Blood In the Water (6 page)

“I was wondering if Esshk meant to coordinate with you this time,” Gravois said, forcing a dry tone. “That could make all the difference. But it will be risky,” he stressed again. “Your enemy may finally know where to look for you, if you do not destroy him completely. Even then, distress signals may allow the enemy to guess, at least, that the attack was launched from here.” He spread his hands as well. “And, alas, it appears he finally suspects he has long been observed and monitored, and not only does a heavier screen than usual off the entrance to Port Madras prevent direct surveillance”—Gravois wouldn't expand on what assets he had in place to directly observe the enemy—“but has begun changing
his codes at apparent random.” Gravois shook his head. “His codes have always been beyond our ability to decipher, but the changes betray suspicion. Finally, some elements of his fleet have started exercising much better communications discipline, particularly in regards to their short-range, high-frequency voice radio we have relied on for so much of our information. I fear I can no longer tell you exactly what will constitute your target convoy. All I know for certain is that it will be large, and is considered critical to the success of your enemy's plans. Obviously, they will protect it to the best of their ability. We have intercepted the occasional mention of ‘new' ships, for example, and must assume they will be more capable than those you have seen in the past.”

Kurokawa's face had been puffing up, his eyes pinching more tightly throughout Gravois's cautionary comments. Finally, he stood. “As
my
forces are more capable than any
they
have seen!” he thundered. “Time and again, Captain Reddy has thwarted me, wounded me,
marooned
me! But I have surpassed him at last! I have better, more powerful ships, and faster, deadlier aircraft! This time it is I who will have the advantage!” His outburst had driven Iguri and Babino their feet in alarm, and Gravois stood as well, waving a reassuring hand at his aide. Iguri had to be accustomed to his master's fits by now. Kurokawa looked up at the awning above and closed his eyes, visibly calming himself. “Perhaps it is difficult for you to understand, Captain Gravois,” he said, voice brittle, “but I have worked and suffered far too hard and long, delayed my vengeance, my
destiny
, too often. The time is near when I must balance the scales at last, come what may. I am confident of victory, for all the reasons I have given.” He stopped and stared hard at Victor Gravois, his eyes burning with an inner light. “But even should I not achieve it, I believe I will settle for revenge this time.”

Gravois smiled and nodded understandingly, but his mind recoiled from what he saw.
Kurokawa truly is insane
. He took a breath.
But does it really matter?
Gravois's duty, his
mission
here, was to covertly encourage whatever circumstance he could arrange that would ensure the destruction of every power in this part of the world that might one day rival the League. There were limits to how far he could go, of course, and he even regretted certain aspects of his mission. But ultimately, largely due to the madman with whom he'd shared some of the last cigarettes on earth and some truly loathsome wine, he didn't really have to do much at all to
ensure a mutually catastrophic spasm of destruction that would one day leave this ocean—and the world—ripe for League domination.

“Then I will help you, as your ally and friend,” Gravois said. He snorted softly. “And as that of your intriguing First General Esshk! As I assured you,
some
modern aircraft are already on their way, though it may take longer for them to arrive than you have to prepare for the closest approach of the enemy convoy.” Kurokawa sat, but leaned forward eagerly. “We were able to confirm,” Gravois told him, “that the convoy sails today or tomorrow, and does still mean to pass the Seychelles to augment the new Allied presence there in some way. That is only approximately eight hundred miles away. That will put it in extreme range, even of your aircraft here, if you can recover them at sea—or do not mind losing them,” he probed, curious, “in . . . let me see . . . ten days, more or less?”

The drone of planes, more than a hundred, intruded on their conversation then. They were returning from an exercise in the strait between the island and the mainland. All four men resumed their seats and watched them approach and begin circling the three airfields surrounding the harbor as pair after pair broke off from each formation to land. They were noteworthy little planes, Gravois had to admit, particularly considering the conditions under which they'd been made. The same was true for all of Kurokawa's creations, and those of his enemies as well. Gravois frankly wondered if his own people could've done so much with so little in such a short time. The difference was, of course, they hadn't
had
to. He opened the leather case protecting his binoculars, took them out, and gazed skyward.

Kurokawa's planes were vaguely similar in appearance to the small fighter aircraft the Alliance had deployed, except they were slightly larger, green and gray instead of blue and white, and were reputed to be faster and better armed, if not as maneuverable. They were wood-and-fabric monoplanes with fixed landing gear, specially designed so that Grik with superior intellects could control them. He'd seen how they did that: by providing for the pilots to basically lie on their bellies, controlling the rudder pedals in the back of the cockpit with their feet, while using a stick in the front in a straightforward way. Most important, considering the mission Kurokawa had in store for them, they could each carry two fairly respectable bombs. If the Allies hadn't improved their antiaircraft defenses, the planes should be very dangerous indeed. He
was less impressed with their Grik pilots and suspected the experienced Lemurians would be a handful for them if they were able to sortie in time to make a concerted defense, regardless of any deficiencies in their planes. Muriname, despite his confidence in his new pilots, meant to counter that with Japanese squadron leaders that he'd trained himself. Gravois wondered if the few human pilots would be enough to make a difference and anticipated a most interesting contest.

