Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

  First Fleet

  TF Arracca

  SE Coast of Grik India

  February 24, 1944

  Commodore James Ellis, Walker ’s former exec, had a virtual fleet under his command. His task force was built around the reconfigured and recently arrived carrier Arracca, her battle group of four new steam frigates, or “DDs,” and a train of oilers and supply ships. The latter were mostly converted Grik Indiamen taken at Singapore, and more of them arrived every day. In addition, he had another thirteen DDs, including some of the older ones, such as his own Dowden, and almost forty other ships clustered out of range of anything ashore but in full view on the horizon. Those ships were mostly oilers and supply ships, and there were a few of the new destroyer and seaplane tenders. It was hoped that the Grik would think all were troopships.

  Dowden, as flagship, had temporarily joined Arracca ’s screen. The thirteen other DDs of Des-Div 4 steamed inshore, just south of the low tide crossing between Ceylon and India, adding their fire to a furious bombardment. Nearly a hundred field pieces already floated on barges parallel to the crossing, pounding Grik positions within the bordering forest on the India side. There was very little answering artillery. It was a stirring sight, as Jim watched through binoculars on Dowden ’s quarterdeck. The ships streamed smoke from their guns and stacks and moved slowly with all sails furled and broad American battle flags flowing taut to leeward. To Jim, the sound came as a continuous, rumbling thunder, and dense woods beyond the beach churned with smoke, geysers of earth, blizzards of splinters, and tottering trees. The screams are probably pretty loud too, he thought with grim satisfaction, but they just can’t compete with the rest of the noise and the distance. Something caught his eye and he raised the binoculars higher. A squadron of “Nancys” from Arracca swirled above the enemy, occasionally adding their own bombs to the abattoir below. Other planes flew higher, spotting and scouting and ready to raise the alarm if any Grik zeppelins appeared.

  The thought of the shocking and totally unexpected appearance of enemy dirigibles over First Fleet, Aryaal, and even Baalkpan itself still burned Jim’s soul. In his mind’s eye, he again saw the mighty Lemurian Home-turned aircraft carrier Humfra-Dar erupting like a fiery volcano as bombs fell on her crowded flight deck. There’d been very few survivors of the holocaust that engulfed the great ship. Some had been aloft flying missions and were recovered aboard Keje’s Salissa, or “ Big Sal,” (CV-1), but perhaps the only thing that preserved the few awkward swimmers, flailing in the terrifying sea long enough to be rescued, was the stunning underwater acoustics of the terrible explosions.

  The zeppelins had swarmed them in their scores, loosing sophisticated bombs in a density a flight of B-17s might have envied that not only destroyed Humfra-Dar, but also heavily damaged several of her screening DDs. The only consolation was that many of the Grik “air lizards” must have been extreme amateurs at the time, and a large number of their airships made no compensation for the sudden loss of their bomb load and practically rocketed into the sky and were destroyed by structural failure or the catastrophic expansion of their gasbags. The resulting spectacle created a viscerally satisfying, almost grim amusement, but little comfort for their loss. Most of the surviving zeppelins escaped over India to God knew where, although Captain Jis-Tikkar “Tikker,” Commander of Flight Operations (COFO) for the First Naval Air Wing, managed to claw high enough to get a good look at the things and even bring one down.

  Only a few airships attacked Aryaal, and they were repulsed after inflicting only minor damage. The larger raid on Baalkpan was decimated by Ben Mallory’s P-40s. No zeppelin that survived either raid was likely to have had the fuel to return, so their losses had probably been total, but First Fleet had seen groups of the things again, several times, so they must have established bases for fueling and maintenance somewhere in India. Jim frowned. Every time we think we’ve got the damn Grik figured out, they pull something new out of their hat. That crazy Jap Kurokawa is probably behind a lot of it, but not all. Apparently not all the Grik, their Hij, at least, are fools. We KNOW they’re building a new fleet. I hope to God it doesn’t come as big a surprise as their zeppelins did!

  “What’s the dope?” he asked aside as he became aware of Niaal-Ras-Kavaat, his dark-furred exec, standing beside him.

  “The scouts report that the enemy continues to gather, preparing for our assault.” Niaal blinked pleasure and grinned, showing his wicked young canines. “And we continue to kill them!”

