Deadly Shores (48 page)

Commander Herring cleared his throat. “I will voice no opinion regarding whether we remain or not, but I do think we shouldn't forget the submarine that attacked us. Someone we do not know could well be invested in the outcome here.”

“That's true, Mr. Herring,” Matt replied, “and I applaud your caution. But my point remains; I'd rather find out who
that
is, if it's anybody more than who we sank,
out here
. Not back home. If they don't like us, I'd rather keep them reacting to us as well.”

Herring nodded, frowning.

“But . . . how? How can we stay?” Safir asked, speaking for the first time.

“General Alden's pretty confident a smaller force can keep Halik out of India, and that leaves him free to bring most of his army here, along with the rest of First Fleet.” He gestured around before looking at Becher Lange. “In the meantime, we dig in. We fortify this dump like nothing anybody ever saw, and hold it until Pete gets here.”

“So simple?” Lange asked, stunned. “I think not. And what if the Grik come before General Alden arrives? Before we raise significant defenses?”

Matt smiled. “If you'll remember,
your
people should help with that. We've transmitted what we did here to the whole damn world, and that was supposed to be the signal for the Republic of Real People to hit the Grik on their southern flank. That ought to get their attention.”

“But that was the
sole
intent: to ‘get their attention.' Not begin a major campaign!”

“That
was
the intent,” Matt agreed with a final glance at Adar, “but the plan's already changed. They'll just have to push harder than they expected to.” His tone grim, Matt added, “As will we.”

Keje hadn't spoken at all during the conference on the flank of the Celestial Palace. He still didn't. He merely moved to stand beside his human friend. Chack and Safir Maraan did as well. “I know you said we can't vote on this,” Chack said, “but the First Raider Brigade and Second Corps stand ready to remain and fight.”

“Hell,” Spanky muttered. “The Bosun's gotta stay, planted on this stinkin' heap. I say if he's stayin', I damn sure can't leave! He'd haunt Tabby's engineerin' spaces forever.”

Adar nodded slowly, his whole face now wet with tears, and strode to stand before Matt, searching his eyes. He turned. “We stay,” he said, a little shaky, then cleared his throat. “We
stay
,” he stressed. “That is my . . . stra-tee-gic order. Cap-i-taan Reddy, as commander in chief of all Allied forces, will coordinate the design of a plan to carry it out.” He looked about at all these diverse people he'd come to love so much and spread his arms, symbolically embracing them. “This conference is adjourned. And may the blessings of the Heavens rest upon you all.”

*   *   *

Madness,
Herring decided, staring at the place he'd made his desperate stand. He was proud of that.
Battle madness,
he thought.
I can understand, I suppose, and it makes a kind of sense, but there's no way on earth we can hold this terrible place against
all
the Grik! Am I the only one who realizes that? It'll be just like my situation here, all over again, except there won't be any timely—or at least sufficient—reinforcements to save us
. He hadn't slept at all since the battle, and every time he closed his eyes, he saw the slathering horde of Grik charging up these very steps to tear him to bleeding shreds. He shivered despite the heat.
At least that self-centered bastard Miles made sure my canisters are secure. It may all come down to them after all
. He suddenly wondered if Lance Corporal Miles really did check on the special canisters aboard
Salissa
, or just
told
him he had. He didn't trust the man, and by all accounts, he hadn't exactly distinguished himself in the fighting aboard
Walker
. Miles might say that was so he could go to
Salissa
if all else failed
,
as Herring instructed, and tip the special casks into the harbor. The seed thorns of the deadly kudzu-like plants would've washed ashore. After that, it would just be a matter of time before all Madagascar was utterly uninhabitable, and Herring considered that a suitable parting gift if the Allies had been defeated or had to leave.

That still remained his personal backup plan, but now that they were staying, he needed somebody else—someone he could truly trust—to ensure it was carried out if he couldn't do it himself. He considered telling Adar he'd actually brought the seed weapon along. Adar had been on board for its development, after all. He shook his head, watching the chairman descend the steps surrounded by the others, still discussing their plans.
No, Adar's definitely not in the proper frame of mind,
he concluded.
He's too pliant and unsure of himself just now. Besides, Captain Reddy has given him hope that we might just pull this off, and that's Adar's fondest fantasy
. Herring frowned. He'd learned to trust Captain Reddy, even like him, and he tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He
wanted
to believe. . . .

