River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  CHAPTER 23

  ////// Grik City

  December 28, 1944

  A hazy yellow morning glared across Grik City Bay, washing the largest concentration of Allied shipping ever gathered on the Grik front of the war in tarnished, fluid bronze. Fluid, because there was already a great deal of activity on the water, and boiler smoke, highlighted as well, seemed to pour into the sky. Hundreds of small boats and barges scurried between the ships, distributing everything from ammunition to water barrels, and larger vessels took turns alongside the big new oilers, or visited clusters of smaller oilers of the older sort. Frequent bombings had prevented the construction of large, fixed, tank batteries at Grik City, so for the most part, they’d always floated in the bay.

  “Alan Letts worked wonders getting so many support ships sent down,” Matt observed. He was standing with all the First Fleet brass—plus a few others—on the observation deck behind Big Sal’s pilothouse. They’d gathered for the meeting he’d called as soon as Mahan escorted Tarakaan Island in just before dawn. Tara had moved to the docks to begin embarking II Corps, and Mahan was anchored close alongside Big Sal, taking on fuel. Her paint job had been completed during her short boiler refit, and now she sported the same “dazzle” scheme as most of the other ships.

  “Indeed,” Keje rumbled beside him. “But this is nearly all we haave left. More ships are building as we speak, but I understaand he stripped aaux-iliaries from all our possessions as far east as Baalkpan itself.”

  “There’s not even enough transport left at Madras to bring Sixth Corps down,” General Pete Alden agreed. “We’ll have to turn this around as soon as we free it up.” He shook his head. “Jeez. This is a pretty big anchorage, way bigger than Mahe’s, but it looks just as packed.” Pete and General Muln Rolak, along with their I and III Corps, had never been here. Matt remembered there’d probably been nearly as many Grik ships in port when they attacked and took the place, but their Indiamen had been clustered tightly together on the southwest end of the bay and the huge Grik dreadnaughts were mostly near the docks. The middle of the bay had been relatively clear. The majority of the Allied ships were anchored in the middle now, and the sheer size of some of them was enough to alter even Matt’s perspective. Big as they were, even the Grik BBs were kind of small compared to Big Sal, USS Madraas, and USS Tarakaan Island. USS Sular had been converted to a troopship from a Grik BB, but looked bigger with all the landing dories bulking up her sloping sides.

  And then there was USS Savoie, of course. Not as long as a Grik BB, but more massive above the waterline. She wouldn’t participate in the coming operation—her crew and repairs weren’t ready—but with the end to Grik air raids here, she’d steamed down from Mahe on two engines. Matt figured she’d be just as safe, and fully combat ready or not, Russ Chappelle assured him she could fight. Savoie would continue to work up her crew while adding a powerful deterrent to anyone trying to enter the bay while the rest of them were gone.

  Besides, unless they sent Savoie all the way back to Madraas, here was the only place she could complete her renovations. Mahe had turned into a ghost town almost overnight. A Nancy patrol squadron, an oiler, and six motor torpedo boats were all they’d left behind. Even the Austraalan engineers who had been building airstrips were brought down. Nat Hardee would miss his MTBs, but he’d received ten more from the Filpin Lands, enough to bring his squadron up to strength. Only his and one other boat had veteran crews, however. The rest had been wiped out on Lizard Ass Bay.

  The new MTBs, countless tons of supplies, munitions, fuel, and a half-dozen more tanks Alan Letts squeezed from the production budget arrived aboard twelve heavy haulers. Like the new oilers, these were wooden steamers built on the up-scaled lines of Scott-class steam frigates. Fatter, longer, virtually unarmed, and with only two masts for auxiliary sails, they had impressive cargo capacities and required a minimal crew. More were being built in Austraal as fast as engines and boilers could be sent, and they’d bring continuous reinforcements straight from there as the campaign progressed. No longer would Austraalan troops have to be taken to Baalkpan for training before heading to the front. That was the hope, anyway.

