Pass of Fire

by Taylor Anderson

  “Maybe. Squeeze him hard,” Matt stressed.

  “You bet. My only question now is, Do we keep him here or send him to Baalkpan?”

  Matt waved a hand. “Up to you.”

  “Yes, sir. Baalkpan, I think.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Matt bit his lower lip, swirled the cold dregs of coffee in his cup, then turned to Oberleuitnant Kurt Hoffman. “I trust Fiedler. I’d like to say his word’s good enough for me, but the stakes are too damn high. I want to trust you, and joining our cause with a submarine’s a pretty impressive gesture of support—no matter how desperate you might’ve been.”

  Fiedler had described the circumstances that brought them U-112. The French Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois—a stone-cold, lying bastard in Matt’s view—had been the head of French Naval Intelligence in matters concerning the Grand Alliance. He’d sent Fiedler across from Leopardo (Dumped him, Matt translated) when the big Italian destroyer left the Indian Ocean. Fiedler carried orders for U-112 to linger and report on developments Gravois set in motion, specifically the outcome of the confrontation between Matt Reddy’s First Fleet and Hisashi Kurokawa on Zanzibar. He’d obviously hoped they’d shred each other like fighting cocks. He’d very nearly been right.

  Hoffman had already suspected U-112 was being abandoned, however. His sub couldn’t get home on its own, there’d been no provisions for replenishment, and their only base in the region was lost. With tensions between the League and Grand Alliance so high, only a strong force could come to their aid—sparking the very war Gravois’s strategy was designed to delay. Hoffman and Fiedler both determined that U-112 and its crew had been sacrificed, just like Savoie, to Gravois’s ambition. But unlike the bulk of Savoie’s French crew, carried away in Leopardo, no effort would be made to rescue them. They were only Germans, after all, not numerous or powerful enough within the League to rate full membership in the ruling Triumvirate.

  U-112’s entire crew decided as far back as that that they’d probably have to seek asylum with the Allies. But Fiedler was adamant that Captain Reddy wouldn’t grant it if they refused to fully cooperate. Even neutrality wasn’t an option, and Fiedler had finally resigned himself to that as well. Initially reluctant to share information that might hurt the German contingent in the League, he was committed to opposing anyone, German or not, who’d defend what the League was becoming. Especially after it finalized an alliance with the Holy Dominion.

  U-112 dutifully reported periscope observations that the Battle of Zanzibar had commenced and was apparently just as bloody as Gravois hoped, and then abruptly went silent. She hadn’t made a peep since then, but she’d listened, and if anybody cared to wonder about them, they’d think the big German submarine was sunk by the Allies or one of the monstrous fishes cruising the sea on this terrible world. Possibly just as important, it might be a while before the League discovered that First Fleet had not only beaten Kurokawa and already landed in Grik Africa, but they’d also taken Savoie as a prize.

  Matt chuckled lightly. “And to think how many times we tried to sink you, all while you were just trying to wave at us . . .”

  “I assure you, Herr Kapitan,” Hoffman interjected wryly, “it was not so amusing from our perspective. More than once, you nearly did sink us.”

  Matt nodded. “That would’ve been tough. Anyway, I’m sorry this is the first chance I’ve had to talk with you. I’ve been pretty busy at Tassanna’s Toehold—the beachhead we established upriver—these past few weeks.” His expression turned stony. “It’s pure hell up there: trench warfare, nose to nose—exactly what we didn’t want to get bogged down in.” He shook his head, focusing back on Hoffman. “I haven’t had a chance to tour your boat either, so why don’t you give me a rundown on her condition and the state of your crew?”

  “Of course, Herr Kapitan.” Hoffman made a face. “As I’m sure you might expect, U-112 is not in prime condition. She’s been on station in these waters for almost five months and the crew hadn’t been ashore since our last replenishment at Christmas Island, before you found our base. Thank you, by the way, for making a place for them here.”

