Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  “General of the Sky!” the Japanese controller cried, saluting crisply. The Grik did as well, with their flags in their hands, and Muriname momentarily panicked that they’d inadvertently sent the two planes careening into the jungle. He sighed with relief when he realized the pilots were past, already nearing their takeoff positions, and wouldn’t look at the signal flags again except as signals to take off—to “attack.”

  “As you were, ah . . .” He glanced at the painted rank patch on the sleeve of the man’s dark khaki tunic. Enlisted and junior officers’ fatigue uniforms were sensibly patterned after the Special Naval Landing Force. “Carry on, Ensign. I’m merely here to observe.”

  The ensign bowed and ordered his Grik to signal the planes. Engines roared, and the two craft began to move. They seemed ungainly at first, almost waddling through the thick, prickly grass, before they began to accelerate. Almost immediately, their tails came up and they gathered speed. He knew they weren’t carrying any ordnance, or even very much fuel—aviation gasoline was still in extremely short supply—but Muriname was gratified to see how quickly the planes, his own creations to a large extent, took to the air. They thundered down the runway, already rising as they passed the signal tower at the halfway mark. Still in a gratifyingly tight formation, they pulled up and away, banking northward toward the harbor. Soon, though he still heard them, they were lost to view.

  “Good planes,” came an accented voice from the steps below. It was Oberleutnant Fiedler, venturing farther from his own plane than Muriname had ever seen him. “May I come up?” he asked.

  “Please do.” Muriname waited a moment while Fiedler joined him. “You approve of our new aircraft?” he asked conversationally.

  “Ja. Amazing that you could make such things in the . . . conditions here. I have been watching them for a while now as your pilots practice, and I would say they are at least as good as the Arado Sixty-six I first trained in.”

  Muriname smiled. “Perhaps not as maneuverable, but faster, I believe. I was honored to fly the Arado Sixty-six on a visit to Hamburg in ’thirty-eight.”

  “Not a good time to be there,” Fiedler said grimly. Muriname began to ask why. He remembered his visit with pleasure. “I was learning to fly the Yokosuka K Four Y, Type Ninety seaplane at the time,” he said instead.

  “I do not know it.” Fiedler seemed distracted, as if watching for the planes to return, and Muriname paused. “Well,” he said at last, “you at least are still able to fly. I am not able to as often as I would like.” He gestured at the row of planes across the airstrip. “And these are very much like fighter aircraft. Smaller and slower than what we left behind, of course, but better than what our enemies have. And still quite exhilarating. Perhaps you’d like to try one?”

  Fiedler looked tempted, but shook his head, curling his lip. “Gravois would object.”

  Muriname smiled again. “Surely not. If he is concerned about the safety of his pilot, he still has Lieutenant de Luca to fly him home. Use the excuse of ‘learning more about our capabilities.’”

  Fiedler looked at him strangely and started to say something before stopping himself. “De Luca is a pilot,” he agreed, “but not the best. He is primarily our navigator and radio operator. You may have noted it is he who goes to our plane to send and receive reports.” He smiled at Muriname. “And no, it would do you no good to ‘detain’ him. Only Kapitan Gravois has our codes.”

  Muriname chuckled, confirming that had indeed been his first impulsive thought. For some reason he found himself rather liking this German pilot. Fiedler took out a case and removed a hand-rolled cigarette. Muriname never smoked but wondered where the German got tobacco. Was it from this world or the last? Fiedler lit up.

  “Besides, I doubt Gravois would be much interested in what I might learn,” the German finally added, very carefully. “At least about what he would consider your ‘primitive’ aircraft.”

  Muriname bristled inwardly, but recognized that Fiedler had just told him a great deal. Clearly, the League of Tripoli possessed other modern planes in addition to the Ju-52. That should’ve been intuitively obvious, he supposed. They were cavalier about the loss of a submarine, and that they’d been willing to risk such a valuable aircraft on the dangerous flight here in the first place said a great deal about their material reserves. Muriname nodded slightly, acknowledging the gift of information. “Then fly one of these for the pleasure of it. One pilot to another, you spend a great deal of your time all alone. And to be honest, your friends appear to have more regard for your services than your insights. That would seem to me a perfectly good reason to enjoy yourself when you can.” He gestured once more at the planes. “Fly one. Perhaps someday, if I visit your League, you might return the favor.”

