“Aye, sir,” Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen answered, looking resentfully out at the normally sparkling white whaleboat hooking on alongside USS Fitzhugh Gray. In the low light, the boat looked more like a capering gray silverfish trying to climb some kind of freak, geometrically blemished sea monster. “Can’t believe that Jap bastard thought you’d leave Walker for his fat tub,” Rosen ventured. But he quickly added, “Sorry, sir. That was out of line.”
He was right, but Matt was tempted to let it slide. Old feelings died hard and lingered longer when somebody else tried to beat them to death. Matt knew Rosen—most of the old hands—actually trusted and respected Toru Miyata, but even many ’Cats hadn’t been excited to see a former enemy given their new cruiser.
Still, Matt suspected Rosen’s outrage had more to do with Miyata’s perfectly reasonable suggestion that Matt shift his flag to Gray during the operation, than with the fact he was Japanese. The cruiser was bigger, more powerful, and better protected after all. But she didn’t have any better comm gear than Walker, and that’s what really mattered. There’d never been any danger Matt would go anywhere other than where he belonged, and Rosen should’ve known. Besides, this would be Miyata’s first action commanding his new ship. He’d be nervous enough without the Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces hanging over his shoulder.
“Put yourself on report at the end of your watch,” Matt ordered sternly. As quartermaster, recording such things in the log was Rosen’s duty, but he was also Walker’s best helmsman. In these restricted waters, in the dark, it might be a while before he was relieved. “That ‘Jap’ is not only an officer in the American Navy Clan; he’s also your superior!” Matt continued relentlessly. “You’ll show him the respect he’s due or I’ll transfer you off this ship so fast, your head’ll spin smooth off. Is that absolutely clear?”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Won’t happen again,” Rosen promised sincerely, straightening behind the big brass wheel. Discreet chitters came from some of the ’Cats, loudest on the port bridgewing around the torpedo director, but Matt figured he’d made his point.
He leaned back in his chair, outwardly satisfied, but his insides roiled tight once more. Sure Miyata’s nervous, he almost laughed to himself, but I’ve never been this scared in my life, he realized. Not even when Kurokawa had Sandra—or I faced that crazy damn professional assassin with a sword on the imperial dueling grounds!
The first came the closest, but even then his fear for his wife and unborn child had been slightly tempered, pushed back, by how busy he’d made himself directly preparing the operation, then by the frenzy of the action itself. And, frankly, he’d somewhat steeled himself to discover Sandra already dead, perhaps even killed in bombings he’d ordered. So there’d been a distracting measure of hot, furious anticipation over the prospect of finally, specifically, personally going after Kurokawa, once and for all.
The dueling ground was another matter. He’d been physically afraid then, at least at first. That was notable because it was one of the few times he’d ever been more than fleetingly gripped by such a . . . selfish fear. Probably all the pomp leading up to it, he suspected, and it passed as soon as the fight got started, like fear always seems to. But that had still been a very personal contest and it haunted him on occasion. Much more than his own life had been at stake, but things probably would’ve turned out about the same for his people and friends in the long run, even if he died. So, third in line to this, he accepted, even if it’s a distant third. But now . . .
He felt sick, and tried to distract himself with all that was right and ready. Sandra’s safe on Big Sal. Five entire corps, almost eighty thousand combat troops, he realized with a little awe, are as prepared as we can make them. Maybe seventy-five thousand Repubs are pushing north to join us. What’s maybe half a million Grik—give or take a quarter million, he added sardonically—compared to that?
General Grisa’s got Sixth Corps now. The troops are green but Grisa isn’t, and he’ll back Rolak’s First Corps in the main push west. And talk about experience! First Corps has the longest-serving units in the Allied Expeditionary Force. Pete’s big hammer’ll have plenty of muscle swinging it. As for the rest, Faan-Ma-Maar has never been in the spotlight, but he and his Third Corps might be the most quietly competent troops we’ve got. And I’m sure he’ll get the best out of Twelfth Corps and its untested Austraalans, despite their having only rifle-muskets. He smiled slightly. Faan’ll have Colonel Saachic’s First Cavalry Brigade as well. These Grik may’ve heard of Repub horse cavalry in the south, but I’d love to watch their reaction to a bunch of wild-ass Maa-ni-los swooping down on top of me-naaks!
