Wind in the East

by Steve Turnbull

  Two more hatches opened and steam artillery carriages drove out. Where there was just one of these armoured machines to guard the entirety of the Fortress, three crawled from the belly of the ship. The self-powered artillery possessed one main gun with a three-inch bore, four smaller guns and two machine guns mounted on the top.

  Like everything, they were driven through steam, and utilised the Faraday effect to allow monstrous constructions; each required a crew of twenty to operate the power unit, drive, navigate and man the guns. It was known the Germans had mobile fortresses with crews of over one hundred.

  There was no question that war was coming. It was only a matter of when.

  Another vehicle descended from the ship. This one lacked any major armament but was long with many wheels: a troop carrier and support vehicle. Finally the whole squadron had disembarked and lined up on the ground.

  The air-ship’s rotors had slowed down to the point where the individual blades could be observed. Men were out on the stubby wings checking the control and drive systems. Valentine was so busy watching the activity he did not notice the group of officers walking towards him until they were almost on top of him.

  He stood to attention but did not salute as he was not in uniform nor a soldier. The officer in front, a brigadier by his insignia, stuck out his hand. “Mr Crier, Brigadier Stewart. Your documents are all in order, and I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Valentine took his hand and shook it. “Thank you, sir. Glad I could be of some assistance.”

  “Well, we don’t always agree with you Foreign Office types, too much diplomacy if you ask my opinion. But it’s always important to give the boys some live fighting experience, so we’re happy to help out when the steel fist is needed. Never know when it’s going to come in handy, do we?”

  “I think this might be overkill.”

  The brigadier shook his head. “Can tell you’re not a military man, Crier. Overkill for them is underkill for us. If you see what I mean. If we have sufficient force to overwhelm them fast, it means fewer of my chaps are going to get hurt.”

  He paused as if he were allowing his wisdom to sink in and then continued. “Will we be taking the froggies along?”

  “The French? No, sir, they’ll make their own way in.”

  “As long as they don’t get in the way.”

  “They’ll stay clear until we’re in control of the area.”

  “All right. You’ll be riding in the Unicorn with me; you can advise our navigator as to the exact position of the target.”

  With that he turned and, flanked by his officers, headed towards the first of the wheeled vehicles. To the rear Valentine could see perhaps a hundred soldiers climbing into the personnel carrier.

  * * *

  Coming from the north, rather than the south as he had done on his first expedition, Valentine was not able to give them specific information as to the terrain, but their maps were good.

  There was something about these self-powered artillery that he found quite terrifying. They seemed to be virtually unstoppable. They proceeded along the roads initially and made excellent time, as they had an impressive turn of speed.

  There was no attempt at stealth. The speed of these vehicles far outstretched what any person on foot, or even on horseback, could achieve. Besides the slavers had managed to keep their location a secret from everyone, so nobody would be running to tell them of the approaching forces.

  After a few miles, when they were almost within sight of Pondicherry, the command was given to head inland. Valentine almost failed to make it into his assigned seat in time and had to grab the chair straps to avoid being thrown across the cabin. Once off the road the machines bucked and dipped with every contour of the landscape—but barely slowed.

  The crew seemed to take perverse pride in riding out the bumps at the highest possible velocity. Astonishingly, at least to Valentine, once in a while one of them would get up from their chair and walk across the tossing deck. Of course the reduced gravity meant that a fall would not be quite as damaging, and would occur at a slower rate giving time to compensate. However it was not an experience he was willing to try out.

  As they approached the low hills in which the slavers’ base was located a command was given of which Valentine could make neither head nor tail.

  “Notify squadron. Damp furnaces, switch to Spanish.”

  He had been concerned that they were arriving much earlier than the planned time for the attack. They intended to go in at midnight, and it was only beginning to get dark.

  Whatever the command meant, the captain received acknowledgement first from his own engine room and then from the signalman as the other machines reported their compliance.

  They reduced speed to the point where Valentine dared unstrap himself.

  “Want to go up top?” asked the brigadier.

  “I wouldn’t mind, sir.”

  “Heading up there myself, now we’re being stealthy,” he laughed loudly at his own humour.

  He went to a door which a crewman undogged and held open for them. Beyond it was a ladder going up and down. The brigadier stepped across the open space and on to the ladder without hesitation. It was hard to fall when there was so little gravity.

  Valentine followed him up and they emerged in a space fenced off by steel plating. There was room for about five people. There was a crewman on watch staring out into the dusk and scanning the horizon.

  Directly behind them were the three other vehicles. Only the slightest wisps of smoke emerged from their stacks, almost invisible in the dark. The engines still continued to huff. Steam emerged from side vents and dissipated into the evening air.

  Valentine was curious about the lack of smoke, obviously connected to the “Spanish” but idle curiosity was not appropriate to the situation.

  He watched ahead as the machine crushed its way through the undergrowth and smaller trees without changing its course.

  Another twenty minutes passed as the vehicles headed into the hills. There was a flashing behind him; the semaphore flags had been dismounted and replaced by signalling lamps.

