River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

“Ay, ay, sur!”

  Pack Rat had apparently dropped on his belly and slid forward to hang down from the fire-control platform above the bridge—holding on to the stanchions with his toes or tail, for all Matt knew—and was staring at him upside down. “We gonna shoot, Skipper?” he asked as Mahan rapidly accelerated, white water surging up around her propeller guards.

  “You bet your ass. Quit hanging there like a possum and get the main battery ready to fire!”

  “Ay, ay, Skipper! Main baattery’s maanned an’ ready!” Pack Rat glanced aft and blinked annoyance. “Torpedoes an’ secondaries is laaggin’.” Then his face vanished. Matt should’ve chastised him more sharply for the unorthodox stunt, but just couldn’t make himself. Pack Rat knew what to do, but he was no officer, and this was his first chance to act like one. Matt would have Tiaa-Baari talk with him later. He raised his binoculars again. “What’s the target doing?” he asked.

  “He just . . . sittin’ there,” the talker replied, blinking uncertainty. He obviously didn’t know what else to say. That’s when Matt realized he’d made a big mistake. He was used to the instant (if sometimes exasperatingly laid-back) professionalism aboard Walker, her veterans—’Cat and human—able to perform their duties with hardly any thought. And every one of them knew exactly what he wanted when he asked a question. He’d grown spoiled and forgotten how to act around an entirely green crew. He’d completely forgotten how green he’d been just a few short years ago! Despite SOP at GQ, Commander Tiaa-Baari, XO or not, had no business at the auxiliary conn in combat, not yet, but that’s where she’d bolted as soon as the alarm sounded. She’s got the brains, initiative, and guts to go far, but she’s got a lot to learn. I should’ve told her to stay on the bridge! She’s proven she knows how to handle the ship, but now she needs to learn how to fight it. Have to fix that . . .

  “Commander Tiaa to the bridge on the double,” he shouted. “Talker, ask the lookout what that pigboat’s doing besides just sitting there! Is it blowing air, trying to submerge? Is it manning guns? What’s its heading? Speed?” Matt quickly paced to the starboard bridgewing and stared forward. “Range!” he barked directly up at Pack Rat, bypassing the confused talker, who was trying to get the information Matt asked for while still reciting readiness reports. They’d done a lot better in drills, but this was taking way too long.

  Tiaa pounded up the ladder onto what used to be the amidships deckhouse and raced to his side. “Reporting as ordered, Cap-i-taan!” she cried.

  “Nineteen hundreds,” Pack Rat quickly shouted back, but then he also hesitated. “Taagit course an’ speed is . . . nothin’. He’s just sittin’ there, Skipper!”

  Matt shook his head, staring at what was definitely a Type XI boat. What the hell? he roared inside his head. He turned to Tiaa. “That’s gotta be the same boat that’s been snooping around down here for weeks. Hasn’t even made a secret of it. And surfacing right in front of a task force on its way to, hopefully, even the odds against the Grik isn’t—can’t be—a benign act. Particularly based on past experience. I think this is another League attempt to lean on the scales, to keep us from relieving Santy Cat and let the Grik break out.”

  Tiaa was nodding quickly, but her eyes blinked doubt. Matt didn’t catch it, or thought she was just as shocked as he was that they’d be this bold. His eyes narrowed. “Or,” he continued, “maybe they bobbed up for a better look to see if we brought Savoie. I doubt word got out to the League by radio from Zanzibar that we took her, but that sneaking sub might’ve seen us do it and reported. Rizzo’s Italian ground crews spilled that they’d been expecting ammunition resupply by sub. . . .” He suddenly nodded to himself. “That’s why the damn U-boat’s still hanging around out here: to find Savoie and put a spread of fish in her! Sure, we might kill the sub, but balanced against us having Savoie, the League probably considers it expendable.”

  “But . . .” Tiaa finally broke in, still blinking uncertainty. “Saa-voie was expend-aable too, was she not?” The U-boat was plainly visible to her by now from the pilothouse. And it was just sitting there. “Maybe the sub-maa-rine crew don’t feel expend-aable. Maybe they just wanna talk?” Tiaa could hardly believe she’d dared to disagree with Captain Reddy, but to her amazement, he gave her an encouraging nod. Then he took a deep, bitter breath. “Maybe,” he agreed. “More likely, though, even if they do, it’s just to delay us more.” His voice hardened. “And we can’t wait to find out. Big Sal will be in range of her fish shortly, unless she changes course. More damn delays, whether that’s their aim or not, and the League’s caused us enough of those.” He snorted. “Besides, I told Gravois what we’d do if we caught their damn sub poking around after he left.” He looked up at Pack Rat’s expectant face, peering down at him again. “Commence firing!”

