Carnifex

by Tom Kratman

  "It would help," Fosa agreed. "But . . . can you?"

  "Officially no," the admiral said. "Unofficially, I think we can provide that and quite a bit more. But it will all have to be under the table."

  "Under the table would be fine. But I think I am under a looking glass. Someone is telling the Xamaris where my ships and planes are at any given time. Nothing else can explain how they've been so successful at avoiding us. It can't be all bad luck."

  "It isn't. I can't tell you how I know; but I can tell you that I do know that the UEPF is sending data to someone inside Xamar. And it's not their ambassador because they, like everyone else, pulled their embassy out of Xamar years ago, when the place collapsed."

  "The UEPF!? Damn. Then I haven't a prayer of doing any good."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," the ops officer disagreed. "Tell me; can you put those two patrol boats of yours back aboard their tender . . . mmmm, maybe preferably just before a serious storm?"

  "Sure," Fosa shrugged. "But why?"

  "Because if you can re-embark them aboard your ship, and get your ship close to the Ironsides, you can conceivably unload them and hide them under our flight deck. The UEPF may lose track of them, for a while, at least."

  "Okay," Fosa said, "I can see that working once. But after that?"

  "After that, something else." It was the ops officer's turn to shrug. "Give us a little time."

  "All warfare is based on deception," Fosa said and laughed at himself slightly.

  "Clausewitz?" asked the admiral.

  "No, sir, Sun Tzu. My . . . well, you might call him my supercargo, Commodore Kurita, quoted it to me just days ago."

  "Tadeo Kurita?" the admiral asked.

  "Yes, sir, that's him."

  The admiral whistled. "He's still alive? Tough old bird. My father told me about Kurita, about him leading what was left of Yamato's Second Fleet in breaking free and running for home after they lost at the Battle of Kuantan. The old man said he'd never seen such seamanship or such guts."

  "I think that would pretty much describe Commodore Kurita, Admiral."

  Kamakura, Yamato, 8/6/467

  An airship passed by gracefully overhead, bearing tourists who wanted to view the sacred cherry orchards from the vantage point of the sky. The cherry trees, or sakura, were in bloom, though a few petals were beginning to fall.

  "Kurita advises patience," said Saito to Yamagata, as they sat below, under the cherry trees. "He says the pirates are being very coy and making good use of the considerable aid they receive from on high. He further advises that the ronin fleet will, in his opinion, produce good results with time."

  Yamagata said nothing for a while, his attention seemingly fixed on a cherry blossom making its leap into immortality. It fluttered and spun to the ground, joining there the very few which had chosen to die young, in the full bloom of glorious youth.

  During the migration from the home islands of Old Earth, it had been impossible to carry fully grown trees. Instead, the settlers had taken along saplings, a few, seeds and some cuttings, which they had carefully nursed into growth. Even then, many—most—had not survived. These trees were descendants of those who had and were, like the Yamatans themselves, of remarkably hardy and tough stock. Raising the trees had been as high a priority as the growing of food, for without these reminders of both the beauty of life, as well as its ephemeral nature, the settlers had feared losing some part of their essence.

  With a sigh, Yamagata said, "The patience of the program's backers is not unlimited. We must have results, and soon. We lost another ship's crew yesterday. The Federated States Navy stood by and allowed it to happen because the pirates threatened to kill the crew if they were interfered with."

  "His Majesty still will not allow our fleet to intervene," Saito said.

  Yamagata grunted. "It is the curse of those who allow others to be their primary line of defense. It is the curse of being insufficiently self reliant."

  "It is the curse of losing a war," Saito corrected. "Still, let us trust Kurita's judgment. It is not his fault we lost, last time. He will not permit us to lose again."

  Yamagata sighed. "I am still not sure it was wise to tell Kurita about our special source of information. We haven't even told our own defense forces or the FSC."

  Saito clapped his colleague on the shoulder. "Do not fear, friend. He will not divulge anything that cannot be disguised as coming from somewhere else."