  The vehicle went quiet but they kept moving.

  “Electric,” said the brigadier. “Nice, eh?”

  Valentine assented.

  The vehicles continued to crash through the terrain but now they might as well have been nothing but a herd of elephants for all the noise they were making.

  They came to a halt at the entrance to a valley which he and the navigator had decided was close to the one they wanted, which meant their target was most likely directly ahead, over the ridge. Now there were other matters to deal with.

  There was little more than a rustling in the undergrowth as teams of infantry were deployed from the personnel carrier. Some set up station a few hundred yards from the vehicles while others, trained in sabotage operations, headed up to the ridge. They would remove any patrols when the time came to move in.

  The Faraday device had been switched off to maintain battery reserves and Valentine climbed down the ladder and back into the main cabin carefully. There was nothing to do but wait. He would have enjoyed a few hands of cards but the rest of the crew had duties. He was the only one at a loose end.

  The combat screens had been lowered over the windows so that the cabin could be illuminated without the light giving away their location.

  He tried not to look at his watch but there was a clock located directly above the main window. It crawled as time passed. He took time over a toilet break outside but the crew were uncomfortable with him delaying and he soon had to go back inside.

  The air inside remained very fresh, almost invigorating, which he found surprising but that too was something he was not about to question.

  “Are you armed, Mr Crier?” asked the brigadier at about eleven o’clock.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” the brigadier gave him a wide grin. “Waiting’s over. Time for the action.”

  “Yes, sir.”


  ii

  The Faraday was engaged at exactly eleven-thirty. The interior lights were extinguished and the combat shields raised. As his vision adjusted to the dark Valentine realised they were already moving; he barely noticed it.

  With only the slightest sound the vehicle crept forward on its electric motors. He assumed the others were following. The deck tilted as they climbed towards the ridge. Scouts had reported back and confirmed the exact course they needed to take, which was slightly to the north of what he and the navigator had thought.

  Valentine sat back in his chair. All he could see was star-filled sky. The British had decided to move fast because this was the new moon, where otherwise they would have had to wait another month.

  At a quarter to twelve the captain ordered the “Spanish” to be engaged. The steam engines began to pump and power surged through the vehicle and its climb rate increased.

  The brigadier was not seated but hung by a strap set in the ceiling. He kept glancing at the clock but said nothing. His job was done. He would not direct the action as it happened; that was for the men on the ground.

  They topped the ridge and the vehicle deck became horizontal.

  “Strapped in, Mr Crier?” said the brigadier. “You had better be.” There was the sound of sheer delight in his voice.

  “Fire up main furnaces, decouple the Spanish.”

  There was a pause then the vehicle throbbed with noise and power.

  At exactly eleven fifty-five: “Charge.”

  The engines roared like a bull elephant, the gears engaged and the vehicle cannoned forwards directly at the slope that fell away into the valley ahead.

  “Tally-ho!” yelled the brigadier as they went over the edge. Valentine gripped the arms of his chair in terror. All the weight left him as the machine flew off the edge. His stomach felt as if it wanted to engage with his mouth. Then it crashed into his seat as the machine landed and tilted forward.

  For a terrifying moment Valentine thought the whole vehicle would turn over as the rear bounced upward and all he could see was the ground. Then the front drive wheels bit hard and yanked the whole vehicle forwards, slamming the rear back down.

  He could see the compound, as brightly lit as it had been only a couple of nights before. Though the big ship was not there, there was a smaller one.

  This had been a question he had discussed. A full military assault would endanger the lives of the very innocents they wanted to protect. Contingencies had been set in place but the military objective had been given priority. Thankfully it looked as if there would be no slaves.

  “Secondary turrets open fire.”

  Valentine could not imagine how the guns could possibly be accurate at this speed and across the rough terrain because the machine was bucking and dipping as it careened down the slope.

  The flash from the shot burst across the landscape, closely followed by two more, one from each side. The shells arched down into the valley striking close to the fence. They were high explosive and erupted, shooting stone, soil and smoke into the air.

  There were more shots, targeting the fence. It was brought down in several places.

  “Cease firing.”

  They were halfway down the slope but below them Valentine saw soldiers breaching the fence through the holes that they had made. They moved, paused and fired, then moved again.

  Men were coming out of the buildings firing off rounds. Valentine, with the full backing of the Foreign Office, had made it clear that they must, under no circumstances, destroy the buildings. It was vital they were kept in one piece to preserve potential evidence.

  This was a concern because there was a good chance that any of the pirate leaders would try to destroy those very same records given half a chance.

  They reached the bottom of the hill. The vehicle dug in and raced across the open space. It crashed through the nearest fence without a pause. There was the occasional sound of something metallic striking the vehicle and Valentine realised they were being shot at. There was little chance that small arms could do more than scratch the surface.

  The machine he was in had been tasked with disabling any flyer that might be present. The one that was present was a small passenger air-craft of a standard British design, unlike the big one.

