Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Sur,” the ’Cat cried breathlessly, “COFO Leedom’s respects, sur. All his strikes an’ recon birds is in the air.” They knew that. The motors they heard and the mayhem underway across the river were sufficient evidence. Rolak gave a hurry-up gesture, like he’d seen Captain Reddy do many times. “Ay, sur. COFO Leedom confirms there’s a ‘aabso-lute shitload’ o’ Griks in front of us.” Rolak nodded. He expected that. The Marine continued. “Whaat’s weird is, the air corps haas . . . took custody o’ some Jaap planes an’ pilots, who spilled some o’ Esshk’s plaans.” His eyes went wide and he blinked alarm. “COFO Leedom fears ‘the shit’s fixin’ to hit the faan’!”

  Rolak’s response was interrupted by several things at once. First, as good as his word and having gained the heights across the gorge to “join” Esshk’s defenders, Jash immediately attacked. The trenches erupted in confusion, fire, and rising white smoke. The stream of warriors crossing the bridge must’ve heard the strident recall horns because it began to jam up and stall—just as a flight of blue and white Mosquito Hawks roared up the gorge at Rolak’s eye level. Unheard in all the noise of engines, renewed battle, and the smoky, tumbling torrent of water, their machine guns slashed the vulnerable Grik. As if that had been their signal, more horns blared, seemingly mounting into their hundreds, as countless Grik banners rose into view beyond the crest Rolak’s army approached. And louder than everything all together was a sound like continuous thunder, getting louder overhead. Looking up, they watched a solid white streak of cloudy smoke, high above, draw a stark line from north to south across the brightening sky. It looked like a Grik antiair rocket, only much, much larger—and another was rising to follow from somewhere out on the lake.

  “Whaat are those things?” Bekiaa breathed.

  Rolak didn’t reply, startled when the first smoke line abruptly ended and the larger part of the rocket tumbled away. He thought the thing had malfunctioned, like so many Grik rockets did, but a flash behind the smaller front section preceded another line of smoke, thinner, more erratic at first, but it quickly straightened and started down. “Whaatever they are, they’re aimed at our ships on the river, under some kind of control. . . .” He blinked astonishment. “Like suicider bombs Grik used to drop from their airships! A waarning to Gener-aal Aalden at once!” he told the runner, who immediately bolted back toward the comm-cart. “Not thaat it will arrive in time,” Rolak added almost conversationally, drawing his cutlass and pointing it forward. Thousands, tens of thousands of Grik were marching over the crest ahead, shoulder to shoulder. Bright musket barrels and bayonets glittered above seemingly endless ranks extending as far to the east as Rolak could see, easily matching the length of his own three-corps line. And the fluttering banners were all the same, so similar to the Japanese flag of Kurokawa’s they’d fought so long, with its bloodred rising sun. The only differences were that the flaring rays were less numerous, the field a dusty tan, and the center circle was embraced by a pair of distinctively Grik swords. Esshk’s own flaag, Rolak thought. Gener-aal Aalden would find it remaarkably appropriate, I think. He also suddenly knew, somehow, that Pete should’ve been here, and he should’ve been on the water with I Corps after all.

  “I think COFO Leedom waas incorrect,” he stated dryly. “The shit already haas ‘hit the faan’!” Tail high, he whirled to the Repub bugler and the runners drawing up around him, speaking quickly. “Signaal Gener-aals Faan, Ra-Naan, and Mu-Tai to prepare for a gener-aal ad-vaance behind four-raank volleys.” He shuddered inwardly at the thought of the cost of reverting to linear tactics, but they might have no choice. “They must keep their alignment at all costs, allow no breakthroughs, so they may haave to close their raanks as well. Aartillery and maa-chine guns to the front, mortaars behind. Fourth Corps will remain in reserve.” He gazed east-northeast, and saw the army’s distant right flank crawling up the denuded slope of a mountain that grew quite steep. He couldn’t see the far end of the Grik line yet; it was still cresting the rise. But the mountain would anchor his right, the gorge his left. “I believe I’ll move more to the middle,” he told Bekiaa apologetically in their native tongue. “May the Maker of All Things watch you closely this day.”

