Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  Most of the “secondary battery” was giving a good account of itself. Tracers rose and converged on their targets, staggering the beasts in midair. The things were fast, but they weren’t Japanese planes. Some plummeted into the sea with roaring, surprised, wails of terror, where they floundered until something like flashies began tearing at them. Maybe they were flashies. The wails became… worse… then; like horses burning alive. Others flew on, little fazed by holes in their furry, membranous wings.

  “Get away from that thing!” Stites roared at the ’Cat gunner when a higher-flying creature suddenly darted over the ship and released a large rock amid a flurry of Springfield and musket fire. The rock struck between the “Nancy” and the searchlight tower, barely missing the aft engine room skylights. It shattered on impact, leaving a dent in the deck and spraying sharp shards of stone. Stites realized that many of the creatures carried rocks, and others carried… something else… in each eagle-clawed foot. He finished shoving the ’Cat from the gun that had once been in one of the waist blisters of the old PBY and grabbed the handles himself. “Everything in naval gunnery’s about shooting where something’s going to be, Genius,” he ranted. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, you might as well strike for snipe-or go to work for Lanier!” he added as the ultimate insult. He wrenched the. 50 around and crouched bend the sights just as he felt the deck shiver with multiple impacts. The damn things are bombing us! With rocks!

  The 4.7-inch went silent, and a fusillade of small arms erupted from that position. Stites swung the gun aft and up and saw a trio of dragon birds coming in astern. These he could shoot directly at because they were making a beeline for him. He depressed the trigger. A stream of tracers from his gun and the one to port swept across the things, spattering gobbets of flesh and bone. Two dropped in the wake, but one bore in, crippled. It slammed into the aft deckhouse where the old three-incher would have been, and he felt another tremor. Immediately, ’Cats fired down on it from above, and his spine tingled as he prayed they had enough sense to watch for the depth charges in the racks. A quiver started at his neck and ended at his tailbone, but he shook his head when the stern wasn’t blown off.

  “Look out!” someone cried when a dragon bird actually lit on the searchlight tower and attacked the rail with its teeth.

  “Shoot it, but for God’s sake, don’t hit the light!” Stites yelled. Lanier himself waddled from under the amidships deckhouse and hosed the thing with a Thompson. It squealed and tried to lunge at him, but it fell to the deck instead, flailing with wings, teeth, tail, and claws. “Son of a bitch!” It was the closest look Stites had had at the things and he suspected it must be light for its size, but it probably still weighed three or four hundred pounds. Its body and wings were a bright, fuzzy, bluish gray on top, and white-gray underneath. The head was almost orange, with streaks of purple-blue and yellow radiating from liquid yellow eyes. Oddly, the head colors were reflected in the tail plumage to a remarkable degree.

  “Goddamn, creepy-ass…” He looked up. The dragon birds were having more trouble keeping up now, maybe tiring, and some began to fall astern as the ship accelerated past twenty-five knots, smoke gushing from her funnels. Faster ones still dropped things, however, but these objects made metallic sounds when they hit. There were screams from forward, and he saw a couple of ’Cats tumble off the amidships deckhouse. With a sick feeling, he realized one went into the water alongside. Another dragon bird swooped low and snatched one of the fallen ’Cats, a female, who shrieked horribly when the thing leaped back into the air, clutching her in its claws. She must have been too heavy for it, because it immediately lost altitude, though no one would shoot at it-until it dropped its screaming victim in the sea and frantically beat its wings. Probably everyone on the starboard side of the ship shot at it then, and it crashed into the water.

  Stites snatched a ’Cat by the scruff of the neck. “Can you hit anything besides the goddamn ocean with this thing?” he demanded. The ’Cat nodded, and Stites flung him at the gun, snatching up his “personal” BAR. “Keep at ’em,” he yelled, “but watch where you’re shooting! They’re starting to get on the ship!”

  Maybe they were tired, or maybe that was just what they did, but more and more of the surviving attackers lit on Walker and attacked her crew on her own deck. Many converged on the bridge as if sensing that was the “head” of their victim. Stites glanced back at Reynolds. The aviator looked terrified, but he was holding his own, a 1911 Colt smoking in his hand.

