Firestorm

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Aye.”

  “May I have a look?”

  The man hesitated only slightly before nodding. “Aye, follow me.” He opened a door that concealed a flight of stairs and retrieved a burning lamp from a step. “This way, if ye please.”

  Up the stairs they went, passing through the second-story living space. The third was much the same—possibly for the sons? Finally, the trio emerged on the roof, surrounded by a high continuation of the out- side wall. Four young men greeted them with muskets, but turned them away when they recognized the cobbler. A middle-aged woman and a girl sat huddled to one side, wrapped in blankets head to foot, to protect them from flying debris. Chack didn’t know if he’d ever seen such concern for Imperial females demonstrated by anyone other than Commodore Jenks—or Governor Radcliff on Respite Island. The reaction of the “sons” was similar to the cobbler, but he quickly assured them.

  “Watch yerself near the edge,” the cobbler warned as Chack started to look around. “I doubt the sods’ll hit ye, but they might get grit in yer eyes!”

  Chack nodded his thanks and began to absorb the Battle of New Dublin. The house/store/shop wasn’t the tallest building in the city by any means, several being two or more stories taller, but it afforded an excellent view of the chaotic struggle. It was surreal. Salaama-Na had moved quite close to one of the forts with her great sweeps, and the two traded heavy fire like angry volcanoes locked in a hellish embrace. The Home had the advantage in firepower, but whether the great ship or the fort was more durable was anyone’s guess. The other fort was a smoldering ruin, probably destroyed by a hit in its magazine, and Chack realized he must have missed its demolition during the bombing. He doubted it was constructed to protect against attack from the air.

  The harbor glowed and pulsed with burning ships of all sizes, and buildings and warehouses all along the waterfront were in flames. Small flashes lit the night in all directions, like granules of gunpowder trickled in a fire, and he finally gained a semblance of understanding where the general respective lines were. A light gun barked in the street to the south and canister crackled down an alleyway amid foreign screams. Must be one of our light six-pounders, he thought. Bringing it down the mountains behind them would have been a nightre. I wonder how many there are? Few pieces were firing anywhere in the city; the Doms must’ve had all of theirs pointing outward, and spiked them as they were overrun. The only other big guns still in the fight were those of the fort, a few light pieces firing inward that the landing Marines must have brought, and what appeared to be a Dom bastion of some kind far on the northwest side of the city. Guns from there belched fire in all directions.

  “Maarine,” he snapped, “what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Private Shmuke, sir.”

  “Corporal Shmuke, after I talk to Mr. Blair,” Chack said. “I need you to contact that company fighting to our rear. I presume it’s they who have the gun. Tell them to bring it up here to support us. We can’t link up with anyone until we get past that building there.” He pointed at the one they’d stalled in front of. “I assume that’s this city’s Government House?” he asked the cobbler.

  “Aye, or at least it was. As ye may imagine, it was taken over by the Comp’ny several months ago when the Doms first started coming in,” he seethed.

  “Months?” Chack asked.

  “Aye. Didn’t anyone know?”

  “No one who mattered, apparently,” Chack said. “None of the shipping from here reported it, but it rarely touches at Scapa Flow. . . .” He paused. “Or anywhere I’m aware of except for New Britain Island, come to that. There’s been . . . suspicion of late.”

  “Aye,” the cobbler said, “an’ naught but Comp’ny ships’ve been allowed to come an’ go this past year!”

  “That explains a lot,” Chack murmured, “but not why.” He looked at Corporal Shmuke. “Bring them up!”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Corp’ral,” said the cobbler, “one of my boys’ll lead ye. Ye can get quite close moving along the rooftops. He’ll know those ye meet, an’ which dwellin’s are safe to descend within.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Another broadside thundered from Salaama-Na in the harbor and other Imperial ships had joined her at last, risking their comparatively thin skins in an effort to overwhelm the fort. The fort wasn’t finished yet, however, and the night lit up with a terrible eruption as an Imperial “liner” disintegrated as a result of a lucky shot.

