Blood In the Water (9 page)

To make matters worse in Matt's eyes, his own cousin Orrin Reddy had let them go. Orrin had reached this world through a separate, more hellish route than Matt, and in spite of his experiences before and since, had never seemed to take things as seriously. Maybe it was his youth? But, a former fighter pilot in the Philippines who'd been captured by the Japanese, Orrin was COFO of all air assets in the East. He ought to know
better. Fred and Kari were kind of . . . special to Matt—to everyone—particularly after their captivity. Maybe Orrin's brutal captivity in the hands of the Japanese made him take such things more lightly than others, but Matt still meant to have words with him.

“Has General Shinya advanced beyond Chimborazo?” Matt asked, changing the subject. “The last reports we caught, he was still consolidating his forces there.”

“He advances,” Keje ventured. Even
Big Sal
's comm gear was better than
Walker
's balky replacement set. “But must scout heavily to acquaint himself with the terrain. The country is very rough—and high enough that even his aircraft have difficulty. I have confidence he will press the Doms as hard as he is able.”

“There is also the matter of supply,” Safir added darkly. “After the ‘victory' at Maal-pelo, most of our warships in the area either harry the remnants of the Dom fleet near El Paaso Del Fuego, or undergo repairs at the En-chaanted Isles.” Decisive as the desperate sea Battle of Malpelo was, the victory had been pyrrhic indeed. Nearly every capital ship attached to Second Fleet, including the carrier
Maaka-Kakja
, had been crippled, and the fleet's frigates, or DDs, had been practically annihilated. “Other than a handful of DEs, and a very small remainder of AVDs, nothing remains to protect the supply convoys to Guayak or Puerto Viejo.” AVDs were outmoded frigates equipped to carry and service Nancy seaplanes. Even a few merchant ships had been lightly armed and converted. Here in the West they used Grik Indiamen, cut down and with steam engines installed, for AVDs, fast transports, light oilers, or just about any kind of auxiliary they could imagine. They'd always had plenty of the surprisingly well-made hulls. But even those were scarce right now. . . . “And after the great battle at Fort Defiance, Gener-aal Shin-yaa has little ammunition on hand,” Safir continued. “If he were to meet serious resistance during his pursuit of the Doms . . .”

Matt shook his head. “All the more reason why the convoys have to go, protection or not. Shinya has to get off the dime and
chase
that slippery bastard Don Hernan before he has a chance to gather another army!”

“But only warships have the so-naar to discourage mountain fish!” Keje protested.

“And mountain fish in the Pacific, beyond the Empire of the New Britain Isles, are only interested in getting to the Pass of Fire and Sea of Bones to breed. They leave ships alone,” Matt countered. Keje had never been that far either. “Usually,” Matt added. “At least that's the theory. Either way, it's a risk we have to take.”

“Very well,” Safir reluctantly agreed. “I will traans-mit the order.”

Matt looked at his watch, surprised as always that the scratched and battered thing still worked after all it had endured. They had other watches now, big, bulky ones made in the Empire of the New Britain Isles, but he'd hate it when the Hamilton finally quit. “It'll be dark soon, and I'd like to get back aboard my ship. What's left?”

Keje blinked surprise. “Only what
our
next move should be,” he said, heavily mimicking human sarcasm.

Matt shrugged irritably. “Our next move isn't really up to us until others get the lead out. We're stuck on the defensive until the rest of the fleet and our reinforcements arrive, and until the Republic is ready to move.”

“And when might that be?” Keje asked Safir. “What is the latest on that?”

“All of First Fleet, including First and Third Corps, already embarked, have been waiting only for the final loading of Ben Mallory's Pee-Forties aboard
Baalkpan Bay
.” She blinked mild accusation at Matt. “The modifications to the ship that were necessary before that could occur were what caused the delay.”

Matt took a breath and laid his hands on the table. “Ben's been bugging me without stop,” he confessed. “But it's more than that. He's the most experienced pilot with the most capable aircraft we have, and he's been on the shelf too long. He needs back in the war, and God help us, we need him and his P-Forties to wrap it up. They were decisive at Madras, and we sure could've used them here a few weeks ago. It's time to roll his precious hangar queens out in the sunlight and use 'em.” He turned to Lieutenant Araa-Faan. “The airstrip's ready for something heavier than your Mosquito Hawks?”

“Finally. Especially the new, heavier Fleashooters, the C models, which are supposed to be on their way,” Araa-Faan added hopefully. Silva had dubbed the P-1 Mosquito Hawks “Fleashooters” the first time
he saw them because of their resemblance to the larger P-26 “Peashooters” on their old world. Like so many of his irreverent nicknames, it stuck.