  Otherwise, the harbor was crowded still more with older, more conventional transports, oilers, and all the other auxiliaries the fleet required. Most had been gathering at Mahe and came down with the fleet, but many came straight from Baalkpan, La-laanti, Aryaal, Andamaan, even Madraas, braving the terrible sea and its monstrous denizens without escorts. More than one was overdue. The sailing steam frigates and AVDs still in service, despite their distinguished records, weren’t up to the kind of fighting TF Bottle Cap had reported, and most would be sent back to Madraas to escort VI Corps down. They still had their AMF-DIC equipment, designed to acoustically discourage mountain fish. It might do the same to any submarines the League left creeping around. Careful Lemurian ears might even be able to tell the difference—and the ships did carry depth charges. A few steam frigates (DDs) would remain, redesignated as APDs—fast destroyer transports. They could be used to get Marines ashore quickly, if necessary, probably under fire.

  Finally, there was USS James Ellis and USS Mahan. Ellie hadn’t been here before either, and caused a stir when she arrived because she looked just like Walker. Some were disappointed she wasn’t Walker, but all were excited by what her presence implied: that the Allies could make more. Mahan caused excitement as well, more among those who knew her than those who didn’t. Most of the former exhibited the same incredulity Matt still shared to some degree as he stared down at her, riding peacefully at anchor. He shook his head. She’s mine now—for now. Tiaa’s shaping up fine, and I’ll turn Mahan back over to her as soon as Walker arrives. It didn’t look like that would happen in time, however, and he realized he’d likely be going into battle aboard a ship other than Walker for the very first time. The thought made him uneasy. He glanced at the horizon to the north, the morning clouds still purple and orange, wishing for Walker’s distinctive shape and that of their new cruiser. Both would’ve come in very handy.

  “What do you think, my brother?” Keje rumbled beside him, and Matt jerked, surprised he’d allowed himself to drift. He applied a false smile.

  “I’m sorry, Keje. What was that?”

  Keje nodded at General Queen Safir Maraan. “She said Col-nol Will is concerned about Hij Geerki’s Grik workers and what they will do after we’re gone.” Colonel Will, commanding the Maroons and Shee-Ree, was present with some of his staff but seemed content to let Safir speak for him, so Matt looked at Safir. She was standing with Pete Alden and Muln Rolak, and it was the first time they’d been together in a very long time. Also gathered were the commanding officers of many of the ships around them, the COFOs of Big Sal, Madraas, and the Grik City air defense. Even Ben Mallory had flown in to join them from the Comoros, leaving Jumbo behind. They’d tapered off their bombing attacks on Sofesshk over the past few days, gathering strength and forces for a major effort. Only ground-attack aircraft from Arracca and the airstrip she’d established could really help their friends on Santa Catalina at the moment.

  “Do you think they’ll be a problem? Matt asked Safir.

  She blinked denial and shook her head. “No. We work them, saal-vaaging Grik wrecks and improving defenses, but they’ve never been so free.” She blinked again. “Or well fed. Any desire they may haave had for things to ‘go baack to normaal’ is gone.”

  “Geerki thinks so as well?” Rolak questioned. The remarkably ancient Geerki had been his “pet” for a time, but had proven himself loyal more than once.

  “He does,” Safir assured.

  “But what of the Gareiks Colonel Miles is chasin’?” Will spoke up. “If he dan’t kill ’em all, thar’ll be naught but us tae stop ’em when ye laeve!”

  Matt nodded. They’d been through all this before, but he understood how Will felt. The man was no coward—he wanted to go with them—but he wasn’t keen
on being left with such a small force to defend against such a potentially large one. “If Miles can’t finish them off and there’s too many to stop at the walls”—he shrugged—“let ’em have the crummy joint. Pull back to the waterfront and evacuate aboard Savoie and her tenders. They’ll get you out. Or you can cross the Wall of Trees and take to the jungle. Link up with Miles. It really won’t matter. The few Grik that get in here will already be weak and starving.”

  “They’ll eat Geerki’s civvy Grik,” Pete warned, and Matt pursed his lips. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. Not much we can do about it either.”

  “We could pull them out with the Shee-Ree and Maroons,” Sandra said quietly, speaking for the first time since greeting her friends.

  Pete looked at her, amazed. “We can’t have a buncha damn Grik running loose on Russ’s battlewagon!”

