B00BPJL400 EBOK

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Can we feed ’em all?” Letts asked.

  “Ammunition production’s on target, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Bernie Sandison, the dark-haired former torpedo officer and acting Minister of Ordnance in Sonny Campeti’s absence said with confident pride. “I’d still like the troops to make an effort to pick up their brass, though.”

  “I hope they’re on target better than the torpedoes!” said Letts, and there were chuckles. The results of the torpedo tests Bernie performed in front of the whole city several weeks before had been mixed at best.

  Bernie flushed. “We’ll have torps by the time the skipper gets here and wants Walker’s tubes back. I think we’ve finally got the guidance issues on the MK-3 hot-air fish sorted out. It’s the same as it was on the other two we tried, but the fish is so much faster, I think it tended to overcontrol.”

  “I’ll say!” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, smiling archly beneath his Pancho Villa mustache and making a motion with his hand like a porpoise jumping out of the water.

  “It was better than your dud electric job!” Bernie snapped, and Ronson cringed.

  “We’ll make better batteries,” Commander Steve Riggs defended. They would too. Steve was Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances and he’d worked wonders. They all had. But, realistically, it would be a while before they had good enough batteries for electric torpedoes. “Besides,” Riggs continued, “what about Laumer? He wants torpedoes too.” No one answered, and Irvin Laumer wasn’t there. He was still working night and day converting the old, virtually useless submarine S-19 into a surface ship. He envisioned her as a torpedo gunboat, and the jury was out whether he was wasting his time or not.

  “I am sure Mr. Sandison will soon have enough torpedoes for everyone,” Adar said, his voice more positive. “Enough torpedoes—and many other new contrivances that were not yet ready for the ‘torpedo day’ demonstration. But we must now discuss what we shall do with them—and all the other wonders I spoke of. What will the Grik do now, and what shall we do about it?”

  “Certainly we need to consider what the Grik will do.” Simon Herring spoke for the first time. “But perhaps the better question should be, What are we going to do, and what can the Grik do about it?”

  Adar nodded slowly. “I like that question better.” He looked at Herring. “And if the question is not so different from the one you posed at the last meeting such as this, your emphasis on recrimination and withdrawal seems . . . changed.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Herring replied, and it was his turn to blush as he looked at Alan Letts. “And as my understanding of the situation has improved, I hope my analysis has as well.” He shook his head. “You were right. Based on the sheer numbers of Grik and their apparently improved capacity for innovation, we can’t surrender the initiative. Not anywhere or in any respect.” He paused, looking at the large gathering. “I still believe we must plan our strategies in greater secrecy, however. Not only because of the Grik, but because we must also consider the Dominion—an enemy with an even greater capacity to learn our secrets. With the influx of Imperial personnel, particularly the formerly indentured females with no reason to love the Empire, we can’t assume the Dominion hasn’t already infiltrated us to some degree.”

  “Do you propose there may be disloyal elements in this very room?” Adar asked with an incredulous edge. “People who would aid our enemies?”

  Herring looked around at the suddenly hard stares, human and Lemurian. “Of course not, Mr. Chairman. But my post as minister of Strategic Intelligence is little different from my duties in the old world. It’s my job—and nature, I suppose—to be suspicious. I can’t imagine anyone here being disloyal, but the possibility exists that someone may come in contact with agents of the enemy. Any of our enemies, even the Grik. Baalkpan’s a very open society, and, don’t forget, both we and the Grik have Japs on our sides. . . .”

  Alan Letts rolled his eyes. “I object, Mr. Chairman! First, Commander Herring wanted to pull General Alden out of the game for a goof-up anybody would’ve made. God knows how bad that would’ve been for the war effort! Now he’s picking on our Japs!” Alan looked at Herring. If he’d ever been “brass blind” toward the man, as Silva once suggested, he wasn’t anymore. “There are precisely two Japs in this city right now, both of whom we saved from the Grik at Singapore. They’re delegates from our Allied Home of Yokohama and were led by a man who gave his life for the Alliance! The only other Jap we’ve got in the information loop is General Tamatsu Shinya, commanding all Allied land forces in the East . . . and I’ll take Shinya over you any day, Commander!”