He frowned. Safir wasn’t happy with splitting Second Corps, and that’s understandable, but we just can’t move it all—and we need backup for Rolak’s and Faan’s assaults. Besides, regardless of its size, Second Corps is still beat-up. Except for Safir’s Third Division—which she’ll lead herself, of course, he thought with concerned irritation, Second Corps is the obvious choice for a reserve.
Staring out at the darkness, he sighed heavily, racking his brain for any last-minute detail he might add to save lives and increase the chances of success. Nothing came to him, and he blinked dissatisfaction. So, why am I so apprehensive?
“Got the jitters?” Spanky asked lowly, stepping up and standing by Matt’s chair. “I know I do,” he admitted.
Matt snorted. “Why do I find that hard to believe? Next to maybe Chief Gray, you’re the most levelheaded human I ever knew.” He cocked his head. “Well, Silva’s up there, I guess, though I don’t think ‘levelheaded’s’ the right description.”
Spanky barked a laugh. “No. Neither is ‘cool under fire,’ ’cause he burns hotter than a cuttin’ torch. I’d say ‘focused,’ but that ain’t right either. Sometimes that maniac has the attention span of a three-year-old. Maybe he’s just too stupid to be afraid.”
Matt shook his head. “You know better than that. He just doesn’t worry about the big stuff—because he’s got us to do it for him.”
“Maybe,” Spanky granted, “but what’s got me is, well . . .” He paused and shrugged. “Talk about ‘big stuff,’ this is it. We’re goin’ for all the marbles this time.” He shook his head in frustration. “Which is fine—we have to—but it eats me that with everything goin’ on, here we sit, wallowin’ on our asses, nothin’ more than glorified artillery support while the whole damn war gets decided over there.” He tipped his helmet toward shore. Matt hadn’t ordered general quarters yet, but everyone was ready.
“We’ll be in it soon,” Matt countered. “The Grik still have a lot of ships past the Neckbone.” He pursed his lips, then confessed, “But I know what you mean.” He wasn’t confiding any secrets to Spanky; his XO knew him too well. “I once kind of promised myself I’d stay out of planning Pete’s battles, for good reason, but here I went and did it anyway for what might be the biggest battle we’ll ever fight in the west.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Spanky objected, “you may’ve drawn the big picture, but it was Pete an’ Safir an’ ol’ Rolak who colored it. It’s their plan as much as yours.”
Matt shook his head. “No, not the way it matters.” His philosophy had always been that responsibility rolled uphill, not down. “And if it all goes in the crapper this time”—he waved out at the darkened shore—“just think how many of those kids out there’ll die because of me,” he added miserably. “Not to mention we’ll probably lose it all,” he continued. “No way we’ll ever be this strong compared to the Grik again. Oh, we’ll have a few years,” he said bitterly, “but it’ll all be a retreat, a rear-guard action, doomed to fail in the end—unless I do finally dump that killer kudzu on the Grik, and risk spreading it all over Africa. Wouldn’t that be a helluva thing!”
“Stuff might not even thrive here,” Spanky reminded. “Courtney ain’t sure it will.”
“But it might. And I will use it if I have to. B
ut that’s beside the point. We’ll still have lost too much.”
Spanky’s voice, low enough that he hoped he couldn’t be overheard, turned angry and took on a new intensity. “Quit this shit, sir. You got no right.”
Matt looked at him, surprised.
“So what if it is your plan? Pete went for it, and he wouldn’t have if he thought it was boneheaded.” He shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t like it. Hell, nobody could. It’s a helluva risk! But him and Rolak are the experts, and didn’t come up with anything better, so here we are. And it’s a damn good thing we were almost ready or the Repubs’d get smashed for sure. As it is, we have a chance. Probably the only one we’ll ever have,” he agreed, “but we wouldn’t have it at all if you hadn’t stuck your neck out.” He snorted. “We would’a all been dead within days of windin’ up on this screwy world if you weren’t the man you are, with the courage to make the plans you do an’ then carry ’em out!” he hissed forcefully. “So, cut this crap, an’ be more like that dope Silva for a change.” He managed a grin. “The big plan’s already rollin’, no matter who cooked it up. Nothin’ anybody can do about it now—except our jobs—an’ all you have to do is fight your ships.”
