“Simms is more than a match for even the heaviest Dom ship ever seen in the Pacific, or Eastern Sea,” Ruik said without boasting. “And the consensus is that the fleet she helped destroy can’t be of significantly inferior quality than the reserve the enemy has brought through the strait we’ve been sent to investigate. Why would it be? The Doms started the war with their attack on the Empire, and then Saint Francis. You’d think they would’ve sent their best.” He paused and looked around again. “But I must confess that something naags me.”
“Ah, the Diaablos del Norte? The ‘other Amer-i-caans’ the Doms confront in that other sea?”
“Indeed. Nobody has a clue what nature of fleet they have, only that they supposedly have one. That makes it impossible to say what the Doms had thought was sufficient to keep them in check.” He swished his tail with the usual frustration. “I’m reminded of our own strategic deployment: First Fleet gets all the newer, better weapons to fight the Grik in the West, because that’s who everyone considers the greater threat. Fine. I even agree, based on what we’ve seen. But what if the Doms always considered the Diaablos the greater threat, and kept their ‘second string’ fleet in this sea?”
Gaal thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “Naah. They had the numbers against the Impies before we jumped in, but they weren’t good enough. I think the Impies’d’ve held their own, at least defending the Isles.”
Ruik blinked disagreement. “Not as screwed up as Don Hernan, McClain, and that daamn Billingsly had things there. The Empire nearly lost it all, real fast, even with our help. They’d have lost all their colonies, and New Ireland too. I’m not saying there wouldn’t have been a brisk fight for the rest of the New Britain Isles, but I think they would’ve lost. We, the Alliance, were the wild card that threw ’em off.”
Gaal was silent. “You may be right, Skipper,” he said at last. “The Heavens know ever’body says the Doms take the ‘long view.’ I guess if they thought they needed to keep their better stuff in the Aat-laantic, to keep the Diaablos off their back, but thought they still had the weight to knock out the Empire at their own pace, they’d’a done it.”
“Especially if they thought that would eventually free them up out here to send stuff east through the strait, to gang up on the Diaablos.”
Gaal looked at Ruik, troubled. Then he grinned. “Naah,” he said again at last. “We’re just a couple destroyer ’Cats, yarnin’ at the rail. Don’t you think Ahd-mi-raal Lela an’ High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks would’a thought of that?”
“Yes,” Ruik agreed, suddenly almost certain, “and I bet that’s why they’ve kept us bunched up between the Enchanted Isles and Guayak so long. The same kind of worries. The thing is, I do know the Governor-Empress Rebecca McDonald fairly well, and she wants the Doms dead bad enough that I’m not sure she’d listen.” Ruik gazed back out at the fleet, beyond the laboring Icarus. “Wish it wasn’t so rough. It would be nice to have a few Nancys up, looking around ahead of us.” Nearly every Allied ship now carried at least one spotting plane, but the sea and weather had to be calm enough to recover them, so none were flying at present.
Gaal looked at him more closely. “Hey, this really is naagging you, isn’t it?”
“I guess,” Ruik confessed.
“You think we’re heading into a trap?”
Ruik shrugged. “Maybe. Once we get closer in. I’ll want to double the lookouts starting tomorrow, especially if this overcast holds.”
“Ay, ay, Skipper. Uh, Skipper? Have you talked about this with Ahd-mi-raal Hibbs?”
Ruik looked away. “No. Not that it would do any good. He’s just following orders too. I have talked with Commaander Grimsley, Ahd-mi-raal Jenks’s old XO in Aa-chilles. I think he feels the same way. I guess we’ll just have to keep our eyes peeled.”
“Yaah,” Gaal said slowly, looking in the general direction they were headed, toward the invisible strait. “Oh well,” he added, falsely cheerful. “We oughta know in a couple o’ days, one way or another.”
