River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  Kari chuckled, emitting a stream of smoke, and Greg grinned. “I wish you luck. Allied English has so many ’Cat, Impie, Repub, hell, even Chinese and Filipino words mixed in by now, my own mother would probably have trouble understanding some of what I usually say. I’m trying extra hard.”

  “I thank you for that. And General Shinya’s plan?” Sessions prompted.

  Greg turned serious, rubbing the dark stubble already forming on his chin. “As far as we can tell, nothing’s changed. He’ll keep pushing toward the Pass of Fire on land while High Admiral Jenks prepares an assault by sea. Ideally, their attacks on Corazon will be coordinated with each other—and your attack from this side of the pass. Now that we know the League has ships in the area, we can’t transmit anymore, to ask for clarifications.”

  “No,” Sessions agreed uncomfortably, “particularly since the League has aligned itself with the Dominion.” There was no escaping that fearful fact now. First, Fred and Kari had aided in the capture of a Dom emissary to the League, named Don Emmanuel. He hadn’t revealed any information, but his mission had been clear. Since then, not only had Dom prisoners taken with Matarife confirmed that the ship had met two League vessels at Ascension Island, but Donaghey and Matarife, with only their guns manned while at anchor at Martinique Island, essentially ambushed and destroyed an Alsedo-class destroyer belonging to the League. Her senior surviving officer, a young ensign named Tomas Perez Mole, had been reluctant to talk as well, but even he was discontented with the excesses of the League. Through gentle persuasion and conversation, quite a bit was learned obliquely, not only about the formidable resources at the Leagues disposal but about their ultimate aims in the hemisphere.

  Apparently, with the sea between Antarctica and the horn of South America utterly choked with ice, El Paso del Fuego was even more strategically important than the Panama Canal on another world. The only possible conclusion was that the League was determined to control it either directly or through the Dominion. Though largely confined to the Mediterranean for now, consolidating their control and opposing other powers Mole could not be induced to reveal, leaders of the League believed that possession of the pass would ultimately bring them mastery of the entire Atlantic—and all the shores around it.

  “So,” Admiral Sessions continued, “whether or not the League is yet prepared to materially assist the Doms, we must assume they will pass intelligence to them in much the same way they did your enemy, Kurokawa. No doubt they suspect your presence here, but we mustn’t give them reason to warn the Doms that we are now better able to coordinate our efforts with Second Fleet.” He paused. “Therefore, at a time when we desperately need better contact between all our peoples”—he bowed his head in acknowledgment of Tribune Pol-Heena of the Republic—“and just as desperately need to conduct reconnaissance of our side of the Pass of Fire, we dare not use the two wondrous assets best able to provide those things: your wireless transmitter”—he looked at Fred and Kari—“and your amazing flying machines.”

  “Our plane is pooped, anyway,” Fred said. “Donaghey’s ground crew could probably get it flying, but it’d take most of the spare parts they’ve got for their plane.”

  “Which leaves that perfectly good plane you’re saying we can’t use,” Greg said, frowning.

  “Not necessarily,” Anson countered cryptically. He also looked at Pol-Heena. “You came here with them”—he nodded at Greg—“as a token by your kaiser that the Republic was committed to the war against the Dominion.”

  “Yes?” Pol-Heena confirmed quizzically. “We are currently fully engaged fighting the Grik, but Kaiser Nig-Taak believed it was important that our allies understand they have our full support.”

  “Did the description of your assignment detail what you were empowered to do in regard to us, should we meet? In other words, do you have powers plenipotentiary?”

  Pol-Heena shifted uncomfortably on the chair, and not just because it cramped his tail. “Yes,” he finally confessed.

  “Then, since we’re fighting the same enemy, are you prepared to enter into a provisional military alliance with the New United States on behalf of the Republic of Real People”—he nodded at Fred—“as Lieutenant Reynolds was empowered to do, on behalf of the United Homes and the Grand Alliance?”

  Pol-Heena straightened. “A provisional military alliance, for the good of the war effort, yes,” he said.

