Straits of Hell

by Taylor Anderson

  “Crow’s nest report Griks! Many Griks, bear-een two two seero!” Minnie cried. “They hard to see through the rain, but the closest is about fifteen thousand yaards!”

  “Very well,” Matt said, glancing at Spanky. “I guess we made it, barely. Reduce speed to two-thirds. That’ll take some of the strain off the boilers—and the rest of the ship.” He shrugged. “We’ll have to slow down to hit anything in this sea anyway.” He raised his voice. “Sound general quarters—wait!” He caught himself and grinned. “Belay that. Pass the word for the bugler instead. I believe we have time, and I’d like to do this right.”

  • • •

  Other than their Hij leaders, Grik were not generally social creatures. They worked and fought together under close supervision and direction, but the average Uul warrior possessed barely enough language to follow the most basic commands. Predatory, pack-attack instinct took over after that. It was already clear to the Allies that this wasn’t because they didn’t have the capacity for more, but because they were so rarely allowed to live long enough for their mental maturity to match the physical maturity and lethality they achieved so quickly. The current war had begun to change that to various degrees, and there’d always been exceptions. Particularly bright Grik, if recognized, were allowed to mature, to be “elevated,” to the status of Hij, though the privilege had rarely been extended beyond the offspring of already long-established Hij with the influence to persuade a regency’s choosers to “recognize” and elevate their own young. Hij shipmasters were particularly adept at this, and the growing need for experienced Grik sailors was long established. Further exceptions had been made during the current crisis, creating leaders for vastly expanded armies and changing the very nature of the armies themselves. General Halik was a prime example, having been elevated from a successful sport fighter to commander of all Grik forces in India. He’d lost most of his battles there, but he’d learned. And though his peers couldn’t know it, he’d taken things a long step farther. At first of necessity and then by design, he’d preserved as much of his army as he could for long enough that a fair percentage had begun to “elevate” itself. Having influenced the program that elevated Halik and others like him, “General of the Sea” Hisashi Kurokawa was doing much the same independently, and also by design, as was General Esshk to a more limited degree. Such had never been done before, in the long history of the Grik, and it remained to be seen what the result would be.

  But on that wild, stormy day when the “traditional” forces commanded by Regent Consort Ragak of Sofesshk made their great attack to recover the Celestial City from the grasp of the prey, the only Hij to attend Ragak were the usual generals and shipmasters. The generals were of the “traditional” sort as well, whose only role was to design battles and then set their Uul warriors loose. Due to the limited nature of those designs, they had little to do until they reached the shore and generally stayed out of the way. But the shipmasters and Regent Consort Ragak, who’d taken the role of “General of the Sea” for himself, had been quite busy indeed. Ragak’s plan to quickly shift his horde across the Go Away Strait to the southwest coast of Madagascar itself before the prey organized its meager patrols far enough south to discover its passage had worked perfectly. There his swarm had waited until the bait was laid in the Seychelles to draw off the more powerful elements of the prey’s fleet. That had worked even better than Ragak hoped, and spies that remained among the trapped survivors near the Celestial City had signaled watchers beyond the Wall of Trees with colored cook-smokes that the prey had taken the bait. They, in turn, raced south in relays along the coast. Many were slain by the various preys inhabiting the island, but enough survived to bring Ragak word that the time to strike was at hand.

  Ragak was already imagining himself as Regent Champion of all the Grik, and contemplating how General Esshk should be destroyed when things suddenly became . . . tedious. First, after several days at sea without the least sign of the prey’s flying machines—Esshk’s air raids had drawn them back to the city, no doubt, he grudged—his great fleet encountered troublesome weather that roughened and slowed its voyage. Then, that morning near the Comoros, they’d run into a most troublesome handful of ships that, combined with the worsening weather, had thrown his entire swarm into disarray. More than half his ships had been swept or diverted to the west coast of the island, and their warriors would have to make their attack there. The remaining swarm struggled on, sped by a turn of the wind, and was now rounding the northeast point of land, its objective in sight at last. He was content. The flying machines had been grounded by the storm, with one lone exception that had suddenly reappeared but merely watched from above. The rest of his fleet was turning into a quartering wind that would send the ships racing across a milder sea beyond the harbor mouth and the great guns he knew awaited him there, to the broad, flat beach he’d chosen to slam his ships ashore. After that, his warriors would leap into the surf. Some would be eaten by the ravening fish, of course, but the storm would keep most of those from the shallows. Few enough would die. Then it would merely be a matter of loosing his proud, pure, Uul, untainted by General Esshk’s revolting experiments, to quickly scour the Celestial City of the feral vermin prey infesting it. He fully expected to be feasting on the defenders in the Celestial Palace by nightfall.