Around half of the “fighter bombers” landed on the jungle airfields proficiently enough, Gravois thought, followed by a handful of twin-engine aircraft he hadn't yet seen himself. Fiedler said they were dedicated light bombers. Most interesting of all, two squadrons, very carefully and with evident hesitation, landed on two of three large ships anchored in the harbor. Gravois understood they'd once been ordinary Grik battleships, but all their upper works and armaments had been removed. This resulted in a much higher freeboard supporting a huge, elevated flight deck. Four funnels were rigged out to the side, and an offset control tower and pilothouse was the only structure above the level of the flight deck.
These are Kurokawa's—and his enemy's—greatest achievements,
he thought, slightly enviously.
Even the League has nothing like them, powerful as it is in other respects. But until now, there's been no need. I will have to try to see what I can do about that
.

There was no arresting gear to catch the planes as they landed, but the flight deck was big enough—at least while motionless and in calm seas—that the pilots had little trouble stopping their planes with brakes. Only one managed to stand his aircraft on its nose, shattering the propeller and probably wrecking the engine.
But they have many engines,
Gravois mused
. I have seen the factory myself. All in all, it is this capability, along with the element of surprise, that makes me most confident that Kurokawa can prevail
. Finally, the only aircraft remaining aloft was the Ju-52. It too eventually swooped low, its three engines crackling as it flared out and disappeared behind the trees between them and the airfield.

“I must meet Muriname now,” Kurokawa said, implying that their meeting was at an end, “to hear his evaluation of the exercise. I am particularly interested to learn his opinion of how our newest planes and pilots performed,” he added with a triumphant gleam in his eye, obviously meaning the twin-engine bombers.

“Very well,” agreed Gravois, standing and gesturing at the airfields and the ships. “A most impressive display. If the improvements to the rest of your fleet are anywhere near as successful as your aeronautical undertakings appear to be, you should have little difficulty in realizing your goals—and your revenge. My compliments.”

Kurokawa stood as well. “Thank you, Capitaine de Fregate Gravois,” he said. “We should meet like this again, away from other tiresome voices that cloud the issues and make perfect understanding so elusive.”

“Indeed,” Gravois agreed with a false smile.

C
HAPTER
3

The Go Away Strait
Near Grik City, Mada-gaas-gar
September 25, 1944

“I'm afraid she's finished, Skipper,” Commander Brad “Spanky” McFarlane murmured somberly as they inspected the cold, shattered number three boiler in the sweltering heat of the fireroom. Number four still roared, burning fuel oil and making steam for the hungry turbines aft in the engine rooms, and the temperature must've been close to a hundred and twenty degrees. But number four was the last boiler they had online, having already secured number two before it failed as well. What Spanky didn't add, standing in his customary pose with hands on his skinny hips despite the single crutch still propping him up, was “I told you so.” He didn't have to. Matt Reddy knew. And as Supreme Allied Commander of all the various forces united to defeat the dreaded Grik in the West and the evil Dominion in the East, what difference did it really
make? What else could he have done? The old US Asiatic Fleet “four-stacker” destroyer USS
Walker
(DD-163) was his ship, and he loved her more than he could say, but she was only one ship now of many, fighting a war that stretched the length of a world they barely knew. He used her as hard as he had to in order to get the job done, though it tore his soul with every wound she suffered. He had no doubt he'd use her up entirely before all was said and done. Even rebuilt more than once over the course of this terrible war,
Walker
had endured far more than any had a right to expect, saving him, her crew, the woman he loved, and arguably an entire species from extermination time and again. And somehow, she'd just helped them deliver yet another victory in the face of near-impossible odds. USS
Walker
was his beloved ship, but she was also a deadly tool in his practiced hands, a tool he couldn't afford to leave idle. But how often could she do it? How much more could she take? Now part of the answer had been revealed.

As Spanky predicted, since they'd continued steaming without repairs to the condensers, the salted feedwater had corroded and eroded the boiler tubes to the point that one had finally failed. The water flashed to steam, snuffed the fires, blew up the already cracked and crumbling fire bricks, and turned all the other tubes in the boiler into something resembling a ball of blackened, shredded guts. After another grim look inside, Matt turned to Lieutenant Tab-At—Tabby—his Lemurian engineering officer, standing beside him. She was also peering within the ruined boiler. The musty smell of sweat-foamed gray fur beneath her grimy T-shirt was almost overpowering.

“How are your girls?” Matt asked.

