Our force is already irresistible, and frankly, we can afford to lose a ship or two, if required.”

  “Perhaps,” Ciano granted, “but our fuel reserves still limit our movements. Those fat battleships are far too thirsty. It would’ve been better if they sent only cruisers and destroyers. They could easily deal with anything we’ll ever face here.”

  Gravois touched his right index finger to his chin, visibly calming himself. From a practical standpoint, Ciano was right, but he’d asked for the battleships. His expressed purpose was to overawe the League’s adversaries (and allies), but his primary, secret objective was to take them from the Triumvirate for himself. “I’ve proceeded with utmost caution to this point,” he said, glancing at Ciano, “in all our endeavors. More fuel and forces are on their way but we must move boldly and decisively now. If Captain Reddy is here with his modern ships and a carrier, he will certainly do so. As I’ve said many times, we mustn’t underestimate him. He’s an amateur, but a gifted and aggressive one.” He paused and looked at Ciano. “Aggressive to a fault—like you, my friend. Tell me, what would you do in his place?”

  Ciano shrugged off the comparison but stepped to the chart pinned to a panel on the wall. “He must first secure a base of operations, as we have done, while at the same time protecting his carrier. Galveston or Mobile on the North American continent would serve well enough, but he is aggressive and they’re too far for his planes to fly. Santiago, Cuba, is the only place near enough to suit him, I think, with a good anchorage and fueling facilities. He’ll use that as a base from which to harass us with his destroyers,” he pronounced with growing confidence, “and put many of his planes ashore before sending his carrier out of our reach in the Gulf.”

  Gravois was nodding. “I believe that’s precisely what he’ll do, and that makes our course plain. We must prepare to sortie the fleet and every bomber with sufficient range to utterly pulverize Santiago. It’ll take some days to prepare, but that’s to the good. It’ll give Captain Reddy time to begin unloading his planes and commence necessary maintenance on his ships, but not enough time to use them, or prepare any surprises for us. Perhaps we’ll even catch Captain Reddy and his precious Walker tied to a pier, and blast them to oblivion.” He chuckled. “Whether we’re that lucky or not, the devastation we unleash will give the NUS pause to wonder if they should oppose us further.”

  Gravois sat back in his chair. “Summon the Heron to take me to Martinique. . . .” He paused, grimacing. “I suppose not. And I dislike flying in those smaller scout planes. You’ll take me to Martinique in Leopardo,” he decided.

  “Of course,” Ciano said, glad as always to move his ship away from Puerto del Cielo. “But speaking of the other scouts, I think you should confront Don Hernan and insist he allow at least some to be deployed on his coast. They can do nothing bottled up at Martinique. They haven’t the range. And the probable loss of the Heron is like losing one of our eyes.”

  Gravois was shaking his head. “I’ll speak to Don Hernan, and stress the critical nature of the situation.” He smiled wryly. “He’s increasingly concerned with the progress of the enemy armies in the vic
inity of New Granada, and has gotten much better about coming out when we signal him.” He turned almost giddy. “I wonder what ‘His Holiness’ would think if he knew I couldn’t possibly care less about the fate of his filthy capital. Not even whether it stands or falls. The armies there will slaughter one another and it’ll make no difference in the end. All is starting to fall into place for us, Capitano Ciano! We have our fleet and the blessing of the Triumvirate to dominate the Caribbean. Now, Captain Reddy has offered himself up for destruction. Once that’s complete and the Pass of Fire is retaken—by us—we can dictate terms to the NUS and turn the Dominion to our will with or without Don Hernan. We’ll be awash in fuel, slaves, raw materials . . . all the things so precious in the Mediterranean, and we’ll own this hemisphere, secure against any threat. Even from the Triumvirate,” he added lower, his voice bitter.

  Ciano smiled. For the first time it seemed Gravois’s grand scheme really couldn’t fail and he cast all but practical, everyday reservations aside. “You amaze me, sir,” he said truthfully. “But do you think it wise to leave Ramb V and the Churrucca alone here with the oiler? And what about the planes?”