  9/6/467 AC, BdL Dos Lindas, Xamar Coast

  A kimono-wearing and tabi- and tatami-shod Kurita stared down at the display showing the deployment of the ships of the task force around the carrier. His normal serene smile was missing, which caused Fosa to infer that something with his deployment was drastically wrong. He asked as much.

  Kurita answered. "Yes, I am concerned, Captain-san. No matter that the Ironsides Task Force may warn you of the approach of danger. I assure you that before they can act, they will have to get permission from the FSN or even the Executive Mansion in Hamilton. By the time they are allowed to, it will probably be too late."

  "You are thinking of Farsian submarines, Commodore?" Fosa asked.

  The Yamatan nodded, then said, "I would not expect them soon, certainly not until we begin to show some success. But I would expect them. It is better to be ready, always. And we must also consider the possibility of suicidal dive bombers."

  Fosa had considered that threat when outfitting the ship. Indeed, the mix of air defense guns and missiles aboard the Dos Lindas was very powerful for that reason; that, and the possibility of suicidal boats. The task force had more light cannon and heavy machine gun power than the entire Ironsides Battle Group.

  His own experience of naval warfare was . . . well, actually it wasn't. The Commodore, on the other hand, had more real experience than the entire crew of the Ironsides and all its escorts, combined. He'd listen to Kurita's advice, he decided.

  "Order the escorts to increase dispersion from the carrier to twelve miles," Fosa told the radio watch.

  Kurita's serene smile returned.

  "How goes it with shipping aboard the patrol boats?" he asked.

  "They're already on the deck of the transport," Fosa answered.

  "It's going to be a big surprise, you know, when the Xamaris attempt to take another boat under the nose of the FSN and discover that there's someone else there not so constrained by progressive rules of engagement." Kurita gave a slight chuckle then glanced over at the meteorology chart.

  "Yes, Commodore, the storm is coming along nicely. By this time

  tomorrow we will be fighting it. The cargo ship carrying the patrol boats, the BdL Harpy Eagle, will broadcast that it is in trouble, but we shall have our own troubles. The mighty FSS Ironsides will ride to the rescue. When the storm clears, the Harpy will be nicely alongside the Ironsides with the boats hauled up and undercover of the flight deck. And then we wait, but not for long."

  "Indeed, hopefully not for long, Captain-san. My . . . principles are growing anxious for some indicator of success."

  * * *

  The next day's morning sky was red and angry. By noon it had turned black and forbidding. By nightfall the smaller ships of the flotilla were fighting for their lives amidst thirty and forty foot waves that threatened to swamp them with each buffeting. Partly from the wind and waves, and partly to avoid ramming each other in the murk, the ships scattered.

  Almost, almost, the Harpy was not pretending when it made the call to Ironsides that she was in trouble. By the time the FSN carrier arrived the Harpy's hull and decks were groaning under the strain, half the crew puking down below decks and most of the rest puking above.

  Ironsides took a position into the wind from the smaller cargo ship, placing it in the lee and protecting it to some extent from the buffeting. Harpy's captain went below to bid farewell to the crews of the patrol boats. He knew it might be a last farewell.

  * * *

  Chief Warrant Officer Pedraz, commanding the Santisima Trinidad, lo
oked out at the white-tipped, green-hued hell separating the two ships and thought, not for the first time, Mama never told me there'd be days like these.

  If he hadn't been so brown Pedraz would have been white. Even as it was, he had turned relatively pale with fear. His kind of boat was never intended to sail in this kind of weather. And then . . . but he really didn't want to think about the risks of getting away from the Harpy and close to the Ironsides. Most especially did he not want to think about hooking up to and being hauled up by the huge supercarrier.

  The Harpy's captain walked up and placed a hand on Pedraz's broad shoulder. "Are you ready, Chief?"

  Exhaling, Pedraz nodded that he was.

  "No time like the present then. Take advantage of the protection Ironsides is offering while we can."

  Gulping, Pedraz nodded and shouted for the deck crew to raise and lower the Trinidad over the side. As the lines began to tighten, Pedraz scrambled aboard.

  The warrant and the captain had gone over this at length. If there were no crew aboard, it would be long minutes before the Trinidad could get away from the potentially crushing hull of the Harpy. If the crew was aboard and something went wrong with the lowering, they might all be killed. Since mission had priority . . .