Tabby blinked reassurance at him, tail swishing with relief. “They gonna be okay. They get steamed a little, but them Impie gals're tough.” Matt noticed with surprise that Spanky nodded agreement. He'd once been engineering officer himself, and the loudest opponent of females of any kind, even Lemurians, in “his” firerooms. But that was a long time ago in more ways than one. 'Cats, like Tabby, and then the expat Imperial women who'd gravitated to the engineering spaces, had proven themselves over and over.

“Where's Isak?” Matt suddenly asked, looking around for one of the extremely squirrelly firemen called “Mice” who'd since advanced to chief engineer. Isak's half brother, Gilbert, the other “original” mouse, was
acting engineering officer (under protest) in the carrier
Maaka-Kakja
, fighting the Doms in the East.

“I told him to knock off,” Tabby said, shrugging. “He was about dead. Been at it since before the tubes blew.” She had to think. “The night before yesterd'y?”

Matt looked at her and blinked amazement in the Lemurian way. “And he actually
did
? You didn't have to run him out?”

“I guess. Ain't seen him. We got enough guys on this.”

“Well,” Matt continued, shaking his head and waving at the boiler, “I'm sorry about this.”

“I know, Skipper,” Tabby said, and she did. But there hadn't been any help for it. Ever since the second Battle for Grik City, they'd been chasing and destroying Grik ships sneaking back and forth between the Comoros Islands and the African mainland, apparently intent on picking up the pieces and salvaging what they could after the recent disastrous assault on Grik City. There'd been apparent attempts to make salvage runs up the Seychelles as well, but one of the first things the Allies did after the latest battle was divert a replacement regiment of Austraal Marines and their combat engineers to Mahe, the largest island in the group, to start work on an airfield. It would take some doing, and right now there was a total of two Nancy floatplanes there to provide air support.

And the Grik salvage effort had used only the old “Indiaman”-style sailing ships, not much of a threat in themselves, but each could carry upward of five hundred warriors, and every one they finished off was one fewer the Grik would have to attack them with again. It was important work from a practical standpoint, but the necessity had left Matt a little . . . uneasy. Not only had the enemy attempt to rescue warriors and equipment from unsupportable positions been suspiciously uncharacteristic, leaving Matt wondering just exactly what was behind it, he'd had very few ships left to perform the task. The “protected cruiser”
Santa Catalina
, a freighter salvaged from a Tjilatjap swamp on the south coast of Java and armed and armored, was too slow and used too much fuel for the hunt. The steam frigates of Des-Ron 6 had been virtually wiped out. Nor had there been any aircraft to spare for the task. The near-nightly raids by massed Grik zeppelins had continued largely unabated, and they still didn't know where their bases were. Somewhere inland of the African coast, obviously, since they'd combed the coastline itself pretty
thoroughly. Matt hoped for better recon soon, but for now they had to make do. That had left only
Walker
and a couple of steam frigates, or “DDs,” from
Arracca
's screen to do the job. Matt didn't know how many Grik ships had slipped through the ragged net, quite a few most likely, but they'd probably shattered enough to render the Grik return on their effort fairly futile before the targets started drying up. The DDs would stay out a while longer, but
Walker
was finally headed for the barn. Matt gestured again at the boiler.

“Can you fix it?”

Tabby sighed and swished her tail. “Not out here. An' I can't do much for number two. We outa spare tubes an' it'll do the same as this one, probl'y, the first time we try to fire it up again.” She nodded at number four. “An' we
plugged
so many tubes in that one, I bet we only boilin' two-thirds the water we should. 'Least its condenser ain't leakin' an' there ain't no saltin'—but it's . . . tired, Skipper.” She shrugged. “Maybe when the rest o' First Fleet gets its ass down here? They finally bringin' that big self-movin' dry dock down, an' it wouldn't hurt to stick
us
in it for a while,” she added hopefully.

“We'll see,” Matt replied doubtfully, not liking the idea of having his ship immobilized with Grik zeppelins dropping bombs on them. But maybe they could do it at one of the islands to the north?

“Then, with them two brand-new tin caans comin' down, there oughta be spares enough to fix our boilers right,” Tabby pressed.

Matt nodded, encouraged and a little thrilled at the thought of finally seeing the two near carbon copies of
Walker
that had been building at Baalkpan for almost a year. The first was USS
James Ellis
(DD-21), named for
Walker
's old exec who'd gone on to commands of his own but was killed at the second Battle of Madras. Perry Brister had her, having left
Mahan
to assume command. It would be good to see Perry, Ronson, Bashear, and a bunch of the other fellows again, Matt thought. The second new destroyer was USS
Geran-Eras
(DD-23), named for the High Chief of the Home-turned-carrier
Humfra-Dar
, destroyed off Colombo. She'd been commissioned a few days after
James Ellis
, and the last
Scott
Class steam frigate had taken number 22. Cablaas-Rag-Laan had
Geran-Eras
.