  An old Grik fort and small town of sorts had stood at the mouth of the Zambezi. Pulverized by bombs, neither had been rebuilt, but now there was a city of hundreds of tents housing an ever-growing stockpile of war material, new arrivals, troops rotated back from the fighting, and many of the wounded they’d suffered. Officially, it was the Rest and Reorganization Area, but somebody’d started calling it Camp Simy, and it stuck. The whole thing surrounded a big new airstrip named Arracca Field, where hangars and workshops were going up and ramps were under construction down by the water. Soon, Jumbo Fisher’s Pat-Squad 22 with its big Clipper flying boats, would move down from the Comoros Islands and double or triple the tempo of their heavy-bomber sorties over Sofesshk. Pertinent to the conversation, however, U-112’s crew had been billeted ashore, where they could breathe fresh air, sleep in tents, and feel dry land beneath their feet.

  “I appreciate that,” Hoffman said sincerely, “and so do my men.” Matt nodded. “As to my command, you’re familiar with her type?” Hoffman asked.

  “Sure,” Riggs piped up, then blinked apologetically at Matt in the Lemurian way. Matt motioned for him to continue. “You Krau— I mean, Germans had the same thing on the world we came from, though not many, if I recall.”

  Hoffman seemed a little taken aback by how informally Matt interacted with his subordinates. And Courtney Bradford would be fascinated by how casually we all now accept that we come from different, divergent worlds, where history can be just a little changed, or a lot, depending on how far back things veered off track—from our perspective, Matt amended to himself.

  “On the other hand, they—and yours—are pretty impressive,” Riggs continued. “Bigger than our newest Fleet boats back home.” He chuckled grimly and glanced at a porthole, but U-112 wasn’t visible. “Hell, they’re bigger than Walker. Nearly as big and well-armed as this cruiser.”

  “Ja, powerful,” Hoffman grudged, “but not considered successful by our navy. Few were made, which makes them more difficult to maintain. And mine”—he also glanced at the porthole—“needs a great deal of maintenance.”

  “Like what, in addition to diesel, of course?” Riggs asked. They’d made diesel fuel at Baalkpan and Tarakaan for S-19, and the ICE houses—internal combustion engine plants—were working on diesels of their own. But there wasn’t much fuel, and none was here.

  “There’s external damage, inflicted by some very large sea creatures”—Hoffman shuddered at a memory they could sympathize with—“as well as . . . more recent damage sustained when a few vasserbombes came uncomfortably close.” He looked at Matt, almost apologetically. “Otherwise, much has been . . . How do you say?”

  “Jury-rigged,” Fiedler supplied, and Hoffman gave him an appreciative nod. “U-112 is operational in the strictest sense of the word, but perhaps not reliably so.”

  Matt looked at Keje. “How are repairs coming to Big Sal?”

  “Almost complete,” Keje gruffed. “There’s daam-age below the waterline thaat Tarakaan Island caan’t get to, but it will keep for now.” Tarakaan Island was a self-propelled floating dry dock, but wasn’t big enough for something the size of Big Sal. Covered with cranes and full of parts, she could perform almost any other work, however.

  “Very well,” Matt said. “We’ll put U-112 in Tara’s repair bay. Do what we can for her. But I want her on her way to Baalkpan as fast as possible. A week at most. We can get her back in dry dock there, where our best people—some ex-submariners themselves—can help get her back in fighting trim.” He looked at Fiedler and they shared a nod. “We’re going to need her.”

  “I don’t have fuel for a voyage all the way to Borneo,” Hoffman protested.

  “I know. She’ll have to be towed. We’ll use a couple of heavy haulers, heading back empty. It’ll be a
long trip, but save what fuel you have in case the weather turns bad.”

  “You mean . . . I’ll be allowed to remain in command?” Hoffman asked tentatively. Obviously, that’d been much on his mind.

  “Sure. For now, at least. You know your boat better than anyone, and can start teaching the prize crew how to operate her.”

  “Prize crew?” Hoffman asked dubiously. “You’ll take my people from me?”