  “Ye asked why,” the cobbler said softly.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Many of us here, on New Ireland an’ elsewhere, adhere ta the Catholic faith—the old, true faith some of the Founders brought with ’em. Even if it weren’t for the Doms an’ their perversions, the ‘Old Church’ is frowned upon. Its practice is legal, but grounds for revocation of citizen- ship. One cannot be an open Catholic an’ vote for the court, so those of us who’re honest to our God an’ our emperor have no say. The dishonest sell their votes ta the Comp’ny. Some here, the ‘rebels,’ would have independence. Most would be happy just ta worship as we would. The Comp’ny, as separatist rebels, or for reasons of their own, p’raps hoped the Doms would help us gain independence and just be happy ta have us move a tad closer ta their way of thinkin’.” He spat. “Madness, o’ course. The ‘Old Church’ has nothin’ in common with the filthy version the Doms advance—an’ any fool could see they don’t accept half measures. If they’re in, they’re in, an’ the suffering here, especially after whatever transpired on New Scotland, has been enough to kill a man’s soul. I an’ me family’ve been lucky ta survive the ‘cleansin’,’ an’ me poor daughter’s been hid ever since they arrived. Most females of childbearin’ age . . . The sacrifices, ye see . . .”

  Chack could bear no more. He hadn’t really considered the lot of those on New Ireland who didn’t support the new regime. He looked once more at the dying city. “There will be a reckoning for this, sir, I assure you. Now I must return to my Marines. You’ve been most helpful and kind.”

  “I thought you said your ‘beloved ass’ wouldn’t fly!” Second Lieutenant Orrin Reddy shouted through the voice tube to his passenger, as the NC-1B “Nancy” achieved a cruising altitude of about five thousand feet. There were no lights on the plane—something that needed fixing—but his “passenger” knew enough Morse to confirm the other ships in the 10th Pursuit Squadron had converged on the orange exhaust flare from the lead plane’s engine. Orrin hoped they wouldn’t “converge” too close! He couldn’t make out any details in his little mirror, but he suspected he’d see Dennis Silva’s gap-toothed grin if it was light.

  “I ain’t flyin’; you are!” came the reply.

  “I thought you were afraid to fly!”

  “I am! That’s why you’re doin’ it, damn it!”

  “Well . . .” Orrin shook his head in frustration. “What difference does that make?”

  “I ain’t at the controls!”

  Orrin started to ask at what point a maniacal gunner’s mate in the Asiatic Fleet had ever controlled an aircraft, when something bumped into the back of his leg. “What the hell!” He looked down but saw nothing in the darkness.

  “It’s cold!” came a strange voice from within the fuselage/hull of the plane.

  “My God, Lawrence! Is that you?” Orrin demanded.

  “Course it is! Who else do you think could get in here?”

  “But what are you doing in there? I thought this thing was heavy. . . .”

  “Look, Mr. Reddy,” Silva yelled. “I work for the Skipper, an’ my job’s to take care of stuff for him, you know, the gals an’ such. Well, Miss Lieutenant Minister Tucker an’ the Munchkin princess are safe as can be right now. They both think maybe you need a little watchin’ over right now, you an’ the Skipper bein’ related an’ all.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Sure it is, an’ I said so, but they made me come! It was a face-to-face, direct order!”

  “But . . . what’
s Lawrence doing here?”

  “He kinda thinks of himself as my sidekick, see? Sometimes I let him carry one of my guns.”

  “I ain’t no sidekick!” Lawrence said.

  “Hey, there’s the moon!” Silva said, diverting the conversation. The bright orb, nearly full, had begun emerging from the sea. “Boy, it sure looks close! Hey! How come it always looks closer when it rears up than when it’s right overhead, Lieutenant? I’ve always wondered that.”

  “You’re kidding? Well . . . there’s more atmosphere between us and it when it first comes up. It acts like a magnifying glass.... I think.”

  “So . . . it’s because there’s more air between us and it now than when it’s straight up?”

  “That’s what I just said!”

  “Then if you had a glass tank and filled it with compressed air, you could really see somethin’, right?”