  With that he trotted away, followed by more than half the runners. Bekiaa turned back to the front. The Grik had halted at the crest, less than half a mile away. The horns went silent, but then the Grik began a roaring drone of their own. It was an awesome thing, a hungry thing, punctuated by a thunderous, staccato thumping sound, like a great beating heart, as they slammed the butts of their muskets against the ground.

  Machine guns and cannon took their places in the line, troops moving aside for them. The cannon crews looked particularly exhausted after hauling their guns all this way themselves, like Grik, but they shoved their weapons into battery with a will, quickly taking implements and making ready.

  “I hope ol’ Rolak hurries,” Optio Meek murmured worriedly. “Be nice if we were already hammerin’ the buggers. How come our planes ain’t hittin’ ’em, all bunched up in the open?”

  “I suspect they’re suddenly preoccupied looking for the source of these new rockets,” Bele said, pointing up. Two more of the things were racing across the sky.

  “It’s okaay,” Bekiaa said softly. Everything else was forgotten, the strange rockets, the battle already raging on the west side of the river. Her whole attention was focused on the Grik in front of them. “We got time. Grik’re still gettin’ their shit in the sock. Us too.” She blinked . . . anticipation, something Meek never would’ve expected, no matter how well he thought he knew her. “We all gotta be good an’ ready for whaat’s comin’ next,” Bekiaa almost whispered.

  Trilling whistles swept the line, joined by bugles, even drums, and ten batteries of “Napoleons,” three of Derby guns—almost sixty cannon in all, minus those damaged hoisting them up the cliff and others that broke down on the way—thundered and vomited fire and shot at the numberless horde before them. Exploding shells snapped and sprayed lethal iron amidst dirty gray rags of smoke. As far as Bekiaa-Sab-At was concerned, the real battle, the retribution she’d longed for since Flynn’s Rangers were massacred on North Hill in Indiaa, had finally begun.

  CHAPTER 33

  ////// RRPS Servius

  Galk River

  Grik Africa

  July 31, 1945

  What the hell,” Pete murmured, looking at the message form a Repub sailor brought Captain Quinebe, and Quinebe immediately passed to him. After “irresponsibly indulging himself” (Captain Reddy’s scathing words) leading the breakout from Tassanna’s Perimeter, Pete decided to command Operation Noose from the safety of RRPS Servius, the best-protected ship in the Allied river fleet. At the moment he was standing on the repaired starboard bridgewing with Quinebe, the ship’s engineering officer, several lookouts, and a Maxim gunner—and Sergeant Kaik, of course. Even bein’ extra “conscientious,” he’d told himself piously, since all the roundshot from the shore batteries is hittin’ the port side of the ship. But I’m missin’ Jash’s big change of colors! I can barely see it from here, but he is doin’ it. He felt somewhat vindicated. He’d never really doubted Jash would keep his word, but a lot of people had. Bet that gives old Esshk the droops.

  Then, of course, the message form arrived. “What does it say, if you don’t mind my asking?” Quinebe prompted. To his credit, he’d only glanced at the heading where it said TO FIRST GENERAL ALDEN.

  Pete frowned. “It’s from COFO Leedom, commandin’ air ops from a PB-5 Clipper.” He pointed up and added sarcastically, “Bein’ ‘responsible,’ like me. Says those five Jap planes Ando had squirreled away just showed up over Saansa Field at first light. Could’ve raised a lot of hell if they wanted to, and Leedom’s got egg on his chin even if his CAP bounced ’em fast.” He shook his head. “Our fighters knocked two down on the first pass, but the Japs didn’t scatter. Didn’t do anything but roll over on their backs, flyin’ upside down.
The reporting flight leader said it was like they were wavin’ their wheels in the air like legs. Smart—and gutsy, after we already killed two of ’em.”

  “And?” Quinebe pressed.

  Pete snorted. “Bastards’d painted ‘Don’t Shoot’ on the bottoms of their wings! Leedom’s fighters rounded ’em up and pushed ’em down. Soon as they stopped rollin’, three starvin’ Japs jumped out and took to yammerin’ that Esshk had ships about to shoot guided rockets at us. Maybe some other shit.”

  “Guided rockets?” Quinebe said, eyebrows rising, equally incredulous.

  “Yeah,” Pete murmured, his own brows knotting. “Leedom’s plane—two of his Clippers—have Jumbo Fisher’s first torpedo mounts under the wings. We all thought we’d see the last Grik ships when the balloon went up, and Leedom wanted to test the rig in combat.” He shook the page. “But if this is on the level, he has to get those rocket-shootin’ ships fast. He’s already heading over Lake Galk, an’ pulling damn near every plane we have after him to hunt ’em down.”