Matt nodded ruefully. “Thanks for the pep talk, Spanky.” Then he chuckled. “You sounded just like Sandra, except for your ugly voice.”
“Wasn’t a pep talk, Skipper. It was a chewin’ out.”
Matt laughed out loud. “So even more like what Sandra would’ve done.”
“Well,” Spanky muttered, a little uncomfortably now, “somebody had to do it, and you needed it.” He lowered his voice to a whisper once more. “And I’m scared enough for both of us.”
Matt glanced at his watch in the dim red light in the pilothouse. “Sound general quarters,” he ordered. “Time to assume our positions.” Corporal Neely, standing by Minnie, waited for her to open the shipwide circuit, then blew the familiar notes on his bugle. Almost immediately the reports started rolling in, and Minnie quickly announced, “All stations maanned an’ ready!”
“Very well. Call the anchor detail and stand by to get underway.” Outside, Chief Bosun Jeek rushed out on the fo’c’sle, blowing his bosun’s pipe. Just a couple of hundred yards away, the Republic monitors were already moving, their ungainly low-slung forms following a pair of MTBs closer to the Neckbone. The monitors wore the heaviest armor of any of ship in the little fleet and carried the biggest guns—eight inchers—but those guns were twenty years old, based on technology from an even earlier generation, and had the shortest range. They’d fire at their highest elevation to drop shells on the southernmost Grik defenses about four miles away, while comm-’Cats acted as spotters for the rest of the ships.
“All ahead slow, right standard rudder,” Matt called when the anchor rattled aboard and was secured to the billboard. Gray, Ellie, Mahan, Bowles, Saak-Fas, Clark, Kas-Ra-Ar, and Ramic-Sa-Ar fell in behind Walker as she followed two more MTBs in a circle to starboard, retreating as far as they could in the river. They couldn’t gain enough distance for plunging fire, but even slightly higher trajectories would help a little. Once they took their pre-calculated positions and anchored again against the steady river flow that stabilized their orientation, the six guard MTBs accelerated east, roaring toward the Neckbone. They’d been posted near hazardous underwater wrecks—Santa Catalina’s mangled corpse remained obvious and was marked with smudge pots—but now they’d sweep beyond the treacherous river bend to warn against approaching Grik warships. Tiny targets in the dark, each bearing a pair of Baalkpan Armory MK-6 torpedoes, they’d also engage their much-larger opponents if any drew near. They couldn’t risk the Neckbone getting blocked again.
The thundering drone of engines, many engines, soon became apparent over the wheeze of the blower behind the pilothouse, and Matt looked back at his watch. “Good old Ben and Walt,” he said. “Right on time.”
“The Clippers,” Spanky observed. “Every last one we’ve got, all with a full load of bombs. Ground crews’ve sure been earnin’ their pay. I heard Cecil Dixon is ops officer for all the Army-Navy Air Corps in the west now. Guy was wasted just wrenching for the Third Pursuit, and Ben still had to practically hold him down and cram a commission down his throat.” He stood quietly and listened for a moment. “They’re flyin’ lower than usual,” he fretted, “but high enough the antiair mortars shouldn’t get ’em. Can’t hit the forward Grik trenches, though.”
“No, but they’ll raise hell behind them and light the way for the Fleashooters and Nancys.”
“And as soon as they’re clear, we’ll light things up.” Spanky nodded.
There was no warning; they heard no wail of falling bombs, but bright, greedy balls of flame started marching across the Grik positions in front of I and VI Corps on the south side of the Zambezi. On and on it went, as the incendiaries—some as large as five hundred pounds—roiled skyward in greasy orange toadstools, blowing Grik and their works apart and splashing gushing, roaring, burning fuel in the trenches. They could barely hear the whumping bursts—they weren’t particularly loud—but Matt imagined he could hear the teakettle screech of hundreds or thousands of burning Grik. He could only be thankful that, in air power at least, the Allies had always enjoyed an advantage and now seemed virtually unopposed.