  “The Churrucca will accompany us to Martinique for repairs.” She’d been mobbed by floatplanes when they shelled Monsu, and taken some surprisingly serious bomb damage. “The other ships can take care of themselves. Ramb V alone is nearly as heavily armed as the enemy light cruiser—that probably never made it here. Perhaps I’ll send them upriver?” he mused. “Don Hernan has hinted he’d like to return to New Granada, which means he’s desperate to do so. I’m sure he’d enjoy the accommodations aboard Ramb V—and I might use that to gain some leverage to make him relax his tedious proscriptions against our people on his soil.” He shook his head. “But I don’t intend to strip the cruisers and battleships of their scouts just yet. They might need them when they sortie.”

  CHAPTER 28

  ////// Upper Galk River

  Grik Africa

  July 28, 1945

  Colonel Enaak sopped foamy sweat from the top of his furry head with a ragged, dingy brown bandanna, once a bright yellow. The high-elevation afternoon sun dried the lather almost at once, turning the fur stiff and bristly. Tucking the cloth in the pistol-cutlass belt around his middle, he plopped the hot helmet back on his head and took a quick sip from his canteen. Still lukewarm from the morning’s boiling pot, the water wasn’t very refreshing. And the sweet-sharp bite of seep was as acutely absent as a cherished friend.

  The purplish, rather pear-shaped polta fruit provided essential nutrients when eaten or its juice consumed. Aged and mysteriously (to Enaak) prepared polta paste eased pain and prevented infection when applied to wounds. Just as important to many, the juice was rendered into various . . . recreational libations, the strongest and most popular being seep, and the army and navy could hardly function without it. Not for its intoxicating effects—use for that purpose in the field or at sea was strictly forbidden—but mixing roughly one part in ten was usually sufficient to kill the harmful bugs lurking in streams of foreign lands where they filled their canteens and water butts. Other than the obvious ones they filtered out, along with sticks and other debris, Enaak couldn’t see the bugs—Svec called them “germs”—and assumed they were invisibly tiny infant versions of the ones he could. Every type looked perfectly capable of eating somebody from the inside out and giving them a terminal case of the runs. So “seeping” water was a regulation practice unless, like Enaak’s and Svec’s, one’s forces had outrun supply and all the seep was gone. In those situations, the manual—Flynn’s Tactics—prescribed boiling all drinking water.

  “Let’s go,” he called behind, briskly whipping Aasi’s reins. The naturally armored case covering a me-naak’s spine, head, and vitals was insensible to a rider’s legs and even spurs were useless, so rein movements and tension, both visual and felt—particularly when communicated to a spiky rowel on the bridle under the more sensitive lower jaw—were the primary means of control. Exceedingly well-trained and long-service me-naaks, like Aasi and the rest in Enaak’s 5th Maa-ni-la Cavalry, were sufficiently attuned to their riders by now that some thought they read their minds. They certainly understood various voice commands, unless drowned in the roar of battle. That didn’t mean they always obeyed. They were apparently fearless and never shirked a fight, but might refuse paths with unsure footing likely to cause a fall that would injure them and kill their rider. In thaat respect, they’re prob-aably smarter thaan we are, Enaak suspected. Aasi accelerated into a smooth-gaited gallop, up a low rise on the spur of a near naked mountain. The second of four battalions—the 5th Maa-ni-la was over strength—flooded up the grassy, stump-dotted rise behind him in a long column of fours, the clatter of their carbines and harness sounding very loud in the still air and sprawl of mountain roots.

  Nearing the crest, Enaak pulled up, joined by Major Nika-Paafo. Nika was young and relatively inexperienced, coming to the 5th only after it shadowed Halik all the way across Indiaa and Persia. He’d matured a lot in the saddle, over Arabia and a good chunk of Africa, and finally earned his place as commander of the 2nd of the 5th and Enaak’s XO. The standard bearer drew to a stop beside them, the shot-torn black and gold swallowtail fluttering high. “Lower thaat,” Enaak cautioned, as the rest of the battalion flowed into double lines to either side. It was a fluid, effortless maneuver, honed by countless repetitions before fights and skirmishes too numerous to count, across a distance Enaak could hardly imagine. “Scouts ahead,” Enaak called. Three troopers loped forward another sixty yards before dismounting. One ’Cat held the animals and two crept to the peak of the ridge.