  Russ Chappelle chuckled. He and Mikey Monk were standing with some of the other ship commanders. “Believe it or not, Pete, we’ve already got Grik on Savoie.”

  Pete looked even more surprised. “I never saw ’em at Mahe.”

  “They don’t get out much,” Russ quipped. “They do behave themselves, though.” He looked at Matt. “I can take some of Geerki’s friends, but not all. A lot might still feed the Grik.”

  “Not for long,” Rolak said philosophically. “And not enough to strengthen them after their ordeal in the swaamps”—he nodded at Will—“or the effort of overwhelming the defenses here. Once we win our battle with First Gener-aal Esshk, any Grik here should be simple enough to remove.”

  Will, looking from one to another, finally voiced the question nagging them all. “But . . . What if ye—we—cannae boot the Gareiks back out because . . .” His expression twisted into a grimace. “Because we cannae!” he simply said.

  “You mean, what if we lose?” Sandra replied. She looked around and continued simply, without raising her voice. “We won’t. We can’t.” She waved around the harbor. “This is it, all there is. All that’s left of the grand vision we dreamed when we first met. Sure, we’ll get more ships, more troops, more supplies, but if we wait any longer, Santa Catalina—and everyone in her we love—will be gone. Wasted.”

  Russ Chappelle nodded grim agreement, and Sandra’s voice finally started to rise. “Now is the time to take advantage of their sacrifice, while they’re still alive, still blocking the river!” she said. “Now is the time to add our attack to theirs and take the fight to the Grik!” Her gaze fell on Safir. “If we wait, they’ll all have died for nothing and we’ll be right back on the defensive again. And we’ll stay on the defensive this time,” she warned, “all the way back where we started.” She shook her head, eyes flashing with steely determination. “No,” she snapped. “We didn’t come all this way just to wait for the perfect situation. That’ll never come. And we haven’t endured all we have, lost all we have, just to say, ‘Time out! We’re not ready!’” She pointed vaguely southeast. “That’s where the fight is, and it’s happening right now. We’re not too early for it—we’re almost too damn late!” Her hand strayed to the bulge in her belly. “It’s time to do what we came here for. For those we’ve lost”—she gently patted the bulge—“and those to come. But also for each other and ourselves.” She lowered her voice again and even managed a smile, but her eyes had begun to fill. “We’ll do it so we can live our lives and raise our young, at least for a time, without the torture of this war hanging over us.”

  “She’s right,” Matt agreed, putting his arm around her. “We won’t lose, because we can’t. And we can’t abandon those who’ve given us this precious time.” He looked at everyone, just as his wife had. “We go, and we go today.” He looked at Safir. “What’s your status?”

  “As you know, Second Corps began embarking as soon as Taara-kaan Island touched the docks.” There was no hesitation in Safir, not with Chack fighting for his life on the Zambezi. She’d had her troops ready for quite a while. “The only delay will come from re-aaranging some of what Taara carries in her repair bay, to combaat load her, as you say. The taanks”—she stumbled slightly over the unfamiliar word—“all eight of them, including the two that survived the attaack on Zaan-zi-bar, are already loaded in the special landing barges they require, but we must move them if they need to laand before all our aartillery and other supplies. Gener-aal Rolak says they should be in the middle. The first out should be laanding craaft with troops, maa-chine guns, mortars, and light aartillery. Taanks next, then heavy aartillery, more troops, and supplies.”

  “That’s how Chack figured it at Zanzibar and it seemed to work pretty well,” Matt agreed.

  “Yes, but it haas slowed us down.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Perhaaps the rest of the day,” Safir admitted miserably.

  Matt looked at Pete and Rolak. “But First and Third Corps is still embarked. You’re just loading the new divisions that got sent here?”

  “Aye, sir,” Pete agreed. “A few hours, tops.”

