Blood In the Water (14 page)

USS
Sular
was a troopship capable of transporting more than two-thirds of I Corps's ten thousand troops, and her sides were hidden behind sliding racks that could drop as many as a hundred stacked dories into the sea. USS
Andamaan
was . . . different, meant to be a kind of “protected seaplane tender.” She carried troops and landing craft as well but had another primary purpose. Her casemate was no longer armored on each end but was equipped with great foldaway doors flanked by heavy cranes. The interior gun decks had been removed and the funnels further trunked to lie within the massive support beams. The result was a monstrous hangar spacious enough to accommodate twenty assembled PB-1B “Nancy” two-seat floatplanes, or six of the massive four-engine PB-5 “Clipper” seaplanes stowed diagonally. It was never envisioned that aircraft should land aboard her, but even the big Clippers, mounted on catapult trucks, could take off from the fo'c'sle or aft deck and be recovered by the cranes when they returned.

Andamaan
carried the latest version of Clipper: the D model. They had the same large, deep fuselage of their predecessors but had done
away with the aerodynamic protrusions on each side, intended to provide stability in the water. Those had been less than satisfactory. Instead, they'd returned to fixed wingtip floats, and their broad wings were more robustly braced to support the heavier new radials. These were essentially the same five-cylinder engines employed by the P-1s, but they'd been “stacked” to create ten offset cylinders. The result was an impressive boost in horsepower, and the same concept had been used to increase the performance of the P-1Cs. Another advantage afforded by additional bracing was that these Clippers could now carry four five-hundred-pound bombs or a single Baalkpan Naval Arsenal Mk-3 torpedo under each wing.

“Not ‘pleasant,' but convenient after all, I guess,” Pete said, replying to Rolak. “I didn't like the idea of cramming our guys in those fat targets any more than you did at first, but I confess Spanky's scribbles look a lot better now—after the yard apes interpreted 'em. And they ain't just targets. They're fairly fast, and they can fight.” He nodded at
Andamaan
. “It was nearly as hard for me to let 'em cram my new Clippers in that one. You know how long it took to get 'em!” Rolak nodded and blinked commiseration. Pete and Ben had been pleading for more Clippers ever since the first Battle of Madras, for long-range reconnaissance primarily, but they wanted them armed as well. The problem was, there just weren't enough to go around. Not only had it taken quite a while to put them in large-scale production, but their initially envisioned role as rapid transport between the far-flung Allies had swallowed them up as quickly as they were made. Even now, one Clipper took the same time and resources to produce as nearly a dozen P-1s or Nancys—and nobody could get enough of those either.

“I
was
skeptical at first,” Rolak agreed. “I had to see them for myself before I was convinced of the sense of Minister McFaar-lane's ‘scribbles.'” He smiled. “I now most emphatically approve . . . of
Sular
, at any rate. And as I said, it is somewhat ironically satisfying to use Grik hulls against the enemy. I never questioned the merit of turning them into large transports of some sort, as long as their machinery was made more reliable. I just did not think it could be done so quickly. Indeed, with all the dangers, known and surmised, inherent in such a long voyage across a deadly sea into the heart of enemy waters, I am quite content to shield as many of our troops behind Grik armor as we can.” He blinked,
looking at
Andamaan
. “Shielding aircraft, whose business it is to quickly fly away from their ships at need, did strike me as something of an . . . awkward extravagance” He took a long breath. “But I find myself vaguely comforted that our Clippers will be protected as well.”

“We could've just flown them down. They have the range, and Jumbo was willing to lead the flight,” Ben said, reviving an old dispute. Walt “Jumbo” Fisher was one of Ben's guys, and now commanded the six-plane Patrol Squadron (Pat-Squad) Twenty-two. “We could've
stacked
that hangar with crated Nancys and Fleashooters.”

“Indeed, Col-nol Maal-lory,” Rolak said, smiling slightly, probably amused by his persistence. “But they only
barely
have the range, and Cap-i-taan Reddy wants us to use the Clippers along the way, to scout parallel to our course. And use them in our defense as well, if necessary.”