  The talker finally announced, “All stations maanned an’ ready,” just as the salvo buzzer rang. Unlike Walker’s, Mahan’s buzzer was still the original, and even after being sunk, it sounded mostly like it should. Raaaa—Blam! The number-one gun fired at one thousand yards, missing long. A big splash rose up far beyond the target and blam! the second round was already on the way, missing even farther. Pack Rat had ordered an up ladder but blew his initial range. “Check fire!” Matt heard his shout. “Down five hundreds! Commence firin’!” But at twenty-five knots, Mahan had already closed the distance and the next shot fell long as well.

  “Damn!” Matt muttered, staring through his binoculars. The sub was going down fast, the setting sun lighting the spray as air jetted from ballast tanks. A shell finally came close, arcing right over the sub’s deck gun as it vanished underwater, but Matt shook his head in frustration as the last shot hit empty water in about the same place.

  “Cease firing!” he ordered. “Stand by, depth charges. Reduce speed to fifteen knots.”

  “Sound will find him,” Tiaa assured, but her eyes were blinking shame. Worse, the number two and three gun’s crews behind the bridge, which hadn’t been able to fire because of the angle, were shouting heated insults at the number-one gun crew—which was yelling angrily back. A few jeers were normal, even acceptable, but this wasn’t, and Tiaa clearly didn’t know what to do about it. It dawned on Matt that getting Mahan ready to fight had tightly welded her people together in one way, but their goal complete, they’d never really become a crew. They had a chief bosun’s mate—in name—but Matt suspected the burly, no-nonsense Ensign Toos he’d sent to Walker had been the ship’s disciplinarian. He snatched up a speaking trumpet and leaned out over the bridgewing. “Silence fore and aft!” he roared. “This is not a baseball game! It’s a ship of war, under my command, in my American Navy Clan! His eyes focused on Torpedoman First Class Fino-Saal, whom he’d appointed acting torpedo officer. Well, he was good at other things too. “You’re Chief Saal now, chief bosun’s mate. Sort out the deck division POs as you see fit and get this crew squared away.” He turned to face forward. “After we kill this damn sub,” he grated. All that remained on the surface was a smear of gold-tinged white foam.

  “I got him!” came a cry from inside the charthouse, and Matt strode in to look at a brown ’Cat listening intently to a set of earphones. There was no scope for his equipment, only a large vacuum tube, like a tuning eye, which glared brighter with each sound pulse as they neared the target. It couldn’t tell them anything about what the sub was doing, however, and the ’Cat’s eyes were clenched shut, in any event. “He’s turnin’ away, goin’ deep,” he said.

  “Can you do that out here, over the chart table?” Matt demanded. The ’Cat looked up at him and blinked. “Sure! I mean, ay, sur!”

  “Then come on!” This is turning into a sick joke, Matt realized, and it’s all my fault. I drilled them as best I could with the time I had, but I didn’t bring enough core people to do what I didn’t think of and check the little things. Little things that grow huge, he added with frustration at himself. The ’Cat followed, trailing the long wires to his ear
phones, and stared down at the chart while Tiaa made a mark along a straight edge and looked at him expectantly.

  “Ten de-grees leff,” the ’Cat said, and Matt nodded at Paddy Rosen, who’d also been growing increasingly incredulous. They’d had that sub served up on a platter, and now it was getting away.

  “Lost con-taact due to short range!” the ’Cat suddenly announced.

  “Very well. Set the charges for medium depth. We’ll drop on time,” Matt said, looking at his watch, then glancing meaningfully at the talker who gulped and switched the comm circuit knobs to the depth-charge racks and torpedo mounts, whose crews would fire the Y guns. Matt looked back at his watch and counted the seconds down. “Fire the Y guns,” he ordered. Seconds later, two wrinkled bronze drums blasted into the air on either side of the ship, splashing into the sea about eighty yards away. “Roll two,” Matt commanded, and another charge dropped in their wake from each of the two cramped racks astern.