“They are coming,” Tikker confirmed, then grinned. “But the
first
ones go to
Salissa
!”

“The first ones will go where they're needed most,” Matt warned, “but the field will handle Ben's heavier planes?” he asked specifically.

“Commaander Leedom supervised the crush an' roll himself,” Araa said. “It is as hard and smooth as we can make it. It'll be dusty, but it'll hold up—until the Griks knock holes in it.”

“In that case, I'll leave it up to you.” He glanced back and forth between Araa-Faan and Tikker. “Be sure to pass the word to Mr. Leedom. Whoever stops these damn raids gets the new planes—that's the deal. You've got the Clipper,” he added to Araa. “Find where the Grik are marshaling their zeps and burn 'em out.” He looked at Tikker. “And you have the P-Forty floatplane—and the same chance I gave the land-based air. None of the new planes, and especially not Ben's, are coming ashore until the Grik air raids stop. I won't lose them to anything so . . . stupid.”

Safir smiled. “In any event, Cap-i-taan Reddy, to completely answer my brother Keje's question at last, the remainder of First Fleet should sail with the dawn.” She blinked unease. “I fear I do not have such a definitive answer regarding when the Republic will be ready to move. Cap-i-taan—I mean, Major—Bekiaa has not yet had time to evaluate its army. She promised a preliminary report within the week.”

Matt nodded, then smiled himself. “You know, it's kind of funny. Thinking of Bekiaa, the consummate combat Marine, trying to watch her Ps and Qs around a bunch of foreign officers and blowhard bureaucrats, brought Alan Letts to mind for some reason. Not that he's in Bekiaa's class as a line officer,” he hastened to add, “but we're always here at the pointy end, so that's the perspective we carry around. Things can seem pretty overwhelming at times. But then I wonder what Alan thinks about it all from Baalkpan. It's got to drive him nuts. He sees an even bigger picture than we do, but has to deal with all the tiny details too, not to mention keeping all our ‘friends' on the same page.”

“Indeed,” Keje agreed. “Not only has he somehow managed to sort out all the necessary logistics of a two-front war—our current shortages
notwithstanding. He cannot foresee everything, after all, and success breeds as many difficulties as defeat. But more important, and at the same time, he has built a nation of highly individualistic creatures.” He grinned. “He has herded whole clans of 'Cats into doing what few could really want to do for themselves, without the greater need that drives them. I did not think it could be done.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed. “He's come a long way,” he said, remembering when Alan had been merely an extremely unfocused supply officer. “I wouldn't trade jobs with him for the world,” he added.

“He will, no doubt, be most glad to relinquish his acting duties as chairman of the Grand Alliance back to Adar when he returns to Baalkpan,” Safir noted.

And I'll be glad when he gets there too,
Matt told himself,
because it'll mean Sandra—and the baby—are safe in Baalkpan as well
. “No doubt,” he chorused with the others, “and I guess his arrival there is all they're waiting for before all the representatives get together and ratify the Union”—he smiled—“and finally give it a name.” He looked around. “Any idea which way they're leaning?” He assumed a mock expression of haughty dignity. “As Supreme Allied Commander, CINC-WEST, and High Chief of the American Navy Clan, I'm still pushing for ‘New Texas' myself.” Keje snorted, and Russ Chappelle had to hide his face. Pam Cross just stared at him, incredulous. That made Matt laugh. “I'm just kidding, I swear! Actually, just ‘the Union' sounds okay to me.” Keje and Safir were nodding and blinking amusement. Both knew that “Texas,” wherever that was, was Matt's birthplace. But they were each heads of state in their own right. Keje was High Chief of USNRS
Salissa
, technically a “reserve” ship operating with the Amer-i-caan Navy. He'd already joined with Tasanna on
Arracca
, which enjoyed the same status, to become a bigger “state” of their own, and despite the age difference, there was talk of a more personal “joining” between them. Neither had a mate. Safir was queen of B'mbaado, but now also of her former enemy Aryaal as well—and the aged General Lord Muln Rolak was to be “protector” of both cities. Each had a say of their own, and all had proclaimed a preference for some variation of “Union.”

“Well, we've all got a lot of work to do, here and back at Baalkpan,” Matt said, standing. The rough-hewn benches groaned and squeaked as they were pushed back and the others stood as well. “Let's break this up.
I hope Mr. Leedom tears 'em up tonight,” he added, glancing upward, “and I'll see you all in the morning.”