Unless something broke down, it wouldn't take nearly as long for even more new four-stackers to join the fleet, and the first new cruiser—basically an upsized version of the destroyers—was more than three-quarters
complete. For the first time since he came to this world, Matt had visions of a real, semimodern fleet dancing in his head. He frowned.
If we can just hold out
. He was pretty sure the Doms had shot their bolt at sea, at least in the Pacific,
but Kurokawa's still out there somewhere and the Grik have to be building a better fleet of their own . . . somewhere else, beyond the range of our scouts. And, of course, there's the League
. W
ho knows what they're up to, or even what they have besides that sub we sank and the battlewagon that sat on Alex-aandra and
Donaghey
so long
.

Matt noticed Spanky was frowning too. “What?” he asked.

“You didn't get me, Skipper. When I said ‘she's finished,' I meant the ship, not just the boiler. She needs a yard. How many holes has she had shot through her, just on this campaign? She leaks . . . everywhere.
All
the boilers need work, and her gun tubes need relining bad. The number one gun's as liable to hit the fo'c'sle as the target at max elevation.” That was an exaggeration, but not by much. Their temporary use of copper projectiles had extended the lives of their already worn 4
″
-50 gun barrels a great deal, but the new shells, though far more effective, were actually harder on the bores than the shells they brought to this world. They still used copper driving bands, but the iron casings forward of there had quickly eroded the rifling. “Now we've got the liners, we ought to do it,” Spanky persisted. “The condensers, pumps, even the bunkers leak. We're gettin' salt water in the fuel now.” He held his hands out at his sides. “More than ever, anyway.” There had been a little saltwater seepage into
Walker
's fuel bunkers ever since she was built. It had eased a lot after ler last refit, but now it was getting out of hand. “Hell, you've seen the lists,” Spanky snorted. “Even Earl's damn Coke machine is on the fritz, not that he puts anything in it.” He shook his head. “The old girl's wearing out.”

Matt nodded. “Yeah, but like I've told you before, she's doing what she's for.” He smiled sadly. “Besides, I don't know about you, but I think—I hope—we really hurt the Grik this last time. I expect, based on reports and what I saw myself, that what they sent against us was their second string and a lot bigger shoe is getting ready to drop. But with the rest of First Fleet and Generals Alden and Rolak on their way, we're going to have a helluva
boot
to drop on them.” He rubbed his forehead. “I don't know,” he repeated. “It's just a feeling I have, and I may be wrong. God knows that's happened before. But if I'm right, and the Grik
really are finally trailing blood in the water, I'm damn sure not going to throw the old girl out of the war now. She deserves to be in at the finish,” he added softly, then looked back at Tabby. “Do what you can. We're done out here in the strait anyway. You can at least finish patching up the condenser for number two, and plug as many tubes as you have to to get it back online when we get back to Grik City.”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan. I'll do what I can.”

Matt nodded. “Thanks.”

*   *   *

Passing the steam frigates
Scott
and
Nakja-Mur
on picket duty several miles outside the harbor, they opened the narrow entrance to Grik City Bay late that afternoon. Following the revised channel markers to the broader expanse of the bay, where the bulk of what remained of First Fleet (South) lay at anchor some distance offshore, USS
Walker
came to rest at last. There wasn't much of a fleet left.
Santa Catalina
was there, as were a couple of newly arrived fast transports and oilers made by stripping captured Grik Indiamen and putting engines in them. Away from the docks, it would be easier to get underway and maneuver if necessary when the now inevitable nightly air raid came. Only the most heavily damaged ships, like Jarrik-Fas's USS
Tassat
, were tied to the pier, helpless against air attack, but helpless in any case.
Tassat
, for one, could barely keep herself afloat. The two great seagoing Homes-turned-carriers
Arracca
and
Salissa
, under Matt's friends Tassanna-Ay-Arracca and Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar, stayed at sea with
Arracc
a's DDs to screen them. At least the air raids weren't that much of a threat to mobile ships. The Grik had begun lashing their dirigibles together in order to maximize their mutual defense and concentrate their bombing. The results were mixed, but it was now impossible to scatter their formation and shoot them all down. They always had plenty of warning of their arrival, though, and their direction betrayed their probable targets. Most nights, the men and 'Cats on the ships in the bay just watched as bombs fell on the great mound of the Celestial Palace, or “Cowflop,” as it had been irreverently dubbed. The enemy had initially avoided targeting the huge stone edifice rising three hundred feet above the now barren ground of what had once been the capital Grik city, but once they apparently realized the bombing didn't really hurt it, they bathed the structure with
firebombs and seared it with bright flames every night. Matt suspected the raids were more symbolic than anything now, a reminder that the Grik weren't finished with them, and they'd taken to bombing the Celestial Palace simply because it was the easiest target.