“No!” he murmured aloud. Maybe his ingrained thinking—
was it pessimism or realism?
—sprang from the abuse he'd suffered in Japanese captivity, but that didn't matter anymore.
He
would plan as if he and all his new friends were doomed, and ensure that, whatever happened, they would be avenged.

//////
TFG-2 off Alexaandraa

The Republic of Real People

Southern Africa

A
gainst all the predictions of anyone who'd ever heard of it being tried, even those of Inquisitor Choon (who remained aboard regardless), USS
Donaghey
did manage to weather the terrible storms that plagued the cape of Africa. It had been a nearer thing than Greg Garrett preferred to admit, however. The confused winds there roiled in what he could only describe as a perpetual strakka, and the sea convulsed with mountainous, desperate swells that didn't seem to know where they were going. The only thing the sea and sky seemed perfectly agreed upon was that Greg's trespassing frigate not be allowed to survive. True to her record, traditions, and growing reputation, however,
Donaghey
gave them both the finger.

The storm almost snapped it off—along with all her topmasts but the fore, and most of two entire suits of strakka canvas. It started nearly every seam in her stout hull, and took seven of her crew over the side. It sprang every spar and smashed every boat, and almost twisted her rudder off, which would've been the end of her, but
Donaghey
made it through to what amounted to an undying “eye” in the storm. There, she limped into a small fishing village in clear view of the semipermanent eastern tempest that the locals simply called “the dark,” and with Inquisitor Choon's assistance, they were welcomed.

For the most part, the people they met were about what they'd expected after spending time with
Amerika
's crew: mostly Lemurians with a very strange accent, and a large minority of humans of various shades and features. They met the first “hybrids” that Miyata had found so curious—crosses between Lemurians and ancient Chinese explorers, most thought. They looked like pale-furred humans—with tails—and performed most of the dockside tasks with a kind of haughtiness that reminded Greg of Navy yard apes. They didn't speak much, and seemed standoffish around the strangers. Greg's crew stared at them—they couldn't help it—and received resentful glances in return, but generally, their brief stay was friendly enough.
Donaghey
's mission pressed, however, and they made what repairs were absolutely essential, weighed their anchor, and sailed on.

Through the weaker, colder, western wall of the great storm guarding the strait between the continent and the frozen land to the south, they finally rounded what should've been the Cape of Good Hope.

“We're in a whole new ocean,” Greg told Bekiaa-Sab-At, his tone somber. “A whole new world.”

“Is it as big as the last one?” Bekiaa asked, leaning out over the rail to watch some strange fish that were pacing the ship, almost sporting in her wake. Bekiaa had never seen fish apparently
enjoying
themselves before, and they fascinated her. Choon had told them “flashies” were rare in these waters, probably due to the temperature, but “shaarks” were plentiful enough.

“Bigger than the Indian—I mean, ‘Western Ocean,'” he replied, remembering that Bekiaa hadn't been in the Pacific, or “Eastern Sea” before. “A lot bigger.”

“We call it ‘Atlaantic,'” Choon supplied cheerfully. He was in on the conspiracy to keep Bekiaa's spirits up, and right then they were all anxious to reinforce the younglinglike wonder that had crept into her tone. Greg was just about convinced that the Republic snoop was sweet on her, anyway.

“And if we sailed all the way across it to the west, we'd eventually come to the land of the Dominion?”

“To the same continent,” Greg confirmed. “Maybe they don't rule the whole thing. And apparently we have ‘friends' to the north, besides the Impies—if Fred and Kari are right. But yeah, it's the same place, and if we could go around it, or through the ‘pass' Fred reported, we'd meet up with Second Fleet.”

Bekiaa shook her head and blinked. “All around the whole world. It seems so . . . impossible, to sail west and come to a place that lies so far to the east.”

“We're actually closer to Second Fleet here than if we sailed back the other way,” Smitty said, joining them at the rail. Greg nodded, but watched Bekiaa.

“I think I should like that,” Bekiaa murmured. “To sail all around the world.”