  The wind dropped off radically as soon as the boat was sheltered in the Harpy's lee. Still, Harpy rocked abruptly, causing Trinidad's crew, more than once, to have to use long poles to dampen the inevitable thumping against the side of the hull. This problem actually got worse as the patrol boat moved closer to the sea's surface and the swings widened.

  When we felt the water take control of his boat's hull, Pedraz looked up to signal the boatswain to cut the Trinidad loose.

  No luck; the spray was so thick neither could see the other. Worse, radio was right out lest the traffic be intercepted by those watching from above. Fuck!

  * * *

  Up above, on deck aboard the Harpy, the boatswain cursed as he realized he'd lost sight of the Trinidad, even though it was scant yards below. The lines that led down to the boat went alternately tight and slack with the rocking of the larger ship.

  In the water . . . but just that, thought the boatswain. That would have been fine except that the rocking of the ship wasn't a steady side to side motion. Instead, the ship was more or less corkscrewing, with a port lean and bow high followed by a starboard lean and bow low.

  Okay . . . this is manageable. He ordered the men manning the davits to let the boat down another five feet. After that, while the lines still went almost tight in a not fully predictable sequence, there was enough slack for the boatswain to risk cutting the Trinidad loose.

  Mission had priority. Without worrying about whether the Trinidad was safely on its way the boatswain led his small crew to the next set of davits to raise and lower over the side the other boat, the BdL San Agustin.

  * * *

  It was a few moments before Pedraz realized the ship had cut him loose. He had just enough time to silently thank the bosun before ordering crew to action stations. The motors started without trouble, thankfully, but the sharp waves—exacerbated by the nearness of the Harpy—dropped the troughs below the props at odd intervals. The meant the boat could only pull away from the rocking and veering—hence dangerous—ship in spurts as the props bit.

  The driving got better but the waves got worse at the boat moved further from the ship. Once it was completely out of the ship's lee the waves became an awesome rollercoaster that made the ship's previous, nausea-inducing buffeting seem like love taps in comparison.

  Gunning the engines to top a white-foamed crest, Pedraz thought, Show me a sailor who's not afraid of the sea and I'll show you an informal burial at sea waiting to happen.

  The Trinidad's bow cleared the crest and hung suspended over the water. With resistance lessened and the engine at full throttle, the boat lurched forward until reaching the tipping point and . . .

  "Yeehawww!" Pedraz exulted, now that he was free of the fear of being crushed by the Harpy. The bow plunged down like a rollercoaster car on steroids, the rollercoaster having plainly been designed by a lunatic on LSD.

  The waves were steep and the troughs were deep, but the wavelength was long and the angle at least survivable. The boat continued its plunge for the bottom, the crew hanging on for dear life.

  A seeming wall of water arose before Pedraz's eyes. He knew it was probably half illusion—a result of the Trinidad's angle as it rode down the wave. Even so, his heart skipped a beat. He cut back on the throttle lest the boat's bow go straight into the water below.

  Then he gunned it again as the boat reached the base of the trough and began the long climb up and over the next wave. No problem; Pedraz had the storm's measure and timing now, and his crew had faith in their little boat's skipper. With a lighter heart, he forced his way closer to the dimly sensed presence—given the thick, blinding spray one could hardly see it as more than a dim presence—of the Ironsides.

  14/6/467 AC, FSS Ironsides

  Pedraz had to admit it, the FSN squids had made himself and the other seventeen men of the crew pretty damned comfortable over the last several days. He'd missed his rum ration, of course, and the food wasn't really as close to home cooking as was served aboard legionary ships and boats. Still, the quarters were comparatively spacious and the mattress, oh, much better.

  The break was over. A remotely piloted vehicle from one of the frigates escorting the Ironsides had spotted what appeared to a medium sized group of Xamari pirates collecting and boarding three smallish boats for an excursion.

  Pedraz had watched in real time in CIC as the pirates gathered.