  Fiedler studied Muriname while he took a long drag on his cigarette, then finally nodded. “I might arrange that one day, if our leaders are satisfied with the outcome of this mission.” He nodded again decisively. “I will fly, with pleasure,” he said. “And in return, I shall reveal one of my ‘insights’ to you. One pilot to another. As you have been told, we—the League, I mean—know a great deal about you and your enemies. How that came to be is a long story in itself, but it is true. In fact, as Gravois might already have said, information is the greatest aid we are prepared to give you at present. Beyond that, it is up to you to decide whether you are more or less likely to prosper by seeking any further assistance from the League of Tripoli. Like your mad Kurokawa, Gravois and his superiors have their own plans, always, that are rarely respectful of those they consider to be in their power.”

  CHAPTER 17

  ////// USS Walker

  August 9, 1944

  USS Walker was steaming north-northeast through the predawn sea south of where her charts showed the Seychelles ought to be. The islands were there, according to captured Grik charts, but so were quite a few others that shouldn’t have been. Walker had steered that direction alone because she could inspect the area and return more quickly than any other ship, and not particularly because Matt had expected to discover a massive Grik fleet there, waiting to pounce on Madagascar from the north. Finding the Seychelles on Grik charts in the first place had been something of a surprise. The islands were relatively distant and isolated from Madagascar and the mainland of Africa, and the Grik weren’t given much to exploration in the Indian, or “Western” Ocean. Too many mountain fish dwelt there, and they didn’t have sonar pulses to frighten the leviathans away from their paths. There was growing evidence that something was going on out there, however, based on the thickening number of Grik “Indiamen” Walker encountered—and destroyed—on her way. Her scout plane would fly with the dawn to inspect farther afield.

  Big Sal and her two escorts were parked just west of the Comoros Islands, near the middle of the “Go Away Strait,” and had discovered many Grik dwelling in scattered villages, as well as a large force that had appeared to be assembling. She bombed the hell out of the apparent “combatants” remorselessly, losing a couple of planes to the dangerous new rocket batteries like those they’d discovered at Grik City. But most of her efforts were focused on destroying three- and six-ship convoys that came every few days, likely carrying more warriors and supplies to join those already gathered there. That seemed to be the main staging area for the expected Grik counterstrike, and if so, the Allies had them bottled up fairly tight. As always, without communications, the Grik were blissfully ignorant of the peril they sailed into, and their destruction was as simple as shooting fish in a barrel. Simple enough to inspire a growing concern in both Matt and Keje that the buildup in the Comoros might even be a diversion. They were pretty sure that General Esshk either hadn’t been at Grik City, or he’d escaped. Everyone agreed that Esshk was no Halik, but he’d apparently picked Halik and given him his head, so he wasn’t just an ordinary Grik either. . . .

  Tentative, risky scouts over the African coast (in the face of even more
antiair rocket batteries), continued to reveal larger concentrations of Grik and teeming cities reminiscent of Grik City itself, but there was no sign of the massive fleet that would be needed to move and protect a significant invasion of Madagascar. There were broad, navigable rivers, for example what should’ve been the Zambezi, that might serve as waterways for fleets hidden inland, but the Nancys didn’t have the range to explore them, and the massed, nightly zeppelin raids kept Big Sal and the probing DDs from lingering too conveniently near the confining coast. Jarrik-Fas had proven that these raids need not be restricted to Grik City when he took his two DDs in close to launch their scouts. Only one returned, with little new information—and the DDs were chased off by twenty zeppelins and their “suicider bombs.” The ships escaped serious damage, but the zeps had responded quickly enough that they had to be based nearby. Now, not only did they have no better idea than before where that base might be; they had to assume there was more than one. Altogether, despite the destruction of a couple dozen small Grik ships and the slaughter of some of their warriors on land, it had been a frustrating week in the “Go Away Strait.”