  Adar touched his gong to silence the roar of approval. “Please, Mr. Letts. Consider Mr. Herring’s own admission: it is his nature to be suspicious, and perhaps he is even right about the need for greater care—particularly as far as the Dominion is concerned. As you all know, the Empire of the New Britain Isles has had serious trouble from Dom informants, spies, and even assassins.” Adar shook his head. “The Grik are a terrible enemy, the most ancient enemy of our people, but the . . . insidious capacity for treachery demonstrated by the Dominion—and even elements within the Empire itself—must never be discounted. In their own way, the Doms are just as fanatical as the Grik, and being hu-maan, they can infiltrate us more easily.” He sighed and nodded. “Everyone here must have a care that nothing discussed in the War Room leaves its confines!”

  Adar shifted uneasily on his cushion. “I have a night terror,” he confessed softly, “that often disturbs my sleep. I do not expect the Grik and Dominion could ever actively cooperate. The Grik might be willing to consider the Doms ‘other hunters,’ and even join them against us, but the Doms could probably never accept the Grik as allies . . . from what I understand of them. Still, if the one enemy ever learns of the other—of how embroiled and far-flung our forces are—they might certainly take advantage, even independently. My most horrifying night terror is that they could combine against us, but just knowing of each other would be bad enough.”

  There were nods and thoughtful, blinking agreement.

  “I guess that’s a good enough reason in itself to maintain secrecy and be careful who we let come and go—from the East in particular,” Letts agreed. “But it’s possible the ship’s already sailed on that.”

  “Whaat you mean?” asked General Linnaa-Fas-Ra, of the newly formed 12th Division, composed mostly of Baalkpan, Sularan, and Maa-ni-la regiments. The 12th was preparing to deploy west. Linnaa had been a promising lieutenant during the Battle of Baalkpan but had seen no action since.

  “Only that the news may have slipped east, through Dom spies. It’s believed that damn Blood Cardinal Don Hernan made it out of the Empire somehow, and nobody thinks he knew the real score—but it’s no secret what we’re up against in the Empire anymore. Others might’ve snuck out with the news. . . .” Alan grimaced. “And there’s another possibility: prisoners. The Doms could’ve taken some during the fighting that chased them out of California—I mean, the Imperial colonies in the Americas. Chances are, anybody they took didn’t know the score either, but . . . well, we never found Lieutenant Fred Reynolds or Ensign Kari-Faask, even though a search party found parts of their plane on a beach. They’re presumed dead—almost certainly are. But what if the Doms got ’em somehow?” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, I guess I agree with Commander Herring on that, at least. We need to keep our lips zipped.”

  There seemed to be universal approval for this almost-unprecedented step.

  “Good,” Adar murmured. “Now let us get down to business. The war in the East will remain a largely Imperial operation for the time being, now that our Allies have sorted out many of their domestic problems. Saan-Kakja and the Fil-pin Lands will continue to materially support that, while most of her troops come west. We also have more troops arriving from Great South Island, and a formal alliance may soon exist between us!” As for the situation in I
ndi-aa, we will support Ahd-mi-raal Keje, Gen-er-aal Aalden, and Col-nol Maallory with everything in our power. The precise use to which those commanders put our support will be up to them, but I am confident they will use it wisely and successfully.” He looked around. “Keje has his repairs well in hand, and with all we are sending him and Gen-er-aal Aalden, I am confident that not only will the situation in Indi-aa soon be reversed, but the entire resource-rich region will be denied the enemy, as originally planned.”

  “There is one detail,” interjected the Sularan attaché. “We may control the sky, as you say, but the Grik control the sea with their monstrous iron ships! Our entire navy has been rendered impotent at a stroke!” Cries of concern and agreement echoed his words.

  “Untrue.” Adar said simply. “Mr. Letts?”