  “Good. Hopefully we can keep it up for a while, before they get wise.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Niaal said in a contemptuous tone.

  “Of them catching on? I don’t know,” Jim countered softly. “Pete-I mean, General Alden-thinks the Grik have a new cheese who knows what he’s about. Flynn’s Rangers-shoot, the whole Third Division of Queen Maraan’s Second Corps-ran into something that nearly ate it alive, and it sure gave everybody the creeps.”

  “What did General Lord Rolak’s pet Grik, Hij-Geerki say about it? And weren’t a few prisoners taken at Colombo?”

  “Geeky didn’t know what happened. Said he never heard of such a thing. Of course, he was just a clerk… sorta… at Rangoon. He was from Ceylon, originally, but hadn’t ever been anywhere else. Besides, we caught him before all this new stuff kicked in.” He paused. “He does seem loyal to Lord Rolak now, though, and everybody’s pretty sure he’s adopted the glorious old goat as his new pack leader, or whatever. He questioned the prisoners, but all he got was a little more about that new Grik General Halik”-Jim’s face turned grim-“with a Jap tagging along, who seemed to throw just as much weight.”

  “Kuro-kawaa himself, perhaps?”

  “No such luck. Kurokawa’s apparently General of the Sea, or something, for the whole Grik Empire now. This new Jap is a soldier. My guess is he’s one of those special Navy Jap Marines, or something, who was part of a contingent on Amagi, kind of like Alden was a shipboard Marine himself.”

  “That could be… bad.”

  “Right. All the more reason to stay on our toes.” He nodded at the seething shoreline. Case shot continued to burst among the trees a mile or more inland, and he imagined what it must be like to be caught beneath that clawing, shrieking hell. “At least we’re killing ’em now, and I bet we have their undivided attention!”

  “Indeed.”

  “We’ll keep this up all night. At dusk, Arracca will ‘secure from air ops in all respects’ and move in to replace the DDs with her big guns.” Lemurian/American carriers were also heavily armed with large guns, but after Humfra-Dar, they’d determined they shouldn’t function as battleships and aircraft carriers at the same time. The combination of bombs and highly flammable aviation gasoline was bad enough, but add gunpowder and open magazines to the mix, and they’d just been asking for trouble. With the freak hits on Humfra-Dar at exactly the wrong time, probably nothing would have made any difference, but they’d made as many adaptations as they could to prevent accidents from achieving the same results. Everyone knew the new safety procedures were stopgaps, but for now, it was the best they could do. “We’ll get ammunition lighters to replenish the DDs; then we’ll spread things out a little.”

  “Does that mean we will get in on the fun ourselves, at long last?” Niaal asked.

  “Sure. Everyone will. We want it to look like we’re building for the jump-off here, so the Grik’ll keep swarming in. It’s the most logical place, after all. When the sun comes up, Arracca will ‘secure from surface action’ and launch everything she’s got, loaded to the gills with incendiaries-those gasoline and sticky-sap bombs.” His eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll burn this whole corner of India to the ground! Even if they’re starting to get reports from other places, they’ll have to worry those are the diversions. One way or another, they should stay tied up in knots for at least a couple of days!”

  400 miles NNE

  Near Maa-draas

  Grik Indiaa

  General Pete Alde
n, former Marine sergeant in USS Houston ’s Marine contingent, splashed across the last few feet between the barge and the moonlit beach. He did it quickly, with a chill down his spine. The thick forest beyond the beach might harbor unknown threats aplenty, along with an only guessed-at number of their enemies, but he had confidence he could deal with that. Any opponent he could shoot remained just that: an opponent that he had a growing confidence he could best. The waters around Indiaa were some of the most dangerous they’d encountered yet, however, and maybe a little like Tony Scott, Captain Reddy’s long-lost coxswain, any physical contact with them gave him an almost supernatural case of the creeps. Maybe there weren’t as many flasher fish-tuna-size piranha, for all intents and purposes-as they endured within the Malay Barrier, but there were sharks out there that could sink a ship!