  Orrin shook his head but didn’t reply. What a dopey question, he thought. Now it’s going to drive me nuts! He was glad to see the moon, though; it would make setting down on that lake in the dark a lot easier. He looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouettes of the rest of his flight. Maybe we won’t be as likely to run into each other either. The silhouette of New Ireland had appeared as well, as the moon rose higher, looking like a mountain range surrounded by a sea of mercury. “We should see the southern elements of Second Fleet soon. Start keeping your eyes peeled, in case any of those damn lizard birds are waiting for us.”

  The four-cylinder engine droned companionably above them as the coastline neared and the dark shapes of ships emerged. On shore, northeast and southwest of Cork, a battle raged, with vertical slashes of fire in both directions pinpointing artillery emplacements. Occasionally, clusters of mortar bombs sputtered where observers must have spotted enemy troop concentrations. The ships weren’t firing much, since all were Imperial vessels and had no explosive shells, but they’d probably rejoin the fight in earnest at dawn, once they could see what they were shooting at again.

  “Anything on the horn I ought to know about?” Orrin asked.

  “I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Silva confessed. “I ain’t no spark catcher, but I can hold my own. Every time I start pickin’ up a thread, somebody stomps all over it. Sounds like a mess, though. Everbody’s screamin’ for those swell new mortar bombs. Apparently, they’re about all that’s keepin’ the bad guys back. Must be runnin’ out.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Orrin said. “This turned into a lot bigger fight than anybody expected, and all the artillery that fires exploding shells are with Chack and Blair, or left behind at Waterford.” He looked down at the fighting around Cork as they flew above it. “They’ll get more ordnance in the morning when that Jap colonel comes ashore—if they can hold that long.” Orrin’s tone revealed he still wasn’t comfortable relying on Shinya. He liked and respected Sandra, Laumer, and Captain Lelaa (he’d taken to the ’Cats as quickly as anyone). He even liked Lawrence right off, but, of course, he’d never seen a Grik. In many ways, Orrin Reddy was still entranced and fascinated by this bizarre “Oz” he’d found himself in, and it sure beat the fate that awaited him aboard—or beyond—that hellish ship he’d ridden to this world. But no matter whose side he was on, Shinya was still a Jap.

  Ahead were the Wiklow Mountains. Soon they’d cross them and view the valley beyond—and the lake that ought to be Pearl Harbor.

  “This fight looks . . . even bigger,” he observed a while later as they descended into the valley and neared what could only be the city of Waterford. A vast crescent of fire enveloped the northern part of the town, and Lake Shannon shimmered and glowed like a great puddle of blood. Bright flashes lit the valley, and crimson arcs of exploding shells fell on what had to be enemy positions, fired from the city and the mountains beyond. Cork was a holding action. Beyond the next range was the main Allied push, but here, the enemy had the whole campaign by the throat. If Waterford fell, each force would be isolated and vulnerable. From altiude, the battle resembled an inferno as the damp, but sappy forest burned almost everywhere. Immediately, Orrin Reddy changed his entire plan.

  “Watch really carefully now,” he instructed Silva. “That moon’s a big help to us, but it’ll help those flying creatures too!”

  In the event, the entire 10th Pursuit Squadron set down on the placid, brightly lit lake without incident, and motored toward a pier where nearly a dozen other “Nancys” were tied. Willing hands helped secure the bobbing aircraft as the engines were cut, and weary, stiff-legged aircrews scrambled onto the dock.

  “Where’s HQ?” Orrin shouted.

  “You not like it, sur,” warned a ’Cat.

  “Why?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just take me there.”

  There was excited chattering he didn’t understand, and he was quickly led through a maze of battered waterfront buildings to a long, low-slung structure that reminded him of an army barracks. Probably every one of his fliers gaggled behind him.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” demanded an Imperial officer as Orrin, Silva, and the leading edge of aviators burst into the building. Orrin was shocked by the tone, but also the level of chaos he beheld. At first glance, the activity they’d interrupted seemed to border on panic.

  “Lieutenant Orrin Reddy, COFO of Maaka-Kakja, reporting,” he said. He didn’t salute, partly because he had no idea about Imperial rank devices, but also because his temper was rising.

  “Very well, you’ve reported!” the officer said brusquely. “Now get out of the way! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve a battle on our hands!”