  They’d finally done away with wooden barrel charges, and the new ones were copies of the MK-6 depth charges Walker and Mahan brought to this world, with the exception of the bronze casings. They relied on a simple, adjustable, pressure-sensitive detonator and were extremely reliable weapons. Unfortunately, they were also sadly ineffective against submarines. They worked very well frightening mountain fish away (though once in a while, an apparent “old bull” became more annoyed than afraid), but dropping them close enough to damage a maneuvering sub was problematic. Chief Gray once said it was like shooting at bats with a pistol in the dark. With this green crew? It was probably more like throwing rocks.

  The sea spalled and purple spume rose high in the air behind them. “Right standard rudder. Bring us around,” Matt ordered. As soon as they were back on course, he looked at the sound-’Cat. At first he shook his head, then tensed.

  “Con-taact! Same con-taact! Is still movin’ away . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe five hundred yaads, five or six knots. I think is still turnin’ away from the traack of the taask force.”

  Matt considered. “Have Keje continue on into the shallows at the mouth of the river. Ellie will join us to kill this Leaguer before he gets away.”

  Ellie and Mahan hunted the sub for two hours while the task force steamed past, long after dark and into the night. Contacts became fewer and further between—whoever this U-boat skipper was, he was good—but whenever the hunters scented their quarry, they pounded the sea unmercifully. Usually, when the turbulence cleared and Ellie tried to pinpoint the enemy again, it took awhile, because she always started looking in the direction of the task force. Each time, however, as she widened her search, the enemy was always found moving away. That made no sense. They’d expected he’d continue trying to close and do some damage. Curiously, he never did. That was smart, if he was trying to save his skin, but he’d eventually been driven far enough away that he’d never have a chance to pick off any Allied ships.

  Finally, getting low on depth charges and with all contact lost, Matt had to accept that the U-boat had escaped. With their searchlights on, Ellie and Mahan hurried to catch up with the task force back across the area they’d hunted. Perry Brister reported what might’ve been a small oil slick, but no debris was seen. Disappointed they’d missed a good chance to kill one of their tormentors, but glad they’d at least driven it away and prevented damage to any of the ships in their care, Mahan and Ellie rejoined the task force already riding at anchor above the silted river fan, where the depth averaged only six or seven fathoms. If the sub came after them now, it might get some licks in against some of the ships blocking the big boys with their own hulls, but it would be easy to kill. Matt instructed Commander Brister and Ellie to refuel and load more depth charges alongside one of the tenders, then keep up a sonar picket for the rest of the night. He then threaded Mahan in among the gaggle of ships and went alongside Salissa for the same purpose—and for one final conference. A long accommodation ladder had already been rigged, and they’d raised it high enough that Matt, with Tabby in tow this time, only had to step across from the fo’c’sle. It was still a long way up, but Matt reflected that it was a far more dignified way to ascend the dizzying heights to Big Sal’s hangar deck than the first time he’d climbed even higher on a bouncing, swaying rope ladder.

  Gaining the hangar deck amidships, he saluted aft out of habit, even though Salissa’s flag of the United Homes flew above the superstructure “island” almost directly above. Then he saluted the OOD before asking permission to come aboard. The side party gathered to welcome him was fairly large and loaded with brass, consisting of Keje and generals Pete Alden, Muln Rolak, Safir Maraan, and Fan-Ma-Mar from III Corps. Tikker and Madraas’s COFO were there, but Ben Mallory was already ashore at the airstrip Tassanna had built.

  Several division commanders were also there to greet him, such as generals Taa-Leen of the 1st (Galla), Rin-Taaka-Ar of the 2nd, and Mersaak of the 3rd. Even General Grisa, finally recovered from wounds he’d received at Grik City, was back in command of Safir Maraan’s 6th Division. Matt was glad to see Lieutenant Colonel Saachic of the 1st Cavalry Brigade. They’d probably need his cav, and Matt only hoped his Me-naaks hadn’t gone nuts on their transport. The longer they were at sea, the harder they were to manage on land.