  "Do they always act like that?" he'd asked of a Spanish speaking sailor manning a visual screen

  "Generally, yeah, Chief. They dance around, shooting their rifles into the air to psyche themselves up. Then they get all the old men, women and kids cheering. Then they board and launch. By the time we are allowed to do anything it's always too late. See, we can't do a damned thing until they've actually committed piracy on the high seas. By then . . . by the time we can act; they'll have grabbed the crew as hostages and we're stymied."

  After watching the pirates' boats for a while, Pedraz commented, "Slower than shit, aren't they?"

  "Yeah," the other sailor agreed. "And that's how you're going to get them, this once anyway."

  Pedraz went back to watching the slow progress of the pirates' vessels. He estimated them as doing no better than ten knots. A few quick mental calculations told him they needed to get at least eight miles offshore for him to have a decent chance of both intercepting them before they reached the boat and not warning them in time for them to turn around.

  After what seemed to Pedraz to be a very long time watching, Ironsides' operations officer spoke up, in English. "Tell Mr. Pedraz to man his boat and to have the Agustin's crew man as well. We'll lower them to the water and then signal when it's time to leave."

  14/6/467 AC, Xamar, Abdulahi's Headquarters

  The pirate chief's smile grew into a chuckle as he watched three of his boats closing on the lone freighter. He watched on a laptop's screen, the laptop hooked into the receiver provided to him by those space-faring infidels overhead.

  Such a useful toy it was, that receiver. It was not only capable of giving him the locations of any naval vessels that might interfere with his operations, it gave him the precise locations of potential targets and identified—though this was trickier—ships belongs to companies that were already paying the Jizya. It would never do to seize those who paid to avoid attack unless, of course, those payments were late.

  Abdulahi panned back, to embrace a broader ocean area. At this scale he could make out the two infidel carrier groups, which he thought of as "the greater and the lesser infidels," both the distinctive flat tops and their smaller escorts. He could close the view in, also, to watch the take offs and landings of their aircraft. That, however, usually cut off the view of the escorts unless they happened to be very close
to the carriers.

  Recentering the cursor on the waters between the target freighter and where his own boats had to be, Abdulahi clicked to lower the scale to where he could just make out his vessels. The two carrier groups disappeared off to the sides of the screen.

  One might have thought that the pirate lord would have paid more attention to the threat to his operations, rather than the targets. But there was emotional satisfaction in watching the targets taken. The threat? Well, he knew the rules of engagement as well as the captains and crews of the warships. The FSN wasn't allowed to be a threat until it was too late and the others, the infidel mercenaries, were not nearly as capable and were, moreover, being watched by the space-faring infidels who would warn him if the mercenaries got into a position to interfere.

  UEPF Spirit of Peace

  While Abdulahi concentrated on the target, Wallenstein—from Robinson's desk—focused on the threat. She, unlike the Xamari, was not restricted to a laptop screen. Instead, she had the latest in Terra Novan video technology, and something every bit as good as anything produced at home, the High Admiral's two-and-a-half meter Kurosawa. With that, and the processing power inherent in the ship's computer, she was able to track both war fleets as well as the pirates and their targets. Symbols stood in for full views of the ships.

  That is to say, she was able to track everything but didn't see the need. Once she'd identified that the mercenary fleet was in no position to interfere with the pirates with their own ships, she focused in on the carrier to ensure it wasn't launching aircraft at the pirates. That kept her rapt attention. The only thing that had bothered her was the disappearance of the two patrol boats from the ocean surface. This had not troubled her long, however, for she had found them sitting under tarps atop the ship the screen identified as the Harpy Eagle.

  BdL Harpy Eagle

  The boatswain spared a glance overhead, silently praying that his camouflage job would do.

  The hardest part had been assembling the frames in the midst of the storm, with the wind roaring and the waves sometimes washing over the deck. It had actually been fairly easy to construct the frames out of cheap lumber down in the cargo hold. Taking them apart and stowing them in an open space within the deck level of the superstructure hadn't been hard. But getting the frames out and built when no man could hear a word, or sometimes even see another for all the spray in the air? The boatswain rather hoped they'd not have to try this trick again and certainly not in a storm like the last one.