Pete arched an eyebrow at Ben. “Still tryin' to slow us down? We
ain't
unloadin' an' reloadin'
Andamaan
now, and that's final.” There were chuckles. “Still,” he persisted thoughtfully. “A lot of eggs . . .” He turned to look at Perry Brister, and then nodded out past the former Grik dreadnaughts toward the DDs. “Speaking of eggs, Commander Brister, and fresh-laid ones at that, what do you think of our screen?”

“I've got no major complaints,” Brister rasped. “The sailing steamers'll do their jobs just like always. Some steady crews there. And
James Ellis
and
Geran-Eras
”—he nodded at Cablass—“got worked up pretty well on their way out here.” He grinned a bit ruefully. “They're not
perfect
copies of
Walker
, you know. I mean, everything . . .
kind
of works like you'd expect, and engineering and the gun and torpedo directors are pretty much exactly the same. But other stuff takes you by surprise. The plates're thicker, more like
Walker
's and
Mahan
's used to be, but that's not it.” He shrugged. “I don't know. My
Mahans
haven't been aboard
James Ellis
long enough to discover all the differences, and who knows what we'll find, but so far . . .” His brow furrowed. “In some ways things are a little . . . cruder here and there, but in others, more . . . refined, almost
elegant
, if you know what I mean. And some stuff is bigger, clunkier, but seems to fit together better, see?”

Pete laughed. “I'm surprised the 'Cats didn't paint murals on the bulkheads and hang tapestries everywhere.”

“You haven't seen the curtains to the officer's quarters and the wardroom,” Brister deadpanned. Everyone laughed at that.

“What is wrong with murals and tapestries?” Cablaan asked innocently, fueling the laughter.

“But you have no reservations about your screening assignments?” Pete finally asked.

“None, sir,” Perry replied. “We'll take good care of all our precious ‘eggs.'”

“Good,” Pete said, his voice now void of humor. He gestured out at the fleet. “Because this is it, friends. The last gasp. We're taking two corps to Grik City, but they aren't just any corps—they're First and Third—to join what's left of Safir Maraan's Second. We're the cream.” He shook his head and Ben could tell he was trying to make it clear just how important this convoy was without casting too much gloom. It didn't matter. Everybody knew. “Once we get down there,” Pete continued, “it's not like we won't get reinforcements. We will. We'll get more troops—and planes too. I'm even hoping we can get Sixth Corps sent down pretty soon, once we know Halik's gone from Indiaa for good.” He paused. “Personally, I think he is. He gave his word to stay out after we ran him off, and God help me, I think he'll keep it. He was always different, but that Jap, that General Niwa he runs with, changed him even more.” He shrugged. “I don't know exactly why, but I'm as sure as I am of anything else these days that he'll leave us be. Which means we'll get Sixth Corps at some point.” He looked at Brister. “And we'll get more shiny new tin cans like yours. The next couple are already being built.” There were satisfied nods. “But what we
won't
get is another First or Third Corps,” Pete ground home. “Does anybody here think, no matter what else they send us, we can still win this war without 'em?”

There was silence.

Sighing, Pete shook his head. “Sorry, guys. Just layin' it out. This convoy
must
get through.” He looked at Ben and managed a small smile. “We ain't getting any more P-Forties either, and for some reason Captain Reddy thinks they're important.” The smile vanished. “Anyway, if we do get hit, your orders are to fly your planes the hell off
Baalkpan Bay
and get 'em back here or to Grik City, whichever is in reach. Keep 'em fueled and ready at all times, is that clear?”

“No, sir.”

Pete raised both eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, what if nothing's in reach? There
will
be a point where that's the case.”