“We damn sure learned our lesson after Pearl, Cavite, and all the hell after, Skipper,” Spanky said quietly, apparently mirroring his thoughts. The nightmarish helplessness they’d felt in that old war on another world when their enemy controlled the sky still haunted those left to remember. But that very experience was why Matt pushed so hard, so early, to get his new people in the air. It had paid off all along, but maybe never better than now. “Jeez,” Spanky continued, “if we could do that to the whole Grik line all night, instead of just in front of Pete, we’d burn every damn Grik over there!”
It certainly looked that way, but Matt knew better. “Well, we can’t, and it wouldn’t anyway. But focusing our attack where they expect it should bring more of them running. Either way though, our people will still have to go and kill them.”
Their loads expended, the big Clippers rumbled away, and ten or fifteen minutes passed while the leaping flames they left continued their work, detonating magazines and ammunition chests, and searing Grik. Yet even as the flames finally began to subside and the first stunned Grik probably started raising their heads, the Nancys of the 1st, 8th, and reconstituted 5th Naval Air Wings stooped on their prey. This attack combined common bombs with incendiaries, to “plow the earth and burn the chaff,” as Mark Leedom put it, though only about half the planes hit the same area as before. The rest split off to attack all around the perimeter and the flashes they made were smaller, their placement more dispersed, as pilots sought specifically appointed targets. This went on for quite a while and the Grik managed to knock a few planes down with antiair mortars, but there was little real response until the air attack began to wane.
That’s when Grik cannon started firing. Chances were they hadn’t even been ordered to open up; they just did. Not even the best-trained Grik could sit idly for long under the hell they’d just endured without trying to hit back. What started with a few scattered shots built into a general bombardment all around the Grik line, and exploding shells crackled indiscriminately across the Allied position.
“See?” Matt said simply. “One thing those Grik’ve learned is how to dig in tighter than a tick. Maybe they don’t have an air force to speak of anymore, but they’ve moved up a helluva lot of guns and protected them well.” He turned around in his chair and looked at Minnie. “Send to all ships: Stand by to engage assigned targets. Load and hold.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan. Comm-aander Tikker sends ‘All planes’re clear.’”
“Very well. Acknowledge.” He turned back to watch the number-one gun on the fo’c’sle train out slightly to port, muzzle rising as ’Cats on the “bicycle” seats on either side spun their whee
ls to match pointers with the solution sent by the gun director above the pilothouse. They’d ranged the enemy trenches very carefully over the past few weeks. “Mr. Caam-peti reports, ‘On taarget!’” Minnie cried.
“What’s the status of the rest of our ships?” Matt asked impatiently.
“All but Graay and Bowles report they on taarget!”
That was to be expected. The cruiser’s crew was still inexperienced and probably overexcited. As for Bowles, Matt was surprised she was the only converted DD to lag. Their crews were still adjusting to firing much more sophisticated weapons. And their primary mission was protecting the heavy haulers assembling behind them during the second phase of the operation.
Hundreds of tongues of flame suddenly blasted outward from the Allied position onshore as ’Cat, human, and Khonashi artillerymen also got the word the sky was clear. Pete had assembled almost four hundred guns, including quite a few older 6 pdrs scraped up from as far away as Madraas. And he had a fair number of heavier naval guns off the converted DDs as well. Still, the vast majority were 12 pdr “Napoleons,” which had been the best standard field piece the Allies had until the Repubs joined the fight, being relatively light and mobile and sufficiently accurate for the ranges at which they usually engaged the Grik. And their case shot reigned supreme, until the Grik caught on and made their own. Matt had hoped they’d get some of the Repub’s breechloading Derby guns, similar to the French 75, or they’d be able to field their own light breechloader by now, but there’d been other priorities and things came to a head too fast. Regardless of their obsolescence, the 12 pdrs were still good guns, and their crews remained better than their Grik counterparts. More importantly, they were well protected from the Grik iron flailing for them in the night and they’d amassed an impressive ammunition reserve. The return bombardment they unleashed—joined by hundreds of mortars—would’ve dwarfed the Grik fire even before the air attack mauled and rattled the enemy.
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