  His staff and their guards hopped across the gap with similar uneasiness and joined him amid the tumult of an army trying to sort itself out in the darkness of an unfriendly shore. In front of them was the malignant black blob of the forest. Behind, the wave tops glittered like they were strewn with floating foil. The deceptive peacefulness of the night was marred by the now-familiar chaos of amphibious operations. There was shouting, cursing, and the wailing of the vaguely moose-shape paalkas being hitched to clattering limber traces, and the deep creaking of wooden wheels as guns, wagons, forges, and all manner of vehicles were drawn through the sand. Drummers beat regimental tattoos, drawing wayward troops into growing formations-which were often thrown into confusion by other columns of troops or teams of paalkas grunting the heavy guns through their ranks. More shouting ensued. Occasional musket shots thumped in the forest as pickets or skirmishers from advancing regiments fired at lurking Grik, other frightening creatures, or perhaps nothing at all. Drowning out much of this was the constant surf sound of thousands of hushed voices and the sea.

  “Thank God we took ’em by surprise,” Pete said, referring to the congestion. Really, though, he had to admit to himself that this seemed much better than when they went ashore on Ceylon, and it was infinitely better than the assault at Rangoon. Still… “I keep telling Alan we’ve got to have better landing craft,” he complained, “that don’t take so long to clear out of. We ever hit a heavily defended beach, we’re going to get our heads handed to us-or eaten.”

  Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Salissa Home, Reserve “Ahd-mi-raal” in the American Navy, and Commander in Chief of operations in the West (CINCWEST), nodded. “I am sure Mr. Letts is working on it, along with countless other things. He may already have solved the problem, but much depends on supply priorities, and I maintain that new weapons and ammunition, not to mention troops and provisions, take precedence.” He grinned, and if his red-brown fur was indistinguishable from the night, his stocky form and bright teeth were plain. “And we do not need better landing craft as long as you continue to outwit our enemy into believing our blows fall elsewhere!”

  Pete grunted. “You shouldn’t be here at all. It wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for the first wave. There was maybe a battalion of Grik with those weird matchlock muskets hanging around here-I don’t like the way we keep seeing more of those, by the way-and I doubt Billy Flynn and his Rangers got ’em all. There might be a sniper aimin’ at you right now!”

  “Or you, General Aalden,” Keje said blithely.

  Pete grunted again and continued churning forward in the loose sand toward a hastily erected CP tent. The frequent rains meant that their precious comm gear must always be protected, and there was usually someone near such devices who had some idea where people might be. “Either way,” Pete resumed, “the word’s going to get out, and we can expect company shortly. You belong on Big Sal.”

  “And I shall return soon-I promise.” Keje paused and his voice changed. “I can only send my people into battle so often without at least standing on the same ground they strive for, from time to time.”

  Pete had no response to that. He understood it perfectly. “Well, where the hell is everybody?” he demanded loudly of those under the tent.

  “Just what I would like to know,” reinforced General Safir-Maraan, Queen Protector of the island of B’mbaado and commander of II Corps, as she appeared out of the gloom. Only her polished, silver-washed breastplate and helmet were visible at first in the dim gri-kakka oil lamps of the CP, but her exotically beautiful, sable-furred face and otherwise black raiment grew more resolved as she drew near. She saluted Alden, and he returned it as the comm ’Cats jumped to attention. “Where are my Sularans-and their aartillery?”

  “It… is confused,” admitted a ’Cat lieutenant whose Home regiment could only be discerned by the crest on his rhino pig-leather armor. As the war in the West became less… linear, the Sa’aaran practice of tie-dyeing a kind of camouflage pattern in Army kilts and smocks and the painting of armor had grown almost universal. It made eminent sense, and not only did it simplify production and supply; it made troops harder to see from the air, which was a growing concern. As new supplies came forward, the regional uniforms were steadily being replaced. Even the Marines painted their field armor now, though they insisted on keeping their blue kilts. Blue blended well enough in the dense forest, Pete rationalized, as did the black of Queen Maraan’s regiments, who similarly clung to their traditions-although they also darkened their armor now.

  “ How confused?” Pete demanded.