Pete considered. “Just have to jump that creek when we get to it. You'll have to either sit tight and hope you can ride out whatever it is, or get them off so
Baalkpan Bay
can get her own planes in the air. If it comes to that, things'll be pretty rough anyway, so I'd recommend you fly 'em and fight 'em. Try to recover as many as you can on
Baalkpan Bay
with those idiotic nets you rigged. Stupid Army!” He snorted in frustration. “Building planes without tail hooks, or the spine to take one!” He looked Ben in the eye. “Try whatever you like, but if that doesn't work?” He waved his hands helplessly. “Tell your guys to put 'em in the water as close as they can to something that can fish 'em out.”

Ben felt a chill run down the small of his back, imagining himself in the terrible, predator-rich sea, trying to decide whether to jump in the water—or close his canopy and ride his plane to the bottom. “Yes, sir.”

C
HAPTER
8

PT-7
Mangoro River
September 26, 1944

“Do you see them?” Lieutenant Colonel Chack-Sab-At asked just loud enough to be heard over the deep-throated burble of the twin engines pushing the Seven boat up the narrow, muddy red waters of the Mangoro River. He wore his tie-dyed Marine tunic under rhino pig armor, and his helmet sat tilted forward on his head to shield his large, sharp eyes. His tail, brindled like the rest of him, swished edgily beneath his kilt, and his ever-present Krag-Jorgensen rifle was slung loosely on his shoulder.

“Yep,” replied Chief Gunner's Mate Dennis Silva, spitting a long yellowish stream over the raised coaming around the starboard side of the boat's conning station. Then he nodded imperceptibly. He also wore a
helmet, like everyone on the boat, but there wasn't any leather armor big enough for him. Instead, he merely wore his ordinary “uniform” of black eye patch, T-shirt, dungarees, and an assortment of weaponry. He
was
protected, though, by the large ammunition box and the Lemurian-made copy of a water-cooled Browning machine gun he stood behind.

“Yep,” the colorful tree-gliding lizard named Petey croaked tentatively, clutching Silva's shoulder and peering over it at the landscape beyond the shore. He was just parroting what he'd heard, but the tension in the boat had clearly affected him. No one paid Petey any mind.

“How can you see them?” Chack demanded. “You haven't even looked!”

“More over here,” Silva simply said.

“Oh. So they watch us from
both
sides now.”

“Evidently. An' Larry's lookin' for me too, ain't ya, little buddy?”

Lawrence, or “Larry the Lizard,” was a Sa'aaran, originally from the tsunami-swept island of Tagran. There remained some debate whether he was just another race of “Grik,” or an entirely different, if related, species. He preferred to claim the latter. He was smaller than a Grik, and colored with orange and brown stripes. He was also very smart, understanding English and Lemurian, and fluently speaking both—as well as his lipless mouth would allow. Initially treated like an annoying pet by Silva, he'd become, along with Chack, Gunny Horn, and a very few others, one of Silva's rare true friends.

“I 'atch, 'ut stay hidden, like I told,” Lawrence confirmed.

“An' you stay that way, hunkered down outa sight. Can't take the chance your ugly, Grikish mug'll pro-voke the locals.” Silva snickered. “Not that
that
seems to matter much,” he added.

“I can't see
any
of them,” Ensign Nathaniel (Nat) Hardee said resentfully in his refined English accent, but he remained crouched low as well, gripping the brass wheel in front of him hard enough to turn his knuckles white while he peered over the coaming ahead, searching the water in front of the bow for shallows or snags.