  “Only some,” Matt assured. They were down to it at last. “Look, like I said, I want to trust you, but to earn that trust and keep your boat, there’s a few things you have to get used to. First, I’m going to have to keep my eye on you for a while, and I’ll do that through the people with you.” His expression hardened. “And almost all of them’ll be ’Cats.” He nodded at Keje, Rolak, Chack, then Juan’s assistant. “I don’t know about you, but Gravois—and the League in general—considers Lemurians ‘ape folk,’ and less than human. Well, they aren’t human, but they’re just as much people as anybody. Is that clear? This is your chance to get used to the idea, because where you’re going, humans of all sorts are only about ten percent of the population. You’ll be in a distinct minority, and, what’s more, you come from a power that’s done us a lot of harm. You might have to take—and roll with—some pretty hard feelings. If you make it through that, Chairman Letts’ll have a better idea what you’re made of, and my decision to let you keep your boat’ll be based on his recommendation.” He paused. “And chances are, you’ll lose more of your old crew at Baalkpan because pig-boat sailors, their personal hygiene aside”—he grinned to soften the blow—“generally have more technical knowledge than other sailors. They have to.” He gestured to Steve Riggs to continue.

  “I’ve been ashore talking with them, and whether you know it or not, a lot of your guys, though admirably loyal to you, don’t want back in your boat. Can you blame them? So we’re sending some down to the Republic shipyards at Songze, maybe others in the west. They won’t be prisoners,” he hastened to add, “and I expect they’ll be happy as clams. Lots of Repubs, human and ’Cat, speak German. Especially in the shipyards. Most of the engineering instructors and advanced tech they’re working with came with a German ship that showed up in the last war.”

  “SMS Amerika,” Fiedler supplied quietly. “Long story.”

  “And some’ll stay at Baalkpan,” Matt repeated, “because we need their expertise. I expect our snoops’ll run ’em through the wringer,” he confessed. “Most of the Leaguers we took at Zanzibar weren’t very cooperative. But your people won’t be mistreated—you have my word. What all this boils down to, though, is that you can stay at Baalkpan too, if you want, as an advisor to Chairman Letts and Henry Stokes. That’s what Fiedler plans to do. We can use you there, and you won’t have to directly fight your countrymen. Think about it.” Matt’s eyes narrowed. “But to keep your boat, you’ll join our cause and the American Navy Clan. That’s the deal. What’s more, you’ll probably have to take her out against the League someday, with a crew that’s mostly ’Cat. Can you handle that?”

  “I . . . suppose I’ll have to see,” Hoffman promised vaguely.

  “Good enough for now.” Matt looked at the others. “So, the reason I wanted to get all this out of the way first, even while our most pressing concern lies up that nasty damn river to the west, is that we needed to get the sub sorted out, and . . .” He paused and frowned at Pete Alden. “It’s possible you might lose some of your naval support right when you need it most.”

  “Say what?” Pete snapped, then recovered himself. “Sir.”

  Chack and Rolak leaned forward, but Ben only nodded. He was one of very few who’d known from the start. Keje had now been told, as had “Spanky” McFarlane, Safir Maraan, and Courtney Bradford. Possibly a dozen others knew by now, including Letts, Stokes, and Riggs, of course, as well as Kaiser Nig-Taak of the Republic of Real People, and High Admiral Harvey Jenks and Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald of the Empire of the New Britain Isles. Each might’ve confided in a very few others. But besides the obvious—that the League was now allied to the Holy Dominion—information, largely supplied by Fiedler, regarding what military resources the League could bring to such an alliance had been kept mum. It was believed if news like that got out, it might hammer morale. But with so many Leaguers now in custody, the facts would spill sooner or later, and might even get exaggerated. Better to dish out the straight dope than have it trickle out.

  “We knew all along the League had a lot of power behind it,” Matt temporized. “It consisted of most of a task force meant for a big job, after all. What we never dreamed was that it came here at anchor, in the port of Tripoli, and it brought a good-sized chunk of the city itself along with it.” He nodded at Fiedler to continue, and the man cleared his throat.

  “It was . . . horrible. Everything—the ships, portions of the Tripoli we knew, the people ashore, thousands and thousands of tons of military equipment staged for our effort against the Englanders—just . . . fell out of the storm that swept across us. Few of the ships suffered significant damage, though a couple of them were grounded.” He raised an eyebrow. “And by that I mean they landed onshore and were fit only for scrap.” He rubbed his brow. “Worst of all was the city, of course, along with all its people, docks, warehouses, cranes . . .” He shuddered. “It all just crashed down atop what was apparently another city, already there, full of humans”—he nodded at the ’Cats—“some . . . different Lemurians, and other, ah, beings.” He took a gulp of tea, clearly making an effort to push the nightmarish images from his mind.