  “Well… General Rolak has apparently personally supported Colonel Flynn’s push inland, with elements of General Taa-leen’s First Division and most of the First Battalion, Second Marines, and perhaps some of Colonel Enaak’s Maa-ni-la Cavalry…”

  “Goddammit!” Pete seethed almost resignedly, and the lieutenant flinched, but the Army and Marine commander’s wrath was not aimed at him. “Which elements? Flynn was supposed to lead his Rangers and the Second to find that road or path junction-whatever it is-and seize it, then send runners back to show the others the way! You mean Taa-leen and Rolak just… went along? Besides, General Rolak’s a corps commander, not a brigadier! What the hell does he think he’s doing?”

  “He is an old warrior ‘marching to the sound of the guns,’ as I think you would say, Gener-aal,” Safir soothed in a softer tone. “He must see some advantage.”

  “I know what he’s trying to do,” Pete admitted. “He’s trying to do Flynn ’s job! Well, Flynn knows what to do. Once we control that junction, that goofy Grik berg where Madras should be will be cut off. We need Madras and its port to keep the beans and bullets on the road! I’m not really worried Rolak’ll get in the way, but he does have a real job of his very own, and he’s liable to get his overeager ass killed!” He looked almost pleadingly at Safir. Possibly she alone knew how much Pete counted on the old Aryaalan. “I just wish he wouldn’t go romping off like this,” he added.

  For the first time, really, with Hij-Geerki’s aid, some odd but decent captured maps, and aerial reconnaissance, the Allies had a good idea of the geography of their objectives and could finally make strategic plans. They’d spent the last month sucking the vast majority of Grik combatants into South India, and now they meant to cut them off and destroy them before possibly countless reinforcements could be summoned. Their main goal in this, besides killing Grik, was to destroy what Pete suspected was this dangerous new team of Grik leaders. After that, they would establish a temporary defensive perimeter around what they saw as the resource-rich-including iron ore, some coal, and perhaps just as important, a kind of rubber-producing forest-industrial heartland of Grik India. That should oblige what they hoped was some ordinary Grik commander to come at them in the same old way, and they’d bleed him white before resuming offensive operations.

  Pete admired Rolak’s guts and initiative; he just wished the wily old warrior would finally come to grips with how important he was and quit taking such spontaneous personal risks. The fact that Pete sometimes did the same thing himself didn’t even enter his thoughts.

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh, squinting in the darkness toward
where he heard the snuffling and heavy breathing of muzzled me-naaks, or “meanies,” the long-legged, crocodilian, Maa-ni-la Cavalry mounts. “We’ll send runners ahead to drag our… fiery old gentleman back here, where he can resume his proper duties and get this mess squared away.” He looked at Safir. “How’s Second Corps shaping up?”

  Safir Maraan flicked her long black tail. “Third Division landed north of Maa-draas, as planned, and moves against the city. I came ashore on the south bank with the Third B’mbaado and Sixth Maa-ni-la Caav. I have, as yet, no idea where Colonel Grisa’s Ninth Aryaal or the First and Third Sular have found themselves, and they, of course, bear the bulk of my aar-tillery.” Somehow, Sularans were natural artillerymen who had an almost instinctive grasp of ballistics. Maybe that was a result of their millennia-long reliance on slings and thrown missiles instead of arrows? There was no telling. Regardless, their regiments were always gun-heavy. Safir suddenly went silent, and they listened for a moment as a furious cannonade abruptly erupted several miles to the north, the booming echoing back at them from the ships offshore.

  “Ah,” she said with a predatory grin. “There had been no report, and it never occurred to me that the Sularans might make landfall exactly where they were supposed to! Perhaps, with practice, things grow less confused at last?”

  Pete rubbed his neck with relief. Safir was right. After some recent… catastrophes, he always assumed their landings would be botched. But after Alan Letts’s visit, things had improved dramatically, and maybe practice did make perfect. Well, “perfect” was relative, of course…

  “Okay.” He gestured around. “But we’ve still got to get this mess squared away, and Rolak should have been here to do it.” Another wave of barges loaded with Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy’s medical division and hospital corps was hitting the beach, threatening to stack things up even more. Pete growled in frustration and held his watch to one of the lamps. “Third Division is attacking from the north right now. That’ll draw the enemy. In less than an hour, we need to be hitting Madras hard from the south, so let’s get these other guns on the move while we still can. General Maraan, Madras is your nut, so see if you can push things along up the beach. That attack has to go in before the Grik have a chance to get their shit in the sock.”