  All these people were old friends and he was glad to see them, glad they were here, but he was most surprised to see Sandra standing between Keje and Rolak. She’d made the trip on Tarakaan Island and must’ve come over as soon as she anchored. At a little over seven months along, he didn’t like her doing anything quickly. Seeing his expression, she rolled her eyes. “Tara’s going upriver with the assault and I knew you’d throw a fit if I stayed in her,” she defended. “Big Sal is not going upriver”—she patted Keje’s arm—“and this is like my second home. Tara let in enough water to flush a pair of Nat Hardee’s PT boats,” she explained, realizing the real reason for his concern, that she’d come over in some small, open boat. “Nat brought me over himself, on the Seven boat.” She grinned. “Number aside, not many things left in our navy have been luckier than it has!” She watched his relief turn to frustration. “I take it your fishing trip didn’t go so well?”

  Matt shook his head. “I think we put a few hooks in him, but he shook ’em out.” He sighed. “Probably my fault. Mahan’s crew is green as grass. I wish she had more experienced hands.” His expression firmed when he glanced at Tabby. “Her power plant’s in good shape, and I think everybody else’ll be okay, now they’re over their first-shot jitters. As for the pigboat, Perry Brister found a little oil slick, but I’d bet it’s still out there.” He brightened. “But if it is losing fuel, it can’t hang around. Its skipper’ll have to go wherever his fuel is.” He shook his head. “I wish I knew where that tenacious bas—fella calls home.”

  “We will find it—or him,” Keje consoled. “And if he is leaking, our scout planes may find him more easily now.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Now that the pleas-aantries are behind us,” Rolak interjected wryly, “how soon will we move upriver? The plaan is as set as it can be, as long as the situation remains the same with Saanty Caat. Our recon photos, maaps, assignments—all are in readiness. Again, as long as there are no changes.”

  Matt looked oddly at Rolak. “You think there will be? Is something unusual cooking upriver?”

  “Not thaat we know of,” Rolak replied, looking at his Imperial watch. He’d picked up the importance of precise timekeeping for military purposes quicker than most ’Cats. Of course, he and Safir were from Aryaal and B’mbaado, two of only a few Lemurian Homes that had routinely engaged in warfare—usually against each other—before the Grik came. “As of eighteen hundred hours, when we received our laast update, all was quiet.” He grinned. “But of course there will be changes! There always are. And of course the Grik will cook something unusual for us to adaapt to.” He rubbed his furry chin. “Thaat’s one reason, as carefully as we haave plaaned
this operation, I’m glaad we also allowed for some flexibility. Baarring the unexpected, however, I ask again: When do we move?”

  Keje waved around. “We caan’t attempt it in darkness. It will be difficult even in daylight. Few of our comm-aanders haave ever maaneuvered within the confines of a river before.” He shrugged. “I haave not. USS Revenge has well aac-quainted herself with the chaannel and caan lead us in with the dawn.” He grimaced. “She puts out new chaannel markers every day, but increasingly, Grik raiding paarties move them. We must not allow any of our laarger ships to run aground or strike a snaag. If thaat happens, we will be in the same fix as the Grik.” He scratched the beardlike mane around his own chin and blinked thoughtfully. “Yet another reason to make haste: if we linger, the Grik might try to slow or stop us with snaags, or even attempt mines of some sort.”

  “Agreed,” Matt said. “And it’ll take a while before the Grik even know we’re here. Best not to give them time to react at all.” He yawned and reached over to take his wife’s hand. “Let’s get on with the meeting, shall we? I hope there’s not too much left to kick around—and there’s some chow. I’m starved.” He grinned. “And beat. Keje, if you don’t mind—Big Sal being a naval reserve ship, after all—I’d like to stay aboard with my wife tonight.” He frowned. “This could be a long operation, and there’s no telling when I’ll see her again.”

  “Of course,” Keje agreed. “Lady Saandra’s stateroom is always ready.” He blinked understanding that turned to unease. “We should all try to make it an early night. Tomorrow will be a great and terrible day.”

  Whatever happened, there was no denying that.

  Pete Alden looked at the others. “There isn’t much left, unless anyone has some last-minute confusion about what’s expected of ’em, or suggestions that occurred to ’em as they digested the plan. I still wish we could adjust the order of the landings more easily, based on what’s going on when we get there, but there may be no room to shift things around. Sular and most of First Corps have to go first, followed by Tara and most of Second Corps. Follow-up elements and Third Corps will be in smaller ships, and we can be more flexible about where we send them in. Let’s look at the latest recon photos and try to narrow that down some more.” He looked at Tikker. “And I’d like to go over the air-cover assignments one more time.” Tikker, Madraas’s COFO, and Keje nodded.