“One last thing, Captain Reddy, if you please,” Russ Chappelle said hastily, moving to a cabinet nearby. He returned with a beautiful wooden case about ten by twelve inches and three inches deep. He hesitated a moment before presenting it to Matt. “We've been carrying this thing around a long time, and the ‘right moment' to hand it over just never seems to come.” He shrugged, with a glance at the others around the table, and passed the case. “This'll have to do,” he said. Immediately, everyone began to clap and stamp their feet, so they'd all obviously known ahead of time.

Up close, in Matt's hands, the wood was even more stunning. It looked like a shiny swirl of dark chocolate and peanut butter, accented with fiery, shimmering flashes of purple and gold that seemed painted on with a feather but were actually in the grain of the wood. A polished plaque read:
WITH UTMOST GRATITUDE TO
CAPTAIN MATTHEW REDD
Y
, and it was from, simply,
ALL HIS PEOPLE
. Eyes beginning to burn, Matt lifted the lid. Inside was the Single-Action Army Colt that had been found rusting in the captain's cabin of this very ship, but it had been transformed into a gleaming, nickel-plated thing of beauty. Fine engraving covered the weapon from the muzzle to the backstrap, and the grips had been replaced with the same exotic wood the case was made of. And in the grips, deeply engraved, was
USS
WALKER
(
DD
-163). Fifty .44-40 cartridges stood in rows in a wooden insert flanked by decorative cleaning tools and screwdrivers. They'd never adopted .44-40, so someone must've made
these
cartridges by hand.

At first, Matt didn't know what to say. He knew the Baalkpan Arsenal had toyed with copying the SAA for a while, but the 1911 Colt design had proven easier to produce, and it was a far better combat pistol in any event. But it was beautiful, and he loved it on sight.

“I'm told it was the first thing they ever nickel- or silver-plated on this world,” Russ said quietly, “but that can't be so.” He nodded at Safir Maraan's breastplate. “Maybe it was the first thing ever
electroplated
. Good practice, though.”

Matt could only nod until he finally found his voice. “Thanks,” he said. “Thank you all. And I accept the gift,” he added with a wry smile. “Hard not to, with my name on it.” Then, reluctantly, he closed the lid and handed the case back to Russ. “But you'll continue to take care of it
for me, Captain Chappelle, here aboard
Santa Catalina
, where we found it. That seems only right. God forbid you ever need to
use
it,” he continued lightly, amid chuckles, “but if you do, you have my permission.” He hesitated, then went on more seriously. “And if that's ever the case, that you're down to nothing but fifty custom rounds in my fancy, shiny Colt, rest assured that I'll be coming as fast as I can—before you use up all the bullets.” There were more appreciative chuckles, but everyone also knew that Matt meant exactly what he said.

C
HAPTER
4

Baalkpan
Borno
September 25, 1944

It was a beautiful, temperate, unusually dry afternoon at the Baalkpan Advanced Training Center (BATC). The haze from the factories surrounding the city was blowing east, away from the bay that separated Baalkpan proper from the installation where Major I'joorka's 1st North Borno Regiment was undergoing its final evaluation maneuvers before deployment east to join the fight against the Holy Dominion. The green regimental flag with a stylized—and very broken—Japanese destroyer and the words 1
ST REGT NORTH BORNO INF
hand-painted on it flapped in the early-afternoon breeze in the center of the Khonashi troops. About half of them were disconcertingly Grik-like in appearance except for what little coloration was visible beneath the tie-dyed frocks they wore. Clearly the same species as Grik, they were an entirely
different race: tiger-striped rust and black instead of the typical brown and dun of the enemy. The other half of the new regiment were humans of ancient Malay descent. All were armed with Baalkpan Arsenal rifled muskets and arrayed in an open but precise skirmish order two ranks deep that extended roughly three hundred yards to either side of the flag, facing the dense jungle to the west.

Commander Alan Letts was there with a small staff to observe these final evolutions—and a little test that had been prepared. He'd come a long way from the admittedly lazy supply officer he'd once been aboard USS
Walker
, and his blooming organizational skills had earned him the duties of Captain Reddy's chief of staff, then Adar's, and finally his current extended stint as acting chairman of the Grand Alliance. His fair skin had always been highly sensitive to the sun, but his responsibilities had aged him more than the climate ever could.