  Disabling it was simple. They drove into the wing and crushed it.

  “Your turn, Mr Crier,” said the brigadier and indicated the exit hatch which was being undogged. Valentine put on his regulation cap so that he would be recognised and not shot at by some trigger-happy infantryman.

  He jumped from the artillery engine. The change from reduced to normal gravity caught him by surprise as he hit the ground sooner than he expected. He ended up on his knees but was otherwise unhurt and got to his feet.

  A glance around the compound showed him that the pirates were already on the run and attempting to hole up in one of the buildings. He joined some infantrymen racing across the compound attempting to get to the building before the slavers managed to set up any defences.

  They reached the wall of the building. Valentine prepared his pistol and headed for the door but one of the infantrymen grabbed his arm. “Only if you’re in a hurry to die, sir.”

  Then one of them pulled a cylindrical canister from his belt and pulled a pin out of the top. “These are a bit rubbish, sir, but if it works it’ll help.”

  The first man ran to the door and fired through it; the second followed him and pushed the door open and threw the canister inside. Streamers flew out behind it as it went into the dark. There were shots from inside and the second soldier dived out of the way.

  An explosion erupted from inside, blowing the door off its hinges, and showering Valentine with broken window glass.

  “Follow us, sir.”

  They headed inside.

  * * *

  Within twenty minutes all firing had ceased; the slavers were either captured or dead. And the buildings were intact.

  The lights around the compound were still lit. Valentine stepped from the door he’d entered the short time before and crunched down the steps covered in broken glass. The brigadier strode towards him, looking pristine.

  “Excellent. Operation completed successfully.”

  “Thank you,” Valentine started and then looked up. Two steam carriages were moving into the compound. The brigadier turned at the sound of the engines.

  “Aha, your Frenchies. Can’t stand the blighters.”

  He strode away, his officers in tow. Valentine walked slowly towards the cars as they approached and turned off to the side. A young man stepped down from the driving position of the first carriage and walked directly towards him. Valentine noted he looked surprisingly thin around the waist. He was fiddling with his driving hat and goggles. His face hidden from view.

  As he got closer Valentine realised that the proportions could only be those of a woman, in men’s clothing. She removed her helmet, and her hair cascaded across her face. She lifted her head and brushed back her hair.

  “You are Valentine?” said the woman, with a French accent. She looked him up and down with disdain. “I suppose you might be considered handsome but I can’t imagine why she would prefer you over me.”

  iii

  Father Christophe pedalled his bicycle through the dark streets. The letter from the Anderson girl lay in the bag slung over his shoulder.

  He swerved to avoid the barely seen cow standing in the street. There was no moon, just the stars, but light spilt from windows and doorways: Sometimes the muted glow of candles and oil lights, occasionally the harsh brightness of electric, but his attention was on the contents of her message.

  She had not been explicit in her accusations but she had mentioned the midwife Mary O’Donnell so it was clear she knew something. Potentially it was something that could ruin his career in the Church.

  And she had demanded he meet her in one of the worst districts of the city and so late at night. What choice did he have? He needed to find o
ut what she knew, and deal with it in whatever way seemed the most appropriate.

  He found the mosque she had referred to and dismounted. His bicycle would be safe enough and he thought his robes would protect him from all but the most fallen sinner.

  He took the alleyway that led down the left side. With buildings closed in on each side it was almost impossible to see anything. His shoes and cassock would need a good clean when he returned. Perhaps he should get one of those hand-held electric lights in case he needed to travel in the dark again. Perhaps have them fitted to his bicycle.

  He bumped into a wall. The unexpectedness of it jolted him. He let out an exclamation, and suppressed the sudden panic that engulfed him.

  “This way, Father Christophe.” He did not know her voice well enough to recognise it as Maliha Anderson, but there was an English accent in the otherwise excellent French. He looked to the left, the direction from which the sound had come.

  She did not sound close by and in the distance he saw a rectangle of grey in the solid black that reached up until it blended with the sky, and against the grey, the dark silhouette of a woman in a sari.

  “Mam’selle Anderson?”

  “Of course.”

  He stumbled along the passage and emerged on to a narrow wharf with buildings on one side, and one of Pondicherry’s wide estuaries stretching out before him, dotted with the dark shadows of boats. He looked around more carefully and a wave of recognition came over him. The woman was standing right on the edge, looking out. She must know. His stomach knotted up.

  “It is beautiful, don’t you think?” she said as he came up beside her.

  The lights on the opposite bank reflected in the gently rippling surface. The stars too shone both above and below.

  There was a flicker of light beside him and he glanced to the side. A small light shone on her uplifted wrist illuminating a small silver watch that was more like a bracelet. It also illuminated her bare midriff and the curve of her upper body, covered with a silk sari of blue and gold.

  After all these years he was used to the way the Indian women displayed themselves so immodestly. It did not normally cause the stirrings it once had. But he did not normally stand close enough to smell their perfume. He would have to disclose his weakness at his next confession. The flesh was always so weak.