One of the speaking tubes arranged in an ordered cluster near the wheel squealed loudly. Simms’s first lieutenant, who had the watch, pulled the whistle plug on the one leading to the “comm shaack” almost directly below. Second Fleet didn’t have TBS equipment yet, but everything had CW capability now. “Conn, ay,” he said, leaning forward to listen. Ruik saw his ears flutter. “Grikbirds!” he cried at his captain. “Mebbe five of ’em, bear-een seero four seero! Finir-Pel pick ’em up!” USS Finir-Pel was another of the newer Scott Class DDs, as were most of those that the “Union” had contributed to Second Fleet. They were one example of how “better” actually had made it east. But that brings us back to how “better” is no longer “good enough” in the West anymore, Ruik considered again. He straightened. Lieutenant Haan-Sor-Plaar didn’t spook easy, and Finir-Pel and USS Mertz were screening northeast of the fleet—closest to the most likely contact point with the enemy. “Sound general quarters,” Ruik barked. “All hands to baattle stations; prepare for flying taagits!” He looked at Gaal before extending his glass and focusing it in the direction of the signal. “I’ll have those extra lookouts in the tops now, if you please.”
Simms rumbled with drums and the alarm gongs stationed around the ship as the controlled chaos of clearing the ship for action ensued. The great guns were not run out in preparation for an air assault, but nets were rigged to catch falling debris—and to prevent Grikbirds from gaining the deck. Simms’s meager antiair weapons were made ready, and small arms issued.
“Finir-Pel says the Grikbirds go!” shouted the OOD, the tension in his voice bleeding off a bit. “They head back nort’east!”
“Just a scout,” Gaal said, scratching under his ear. “We had to expect that. We already knew they keep Grikbirds on some o’ their ships, like we do Nancys.” He scowled. “Feed ’em slaves, or whoever’s handy. But their ‘air’ is a little more ‘all weather’ than ours.”
“A scout this far out?” Ruik murmured skeptically.” Grikbirds only had about a forty-mile combat range, and Allied efforts to observe the pass of fire had always been able to get that close with minimal losses—probably inflicted by Grikbirds flying off their own small squadrons of picket ships. Only after that did they start hitting impenetrable swarms of the damn things. But it had been a while since the Doms had sent any ships much past a hundred miles. Why now?
“You want me to secure from gen’raal quarters?” Gaal asked.
“No. Not yet.”
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” Gaal said, studying his skipper. “So they have a few ships pokin’ around. Maybe their Grikbirds saw us, but they can’t tell ’em what they saw. I don’t know if they can tell ’em anything. Grunt an’ point, maybe. That’ll tell ’em we’re out here, but not what we got. I think you worry too much.”
“You could be right. But there’s been too many times I—and others—haven’t worried enough.” He gestured around at the sky, the sea. “And what worries me now is we can’t fly and Grikbirds can. And there’s something else they can do. If the Dom fleet has come out after us, the Grikbirds that saw us can daamn sure lead it right to us.”
“Well . . . good. Finally, we’ll get to whip the whole Dom fleet, once an’ for all, an’ wrap this sideshow war up so we can go west an’ kill real Grik with our brothers.”
Ruik sighed. Gaal’s attitude reflected that of many Lemurian sailors and Marines in the East, and it was always hard to keep them focused on the fact that this was “their” war too.
“Suddenly, I think I understand one of the strange phrases so often used by the human members of our Amer-i-caan Navy clan,” Ruik said, blinking ruefully. “‘Be careful what you wish for.’” Gaal blinked back in utter confusion.
Task Force 11 continued pounding east-northeast in the face of the mounting gale as the day progressed, but the Lemurian Sky Priests aboard the flag were sure the wind and sea would moderate
overnight. Ruik’s sea sense agreed, and they were even beginning to catch occasional beams of light through the western overcast sky as the sun fell toward the sea. Nancys would lift with the dawn to make a definitive determination regarding what might be lurking over the horizon. Ruik suspected they’d find nothing, or at most the two or three ships that Gaal believed had sent the Grikbirds aloft. Still, Ruik remained uneasy, reminded of a peaceful morning stroll he once took with Governor-Empress Rebecca and her Prime Factor, Sean Bates. They’d gone sport shooting for a kind of upland birdlike thing on the slopes of the mountains beyond the New Scotland port of Scapa Flow. That pleasant diversion ended with a fight for their lives as a plot unfolded that almost destroyed the Empire.
It has become natural for me to ‘worry too much,’ Ruik decided. But does that mean it is wrong for me to do so? He glanced toward the line of battleships churning along in the distance. Perhaps. Admiral Hibbs made himself a hero in the battle off New Dublin, yet does not seem much more concerned than Lieutenant Gaal.