“None of us can actually
see
'em, Mr. Hardee,” Silva said. “Not really. They're bein' mighty sneaky. But we can see where they are.” And of course, every now and then a barbed, bone-tipped arrow arced out of the foliage along the shoreline and slammed into the boat, confirming that the swaying fern-like fronds concealed more of whatever manner of
creature that took sufficient exception to their presence to murder one of their company in a most horrid fashion. Silva's first reaction had been to hose the area with the Browning, then go collect a specimen of whoever—or whatever—was shooting at them. Even Chack wavered, but Bradford forbade it. Chack might be in overall command, but Courtney Bradford was in charge of meeting the people here. Granted, he wasn't quite sure how he'd manage that yet; they didn't seem particularly friendly. But he demanded a little more time to sort it out. Meeting them after Silva had shot them to pieces didn't strike Courtney as the most diplomatic approach. In the meantime, they might meet friendlier folk as they moved upriver. Silva and Chack both doubted that, and even if they were wrong, they were liable to start a war between any possible “friendlies” and the hostiles, over the power of the magic boat that moved upriver, if nothing else. Silva and Lawrence had been on the trip that discovered the Khonashi in North Borno, and that worked out okay in the end, but he was pretty sure this was a waste of time.

“It's kinda like them Western pictures,” he blurted gleefully. “Here we are, the peaceable wagon train, tramblelatin' cross the prairie! I'm the handsome scout, o'course, warnin' ever'body how stupid this is. Chack's the stick-up-his-ass Yankee cavalryman, bound to do his dooty. The rest of Mr. Hardee's crew 'Cats is all the extras in the picture, doomed to get killed an' scalped.” He turned to glare at Lance Corporal Ian Miles, crouching in the corner behind him. “Miles is the one I can't figure. Is he the yellow traitor, just waitin' for his chance to skip, or does he only
seem
that way so nobody expects it when he finally does somethin' worthwhile?”

“The hell with you, Silva,” Miles snapped, but his tone was resigned.

“An' Mr. Bradford's the plucky ol' foreign schoolmarm,” Silva continued, as if Miles hadn't spoken. “Hell, let's say she's Australian, of all things.” Courtney Bradford
was
Australian. “Ever'body thinks she's nuts, but nobody wants to hurt her feelin's—no offense, Mr. Bradford,” Silva added loftily as Courtney climbed up the companionway from below, an Imperial telescope in his hand.

“None taken, Mr. Silva,” Bradford replied, replacing his large sombrero with a helmet, momentarily revealing his balding, sweaty pate. “You've saved my life often enough to mock me to your heart's content,” he added with good humor. Carefully, he crept up to the coaming and
slid the telescope over the top. “Where did you think you saw the last one?”

“Back yonder.” Silva pointed at their wake with his bearded chin.

“Bugger! Do tell me if you see another.”

“Okay.”

“I as well, Mr. Bradford,” Chack assured. “But I have no idea what Silva is talking about.”

“I don't either,” Silva admitted. “But these sneakin' Apache 'Cats, or whatever they are, probably do.” He paused. “There's another,” he added conversationally.

“Where?” Courtney demanded eagerly, scanning the shore.

“A little back, under them trees. Damn! It's too dark to see if it's got a tail or not!
Look out!
” He shoved Courtney down as another arrow boomed into the plywood coaming, its shattered point protruding through, mere inches from Courtney's face.

“My word!” Courtney gasped.

Silva reflexively pointed his gun, then paused. “Look, Mr. Bradford, these jerks
ain't
gonna sit down an' drink mint jaloops with you while you talk philosophy. Let's kill some, see who they are, then get the hell out of here. We got a war to get back to.” He was still smarting from some of his wounds, even wearing a row of unplucked stitches here and there, but he was smarting more at having missed the most recent battle at and around Grik City.

“You may be right,” Courtney admitted dismally. “You still aren't to kill any of them, but I don't know how we can accomplish our mission if we daren't even go ashore! I'd hoped to find a settlement of some sort along the river, but so far there's been nothing at all!” He stopped, considering. “Just a bit farther. The attacks have grown more frequent. Perhaps they are defending something and we're getting closer to a village of some kind. Just another ten miles or so, Mr. Hardee,” he instructed wistfully. “Then we shall turn around at last.”