  “My Lord Regent Consort!” The shipmaster hurled himself at Ragak’s feet on the sodden deck of his flagship, the Giorsh. Ragak stared suspiciously at the creature. Giorsh, with her white-painted hull and lavish appointments reminiscent of another time, had been the flagship of all the Grik for a hundred years. Ragak had been astonished when Esshk gave her, and the prestige that went with her, to him. But he was suspicious of her master’s constant caution.

  “What is it, Shipmaster?” he growled.

  “The lookout describes a ship, Lord, a ship of steam with four smoke pipes, approaching from the north-northeast!” the shipmaster wailed at the deck.

  Ragak was taken aback. He remembered Esshk had described such a ship as having something to do with their misfortunes in the past, but by all accounts it wasn’t very big. He was sure Esshk had blown the little steamer’s contributions far out of proportion to further excuse his failings. But why should this pathetic creature seem so terrified, so close to turning prey himself? He hadn’t even commanded Giorsh during the earlier . . . setbacks the Grik suffered at Baalkpan, for example. That one had gone on to command one of Esshk’s new iron steamers. Seeing the nervous slouching of the other Hij officers nearby, Ragak slashed at the shipmaster with the talons on his feet. “Get hold of yourself—or destroy yourself at once!” he snarled.

  “Of course, Lord Regent Consort, at once!” the shipmaster agreed fervently, and dragged himself away, blood seeping from his back to drip and spread on the wet deck. Rising, he trotted aft, down a companionway by the wheel, leaving Ragak with no idea which he meant to do.

  What Ragak didn’t realize was that shipmasters and their officers, as a separate class of Hij and as required by their trade, were particularly social creatures. Other Hij—generals, engineers, artisans of every sort, even choosers—jealously guarded their methods and thoughts to promote their own value, but shipmasters had to share their knowledge of the sea, the weather, and the meticulously crafted charts they were taught to make. They also shared tales of places they’d been, shores they’d seen—and enemies they’d fought. That information spread much more widely than any passed by comparatively insular regency generals, and the one ship that had entered the collective nightmares of Grik shipmasters everywhere, particularly those still commanding the hopelessly outdated “Indiamen,” was USS Walker.

  • • •

  “Waa-kur, Waa-kur, come in Waa-kur! This is Cap-i-taan Jis-Tikkar, COFO of Salissa’s First Air Wing! Do you read me, over?” Tikker was orbiting a thousand feet above a loose concentration of Grik ships and what he saw below might have been the most stirring sight he’d ever witnessed. Al
l alone on the wind-tossed sea, USS Walker lanced through creamy waves, shearing foam and spray from her knife-edge bow, wisps of smoke peeling away from three funnels behind the big battle flag that streamed taut behind her foremast. Before her, the range shrinking fast, was a vast armada; still somewhat scattered, but numbering more than any single ship should ever have to face. Bright jets of flame flashed from three of Walker’s four 4"-50s. A moment later, two water columns rose beside a Grik Indiaman about six hundred yards away. At the same time, a mighty blast shook the ship and debris flew in all directions. A few Grik were already firing back, peppering the water around the old destroyer with roundshot splashes. Not many of the enemy here is armed, Tikker thought. Most of those had stayed to tangle with TF-Jarrik, but there were enough to be a threat.

  “Hi, Tikker!” came Lieutenant Ed Palmer’s voice, scratchy in Tikker’s ear. He and Ed had been friends since they flew together with (now Colonel) Ben Mallory in an old, battered PBY Catalina they’d almost literally worked to death, and finally lost at the Battle of Baalkpan. They’d all been lucky to survive, and though Ed never flew again, all three shared a special bond.