  “Very good. In that case, we will immediately dispatch an ambassador to your country for the purpose of better coordinating our efforts”—he smiled at Kari—“and getting to know one another.” He glanced at Admiral Sessions, then looked at Greg. “At the same time, I propose that as soon as her repairs are complete, you sail Matarife into the eastern approaches of the Pass of Fire to discover what forces and defenses the Doms have there.”

  Greg looked thoughtful. “Makes sense. I’d kind of hoped to use her for something, oh, I don’t know, a little more dramatic, I guess. But that seems the best option.”

  Smitty suddenly raised his hand, looked around, and finally rose and stepped quickly to a window. Launching a huge, thick brown stream on the shrubs outside, he turned sheepishly to face them. “You said Matarife’s well known in these parts. Won’t the Doms get wise when she shows up so late, pokes around, and then scrams?”

  “I think we might work that out,” Greg said, warming to the prospect. “But what about our plane? What do you want it to do?”

  “You said your army is advancing up the isthmus toward the Pass of Fire? The land there is easily narrow enough for your flying machine to cross. Therefore I propose that before you approach the pass, you go inshore behind your army’s reported line of advance and set your, ah, plane in the water. With no one the wiser, it can then—finally—carry a fully accredited representative of the New US to consult and counsel directly with your own theater commanders.”

  “Okay. About time too. I hope it’s somebody with a clue.”

  “I myself will go,” Anson said. “I know more about the Dominion than anyone who enjoys our president’s trust, and am well-acquainted with many of the native resistance forces joining your ranks.”

  Fred cleared his throat. “Even flying across a narrower stretch than Kari and I did will take a good pilot, Captain Garrett. There’s weird winds in the mountains. Weird thermals all the time, for that matter, with all the volcanoes. And then there’s the damn Grikbirds. You gotta watch out for them!”

  Greg swiveled his head to look at Fred and his eyes twinkled. “Donaghey’s pilot is fresh out of flight training and hasn’t flown since we left Alex-aandra.”

  Fred’s face fell. “Grab your wallet Kari, I think we’re getting rolled.”

  Greg shook his head. “Not Kari, just you. Nancys only have two seats.”

  “Now wait just a daamn minute!” Kari snapped, gushing smoke. “Fred don’t fly nowhere without me!”

  “Right,” Fred said stubbornly. “I’d’ve been dead a hundred times without her. I’m no good by myself, I tell ya! I’m not really that good a pilot. I get so busy just flying, I lose track of what’s around me. Grikbirds’d get me—and Captain Anson—for sure!”

  “He’s right,” Kari confirmed sadly. “He’s not a very good pilot. Not without me.”

  “Hey! I . . . ah, yeah,” Fred murmured.

  “So there’s only one thing for it,” Kari continued. “I’ll sit up front with Cap-i-taan Aan-son. It’ll be tight, but we caan squeeze in. Fred can fly from the baack-seat.”

  Anson, Greg, and Smitty all laughed, and Fred rolled his eyes. “Oh, swell.”

  “Whaat’s the maatter, Fred? Ain’t you tired o’ lollin’ on the beach haaf days? I’m ready to get back to the waar!”

  “There’ll be plenty of war around here, soon enough,” Fred grumped. “Won’t have to worry about who sees us fly, once the fighting starts.”

  “Sure, an’ we’ll prob’ly be ba
ack by then. But I miss our navy, our friends, an’ COFO Orrin Reddy too.”

  Fred had a sudden thought. “Say, Captain Garrett. You said when you met up with Kari that you’d been authorized to give her a hug—or arrest her. We did kind of run off, after all. What do you think COFO Reddy and Admiral Lelaa’ll do? They’re the ones we ran off from!”

  Garrett laughed again. “Good question. But since you actually managed to do what you set out to, and they already promoted you, I doubt you have anything to worry about. Other than getting there, that is.”

  Fred nodded glumly and looked at Captain Anson, who was gazing back with a smile. “Come, Mr. Reynolds. Just think of it as one more adventure together! I’m sure we’ll have a wonderful time.”

  “Yeah. Just like last time,” Fred moped.