  “You got this, sir?” Stites asked. Reynolds jerked a nod. “Watch out for Spanky!” Stites yelled, pointing up at the auxiliary conn, forward of the dual-purpose gun. A pair of monsters had landed there, and Spanky was shooting his own pistol now. Stites aimed and fired a burst at the head of one of the things. It fell on the starboard propeller guard and vanished in the roiling wake. Spanky, or someone, apparently killed the other, but more were trying to land. “Watch him!” Stites yelled again, “and watch yourself! I’m going forward!”

  “This just about beats all!” Kutas cried when a “dragon bird” threw something that ricocheted off the number one gun’s splinter shield, then flared out for a landing on the fo’c’sle. The Bosun had run down there with his Thompson to protect two ’Cats who hadn’t made it to cover and were trying to conceal themselves around the gun. The. 30s up above were still chattering loudly, but either they had problems of their own or were afraid to shoot so near their shipmates. Gray ran at the thing, roaring like a demon to distract it from the helpless ’Cats. It whirled on him and snarled, and he fired a burst that sent it tumbling into the sea.

  Matt ran to the aft rail and looked up and aft. They’d made a dent-a big one-in the terrifying creatures, and many had finally peeled off and headed back toward the island. But now the stubborn ones, maybe twenty or more, seemed intent on attacking the bridge. He leaned over the signal flag locker to see down on the weather deck below. One creature lay dead beside the base of the number one funnel. Carl “Boats” Bashear was carrying a ’Cat toward the companionway to the wardroom, and he almost slammed into Bradford who was apparently coming up to see what was going on. The Australian froze, despite Bashear’s harsh bellow, and just stood there, staring around, enchanted.

  “Get below!” Matt yelled. Instead, Bradford seemed to notice the dead creature for the first time and started in its direction. A dull shadow fell across him. “Damn it, Courtney,” Matt roared, “get below!”

  Bradford looked up, and that was all he needed to break his trance. Instantly, he whirled and chased Bashear down the companionway. The signal halyard ropes slapped Matt across the face and chest and sent him reeling back into the pilothouse, stumbling, and finally falling on his back. A dragon bird, still trailing the parted lines, landed in the cramped space where he’d been. Minnie squeaked and started to duck behind the chart house bulkhead, but she reversed course in an instant to try to drag her seemingly stunned captain to safety. She was half his size and just couldn’t do it. Jenks shouted and ran past her, sword in hand. Slashing at the monster’s face, he didn’t see the wicked claw at the bend of its wing slash in from the left, across his shoulder, sending him sprawling as well. The thing hopped forward, squalling, trying to shake off the halyard lines. Matt, now kicking with his heels to help Minnie, fumbled for his pistol. The Colt came out, and flipping off the thumb safety, he emptied the magazine at the creature. It screamed and flailed more violently, but now Matt had time to stand. Inserting another magazine, he took more careful aim and shot the dragon bird dead with a pair of shots.

  Another flared just above him, going for the fire control platform. He shot at it too, but what probably brought it down, almost on top of the other one, was a staccato of Thompson and BAR fire that sprayed blood all over Matt and the side of the chart house, and sent a cloud of downy fuzz drifting quickly aft. There were more shots from both guns, but Matt couldn’t see the targets. He grabbed Jenks, and with Minnie’s help, dragged the Imperial underneath the ove
rhead.

  “I’m fine,” Jenks protested, “I’m quite all right!”

  “You’ve got a pretty good cut there, Commodore,” Matt said, peeling back the bloody coat and weskit beneath. Jenks had been slashed f but Matt shoulder, across his chest, and upward across his chin. The firing finally began to slack outside, and Stites and the Bosun crawled gingerly over the dead beasts clogging the space at the top of the ladder, pointing their muzzles at them as they crossed.

  “You okay, Skipper?” Stites demanded anxiously.

  “Swell. Commodore Jenks is wounded.”

  Gray pulled a field dressing from a small pouch on his belt and tore it open. Ripping an envelope with his teeth, he leaned down and sprinkled the contents on Jenks’s wound.