  “Ed! I’m up here, ah, your eleven o’clock, about two miles an’ a thousand feet. Is daamn windy up here!”

  “We got you, Tikker! What do you see?” Ed’s voice on the TBS was punctuated by the crash of guns that Tikker saw lash another Grik ship, though he’d have never heard it otherwise.

  “The Griks are spread out, straggling bad, but starting to concentrate as they round the point. Some rounded it too quick,” he added with satisfaction, “an’ hit the rocks off the harbor mouth. Guns there are firing on those an’ others that get too close. The rest . . . The rest look like they’re makin’ for pretty much the same beach Safir Maraan hit with Second Corps.”

  “It’s the best, for the way Grik land; just running their ships up on the beach. All sandy,” Ed agreed. “Anything landing northwest of the harbor, where the Grik civvies are?”

  “Not on purpose. Geerki must be right. Griks have to know they’re there, but them not bein’ warriors, they probably think they’ll just get in the way, slow their rush toward the Cowflop.”

  “General Safir will stomp their rush!” Ed replied.

  “We know that,” Tikker agreed.

  Walker was charging into a bigger cluster of Grik ships now, her guns flashing in all directions, smoky tracers arcing from the 25-mm gun tubs in her waist and the red tracers from “old world” ammunition brought by Santa Catalina seared bright across the dark water from the two.50-caliber machine guns mounted on each side. The smaller rounds probed wildly for Grik ships from their leaping platform, but mauled them when they touched. They’d finally solved the brass problems with the 25s and.50s. The ammunition for them wasn’t as rare and precious as it had been for so long, but Walker had apparently picked up some more of the “good stuff” when she rendezvoused with Santy Cat off the Seychelles. At least something good came from that, Tikker thought grimly. Two more Grik ships were hit and one erupted in flames, its magazine of “Grik fire” igniting. The other spun beam on to the sea, pulled around by a toppled mast, and simply rolled on its side. There was no perceptible pause before Walker’s guns sought new targets.

  “Say, Ed. You’re a helluva sight down there,” Tikker managed.

  “I bet. Can’t see anything from the radio room. Nobody can see much from down here. Skipper wants to know if anybody’s heard from Jarrik, and whether any large force landed on the west coast?”

  “I don’t know,” Tikker confessed. “General Maraan’s deploying to face this bunch and wants me to spot for her—and you.”

  “Well, tell us what you see here and then hightail it southwest and have a look!”

  Tikker hesitated just an instant. He knew Safir’s comm section was monitoring them and she’d hear of the exchange. And Captain Reddy was Supreme Commander . . . but his plane was using a lot of fuel. The weather seemed better here, on the surface, but not up high, and he’d be pounding right into the wind to check to the south. He’d have to refuel before he went, or on his way back here if he wanted to stay in the air long enough to do any good—which meant he’d have to land. Great. Another chance to break my neck!

  “Wilco,” he said, “there’s a lot of daamn Griks down there. Most are gonna get past you, and Gener-aal Maraan will have to stop ’em on the beach. But near the center of the concentration you attack is one of those big white-hulled jobs.” They’d seen those before and knew they were the Grik equivalent of flagships. Take their leaders out and the Grik would still attack; that was what they did. But they’d lose whatever ability remained to them in this mess to coordinate anything at all, or react to the resistance Safir Maraan was preparing.

  “Thanks, Tikker. I’ll tell the Skipper.”

  Feeling conflicted since he didn’t want to leave his friends below, Tikker made his own report to Safir Maraan and turned his Fleashooter into the wind, southwest, and started to climb. He figured it would take an hour, bucking the storm, to reach the coast opposite the Comoros Islands.

  He didn’t have that long. He hadn’t quite reached the harbor mouth when his engine coughed and the spinning prop in front of him skipped a beat.