  Matt looked at his watch before staring back out at the darkness beyond the fo’c’sle. “Sound general quarters, if you please,” he ordered, inwardly cringing in anticipation of the strangling goose. Instead, there was the slightest pause—and a bugle sounded over the ship-wide circuit. He whirled in the dark pilothouse as the familiar, urgent notes blared, and stared uncomprehendingly. Walker had never had a bugler since he’d joined her on another world in the Philippines, and no one had ever stepped forward with the skill. He waited until the man with the instrument—it was a man—finished, then stood at attention while the crew responded to the call with delighted confusion. Only then did he notice that Bernie Sandison, at the torpedo director, Sonny Campeti, Spanky, and Lieutenant Doocy Meek, the liaison of the Republic of Real People, were all grinning at him in the gloom. Matt stepped closer and saw that the bugler was the Imperial Marine he’d seen attending Jarrik-Fas on several occasions.

  “Been practicin’, Captain,” the man apologized, “learnin’ all the calls, down in the engine room. Just got the music before we sailed, from Commander McFarlane,” he explained.

  Matt looked at Spanky. “Gettin’ sick of that damn duck call,” Spanky groused. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Matt concealed a grin. “I doubt I’ll miss it,” he replied, then turned back to the bugler. “But who are you, and where’d you come from? You certainly didn’t report to me.”

  “He’s an ‘exchange’ Impie, assigned to Jarrik’s Marine contingent on Tassat,” Spanky explained airily, waving a hand. “I traded for him, when old Jarrik told me what he could do.” Matt refrained from asking what Spanky had traded. “Glad to have you aboard, uh . . .”

  “Corporal Neely, sir,” the man said. “Glad to be aboard.”

  “Very well. Carry on.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “What does he do besides blow a bugle?” Matt quietly asked Spanky as the stations belatedly began reporting “manned and ready.”

  “Isn’t that enough?” Spanky shrugged. “He’s a Marine, and we’ve needed a few of those aboard from time to time.”

  Juan Marcos clomped up the stairs on his wooden leg, coffee cups clattering on his tray. Matt reluctantly took one and sipped the vile brew Juan poured. “We’ll launch the Nancy as soon as it’s light,” he said. “If there’s nothing worth serious attention in the Seychelles, we’ll turn back to rejoin Big Sal and have a look to the south.”

  Ed Palmer, Walker’s communications officer, mounted the steps and entered the pilothouse from the port side, aft. There was a worried expression on his youthful face. Matt liked Ed a lot, but always dreaded his appearance when he had that look. “Good morning, Skipper,” he said. “Got some . . . interesting traffic.”

  “‘Interesting’ usually means good news and bad news. Let’s get the worst over with first,” Matt said.

  “Aye, aye, sir—but it’s kind of mixed, for context?”

  Matt made a “hand it over” gesture at the message form Ed held, then read it himself in the binnacle light. The sky was turning dirty yellow, but wasn’t bright enough to see by yet. “Well,” he said at last, eyebrows rising. “The good news first. Donaghey is safe, and will soon sail west from Alex-aandra. Had a”—he glanced at Palmer—“‘interesting’ time of it too. The voyage was tough, as expected, but then Greg Garrett found our Republic friends bottled up by a curious French battleship named Savoie.” He spent a moment describing her particulars, as they’d been reported, then glanced around and caught the surprise, especially on Meek’s bearded face. “She flew the same flag as that big pigboat we sank, and belongs to something called the ‘League of Tripoli.’ Greg and Mr. Meek’s people couldn’t learn a lot about them except they really were French.” He shook his head, mystified.

  “Buncha Veeshy bastards,” Spanky growled.