  “Thanks, Mr. Chairman.” Letts scratched the stubble on his chin. “Sure, the Grik have battleships. At last report, there’s twelve of ’em stopping up Madras now, and we have to get rid of them. Keje knocked the first ones around pretty hard with Big Sal, but our DDs had a rough time and toe-to-toe isn’t the way to do it. We’ve concentrated on a fleet of frigates—DDs—and I think that’s still a sound policy. They don’t belong in a stand-up fight with battleships, but they’re a hell of a lot more practical in the grand scheme of things. They’re faster, more fuel efficient—particularly since we’ve retained auxiliary sail—and our fire-control efforts, while still crude, did let us give the enemy a pounding. That speed and versatility will largely negate the greater size and protection of the enemy ships once we make further improvements—particularly in torpedoes.” He looked at Bernie Sandison. “Besides, as has been mentioned, we have the air for now. The Grik suicider flying bombs came as a hell of a shock, but if we keep their zeppelins away, they can’t drop the damn things. That’s air again.” He looked back at the Sularan. “Don’t worry; our navy’s far from impotent!”

  “Actually,” added Adar, “we have reason to believe Col-nol Maallory’s P-Forties should be able to help in respect to the Grik baattleships. He has ten Warhawks on Saa-lon now, near Trin-con-lee. One of his planes and pilots went down in the sea, flying from Andamaan, and he remains . . . rather angrily unhappy about that. He also complains that only three of his ‘ships’ are currently airworthy, and cannot promise more until his ground support consists of more than, quote, ‘five scruffy ’Cats with a hose, a gas can, and a screwdriver.’ Sergeant Dixon and a full complement of mechanics and spares are on their way, as are special antiship bombs. The Third Pursuit Squadron should be ready by the time the new campaign is ready to proceed.”

  Alan nodded. “That’s right. And, finally, on our old world, in our Old War . . . we’d already figured out that even battleships can’t stand up to air power when it’s got bombs designed to deal with ’em. All we had at the Battle of Madras was antipersonnel stuff . . . bombs we’d designed to kill Grik in the open. Well, they work swell for that, but they aren’t much good against battleships. They surprised us. None of us ever dreamed they’d build giant ironclads, but we will sort them out!”

  “That all sounds swell. . . . But when do we go?” asked Commander Russ Chapelle. Russ had started as a torpedoman aboard USS Mahan and had become a talented and aggressive naval officer. He’d been awaiting the completion of a new, armored steam frigate, or DD in Baalkpan, when the current emergency arose. As the most experienced combat skipper in the city, he’d immediately been given command of Santa Catalina. The ship was an old freighter Russ himself had rescued from the swamps near Tjilatjap (Chill-Chaap) on South Java, along with her cargo of Curtiss P-40E fighters that Ben Mallory now had. Santa Catalina had spent many months in dry dock and along the fitting-out pier becoming a powerful “protected cruiser.” “You say we’re gonna do something, Mr. Chairman,” Russ continued. “So when?”

  Adar recognized Russ’s question had a double meaning. Santa Catalina had been ready for sea for several weeks. “Only the Heavens know for certain,” Adar said. “Much preparation remains. As you know, Six Corps has already sailed for Andamaan. But you and your ship specifically are waiting for Baalkpan Bay to finish the alterations necessary to launch and recover the new pursuit planes—I think you call them Fleashooters? Baalkpan Bay will also carry the newly constituted Seven Corps, and its components must be finalized and embarked. You will escort her and her battle group to Andamaan.”

  Russ whistled. Baalkpan Bay was the newest purpose-built carrier in the Alliance, the first of a new, standardized class. And with the exception of Maaka-Kakja in Second Fleet, it had been decided to follow the American example of naming new carriers after battles. Baalkpan Bay wasn’t as big as the converted Homes, but she incorporated all the latest refinements and safety measures, including electric lights! Her ship-to-ship armament was limited, but she could carry a lot of planes and had made sixteen knots on her trials. Russ knew they were rigging her for direct, on-deck recovery of the new little fighters—that did look a lot like P-26 Peashooters—and his feelings were a little mixed about that. It would be damn convenient, but he wasn’t sure he’d want to fly anything that didn’t float, if it was forced down on the predator-rich seas of this world. He wouldn’t have to, thank God. Fleashooters were single-seat jobs, and he didn’t know how to fly. That realization didn’t keep him from worrying about the ’Cats who would have to fly them. By all accounts, the new five-cylinder radials powering the tiny craft were almost idiot-proof, but if he’d learned anything in his twenty-four years, relying on “reliable” things only made it more traumatic when they crapped out.