Standing with him was a young lieutenant (jg), little more than a teenager, named Abel Cook. Cook retained the upper-class British accent he'd brought to this world aboard the old S-19, but his blond hair was sun-bleached nearly white, his face tanned, and his blue eyes had seen a lot for his few years. Beside him was his close friend Midshipman Stuart Brassey, on extended loan from the navy of the Empire of the New Britain Isles. His dark hair contrasted with Abel's, but they could've been brothers otherwise. Dominating both boys with his greater height and . . . intimidatingly lethal appearance was Major I'joorka himself, looking almost exactly like a Grik, complete with a full array of teeth, claws, and dark adult crest and tail plumage. Like half his troops, the only visible difference was his coloration—and the calm he projected in the face of a thunderous sound emanating from the jungle beyond the parade ground.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Acting Chairman, but what is that . . . amazingly loud noise?” Abel Cook asked, peering into the jungle and unable to contain himself any longer.

“Not ‘acting chairman' much longer, thank God,” Commander Letts replied with a tight grin, small new lines showing around his eyes and mouth. He pretended not to hear Abel's question as he also stared at the trees. “Adar's finally on his way back home, where he belongs,”

Slightly frustrated, Abel looked at Stuart, who arched his eyebrows
and shrugged, glancing at Major I'joorka. There was another roar in the jungle, closer now, and the 1st North Borno shifted uneasily but held its ground.

“You've done a great job, Major I'joorka. Mr. Cook, Mr. Brassey,” Alan said, still ignoring Abel's question. He scratched the back of his left hand absently, rolling up dead skin with his fingernails. “Your troops are outstanding. You've trained them well.”

“Thank you, sir,” I'joorka said. His English was much improved, but like Lawrence, he still tried to avoid words that required lips. He'd actually spoken a variety of English when Abel and Stuart first met him, being “War Captain” of all of “King” Tony Scott's Khonashi warriors. How Tony Scott,
Walker
's old coxswain, had been named “king” of a band of combined Grik-like people and humans, hundreds of miles north of Baalkpan through impenetrable, trackless jungle, was a long, weird story in itself. But the result had been new, albeit stranger than usual allies with significant combat experience. All they'd needed was time to learn the standard tactics employed by all Allied armies before they could be plugged in anywhere, ready to fight. “I do . . . hoph the North 'Orno can still get the new 'reechloaders—the Allin-Sil'as—sooner than it gets sent to kill the ene'y,” I'joorka urged again.

Alan glanced at Abel, who'd been bugging him mercilessly about that. “I'm doing my best, Major. There're only so many to go around.”

“Other regiments and replacements training from the Great South Isle, uh, ‘Austraal,' get Allin-Silvas,” Abel pointed out.

Alan frowned. “Yeah, but I've told you. They're all going west, to fight the Grik. We make 'em and send 'em off as quick as we can—and there're a lot—but our industry's supposed to be focused only on that theater now. That's partly a matter of distance and logistics, as you know. Maa-ni-la's part of the Union, but sends most of what it produces to the Dom front. And the Empire's making Allin-Silvas now as well. They're supposed to be arming all the troops sent to fight the Doms.” He snorted. “You're caught in the middle of a kind of turf war, I guess. We're building a republic here, and that's one of the problems you run into, it seems.” He shrugged uncomfortably and sighed, knocking a ready-rolled “PIG-cig” out of a thick card box and lighting it with a Zippo. “PIG” was the highly appropriate acronym for the Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co. Alan took a drag, coughed, and looked at the offending tube amid a
reeking cloud of smoke. “Damn things're gonna kill me,” he wheezed. “Some folks say I should
decorate
those idiots for figuring out how to strip that waxy gunk off the local tobacco so it can be smoked.” He grimaced. “Others want the little turds up on charges. Especially after we finally found out how they did it.” He looked rueful. “That's classified, by the way. No sense causing an uproar when people will keep smoking them anyway, even after they find out.” He held his up as proof. “There's still more people chewing tobacco in the fleet and in the army, but I guess half the populations of Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la are hooked on these now, humans and 'Cats both. The ‘secret' will get out eventually, but maybe the war will be over by then and Pepper and those damn Mice can just run off and hide.”

“What did they cut the wax with?” Abel asked. “I won't tell.”