“Maybe we will,” Greg suggested, then shrugged. “No orders against it.” He looked at Choon. “I'd rather have a refit first, and meet your ‘Kaiser,' of course.”

*   *   *

The storm far behind and the sun beginning to set beyond the horizon, they opened Alexaandraa Bay at last.

“Break out the signal,” Choon instructed when they neared the fortress guarding the eastern approach. It was an impressive affair, festooned with big guns, and seemingly sculpted from the living rock. Greg noticed there were also two tall columns of smoke standing above the twin turret “monitors” they'd been told to expect, and the squat, ugly ships were already steaming toward them. No doubt they'd been warned by lookouts stationed high in the rocky, wooded mountains surrounding the bay. As usual, Choon had been ridiculously tight-lipped about the recognition signal until shortly before. Greg wondered what would've happened if they'd lost Choon over the side. Would they've been fired on when they suddenly appeared?

“Run up the signal,” Greg ordered his quartermaster, glassing the oncoming ships, then studying the mountains beyond the picturesque city at their feet. He'd never been to Cape Town in the old world, which he already knew was what US Navy charts would've called this place, but he wasn't expecting the forest. “Stand by to fire salute,” he called to Smitty in the waist.

“I believe you should hold your fire, Cap-i-taan Gaarett,” Choon said, his voice suddenly tense. Greg looked at him.

“What? Why?”

Choon pointed at the signal that had broken at the mastheads of the oncoming monitors. “Because we have been ordered to stand away from our guns, heave to, and prepare to be boarded. Also, if we attempt to send a transmission of any kind, this ship will be destroyed.”

Greg goggled at the Lemurian. “What? Bullshit!” He raised his voice. “Clear for action, sound battle stations!” he roared. He glared back at Choon. “I know you're weird, but I thought we were friends. And now this? Damned if I'll heave to, and damned if anybody's coming aboard my ship who
orders
me to let 'em! Stand by to come about!” he ordered the helmsman.

“You can run from the . . . monitors, you call them, and would likely even escape. Their guns are large, but not particularly accurate. I doubt they will fire on you in any case, since it is not my people who make the order. They merely pass it along. From that.” He pointed at the west side of the bay where Greg hadn't looked. He raised his glasses now. Anchored just off the principal docks, probably about where
Amerika
was usually berthed, judging by the lack of other shipping around it, was a massive gray form, about 550 feet long at a glance. Two funnels stood, spaced a good distance apart—and there were four massive turrets housing two huge guns apiece. Even as he watched, Greg realized one of the turrets, aft, was turning toward his ship, the protruding guns rising slightly. He gulped. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he focused on a flag fluttering from a relatively fat mainmast just forward of the aft turrets. His mouth dropped open when he saw the red octagon and blue crosslike symbol in the white field.

“She looks like
Amagi
!” Smitty said, climbing the ladder from the gun deck to see.

“She's not as big,” Greg snapped, then added sickly, “But her guns are bigger.”

“I
am
your friend,” Choon assured, his tone anxious. “And so are my people.” He pointed at the battleship—the
real
battleship from another world. “Apparently, they are not. Do you really think your noble
Donaghey
can outrun the projectiles that . . . thing seems prepared to hurl at her?”

Greg Garrett sagged. “No,” he whispered. “I guess not.”

Chimborazo
New Granada Province
Holy Dominion

General Ghanan Nerino, commander of His Supreme Holiness's Army of the South, lay upon a soft, comfortable bed in a lovely little villa. The home belonged to the alcalde of Chimborazo, which was a picturesque, prosperous village, high in the mountains east of the Puerto Viejo crossroads of the Camino Militar. The temperature at that altitude was very pleasant for most of the year, and the late-summer diseases were not so rampant as they were down low.