  “Uh, any idea when that will that be, Mr. Chairman?” he asked, then paused. “Look, sir. Mikey Monk had Santa Catalina, and I superseded him because of the emergency. He was okay with it, but I felt like a jerk. He’d done all the work getting her ready. Anyway, the ship I was waiting for has not only been completed, but she steamed out o’ here last night with the supply convoy.”

  “Soon,” Adar said. “Mr. Monk may have another ship if he desires, but Commodore Ellis was insistent that you take Saanta Caata-lina, once he learned of her capabilities. It is a matter of combat experience, Commaander.”

  Russ said nothing more, and Adar addressed the gathering again. “Speaking of airplanes, even though all but five of the Warhawks have been deployed, production of Fleashooters has exceeded our expectations. The skies above Baalkpan are secure from further attacks by Grik zeppelins. Planes have been shipped to Aryaal and Sing-aa-pore, as well as the Fil-pin Lands, where Saan-Kakja’s people will begin copying them. Nearly all our Naan-cees are now being made in Maa-ni-la, and production of the new ‘Clippers,’ or PB-Fives is improving here.”

  He stopped and sipped a mug of nectar that had been placed on a simple wooden table similar to the one he and Keje so often shared during their morning meals aboard Salissa long ago.

  “Gen-er-aal Aalden and Col-nol Maallory consider the ‘Clipper’ project essential, not only because the planes can carry more passengers, larger cargoes, and eventually heavier bomb loads than anything yet devised, but they will give us a long-range reconnaissance capability we have not enjoyed since the loss of the noble PBY. We must not let the enemy surprise us again!”

  “I guess that means you’re still sending Garrett and Donaghey on their cruise?” Letts asked Adar, but it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, and Cap-i-taan Reddy himself has agreed to the importance of the voyage, as well as the choice of Commaander Gaarr-ett to lead it. Donaghey is nearly ready to depart, and she and the raa-zeed Grik Indiaa-man, or DE, that will accompany her have received numerous updates to help them cope with the threats they will face.” Adar sighed. “I hope they will fare well.”

  “Me too,” agreed Letts. “God knows what they’ll run into.”

  “Speaking of Cap-i-taan Reddy,” General Linnaa said, “What exactly is his situation, and that of Walker?” Linnaa wasn’t the only one still annoyed that the outcome of Walker’s fight with Hido
iame had been kept from them all for some time. Adar had decided, on the tail of the disaster in the West, that the news should be kept quiet until it was sure Captain Reddy would live.

  “As you now know, both Cap-i-taan Reddy and Walker were sorely injured in their fight with Hidoiame. Both are recovering and will soon be back in action. I am assured that the one will likely heal just as quickly as the other. So quickly, in fact, that they may participate in the upcoming campaign . . . in some capacity.” Adar blinked animated excitement. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has even shared a new, quite audacious plan with me that could shorten and perhaps ultimately win the war!”

  There was an uproar in the chamber, and Linnaa spoke above it. “Tell us this plan!” he demanded.

  Herring cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said to Adar, “in light of all we’ve discussed, particularly about secrecy, I think Captain Reddy’s plan should remain confidential for now.”

  Adar slowly nodded. “I am afraid I must agree,” he said. “I apologize for the tantalizing hint. Please put it out of your minds.”

  There was muttering, but no one pressed for more . . . yet.

  “Well,” said Bernie, “back to ‘explorers.’ What do we know of Silva’s—I mean, Mr. Cook’s—expedition north of the city to contact the indigenous feral Grik on Borno itself?” he asked.

  “Mr. Riggs?” Adar asked.

  “Communications are sporadic,” Riggs confessed. “It might be interference from the jungle or mountains, or deterioration of their comm gear. I understand they’re moving through some really crappy country. They have orders to turn back if they lose contact completely, but you know how well Silva follows orders—and he’ll likely get Cook to agree to push on regardless.” He shrugged. “That said, I’m not too worried. Silva can take care of himself, and he’s pretty good about including those around him in that blanket of . . .” He grinned. “Lethal defense.”