  “Oh, you better not!” he warned. The Alliance had been very lucky with its aircraft engines from the start. Granted, they’d had a functioning prototype to study and keep going—for a while—and then they’d been gifted with the still-underused (in Ben Mallory’s opinion) P-40Es. They’d also had fine manuals that covered the basics very well, not to mention all the original destroyermen with their wide and varied technical expertise—and then actual airmen who’d had to learn the very basics covered in the manuals, and had practical experience applying them. The four-cylinder Wright-Gypsy–type engine in the Nancys had been a great success and was used in a wide variety of applications now. The five-cylinder radial powering the newer P-1 Mosquito Hawks had been fairly successful as well, but failures were more common. And the engine on Tikker’s plane had already been through a lot. Add the adverse conditions, the moisture it was sucking, and the wild ride that had to be annoying the carburetor, and there was no real telling why the engine suddenly quit.

  “Shit!” Tikker shouted when the prop wound down and the plane almost immediately tried to stall. He pushed the stick forward to get the nose down and looked frantically around below, since he’d only about doubled his altitude before losing power and didn’t have time for much of anything but to try to figure out where—and if—he could set the plane down. He couldn’t bail out. He had the altitude, barely, but the wind would carry him over the bay and drop him in the water. Nope. He couldn’t even report his situation: his high-frequency transmitter was powered by the engine. And one thing was sure; he’d never glide all the way back to the airstrip. The harbor sprawled before him, and even if he made it across, only the jagged ruins of Grik City lay beyond. The fort guarding the eastern mouth of the harbor was just below, and the ground past that was laced with trenches and other defensive positions facing the beach. The beach. That was his only option, the only flat stretch he could possibly reach. The wetter sand would be the firmest, probably better than the mud at the airstrip—but the surf was breaking hard and washing far up the beach. Grik ships that had evaded Walker were coming in and the defenses manned by Safir Maraan’s 3rd and 6th Divisions were preparing to give them a hot welcome, but the beach between them was his only hope. He considered jumping out there, but he’d be too low by then. Besides, even if the wind brought him down among his friends, his plane might crash among them too. He was just going to have to ride it down.

  Turning, he lined up on the beach, trying to hold his northwest to southeast glide path and struggling against the crosswind that threatened to flip him. He eased the stick a little farther forward to gain a bit more speed, remembering the last “dead stick” landing he’d been a part of, when he and Ben tested the very
first Nancy over Baalkpan Bay. This was worse. The world was coming up awful fast, and the P-1 kept drifting toward Safir’s first trenchline. He tried to compensate and wound up over the water. That wouldn’t do at all, even if he’d been in a Nancy. He adjusted again, aiming for that imaginary line on the beach that the sea only occasionally reached, but the line was capricious and he could only control his touchdown to within a few instants, either way. He expected Safir was watching now, along with thousands of her troops, and figured she was praying for him—and cursing him—with every breath. The time for thinking was over, and only his sense of the wind and his aircraft could save him now. He’d feel his way through this or die. He thought he caught a glimpse of the sea fading just as he pulled back on the stick, flaring out, trusting the mushy Indiaa rubber “balloon” tires not to sink and stick in the sand—and they didn’t! The plane bounced, but it continued forward, smacking the wet sand again, again, slowing each time. Then he saw white foam surging forward across his path, and a geyser of spray erupted around him. The plane tipped up, slamming hard on its nose. His forehead smacked against the crude tube gunsight piercing the windscreen, and he saw bright purple sparks.

  For a moment, his eyes didn’t work, and he heard and felt a big wave rush around the plane. He figured it would topple it over on its back and drown him, but instead the tail slammed down again with a splash. He felt dizzy, twisting this way and that; then another wave pushed the tail hard to the right, and for an instant he caught a hazy glimpse out to sea. There were still gunflashes far out over the water, and bright flares danced in the dim-lit day where Grik ships burned on the heaving sea. Walker was invisible beyond other dark shapes of distant ships, but she was still fighting; that was sure. Despite that, other Grik were coming in, lots of them, and one ship seemed aimed right at him, all sails hastily set to drive it as far up on the beach as possible. Its bow shouldered the sea aside as it drew closer, bigger, until it looked like it would crush him. He felt all alone, just waiting for the Grik to smash him in the plane, tear him apart. Eat him. Then, just fifty or sixty yards away, the ship surged to a stop, sending the foremast toppling into the surf trailing a long red pennant. Instantly, Grik poured over the side, splashing into the sea. Most disappeared entirely and he thought they were drowning themselves, but then he saw them as they thrashed through the marching swells or somehow rode them in, their heads and weapons held high.