“Why don’t you get som-teen to eat, sur?” asked his quartermaster at the wheel. “You been up here all day, wet through.” She shivered exaggeratedly. “We ain’t far enough north to be this cold!”
Ruik grinned. “Ah, but the air that is here has been up there and brings the cold down with it! We get little change where we are from, around Borno and the Filpin Lands, except when the strakkas come. But the warm world lies in a much narrower band, ah ‘laat-i-tude’ than I ever expected, and here it seems that the cold world can move against it quite easily from both the north and south! I do not understa . . .”
The voice tube from the comm shack screeched. Pulling the plug himself, he leaned over. “Cap-i-taan speaking!”
“Mertz sends more Grikbirds! Hundreds o’ Grikbirds bear-een nor-nor’east!”
“Grikbirds!” came the cry from the foretop, and Ruik stared up and forward. Several ’Cats were pointing to the left. “Grikbirds!” the lookout called again. “West-nort’west! Bear-een, ah, tree fo seero! All the Grikbirds there is!”
“Silence there!” Ruik shouted at the rising panic in the sailor’s voice, even as he raised his glass. The darkening sky was full of clotted formations of wiggling shapes, the motion resolving itself into the furious beats of hundreds of wings as he adjusted the telescope. The creatures were still too far away to reveal details, but he knew what he would see: Bright, feathery/furry bodies with slashing teeth and claws—essentially, colorful flying Grik. He had to assume they were carrying cannonballs, as usual, to fling down on the ships, but couldn’t tell yet. Those weren’t much of a threat to the ships themselves, but they’d kill anybody they fell on—and there’d be a lot of them this time!
He looked to starboard and caught Icarus flashing her Morse lamp, making sure they’d gotten the word. “Make smoke!” he ordered. Grikbirds necessarily had highly developed—and sensitive—respiratory systems and didn’t like smoke at all, but Ruik already knew Simms would be hard-pressed to make enough to discourage the things in this wind. “Send to Icarus that we’ll close with her; combine our defenses,” he ordered. Gaal thundered up from below, surrounded by other ’Cats, and Ruik caught his stunned blinking. He almost laughed. “This is no ‘scout,’ Lieu-ten-aant! It would take a fleet, a big one, to carry so many of the creatures! I believe your ‘wish’ is granted and the Doms are out. Coming right at us!”
The sea strobed with flashes in the northeast, as Grikbirds fell on Finir-Pel and Mertz. At first Ruik supposed the bursts of light came from the defenses aboard the two DDs, but there were too many. Way too many. Dozens of smoky sparkles twinkled across one of the ships amid bursts of water alongside. Then, even as Ruik realized what was happening, the distant ship simply exploded in a great, expanding ball of orange fire and roiling smoke. Other sparkles lit the deck of the other DD. She didn’t explode, but did veer suddenly away, with flames rushing up her mizzen mast.
“They’re not carrying solid shot this time!” Ruik shouted. “They’ve got bombs!”
“How?” Gaal demanded. “Doms don’t have percussion fuses, and Grikbirds daamn sure ain’t gonna light a bomb!”
“I don’t care how!” Ruik roared. “All hands on deck! Everybody but the comm division and a minimum watch in engineering! Anyone not already assigned to antiair weapons will draw small arms and prepare to defend the ship!”
A fair-size clump of Grikbirds broke away from the swarm bearing down out of the Northwest and angled toward Simms and Icarus. Ruik felt his spine turn to ice. “Staand by!” he cried, wishing his ship had been equipped with at least a few of the new machine guns.
“Here they come!” someone squeaked.