  Matt looked back at Safir, a tight knot forming in his chest. Long ago—and occasionally still, from time to time—he’d wished he could just lay the awesome responsibility that’d been dumped on him at the feet of another. How many thousands had died under his orders? How many times had he gambled with their lives—with the very survival of all their people on this world? And now he was about to do it again. He took a deep breath. “Let me know as soon as Second Corps is fully embarked,” he told Safir. “Go over yourself and set fire to their tails.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “Generals Alden and Rolak, Colonel Mallory.” He nodded at Keje’s commander of flight operations with a slight smile. “COFO Tikker,” he added, then glanced at his Mahan XO, “and Commander Tiaa-Baari will remain here with Admiral Keje and me for further discussions.”

  Tiaa’s eyes widened in horrified surprise. She was profoundly uncomfortable around so many giants of the Alliance and had no idea why she was there in the first place.

  Matt continued. “Everybody else, return to your ships. Complete fueling, ammunitioning, and victualing as soon as possible.” He glanced at Russ. “You stay too. Since you’re stuck here, you might as well help work out a schedule to speed things up.” He turned to the rest once more. “This entire task force will be underway by nightfall.”

  December 30, 1944

  Two nights and three excruciating days out of Grik City Bay, most elements of First Fleet designated to participate in the operation to rescue TF Bottle Cap—and take the war to the Grik—finally appeared off the mouth of the Zambezi River. Some of the new heavy haulers had broken down and been towed back, but that was probably inevitable given the speed with which they’d been designed, thrown together, filled with cargo, and sent to the front. Other ships, civilian freight haulers for the most part, had straggled badly. But every member of the Amer-i-caan Navy Clan, or anything that might’ve been considered a warship, for that matter, had made it. Terrified as many must surely be, nobody was willing to miss this.

  From the captain’s chair in Mahan’s pilothouse, Matt studied the hazy, darkening smear ahead that was the continent of Africa. He couldn’t imagine how they’d cram the whole task force up the Zambezi, especially since the only place they could possibly turn anything big around, short of Sofesshk itself, was lousy with wrecks. And Arracca was already upriver, halfway to where Santa Catalina’s people might need immediate assistance. Matt was most concerned about Tassanna hanging so close to her shattered consort because most of her planes were ashore and she thought Arracca’s guns could make a difference.

  “Surfaace con-taact! Bear-een one five seero! Range tree t’ousand yaads!” the bridge talker behind him suddenly shouted. Matt spun to face the relatively tall, skinny ’Cat and felt a little disoriented yet again. “Bridge talker” wasn’t a permanent rating or classification in the navy—except aboard USS Walker, where the diminutive Minnie and her equally tiny mates monopolized the d
uty through their professionalism and, frankly, the simple fact that they could always make themselves heard and understood. In such a mixed-language navy, understanding could never be taken for granted. Fortunately, Matt understood Mahan’s current talker perfectly well. “Crow’s-nest lookout reports some-teen’ like a big gri-kakka wit a weird back fin floatin’ on the surface. He don’t know whaat it is.”

  Matt raised his binoculars and stared twenty degrees to starboard of Mahan’s—and the task force’s—line of advance. The coast was sharper, darker now, and the contact might’ve remained invisible without the glare of the setting sun washing across its distinctive shape, brightening the splotchy, rusty gray of its conn tower and long, lean hull. In spite of the warm, humid air gushing through the pilothouse, Matt felt ice water pour down his spine.

  “All ahead full. Come right to two four zero,” he ordered as calmly as he could. “Sound general quarters. Surface target”—he stressed the word—“looks like a Kraut submarine. Big sucker. Maybe a type nine?” He shook his head. It was too far, and what type it was meant nothing to anyone on Mahan but him. “Inform Ellie—and Admiral Keje—that we’re attacking.” He thought about ordering Ellie to come up to give him a hand—but what if there was more than one enemy sub? They were best off sticking with the procedure they’d come up with for this situation: mountain fish generally fled from the acoustic hammering they took from the DD’s sonar and the AMF-DIC of the sound-equipped auxiliaries. If a sub was picked up, probably initially distinguishing itself by not fleeing and then by the different returns the soundmen and ’Cats now knew to look for, the auxiliaries and deep-draft freighters would form a protective screen around Big Sal, Madraas, Sular, and Tarakaan Island. The closest modern DD would attack while the other stood by to assist or respond to other threats. “Ask Keje to vector his combat air patrol to the target, but tell Ellie to hang back until we call her.”