  “That seems . . . excessive, and it’ll leave us with no air cover of our own.”

  Pete shook his head, then tilted his helmet aft, where Liberator’s bulky form was rounding the bend, attended by the comparatively small armored DDs. “No choice. All our ships could be sittin’ ducks for somethin’ like that, and most of First Corps and part of Fourth Corps are packed in those big tubs like scum weenies in a can. We gotta get ’em ashore.”

  “What’s a ‘scum weenie’?” Quinebe inquired.

  “Never mi—”

  “Gener-aal! Cap-i-taan!” Sergeant Kaik cried, pointing at the sky over the gorge, just as the lookouts in the fighting top started shouting through the voice tubes. They saw the same white streaks that Rolak had, though his warning hadn’t yet arrived. Even as they watched, a smaller section jetted away from a powerless, tumbling cylinder and streaked downward at an impossible speed.

  “Those’re suicider bombs—with rockets up their ass!” Pete ground out with certainty. “Maneuver your ship, Captain Quinebe. Message to the transports: head for shore. Ground your ships if you have to. All other ships will scatter.” His orders were superfluous. Quinebe was already bellowing for full speed ahead—there was almost no room to maneuver here, where the river narrowed at the base of the first open lock—and the dual-purpose guns on the DDs started booming at the sky independently, trying to put a curtain of iron in front of the descending rocket plane. Their skippers were all veterans of the battles of Madraas and probably recognized the threat faster than Pete. Not fast enough.

  The first suicider was heading straight at Servius. But either the Grik pilot misjudged his angle of attack or Servius’s sudden acceleration threw him off and he quickly chose another target. Almost faster than they could see, with tracers uselessly crossing the sky behind it, the big flying bomb slammed into the river close alongside RRPS Ancus. With a loud, dull blast, a huge geyser of smoky water towered high, heaving the ship aside and splashing down across it. Pete was no navy man, but he’d been in plenty of actions at sea. He knew even a near miss that size would cause a lot of damage. How much was immaterial, since a second suicider immediately crashed Servius’s sister right behind the pilothouse. A great explosion shook the ship, blowing her funnels down and tilting the bridge structure forward. An instant later, a cloud of scalding steam enveloped Ancus amidships. Flames leaped skyward and the stricken monitor swirled away in the rushing current.

  “More comin’ in!” a Lemurian lookout cried. They saw two more, clearly going for Liberator, just now turning for shore. The first went straight and true, right into the massive ex-battleship’s side. The blast blew armor plating away like sheets of crumpled black paper and smoke belched out of a gaping hole that appeared at the bottom of the casemate, extending down to the waterline. The fourth flying bomb overshot its target and the pilot tried to correct. Stubby little wings fluttered away and it went out of control, blasting up a pillar of river water in front of USS Bowles. In all the confusion, none of the lookouts on Servius ever saw the fifth and sixth suiciders coming in, both of which hit USS Raanaisi almost simultaneously. The huge ship convulsed under the dual hammerblows, both high and almost straight down. Funnels toppled and steam jetted from all the empty gunports aft. A relatively small internal explosion jolted the massive vessel and she lost way, starting to settle by the stern. ’Cats were pouring out of the big troop doors they’d built into the forward casemate and scrambling out on the fo’c’sle.

  “Jesus!” Pete gasped, seeing the carnage inside the sinking ship in his mind. “All DDs to Raanaisi’s aid!” he shouted past Quinebe at a signal-’Cat. “Get our people off her!”

  “Right full rudder!” Quinebe shouted abruptly. Distracted, he’d nearly forgotten his ship was still charging toward the lower locks. The great gates stood ajar, high above her now, and the water was swifter, increasingly rough, splashing back over Servius’s fo’c’sle and swamping the base of her forward turret. Pete glanced up at the improbably huge structures, apparently concrete, though they were so old and eroded, it was impossible to distinguish them from solid rock. His horror and urgency were momentarily touched by wonder at the sight of the ancient feat of engineering. How the hell? And they’ve gotta be supported on the bottom, somehow. All that weight . . . He shook his head. Not the time. “And tell COFO Leedom to kill whatever the hell’s shootin’ at us right damn now!” he roared.