  Nika mopped his sweat-thickened fur as well, and sighed. “I thought it was supposed to be cold in the mountains,” he mock complained. “Pilots always say the higher you fly, the colder it gets.”

  “We’re not high enough, appaarently,” Enaak said. “And I don’t think it would make much difference here. They also say we’re right on the middle of the world, where the sun comes closest when it paasses overhead. The ‘ee-kwaay-taar,’ they caall it.” He paused and blinked confusion. “Or it’s where the world spins closest to the sun. . . .” He shrugged. “I forget, and I’m no Sky Priest to understaand such things, or really much care. Either way, it seems only naturaal thaat the higher you go, the hotter it will get.”

  Nika said nothing and Enaak suspected he knew the answer, but didn’t want to embarrass him. He’d had more contact with Impie scholars, not to mention “old” destroyermen he’d taught with at the Maa-ni-la Advanced Training Center while recovering from a wound received during the New Ireland campaign, his only great action. But while Nika had been essentially repeating to recruits what he’d learned from his inexperienced instructors, Enaak had amassed a vast trove of practical battle wisdom. Probably the most important thing Nika had learned since joining the 5th was to shut up and listen when Enaak and Colonel Svec talked.

  Now they watched the two troopers ahead go to their bellies, tails consciously lowered, and peer beyond the ridge. One glassed what he saw with an Impie telescope, dark with tarnish, while shielding the lens from the sun. The other scratched notes on a scrap of wood with a charred stick. Finally, they slithered backward and jogged to their animals, then galloped the short distance to Enaak and Nika.

  “Whaat did you see?” Enaak asked.

  “Griks, sur, lots of ’em,” the trooper with the glass told him, but he was blinking uncertainly. “No works, no formation. They just . . . down there, in a mob.”

  Blinking surprise, Enaak urged Aasi forward, followed by Nika. Together, they reenacted the movements of the troopers until they too gazed down the slope. The north end of Lake Galk spread before them in a great ragged V, from where the river emerged from a gorge to the west. The bright sun made the water hard to look at, and flanking mountains were blurred and purpled behind rising haze. Looking closer they could see there were a lot of Grik, among maybe thirty haph
azardly placed banners. They’d been told each vaguely Japanese-looking flag represented the Grik equivalent to a company, roughly two or three hundred warriors, but there wasn’t anything like the nine thousand Grik the banners indicated. Maybe five? Both Lemurians extended their telescopes, covering them as the others had.

  Enaak focused. Like the trooper said, the Grik weren’t doing much. They weren’t stacking breastworks or digging, or acting like they had the slightest care. There were a lot of smoky fires under the ubiquitous copper cauldrons all Grik armies carried. Nika gasped.

  “What?” Enaak asked.

  “There sir, near the middle. Look at all the bones!” Enaak did. The pile of bones with the meat boiled off was huge and bright, easily mistaken for a heap of stony mountain rubble like they often saw—if it weren’t for all the Grik gathered around, cracking bones for the marrow. “It . . . looks like they fought a baattle and they’re eating all the slain!” Nika continued. “We didn’t haave anyone . . . ?”

  “No,” Enaak replied with certainty. No one was out beyond the 2nd of the 5th.

  “Not even Col-nol Svec?” Nika pressed, though he knew the Czech Legion had been detailed to lead a brigade of Halik’s troops across the river. They’d find a good place for the brigade to set up a blocking force and leave a couple of companies themselves, before rejoining the rest of the army’s push down the east side of the lake—where most of the Grik were supposed to be.

  “No,” Enaak said again, tail twitching behind him like lice were crawling on it. “Those’re Grik eating Grik. Eating their own, on a fairly laarge scale.” He rolled over on his back and started to slide away.

  “But . . . they alwaays do thaat, don’t they?” Nika asked, emulating his superior. “Even Haalik’s army eats its dead,” he added with disgust.