  “What’s that?” Jenks demanded.

  “Sulfonamide,” grunted the Bosun. “We’ll get you fixed up with some polta paste pretty quick, but who knows what kinda germs is smeared all over them devils. Better get started on ’em.” Gray fluffed out a wad of gauze and handed it to the man. “Here, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Hold this on, there on your chest-that looks the worst-and keep pressure on it.”

  “Help me up,” Jenks insisted. Together, they assisted him to his feet. “That was… extraordinary!”

  “You said it,” confirmed Stites in a loud voice. He shook his head and moved his jaw, trying to pop his ears. “Flyin’ Grik! What about that?”

  “Dragons,” Jenks corrected, wincing, “but perhaps ‘flying Grik’ describes this group better,” he acknowledged. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Never.”

  “Lookout,” Matt said, “what’s he see, Minnie? What are those damn dragon things doing, and what of the enemy fleet?”

  “There no answer from crow nest, Cap-i-taan,” reported the diminutive talker. “Spanky say Grik birds go ’way, fly back to island. He no shoot number four at them no more, you say so. Run low on time fuse shells.”

  “Of course. Tell him to cease firing and secure. Can he see the enemy?”

  Minnie hesitated, listening. “They make sail,” she said. “Warships get between us and transports, transports make smoke-maybe steamers-we too far now to see what tents do, but he think enemy going on transports.”

  Matt nodded. The enemy was moving. But where would they go? They’d done some serious damage, but not enough.

  “Spanky say there even more flying Grik now,” Minnie continued. “He send ’Cat up aft mast wit bin-oculaars. More flying Grik over enemy fleet, but not attacking them.”

  “Amazing!” Jenks said. “It must be true, then.”

  “What?”

  “Think on it! Somehow the Doms have the dragons in their power! They command the beasts! I would’ve never believed it.”

  “What do you mean, ‘in their power’?” Gray grumbled.

  “Why, they’ve trained them somehow, of course! Perhaps from birth. That must be it.”

  “Makes sense, Skipper,” Stites said. “Raise ’em from a chick-or whatever…”

  “Yes!” Jenks agreed. “And feed them, tend their wants, train them to consider you their masters… Amazing!”

  “Yeah, but scary as hell,” Matt said. “We were in the middle of maybe winning the war, and got chased off by giant flying lizards!”

  “We can go back, Skipper,” Kutas said gamely.

  “Noo… As Spanky said, there’re even more back there. We’re going to have to play something new. We can’t fight the Doms and those things,” he said, gesturing at the corpses behind them. “The gun’s crews would be sitting ducks.” He looked at Jenks. “What kind of range do they have?”

  “The dragons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s an interesting question. They’re rarely seen more than thirty or forty miles offshore.”

  “Guadalupe’s a hell of a lot farther than that from Baja,” Gray said.

  “Indeed,” Jenks agreed. “Perhaps a hundred and fifty miles. No doubt it was a one-way trip, straight out.”

  “Which means there almost had to be ‘handlers,’ or some kind of support for them practically due east.”

  “Which means they’ve been preparing for this a very long time,” noted Jenks darkly. “I begin to fear there may be more than we bargained for, even on New Ireland. I so wish we could pass a message back to the Governor-Emperor!”

  Ed Palmer had appeared on the bridge, staring wide-eyed at the dead, winged… things. He shook his head. “I still have nothing from Admiral McClain… sirs… or any of our ships either. We took a dogleg course, but they were supposed to come straight on to Saint Francis. Maybe they got caught up in the storm northeast of us, or it’s interfering, but I’m thinking they should’ve been in range for us to hear something by now. Our transmitter’s a lot more powerful, and I keep sending our position and intentions…” He held out his hands. “Maybe they’re hearing us, but I haven’t heard a peep back.”

  “We’ll hear something in a few days,” Matt said with conviction, “even if only from ‘our’ ships. Simms, Tindal, Mertz, and the oilers are on their way, even if McClain dawdled. They had their orders.”

  Jenks looked at Matt. “I’d like to apologize, Captain Reddy,” he said.