  Over Lake Galk

  “I’ll be damned, there they are!” Commander Mark Leedom agreed when his Lemurian copilot pointed at a surprisingly large gathering of ships near the middle of Lake Galk. His four PB-5D Clippers and the 4th Pursuit Squadron protecting them had actually been first to arrive. The rest of his Clippers were scouting and observing elsewhere and all the closest attack planes, venerable Nancys and Repub Cantets, had expended their ordnance and were returning to base to refuel and rearm. Captain Araa-Faan’s 8th Bomb Squadron, just up from Arracca Field, was close behind. “Where’d they get ’em all?” Leedom murmured as they closed the distance. Twelve improved “Azuma Class” Grik cruisers were anchored in a circle. Azumas were lightly armored wooden-hulled steamers about 300 feet long, normally armed with everything from 40 to 100 pdr guns. Tougher than Allied sail-steam frigate “DDs,” even after the latest modifications, they were slower and their guns didn’t have the range. Still, they were small enough that the Grik had obviously been able to hide them from prowling Allied planes along the convoluted shoreline. It was harder to credit how the Grik concealed the two huge ironclad battleships the cruisers now surrounded.

  How didn’t matter now, only that they had, and the bigger ships weren’t ordinary BBs. One was wreathed in sufficient smoke, trailing off to leeward, that it almost looked afire. Leedom doubted that. The smoke was gushing from open bays, fore and aft, and he knew these were the things Ando described, that had launched the rockets raising so much hell downstream. Even as he watched, white smoke billowed out the back of the casemate of the second ship before it spurted out the front, chasing another suicide rocket bomb streaking off to the south.

  “Shit!” Leedom shouted. “They spit out another one! We have to hit ’em now.”

  “Whaat we do?” Leedom’s copilot challenged. “Only two of our Clippers got torpedoes, an’ them croosers is aanchored too tight to the taargets. How our fish get through?”

  Leedom grimaced and pressed the Push to Talk button on his radio microphone. “Captain Araa, this is Black Cat One, over.”

  “This is Cap-i-taan Araa,” came the female Lemurian’s sometimes frustratingly husky voice. “Whaat happened to ‘raadio discipline’?”

  “In the crapper, and we don’t have time. Just split your squadron and attack from east and west. Blast those Grik cruisers and make lanes for me and Black Cat Two to stuff our fish in those big bastards’ guts.” Black Cat 2 was the other Clipper carrying a pair of Mk-6 Baalkpan Naval Arsenal torpedoes. �
�Black Cats Three and Four will follow you with their bombs, if they’re needed, but we need a clear shot for our torpedoes.”

  “You alwaays take the good jobs,” Araa-Faan mocked lightly, but she wasn’t really kidding. “Why not my Naancys go for the missile ships?”

  Leedom’s voice hardened. “Because you’re not carrying AP bombs and those bastards are armored. You might get lucky, but we don’t have time to screw around. You can take the cruisers with whatever you’ve got, even incendiaries.”

  There was a moment’s sullen pause. “Wilco, Blaack Caat One,” Captain Araa replied. Another rocket blasted away from the second ship. “Shit!” Araa snapped. “We attaacking now!”

  The four lumbering Clippers flew over the formation of enemy ships, at about three thousand feet, and started to circle while Araa’s Nancys dove on the cruisers. White puffs of smoke appeared in front of the attacking planes, as antiair mortars lobbed exploding shells in the sky. Those could be very dangerous, making a curtain of musket balls and iron fragments that could shred fragile planes and pilots. It was nothing unexpected, however, not like the sudden violent explosions that blew two cruisers completely apart before Araa’s planes even got close—or the heavy gush of smoke that engulfed four more as they spat eighty antiair rockets into the sky, lancing straight at Leedom’s Clippers.

  “Break right! Dive!” Leedom shouted in his mic, turning the leather-bound wheel before pushing the yoke to the stop. Heavy explosions, much bigger than the mortar bombs, bounced the big plane around, and there was a drumming sound as fragments tore through wood and fabric—and flesh. A pair of wind-whipping holes appeared in the side of the cockpit by Leedom’s copilot and the side of his face was splashed with blood, sticky and hot. His copilot lolled forward against his restraints, eyes staring, jaw slack.