“Aye, aye. If we can make it that far. The river is narrowing.” It also wasn't the rain-swollen torrent it had been, its volume diminishing rapidly. He understood they were on the “wet” side of the looming mountains, but didn't trust the river to keep enough water to float them. If they got stranded . . . He tried not to let the relief show on his face. In addition to the more hazardous navigation, he was starting to worry about fuel.
They'd brought extra, of course, but the original plan had been for him to drop the landing party at the mouth of the Mangoro and await its return. Since then, they'd endured a rough storm and the interior of Madagascar, already known to be amazingly hostile and “stocked” with all manner of creatures even the Grik considered “worthy prey,” was full of intelligent, murderous, weapon users as well. The human “Maroons” in the north had been very helpful to Chack's Brigade when it fought its way through the jungle to attack Grik City from behind. They'd even joined the Alliance. But these southern . . . people were numerous and hostile enough that even Silva wasn't anxious to leave the boat anymore. That brought Hardee back to fuel; it had never been expected that he'd have to chauffeur the delegation halfway across Madagascar.

“What the hell?” Silva murmured suddenly.

“What the hell!” Petey screeched insistently.

“Somethin's movin' through the jungle yonder, pretty quick, an' comin' this way!” Birds—and lizardbirds—swept out of the trees in a growing, cawing tide, and there came a rumbling crackle of shattering limbs that sounded dully in the humid air. There were some really scary “boogers” on Madagascar, and some were extremely large. Possibly even big enough to wade the river. Excited yips came from the forest, and Silva wondered for a moment if their tormentors were herding something at them. He'd heard the Doms did that with some kind of “super lizards” at Fort Defiance. He doubted it in this case, though, because even if he still couldn't get a good look at the shadowy shapes on shore, they were flitting through the trees—and maybe up in them?—to get
away
from whatever was coming.

“All hands, man your battle stations!” Nat shouted over the exhaust of the engines. “Prepare for action starboard!” Suddenly, it didn't matter who was in charge of the mission; the Seven boat was his to fight. Two 'Cats hopped the coaming, rifles slung, and crouched behind the starboard torpedo tube, still wary of arrows from shore even though their tormentors were suddenly quite preoccupied. “Stand by to reverse the shafts!” Nat called into a voice tube near the wheel. He could control the throttle with a lever by the wheel, but the engines couldn't actually be reversed. The boat would back up only if a reversing gear was engaged. That could take a moment, and he wanted the two 'Cats in the engine room expecting the command if he gave it.

“Larry, old buddy,” Dennis said conversationally, “run fetch me my Doom Stomper, wilya?”

Larry's eyes were wide and his crest was rising in alarm, but he nodded, very humanlike, and bounded down the companionway.

“I'd have gone,” protested Miles. “I'm not doing anything.”

Silva spared him a single glance with his good eye. “You should be. Grab a weapon. Besides, I don't want you even touchin' my be-loved Doom Stomper. An' if I sent you for it, you'd prob'ly wind up still doin' nothin'—belowdecks!”

Miles snarled something unintelligible, but took an Allin-Silva breechloader from the rack nearby and tentatively stood. Chack gazed at the former “China Marine,” then back at his friend. Miles struck him as lazy, usually doing only what he was directly told to do, and he was the only expedition member, not part of the Seven boat's crew, who hadn't volunteered. Spanky sent him. Still, Chack didn't know why Silva disliked him so. Sometimes it even seemed like Silva was actually
goading
Miles into attacking him! Chack didn't like it and decided to make a point of finding out why. “Look!” he said instead, gesturing at the shore. Bradford stood now, spyglass glued to his eye. A Lemurian—clearly a Lemurian!—leaped from concealment in the trees and splashed in the water just as a four-legged brute the size of a Buick bounded in beside him. The thing looked like a horned toad with straight legs and a long, spiky neck. It completely ignored the floundering Lemurian as it churned, wide-eyed toward the boat. Immediately, several more creatures just like it plowed into the water, disappearing for a moment before they began to swim. The 'Cat was still floundering, but others had appeared on shore, trying desperately to fish him out, but they were distracted by almost constant looks over their shoulders at the jungle beyond.