Alan arched an eyebrow at him. “Okay.” He paused, then rolled his eyes. “Brontosarry piss.” Brontosarries were domesticated sauropods about the size of Asian elephants, used to pull heavily laden carts, primarily. They were notable for their strength and stupidity—and the paint-stripper-like qualities of their urine. “They soak the green leaves with piss to break up the wax and then rinse 'em off with water and dry 'em in a smokehouse.” Alan chuckled. “There's nearly as much security around the joint as we've got down at the shipyard. It's too humid to dry them the old-fashioned way, and I guess the smoke helps with the piss smell too . . . a little. Anyway, that's the story, and the whole big secret behind their ‘scientific breakthrough.'”

“You're joking,” Abel protested. Alan waved his smoldering cigarette under Abel's nose and nodded solemnly. “Oh my God. I can smell it!” Abel exclaimed.

“Returning to the problem at hand”—Brassey nodded at I'joorka—“can't Captain Reddy, as CINC of all Allied Forces, merely command that the First North Borno receive the weapons it needs?”

“Not the way it's set up now,” Alan replied. “He can
request
it. He can tell I'joorka what to do with them when he gets them. He can even call the First North Borno to join him in the West—and we'd have to issue modern weapons then. But the representatives of the Republic have voted on the way we're allocating stuff and there's nothing I can do. I hope the rules get more realistic over time, more streamlined, so we can avoid things like this in the future, but the rules are the rules, and the
last thing we need to do is break them just to suit us when the ink on the ‘Articles' isn't even dry.”

“Republics, by their nature, breed factionalism and, uh, ‘turf wars,' within the greater union,” Stuart remarked darkly. “Our empire is much more efficient.”

“Maybe now, with Governor-Empress McDonald in charge,” Abel jabbed back, forced to take a side. The Empire was a staunch ally but hadn't joined the Union. “It was even worse there before, though, with the squabbling in the courts of directors and proprietors, the so-called Honorable New Britain Company. Open treason and rebellion, collusion with the Doms . . .”

“And too many members of our new Union still believe the Doms are the
Empire's
enemy, not ours,” Alan groused. “I expect—I
hope
—things will get sorted out eventually, but right now we've already got large forces, naval, air, and land, fighting the Doms. Forces that a lot of folks think ought to be in the West with Captain Reddy. With all the losses we've had in both theaters, that does cause resentment,” he confessed, taking another puff. “We've crammed all these people together from all over the place. People who didn't even know one another
existed
just a few years ago.” He shook his head. “They're really trying to get used to that,” he added a little wistfully, glancing across the bay where the once quaint city lay—a beautiful city of massive trees and high wooden pagoda-like structures with a good and distinct culture of . . . innocent peacefulness. A city that the vicissitudes of war had turned into a sprawling, ethnically and racially jumbled industrial complex. He wondered whether Adar would even recognize it after the months he'd been away. That thought deeply saddened him. “And they're getting a feel for each other and what it's like to work together,” he continued. “I guess it's only natural they'd be a little, well, selfish, for a while.” He looked thoughtfully at I'joorka. “You've got former enemies, other . . . tribes, like the Akashi, who you've fought forever, joining with you now. There's got to be some strain?”

“Yes,” I'joorka confessed. “It is hard to end old hatreds so quickly.” He considered. “It eases the ‘strain' that King Scott, who led us to 'ictory against the Akashi, asked they to join us. The Akashi . . . reskect he, honor he—and his . . . asking honors they.”

“But
we're
going east,” Abel persisted. “The Union won't even arm its
own people?” Alan didn't want to point out that to most members of the new Union, I'joorka's people, though already members themselves, were still strangers. Particularly disquieting strangers, given that many of them bore such a striking resemblance to the Grik. Lawrence had been embraced in Baalkpan as the hero he was, regardless of what he looked like, but he'd also been kind of a novelty. And Baalkpan now teemed with soldiers, sailors, factory workers, support personnel, and frankly, opportunists from all over the Alliance who'd never seen Lawrence—or any other Grik-like being before. The human Khonashis with their dark skin and hair didn't look much different from Imperials of Dom descent, but the others looked like Grik. Period. Alan was concerned to see racial prejudice among increasing numbers of Lemurians for the very first time.

“The First North Borno is going east,” Alan agreed, “and will be armed with modern weapons
in
the East. Look, fellas, I'm just running herd on this circus until Adar gets back. I can't wave a magic wand and make things happen like in the old days anymore. I wish I could.” He nodded at the troops arrayed beyond. “In the meantime, those may be muzzle-loaders your guys have, but they're rifles. The best we have, of the type. They shoot slower, but they're just as accurate as the new weapons—and maybe more important, they look and feel just like them as well. The first new ones were conversions of those, after all. At least there won't be much of a transition when they do get Allin-Silvas.”