B00BPJL400 EBOK (39 page)

This is a diversion!
he suddenly realized.
The greater mass of the enemy lies to the north of the lake, astride the western end of the Madras road!
He’d seen no bombardment flare across the lake, but that might be the point.
General Shlook could be caught unaware, thinking the whole battle was in the south!
He peered north through the choking smoke and fog. It seemed a little lighter, the sky a bit grayer, but he also now saw sheets of musket fire plodding closer by the moment, and as far as he could tell, nothing of his own force remained to oppose it.

“Lords of the Celestial Mother!” he roared. “Pass my command: all officers to me! Quickly gather what troops you can. This fight is lost. We must make east and force the river crossing and hope it is not too swollen. All that remains is to join General Shlook and stop the enemy from breaking through to Madras—that
must
be his design!”

One of the healers hurried to join the group gathering around Halik. He was cringing against the onslaught of sound, and the growing
vip!
of bullets in the air. “What of General Niwa, Master?” the creature asked anxiously.

“He still lives?”

“He does. Should I end his suffering?”

Halik shook his head. “No. Bring him.”

“Just moving him might kill him, Lord.”

“Or it might not. Bring him.”

General Alden’s mobile CP
North of Lake Flynn

“They run like hell in south, Gen-er-aal!” cried a comm ’Cat, hurrying forward with a message form. “They was scared outa shit, an’ then them horns skedaaddled ’em!”

Pete nodded. They’d been preparing those horns for a long time, ever since Alan Letts realized their significance before the invasion of Ceylon. Pete had been tempted to use them before, but knew they’d get only one shot, and he wanted it to count. Now seemed as good a time as any, and the ploy had worked better than he’d ever dreamed. At least in the south.

“Not much Grik aartillery down there. Flyboys was right about that. They must not get many guns over them mountains in west, and they not get
nothin
’ from Madraas. Nine an’ Eleven Divisions overrun some guns right off, though, before they even shoot! They kickin’ aass hard!”

“That is good news,” replied General Grisa, commanding 5th Division, with which Alden’s HQ was advancing.

“Yeah, swell,” Alden said, “but tell General Faan not to get too strung out. I want him to beat the shit out of what’s in front of him, and no mistake, but he’s got to keep a handle on things and stay ready to pull back to his trenches.” Pete rubbed his eyes. It was growing lighter, but the fog and gunsmoke had reduced visibility even more, if that was possible. II Corps had swept through the first Grik positions north of the lake quickly enough as well, even without an artillery barrage, but the Grik hadn’t run as far, as fast, as those in the south, and the opposition was firming up. The Grik here also apparently had a deeper artillery reserve, and if it wasn’t causing much trouble yet, it might when visibility cleared. The horns had kind of worked here as well, but the Grik honcho began a “gathering” call and
kept
his own horns blowing from the very beginning, and the results were more mixed. “How’s Rolak doing?”

“The part of First Corps not holdin’ the stopper in the Gap still rushes quick north-northeast, and finds few Grik except on their right flank,” the comm ’Cat replied. “There’s fighting, but so long as Gen-er-aal Lord Rolak don’t direct attack them, they seem happy to let him pass.”

“Fine. Weird, but fine. Make sure the guys we left in the western trenches know there’s a big wad of Grik that
didn’t
get pushed back and might jump on ’em from out of the blue.”

“Ay, ay, Gener-aal Aalden!”

Pete was starting to fidget. He couldn’t bloody
see
anything, and the reports were too sporadic to give him a good mental image. He had no “feel” for the battle. “Where’s General Maraan?” he asked. One of Grisa’s staff unfolded a map. It was just light enough for Pete to recognize the expanding battlefield pictured there.

“She here,” said the comm ’Cat firmly, pointing at a spot just short of the Madras road. “She report they reach this corral for dino-cows. It’s in a big clearing, an’ the Griks is use it to raally. They put at least two baatteries o’ guns there. So far, they just knockin’ down trees with roundshot, but Gener-aal Queen Maraan can’t go round ’em cause o’ these cracks—gullies—on her west, I mean left. She bringin’ up her own guns to blow ’em outa there, soon as she see ’em better.”