I wonder how General Shinya enjoys his accommodations, within the fort he has erected at the crossroads,
Nerino idly thought, through the drug-induced haze that kept his agony at bay.
Perhaps his men have discovered El Vomito Rojo by now. The time is at hand. I wonder if his . . . surprisingly dangerous animal friends are susceptible.
He opened his mouth to call for wine, through the gauzy fabric covering his mouth and much of his face. He winced. Against all odds, he was improving, but there were still scabs on his lips, and they cracked so easily. Instead of speaking, he merely sighed—and prayed again for death. He was better, after weeks of agony, but it was so unfair that the pain should fade, only to be replaced by the sharper pain of the punishment he knew must await him.
A quick death now, in my sleep, would be such a blessing!
Have I not already suffered enough to enter Heaven?
I always knew I might die,
he conceded.
Such is the risk of a military career. But I suppose I expected to be shot with an arrow or ball, struck down by disease, or perhaps even be eaten. I never even imagined being flayed alive for failure—after already being seared by fire from the sky. The Blood Priests will honor me as a model of piety, even in my disgrace!
he thought bitterly
.

A young slave woman entered the room, trying not to disturb him, but he heard the small sounds of her bare feet on the stone floor and the swishing rustle of her dress. “I would appreciate wine,” he managed, his crusty eyelids still closed.

“Of course, General,” the woman whispered, “but the healers advise against it, combined with your medicines.”

“To the
darkest caves
with the healers,” Nerino wheezed. His lungs had been cooked as well. Then he paused, contrite. The healers had done quite well, as a matter of fact, and were as gentle as possible. It wasn't their fault that they had saved him only for further suffering. “Their doses do help with the pain,” he granted, more softly. “But do bring wine, if your other duties allow it.” He knew he wasn't the only horribly wounded officer in the villa. “I assure you it will not hurt me.”

“Of course.”

Nerino finally opened his eyes to watch the slave girl leave the room. He doubted he ever would've noticed her under other circumstances, but she'd been his nurse through all the long nights of misery and pain, and she attracted him. Not in a physical way, necessarily, but her kindness, patience, her very presence, had been the most effective balm to his torment. He wondered about that as he painfully shifted to gaze out the window beside his bed.

He didn't know how long he lay like that. Perhaps he slept. He stirred at the sound of the slave girl returning, and turned to face her with the closest thing to a smile he could achieve. The girl wasn't there. Instead, to Nerino's mixed horror and amazement, he saw the chiseled goatee and darkly benign features of Don Hernan DeDevino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico, and by the Grace of God, Emperor of the World. Shrouded in his dark red robes, the man seemed to almost
float
into the room, radiating an aura of what someone who'd never met him might mistake for concerned solicitation. Incongruously, he also bore a large goblet of wine.

“My dear General Nerino, you are awake,” Don Hernan said in honeyed tones. “I am so glad to find you so.” He smiled benevolently. “Having learned the extent of your wounds, I feared I might arrive too late.”

“Too late . . . for what, Your Holiness?” Nerino asked, his heart racing.

“To properly start you on your journey to the next world, of course.”

Nerino felt a chill in spite of his burns. “Of course,” he whispered. At least, if Don Hernan's tone could be believed (never a certainty), he wouldn't be flayed. But the “Final Cleansing,” administered by a Blood Cardinal known to be particular about due form, would be only slightly less unpleasant. He clenched his teeth. It wouldn't be quick, but his misery
would
end. For that, at least, he was grateful. “Of course,” he said more firmly. “Thank you . . . for your interest, Your Holiness.”

*   *   *

Don Hernan flicked it away. “Do not be so impatient, dear general. I cannot release you to Heaven just yet! Now that I see you so nearly healed with my own eyes, it is clear to me that your duty to God demands that you remain in this world a little longer. You see, I may have need of your observations, from time to time.”

Nerino was stunned. “Ah . . . yes, of course, Your Holiness. I will . . . try to be patient. And I will most humbly serve you in whatever capacity you think best.” He paused, his mind racing.
I'm not going to die!
“Your Holiness, I receive little news. May I inquire about the state of my army?”

Don Hernan sat on a chair beside the bed, and instead of holding the wine goblet to Nerino's lips, he took a long gulp himself. “Your army, my dear general, no longer exists. It is being absorbed into the greater one I am now assembling—the Army of God.” He flicked his fingers again. “Not that there was much to absorb! No blame rests upon you; you were bravely wounded, after all. But after that, your army
fled
the heretics! Abandoned sacred soil!” He shook his head sadly. “I do so
hate
to crucify able men, particularly when we are in such need of them.”