  “Besides the trauma of our arrival, on both sides—the carnage was indescribable—the indigenous folk were not glad to see us. They had a relatively robust civilization with various states surrounding the Mediterranean, all flavored by our own past in interesting ways.” His lips twisted. “It never even occurred to our leaders to cooperate with them, as you have with the people here. Our first impulse was to conquer and subjugate. Thanks to the relatively primitive nature of the societies we encountered and the bounty of modern war material on our ships and salvaged ashore, conquest was brutally simple,” he said bitterly, “though it’s been tedious and time consuming. The problem from your—our—perspective is that pacification is nearly complete. The guiding force behind the League and its fascist ideology is conquest, and though even the Triumvirate must know it can never rule the entire world, certainly not for generations, the only thing that’s held it together—much like the Grik Empire you now fight—is cooperation and expansion against external adversaries.”

  He looked at Matt and his eyes strayed to the others. “There are tribes of Grik in many places, as you’ve seen yourselves, though none known are as numerous and powerful as the ones infesting this continent.”

  “All the way past India, till we pushed ’em back,” Pete growled.

  “Indeed,” Fiedler agreed, “and the League considered them a threat. Natural barriers and perhaps the climate are probably the only reasons these Grik and the League were not already in direct contact and conflict. Helping focus the Grik on you was part of Gravois’s mission. The Dominion,” he continued, “with its vast population and difficult terrain, was considered a threat for the future, as was the Empire of the New Britain Isles, the NUS in North America, and several others you do not know.” He snorted ironically. “The Republic, much like the cultures in the Mediterranean in many ways, was considered a plum to be plucked!” Fiedler shook his head. “But you, Captain Reddy, gathered many of the most potent future threats and made them more pressing. Gravois’s attempts to thwart you using Kurokawa and the Grik have weakened you and cost many lives, but”—he waved around at the new cruiser they were in—“they also made you more capable, not less. That’s what drove the League to join with the vile Dominion, to seal the Pass of Fire and your access to the Atlantic from the west. Other efforts are underway to choke you out from around the cape of Africa, but the pas
s is deemed most critical. That’s why they’ll begin sending warships there. Leopardo is there already.”

  “Well, what can they send?” Pete Alden demanded. Fiedler looked at him. “Little, at present,” he confessed, “and therein lies some hope. Powerful as it is, much of the League’s fleet is best suited to operations in the Med, not the World Ocean, and the maintenance of many long-range ships has been neglected. That oversight will be remedied, but it will take time. And they’ll never send all they have against you, because they must maintain their grip at home. But”—he shrugged and spread his hands—“in six months, perhaps a bit more, you can expect the Dominion to have the aid of . . .” He considered. “Perhaps three to five battleships, old and new, and at least that many light and heavy cruisers.”

  “Merciful Maker,” Rolak murmured.

  “Destroyers might be your greatest, earliest concern,” Fiedler continued relentlessly, “because most of them, from all the navies in the League, were designed for the open ocean. They might send as many as twenty of those.” Fiedler actually smiled at Pete’s horrified expression. “With proper modifications, they could send more capital ships,” he prodded lightly, but held up a hand. “I’ve neglected to point out your most important advantage, however.” He looked back at Matt. “Gravois, in particular, and through him the Triumvirate, has always woefully underestimated you. I did myself,” he confessed. “And paranoid as the Triumvirate is, that paranoia goes two ways. They fear the threat you pose, but will be reluctant to risk more of their irreplaceable naval might than they absolutely must. Unlike you, they only recently began preparing facilities to build more, and that’s one reason it’ll take so long to refurbish what they already have. Finally, and somewhat ironically, their arrogance will reinforce their caution. They won’t think it will take that much to destroy you, so you might cut my estimate in half. And they’ll likely keep their most modern Italian battleships to defend themselves. If you can get her operational, Savoie might even be a match for one of the more powerful ships they do send.”