  “Who knows,” Matt said. “Inquisitor Choon’s snoops thought there might be other folks with them, and in their ‘League,’ but couldn’t figure out for sure. About all they did learn is that this League, whatever it is, really doesn’t want us to beat the Grik.” He let that sink in. “That seems clear because they prevented the Republic from completing preparations for its attack in the south, or even communicating with us, by threatening to bombard the capital city. That kept things at a standstill for a while. Unlike the pigboat, though, they wouldn’t risk a direct confrontation, because when Greg and your kaiser”—Matt nodded at Meek—“finally told them to ‘leave or fight,’ Savoie steamed away. Nobody knows where she went, but Greg fears she might’ve come this way for some reason and we should be on the lookout. Said they knew a hell of a lot about us and thinks we should change our codes too.” He considered. “‘League of Tripoli.’ What the hell does that mean? Either way, unless they’ve got some secret base in the Indian Ocean . . .” He stopped. The submarine must have had such a base, he realized now, and it wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of places it could be. And General Pete Alden’s conversations with the Grik General Halik in Indiaa left him sure that their old nemesis, Hisashi Kurokawa, had somehow survived. Could he be wrapped up in this? Wherever he was, on the outs with the Grik or not, he might be willing to provide a base for a rogue battleship no matter whom it belonged to if he thought it would benefit him.

  He took a breath, noticing that the others must be thinking the same thing. “Chances are, Savoie steamed back into the Atlantic. That’s where Choon’s people think she came from. But we need to be watchful—and change our codes,” he added to Ed.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “In the meantime, obviously, the Republic’s offensive has been delayed. Maybe by months.” He glanced at Meek.

  “It’s winter there, you know,” he explained. “Some snow, high up, but cold an’ wet. Especially on the escarpment. It’ll be difficult to move men and guns.”

  “We’ll make do,” Matt said. “Arracca and Santa Catalina will be here soon, and much as it goes against my grain to trust to luck and think rosy thoughts, we really don’t have any indication the Grik are ready to jump on Madagascar as soon as we’d feared. Now”—he waved the sheet—“the rest of this is mostly routine stuff, but I can confirm that Santa Catalina and Arracca and her battle group have sailed at last.”

  “Good. Will they hug the coast, looking for Grik on the way down?” Spanky asked.

  “No. They can scout, sure, but I don’t want them to run smack into any Grik until they get here!” Matt answered, and there were chuckles. “We’ll look together when they do.”

  “Anything else, Skipper? Any other news?” Bernie asked.

  “Another air raid on Grik City last night, mostly just tossing the rubble around and killing starving Grik. We lost another plane and pilot.” He brightened. “But the Clipper came in this morning with Lieutenant Leedom to take over a
s COFO there, and he brought Rolak’s pet Grik down with him. There can’t be twenty thousand Grik left alive northeast of Grik City. Maybe Hij Geerki really can talk ’em out. Mr. Bradford’s mission down the east coast of Madagascar in the Seven boat hasn’t turned up anything yet, but they’re fine. Otherwise, nothing new out here. Things are heating up in the East, though. Governor-Empress McDonald and Saan-Kakja have joined High Admiral Jenks.” He frowned. “Rebecca has ordered Jenks to make a heavy probe toward the Pass of Fire, where Costa Rica ought to be. I sure hope they know what they’re doing,” he added softly. “But if they can figure out what the deal is, it may not be long before things start shaking loose in the East. Shinya’s been sick, and so have a lot of his people. Something like malaria, Selass says. But they’re getting over it. Maybe just in time, since it looks like Don Hernan is stirring.”

  “Too much war for us to fight all by ourselves anymore, Skipper,” Spanky said with mock sadness, recognizing the frustration that had crept into his captain’s tone.

  “Lookout says ‘laand,’ Cap-i-taan, bear-een seero two seero, ’bout twenny miles,” came “Minnie’s” squeaky voice. She was the shortest adult Lemurian Matt ever knew, and though she was studying navigation and striking for quartermaster’s mate, her occupation at battle stations was always bridge talker. She’d actually taken the ship’s wheel in battle before, but she was too short to see out the windows without something to stand on.

  “We’ve always got plenty of war wherever we are, Spanky,” Matt replied without humor.

  “I’ll say,” Bernie Sandison agreed with conviction. “And I’m glad Amerika is already on her way to Baalkpan,” he blurted, then looked around self-consciously. “I mean, with the bombing raids on Grik City every night,” he added.