Pete felt a pang of concern. He always worried about Safir Maraan. She had more guts than any ten men or ’Cats he knew, but could be impulsive. He was glad she was showing restraint now, but wasn’t sure they had time for it. They were ahead of schedule, true, but that could change at any moment—and, if anything, they were running through their ammunition faster than anticipated. They were killing a
lot
of Grik, but even if everyone in his army killed two of the enemy, they could still wind up at the end of the day surrounded by three times their number and nothing but bayonets and swords to fight with. Pete shifted his ever-present 1903 Springfield on his shoulder. “I’m goin’ up there,” he said. “I’ll be back on the net as soon as I link up with General Maraan.” He looked at Grisa. “In the meantime, you continue due north. Maybe you can take some heat off Safir if you cut the road behind whatever’s gathering in front of her. Take that road and hold it! That remains the primary objective. Dig in from here”—he pointed at the northeasternmost point of the road shown on the map—“southeast to the Tacos River. And as soon as you can see to kill ’em, I don’t want a live Grik running loose between there and the lake. Clear?”

“Clear, Gener-aal Aalden,” Grisa agreed.

“You can take more reserves out of the trench line to help with that, then throw ’em into your new line.”

“Lieutenant Leedom begs can his squadrons lift off now?” Another comm ’Cat asked, hurrying up.

“No, dammit!” Pete retorted. “He’s patched up nearly fifty airworthy aircraft, but half of ’em’ll run into each other taking off in this soup!”

“And the fog will linger longer on the water,” Grisa observed.

“Right.” Pete looked at the comm ’Cat. “Tell Leedom he’s on the loose as soon as he can by God
see
to take off, and not before. Anybody who wipes out due to visibility’s on his head! Send that. Then send that once he’s in the air, I know he’ll make me proud as hell.” He looked at Grisa. “So long, General.”

“You should not go,” Grisa objected. “If anything happens to you . . .”

“It could’ve happened anywhere, as mixed-up as this day is turning out. Don’t worry. I’ll have most of the Third Maa-ni-la Cav, and all their scary meanies to watch my ass!”

31

//////
Port of Madras
Grik Indiaa

G
eneral of the Sea and Lord Regent-Consort of All India Hisashi Kurokawa awoke amid soft, lavish cushions and blinked resentfully at the sunlight washing through the “waking window” of the palace he’d commandeered as his headquarters. The place once belonged to the former Regent-Consort, Tsalka, and was much nicer than anything he’d enjoyed since arriving on this terrible world. It was cleaner, prettier, and airier than Tsalka’s palace at Colombo, which the creature had apparently preferred, and the high view it afforded of the city and port of Madras was actually quite beautiful.
It must be the breeze,
he thought, standing and wrapping a luxurious robe around himself. A fine breeze swirled through the stone passageways, keeping the place cool even here.
That could be one reason,
he decided.
That hideous reptile Tsalka was always going on about cold places and how dreadful they were.
Ancient ruins of some sort had been incorporated into the construction, as in various other structures around India, he’d heard. He’d studied them but could make no sense of them. Ultimately, he couldn’t have cared less about the ruins, but perhaps there was something about them that Tsalka disliked? He no longer cared about that either, but remained mystified why the Americans hadn’t used the palace while they were there.

He stepped out on a broad porch with a stunning view of the rising sun and sleepy harbor below. He couldn’t help a feeling of pride, looking down on the mighty fleet he’d not only assembled here, but essentially built from scratch. Nineteen mighty battleships of the ArataAmagi
class now rode at anchor on the calm water, smoke wafting gently from their funnels. Tons of plate iron had been discovered, hidden around the city. He knew the Americans and their apes had taken some, but he’d found more than enough, hidden for (or from) him, to repair all his damaged ships and even augment their armor. He’d lost too many to his own
Amagi
’s salvaged secondaries, and refused to lose more to such comparatively light weapons. The new armor would slow his ships and make them even more top-heavy than he already considered them, but he hadn’t added armor to the peaks of their casemates. The risk shouldn’t be too great in anything but a very rough sea. His massive dreadnaughts could bull through anything less, unaffected and unconcerned, as long as they had power. If their engines failed—something they were prone to do—a battleship might be lost even in a moderate sea. That didn’t concern him personally beyond the potential loss of combat power. If he found himself on any ship with a powerplant casualty, he’d simply shift to another.