  Matt blinked. “What for? McClain’s probably on his way, as he promised. Even if he is goofing around, it’s not your fault. Besides, you probably saved my life when you went at that… dragon bird with a sword -and got cut up for it.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I must apologize for… influencing you and your crew to take an unreasonable risk. You were right. They did know we are at war. They can only have trained dragons for the attack we withstood today, and they’d only have gathered at Guadalupe Island to prepare an assault on the colonies. I shouldn’t have made you feel… compelled to follow outdated rules.”

  Matt shook his head. “Doing the right thing should never be outdated, but in this war, the ‘right thing’ gets… blurry. Don’t worry about it. It took us a while to get used to it too. Maybe it was easier because we were fighting a ‘mean’ war before we ever wound up here.” He frowned. “We would’ve gotten a few more of their ships if we’d shot first, but not many more, and not enough to make a real difference. Only sinking the transports might have done that, and they were too well screened. The dragon birds made the difference in the end.”

  “What’ll we do, Skipper?” the Bosun asked. “We gonna shadow the Doms, keep an eye on what they do, or make for Saint Francis?”

  “rancis. We know it’s got to be their objective, even if we don’t know their plan. Better to warn the colonies and help them prepare for as many contingencies as we can think of. Besides, we burned a lot of fuel today. Shadowing them will cost more-especially if they throw those… things at us again. For all we know, they’ve got them as tame as puppies, feeding them and letting them roost on their ships!” He stared hard at the dead creatures on the bridge, their blood beginning to congeal in long, lumpy puddles on the strakes. “We’ll have to do something about them.”

  “What?”

  Matt sighed. “Right now, I have no idea. However they did it, the enemy has air cover and we don’t, basically.” He looked at Minnie. “Secure from general quarters, but maintain condition three… as always. Helm, make your course three, five, five, if you please. Two-thirds. Boats, get with Bashear and form a detail to clear my ship of these flying vermin. I want casualty and damage reports as soon as possible.” He looked around. “Does anybody know if the ‘Nancy’ made it through in one piece?”

  Lieutenant Fred Reynolds sat on the deck, leaning on the light gauge “tub” encircling the gun position while its crew cleaned and secured it. His pistol was still in his hand, but the slide was locked back on an empty magazine. His eyes rested on the shattered head of one of the giant lizard birds that lay in the gap at the back of the tub and he shuddered. Suddenly, the exec, Spanky McFarlane, appeared, looking down at him.

  “There you are, Reynolds!” he said. “I was starting to think one of those
boogers carried you off!” He looked down at the creature at his feet. “Got this one, did you? Well done!”

  Reynolds stood, a little shakily.

  “Here, gimme that,” Spanky said, motioning for the pistol. Fred handed it over, and Spanky released the empty magazine and stuffed it in a pouch on Reynolds’s belt. Taking another, he inserted it, dropped the slide, and flipped the thumb safety up. He handed the pistol back. “Keep that handy,” he said. “Damn things might come back.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Spanky looked around. The day was still cool, but his face glistened with sweat. “A hell of a thing. Listen, round up your crew chief-Jeek, right?-and go over the plane. It looks like it’s mostly in one piece. Skipper wants it ready to fly as soon as possible.” He noticed Reynolds’s suddenly pale expression. “ Ready to fly. You ain’t going up with the sea like this. Send any of your fellas that ain’t hurt to Bashear-you got any hurt?”

  “Ah, I’ll find out immediately, sir.”

  “Okay. Make sure they go to the wardroom, even if it’s just a scratch. No tellin’ what they’ll catch from these nasty bastards.” He kicked the dead beast. “Any others you don’t need right away, send ’em to Bashear so we can clear all this buzzard bait off the ship.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. McFarlane,” Reynolds said to Spanky’s back as the man moved on. He took a breath. “Okay, you heard him. Wounded to the wardroom.” The crew from the portside gun had joined them, and he called out a couple of names. “You’re with me,” he said. “We’ll satisfy the ‘condition three’ requirement. The rest, find Bashear. He’ll tell you what to do.” He saw Kari Faask gingerly making her way through the corpses on deck, past the departing ’Cats.