  CHAPTER 7

  ////// Leopardo

  Northeast coast of South America

  Nuevo Granada Province

  It was raining when the big Italian Leone-class destroyer Leopardo turned into the broad mouth of the River of Heaven southeast of the peninsula called Trinidad on another world. On both sides of the river stood the Dominion city of Puerto del Cielo, and dozens of boats ranging in size from dugout canoes to large, heavily laden barges poled along by a hundred men or more, scattered at their approach. Eventually, Leopardo left them and the sea behind and steamed slowly south, followed by a small plodding Spanish oiler.

  Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, resplendent in a new dark blue double-breasted coat; sky blue trousers tucked into brown, knee-high boots; a tall, round-topped hat with a patent leather brim; and a sharply creased tie stared malevolently at the oiler from under the dripping canvas awning on Leopardo’s signal bridge. Those fools in the ridiculous Triumvirate, he brooded, simply can’t grasp the bigger picture! And that they actually chastised me for the loss of the battleship Savoie only proves that beyond doubt. Giving her to Kurokawa not only quickly completed my mission to weaken everyone contending for control of the Indian Ocean; it ensured the League a relatively free hand in the Atlantic.

  Unfortunately, the Americans and their ordinarily loquacious Lemurian . . . “ape-folk” (as far as Gravois was concerned) allies had finally improved their comm security. And the submarine Gravois left behind to observe hadn’t reported anything after it confirmed that a devastating battle was underway at Zanzibar. The outcome of the battle was unknown, and they hadn’t heard anything from Maggiore Rizzo and the League aircraft they’d also lent Kurokawa, but Gravois was confident all the forces involved had surely slaughtered one another quite satisfactorily.

  The problem was, the mission he’d been given to “redeem” himself had been to divert Leopardo from her homeward voyage and proceed directly to the Dominion to finalize the alliance that that Italian imbecile Contrammiraglio Oriani had initiated from his base on Ascension Island. And instead of allowing Gravois to bring the armed tender Ramb V to see to Leopardo’s needs, Oriani decreed that the old oiler—which Leopardo had been forced to take under tow when she’d suffered engineering casualties—would suffice. The result had been a lengthy layover at Ascension while the oiler was repaired, then a very slow voyage here. And it was Gravois and, to a lesser extent, Leopardo’s commanding officer, Capitano di Fregata Ciano, who’d be blamed for the delay. They were the same official rank in their respective navies, but Gravois was in charge of the overseas branch of French military intelligence and had overall command of the mission.

  Contrammiraglio Oriani was well placed in the OVRA—the Organizations for Vigilance and Repression of Antifascism—however, which had increasingly usurped all intelligence-gathering efforts for the League. Gravois would find sympathetic ears among the French contingent, but factionalism was the OVRA’s primary target now. Complaints might actually lead to his assassination. Even Ciano wasn’t safe, despite being Italian himself. Their best bet was to successfully conclude the treaty—and make a good impression on the Doms.

  Leopardo should help. From what they’d seen, the Doms’ most advanced warships were basically eighteenth-century sailing ships of the line equipped with crude steam engines and paddlewheels. Gravois knew Captain Reddy’s Walker had fought the Doms in the Pacific, but doubted anyone in the capital of Nuevo Granada had ever seen her. So much the better if they had, because Leopardo was actually designed as a “scout cruiser,” or “Exploratori,” and was much more impressive than the battered old American four-stacker. Besides looking relatively fresh and clean in her new light gray paint, she was more than seventy feet longer than Walker and almost twice as heavy. She also carried twice as many, heavier guns, along with two 40-mm pom-poms, four 20-mm machine guns, and four torpedo tubes. And unlike Walker, she could still easily achieve thirty-four knots. Gravois grimaced and glanced back at the rust-streaked oiler. Now, if only that . . . thing does not too greatly undermine the overall effect . . .

  Capitano Ciano joined him, passing a cup of hot tea. Gravois accepted it, knowing its heat would only add to his misery. This close to the equator, the air wasn’t as hot as it would be back home, but the humidity was profound, and Gravois caught himself coveting Ciano’s lightweight tropical whites. Perhaps I can borrow some from him? he thought. We are much the same size. “Were you able to make yourself understood?” he asked instead, gesturing at the pilothouse with his cup.