  “That’s pretty clear from the air. What’s also clear is a way to end it in a hurry!”

  “Ridiculous! We’re doing all that can be done with our meager forces here.”

  “You’re not doing anything with the planes yet.”

  “Yes . . . well, I heard there was some scheme to use them in the morning for something,” the man replied vaguely, “though I’ve no idea what possible use they might be. Freakish curiosities!”

  “Who’s in command here?” Silva demanded menacingly, taking a step forward. Lawrence squeezed in beside him, and his frightening visage and strangely colored armor were at least as disconcerting as Silva’s sudden entrance into the conversation.

  “Why . . . Commodore Luce came forward with the reinforcements from Cork. I suppose he’s the highest in rank. . . .”

  “So he’s in charge?”

  “I don’t know as if you could say he’s in charge, per se. . . .”

  “Is anybody in charge?” Silva roared.

  The Imperials visibly flinched.

  “Uh, Major Blair was in charge of this element of the operation, though we’ve occupied an area originally designated for the Ape—Major Chack, I mean! Neither is here at present, so I command my forces, Commodore Luce has his, though his artillery is controlled by . . . someone else. Major Brighton has the troops that fled here from Bray, but his supply train security force is under Major Grimes.”

  “Nobody’s in charge?” Silva roared again, but with a tone of furious incredulity. “Good Gawd a’font>hell kind of a way is this to run a war? You fellas haven’t done much o’ this, have you?”

  “Perhaps not on this scale, but I assure you . . . !”

  Dennis turned to Orrin. “Sir,’ he said with more gravity than Orrin had ever heard him use, “as the senior officer on the scene who has the only f . . . lipperin’ clue what the flyin’ . . .” He stopped. “Oh goddamn, Lieutenant! Just rear up an’ take charge o’ this chickenshit outfit!”

  “Jesus, Silva, I can’t do that!” Orrin objected, his young face reddening in the lamplight.

  “Of course not!” the Imperial practically squealed.

  Silva raised the Thompson SMG he’d been holding innocuously by his side and yanked the bolt back. “Lieutenant Reddy, you’re fixin’ to hafta take charge after I shoot all these useless sons-o’-goats!”

  “Just wait, damn it!” Orrin shouted. He spun ba
ck to face the Imperial “commander.” “Look, I don’t want your job and I sure don’t want you fellows dead, but I do have a plan!” He pushed his way through the suddenly very quiet and attentive officers in the room to a map spread on a table. “The Doms are all around here,” he said, drawing a crescent with his finger. “Some big fires are burning here”—he pointed again—“between the enemy and this little river, probably started by Chack and Blair’s artillery.”

  “Yes,” muttered another officer. “A great tragedy, all those trees!”

  Orrin looked at the man and blinked. “Uh, okay. The thing is, those guns can’t reach any farther. We can! Maaka-Kakja’s planes!”

  “For what purpose?”

  “We brought fuel for the planes that landed on the lake, but we don’t need all of them for this. You pull all your troops back to the city, and we rig fuel cans with mortar bombs and drop ’em on the enemy! The whole valley north of the city will go up in a wall of fire, and the Doms we don’t burn will have no choice but to pull back! By the time the fire simmers down, you should have reinforcements from the coast!”

  “Madness!” cried the “tree” officer. “To burn the enemy alive! It’s monstrous, simply monstrous! And all those trees! The beauty of the valley will be lost!”

  “You’re all nuts,” shouted Orrin in return. “You’d rather lose the battle and get nailed to a post—and maybe lose the whole damn war—than kill the enemy and burn a few trees?” He looked at Silva. “I should’ve let you shoot ’em!”

  “Still can,” Silva said.

  “Now, now!” cried the first Imperial. “This is madness! We’re all on the same side, by Imperial decree. I will respect that. You have your own command, so please do as you think best with it! I’ll pass the word to Commodore Luce and the others! Just leave us.”

  “I need some mortar bombs,” Orrin insisted.

  “As do we all. I don’t know if any can be had, but if so, you’ll have to get them from . . . oh, blast! I still can’t remember his name! The artillery gentleman! Now, if you don’t mean to shoot us, please leave us to fight our battle!”