Maybe two dozen Grikbirds suddenly tucked their wings and stooped, plummeting down out of the sky at about forty-five degrees. A few dropped their bombs almost immediately, but most bored in. Simms could protect herself against Grikbirds attacking in the “same old way,” dropping heavy rocks or roundshot and then going for her crew. The flying monsters had no hands for weapons and had only those they were born with in their jaws and on their feet. They were savage opponents but quite vulnerable to gunfire and the bayonet. Simms had little defense against explosives dropped from the air, however. A large number of swivel guns, loaded with tins full of musket balls, were mounted on her rails, and the Allies had actually taken a page from the Grik and employed what were essentially portable antiair, muzzle-loading mortars that could spray heavy charges of shot. These were tried and relatively true, performing on the principle that if one put enough lead in the air at the critical instant, some was bound to hit. The problem was, even massed as they were, their effective range was only about three to five hundred feet—and they’d only get one barrage. After that, it would be down to small arms. All the Allin-Silva breechloaders to arrive in the theater had gone straight to Shinya, and he still didn’t have enough. Simms’s crew had only Baalkpan and Maa-ni-laa Arsenal percussion-fired smoothbore muskets. All would be stuffed with “buck and ball” or heavy loads of “Grikshot.” They’d be effective inside a hundred tails—and very effective at thirty or less, but were slow to load. That left only several “Blitzerbug” SMGs belonging to the pilots in Simms’s tiny air division, close-range weapons as well, and chances were the Grikbirds would already be dropping by the time they opened up.
Ruik wished he could maneuver, but Simms was already too close to Icarus now. The Impie ship had very similar armaments, and he hoped their combined fire would be enough. “Ready . . . ,” he yelled, timing his command as closely as he dared, knowing all the shooting would be over in a matter of seconds. After that, his ship would be helpless.
“Fire!”
Ten swivels and eight mortars barked almost as one, their operators yanking lanyards that slammed brass hammers against musket caps. A cloud of white smoke enveloped the ship as a rain-dense rush of lead lifted to meet the attackers. As they’d drilled for conventional attacks of this sort, the rest of the crew now opened with their muskets. Several bombs detonated dully alongside, probably the early drops he’d seen, throwing desultory splashes as high as the rail. He strained his eyes to see the effect of their fire.
The wad—“formation” was an inappropriate term—of Grikbirds had been shattered, and quite a few were tumbling, broken, toward the sea. Others had dropped their bombs, hopefully short, and were clawing at the air with ragged wings. The rest—maybe half—came on, finally drawing the fire of the Blitzers and some of the more independent-minded crewfolk who wanted actual targets for their muskets. Some were hit, but it didn’t much matter. At a little more than mast height, all the remaining attackers dropped.
Ruik watched the weapons fall. They looked like cannonballs, maybe a little bigger than usual, and they weren’t smoking or anything like that. . . . Most landed in the water, jolting the ship with detonations on and under the water. Some didn’t seem to go off. One hit the main top, bounced, and exploded in the ai
r over the waist with a bright flash and screech of flying fragments. Three landed on the deck. One went off under the left wing of the Nancy, where it sat on its catapult over the main hold, shredding it and flipping the wreckage almost over the side. ’Cats went down, screaming or silent, and the plane, tangled in the foremast backstays, sagged almost to the water. Another bomb had landed on the fo’c’sle, and was rolling aft as the bow pitched up. Ruik, crouching now, saw that this one was smoking. When it suddenly burst, it didn’t do so with the same force as the others, but with a much greater flash. Opening his eyes, Ruik saw flames spreading across the deck, toward the wrecked aircraft, and back forward toward the guns lashed there. More screaming ’Cats rolled on the deck, flailing at themselves, while others raced to help them or ran for hoses and buckets of sand. Ruik realized with pride that Simms’s crew was reacting with all the professionalism he could ever hope for, their damage-control instincts kicking in without thought. A few had even already reloaded their muskets and were chasing the rising Grikbirds with fire. Only then did he remember feeling the jar of a third bomb strike the deck, not far behind him on the quarterdeck. Subconsciously, he probably hadn’t expected to live long enough to turn and see. Now he spun to the rising cries just as the thing rolled toward the wheel. ’Cats dove away from it, but the quartermaster watched it come, eyes widening as she still clung to her post. It wasn’t smoking. It wasn’t doing anything—yet. “Secure that, before it blows!” he roared.
“You . . . you think it ain’t gonna?” Gaal asked nervously, but trotted forward, scooping up a coiled line. The bow pitched down and the bomb teetered, started to move, and Gaal gently dropped the rope down around it. After the slightest hesitation, he clenched his eyes shut and crouched down to grasp the bundle and hold it in place.
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