  Ciano scowled. A Dominion officer had been waiting for them at an impressive stone fort at Puerto del Cielo, and came aboard to pilot them the almost 320 kilometers through the snags and shifting channel of the broad, forest-bordered river leading to the Holy City of Nuevo Granada. That’s where the Dom Pope, His Supreme Holiness, Messiah of Mexico, and, by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World resided in the holiest shrine of all, El Templo de los Papas. Gravois was appalled by the pomposity of the title claimed by the absolute ruler of the Dominion but also attracted by the unambiguousness of it, compared to the League’s Triumvirate. He understood the real power in the Dominion was wielded by a senior Blood Cardinal named Don Hernan de Divina Dicha, recently returned from the fighting in the West, but even he wouldn’t hesitate to obey a direct decree by His Supreme Holiness. The arrangement struck Gravois with its simplicity and . . . tidiness.

  Ciano rolled his eyes. “My Spanish is not good,” he confessed, though Gravois never had occasion to correct Ciano’s French, “but, apparently, according to a member of our Spanish landing force I detailed to interpret, neither is that of our pilot.” He shrugged. “He makes himself understood, though I think he was disappointed when I refused to let him directly conn the ship.”

  Gravois barked a laugh. “Indeed?” he asked, amused by the thought of an unsophisticated Dom conning the old but relatively advanced Leopardo. He likened it to letting an ape drive a car. Then he grew more serious. “We have to proceed carefully. Like it or not, you and I are quite literally in the same boat and must be of one mind at all times. Our last assignment”—his tone turned sarcastic—“at which we ‘failed so dismally,’ according to that bloated toad Oriani, was . . . difficult. It was made even more so by Kurokawa’s madness. But he was only one man, and his madness couldn’t run entirely unchecked by the officers he relied upon.” His expression twisted in distaste. “Here we deal with a different kind of madness: an entire culture that celebrates—reveres—what we would deem mad.” He hesitated. “I doubt you will forget what we saw, on the beach at the base of the fort.”

  Ciano’s scowl returned and his eyes narrowed in disgust. “No,” he replied simply, remembering the dozens of corpses, men and women, hanging on charred wooden crosses on the bright, sandy beach. Their withered, disfigured, blackened bodies shrouded in a dark, flapping nightmare of lizardbirds and other flying carrion eaters. People had obviously been crucified, then burned alive. Their pilot had offhandedly referred to them as rebels, lured from God by rumors of the war in the west.

  “I asked the pilot how their guilt was determined,” Gravois continued—his Spani
sh also better than the Dom’s—and he looked meaningfully at Ciano. “He replied that the townspeople merely told the commandante of the Blood Drinkers in the fort. No further proof was required.” He shuddered. “Blood Drinkers are the elite troops of their pope, by the way. In any event, I tell you this so you will know a mere accusation is tantamount to conviction.” He rubbed his chin. “We have based our justice on even less during our conquest of the Mediterranean, though I doubt we have been quite so cruel. At the same time, our own people have never been subject to such arbitrary treatment. Caution your crew to do nothing to rouse the locals against us. In fact, it would probably be best if you grant no liberty.”

  Ciano looked doubtful. “It has been so long. . . . I may face a mutiny if I do not allow them ashore at some point!”

  “Then let us get a better feel for things first. We’re here to conclude an alliance with these people, not fight them for the release of misbehaving sailors accustomed to the . . . perquisites allowed them as conquerors at home.” Gravois considered. “Your men have already witnessed what may befall them if they ignore local customs. If you do allow them ashore, you might promote good behavior if you tell them they go at their own risk and we can do nothing to save them if they cause offense.”

  Ciano nodded unhappily, watching yet another fort surrounded by a large village passing abeam. “I don’t like it, but that might be best. The chart the pilot brought shows more forts, every thirty kilometers or so, each armed with heavy guns. Mere muzzle-loaders, of course, but we couldn’t survive them all if we rescued our people and tried to escape.”

  “I don’t like it either, but we didn’t come here to escape, in any event. We will not fail this mission! We ourselves have too much at stake.” Gravois slapped a mosquito on his upper lip beneath the thin mustache he wore. “How long must we endure this stinking river and its pests?” he complained.