A small Japanese orderly approached, carrying a tray of cups, and Kurokawa impatiently motioned him closer. He rather liked the small young man—little more than a boy, really—and never berated him like the others, so he couldn’t understand why the youngster seemed so afraid of him. The fact that he was feared made him happy, but he would’ve preferred this boy in particular just show him due deference. . . . He shook his head, mildly revolted at himself. The utter lack of female company for him—for all his people—was starting to take a strange toll. He now knew the Americans had found women among their British allies in the East, and that was one more reason to conquer them quickly at last. He took a cup of nectar from the tray and began to dismiss the boy, who was clearly uncomfortable.

“General of the Sea!” called one of his Grik aides.

“Yes?” Kurokawa replied, stifling anger at the intrusion.

“Signals Lieutenant Fukui begs an audience!” the creature rasped.

“Very well. Show him in, then excuse us.” Kurokawa looked at the boy. “Leave the tray and go.”

Fukui entered, glancing about to ensure they were alone.

“You have a report?” Kurokawa demanded.

“Yes . . . Lord. Another transmission of the sort you instructed me to listen for has been received. I did not hear it, with my limited capability here, but it was picked up by our people at Zanzibar,” he hesitated, “directed
at
them, by name, for the very first time.”

“Most interesting,” Kurokawa mumbled, but in his heart, he was terrified. “Did these people identify themselves?”

“N-no, sir. But they called themselves our
friends
, and said only that they would contact us again.”

“Most interesting,” Kurokawa repeated. He took a calming breath. “So. Somehow, they—whoever they are—have discovered the location of our most secret place, and there are only so many possible ways they could have managed it.”

“Y-yes, Lord. Either they have sophisticated transmission direction-finding capabilities, or they triangulated our location with multiple receivers. It is also possible they have somehow actually observed our presence at Zanzibar . . .”

“Or the Grik told them,” Kurokawa finished coldly. He shook his head. “I find
that
difficult to believe.”

“What? That the Grik may have told them, or they may have been in contact with others such as ourselves and never told
you
?”

“Either. Both!” Kurokawa snapped. “It is not possible, Lieutenant! I would have known!”

“Are . . . are you
sure
, Lord?”

Suddenly, Kurokawa wasn’t sure at all. The Grik controlled vast territories and could certainly have come in contact with other beings. He knew they
had
in the past, and unless they
decided
to tell him, he’d never know. His fear turned to a mounting rage but he managed to control it.
If
the Grik had met more . . . others, they’d done so recently, since he led the Grand Fleet against Madras. The Celestial Mother was capable of guile, but the Chooser would’ve told him, and First General Esshk would have contrived to use the knowledge against him somehow. Kurokawa’s rage diminished as quickly as it built, and he considered. “These . . . beings say they are our friends?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Then we can assume, if they know of the Grik at all, they find them just as vile as we do. If you hear any more, report to me at once!”

“Of course, Lord.” Fuqui paused. “Lord, I
do
hear something.”

So did Kurokawa. A growing, roaring drone was building, seemingly just above his head. He stepped out from under the porch and looked up. “No!” he whispered.

He’d never personally seen a P-40 before. Most of the frontline American fighters in his old theater of war had been destroyed in the Philippines. He’d seen Hurricanes and a few Spitfires mobbed out of the sky over Singapore, but there’d been few, if any, American fighters over Sumatra and Java when his old task force moved south. He recognized them, though, from identifications cards distributed throughout the Japanese fleet. He’d also heard they’d proven very difficult for the army flyers in China, so they were far more capable than their quick annihilation in the Philippines implied. But where did they
come
from? How could they
be
here? And what terrible stroke of destiny could allow
eight
of them to come barreling out of the south like vengeful ghosts of another war on a different world, aiming directly for his precious, helplessly anchored battleships?

No alarm he could sound from here would be of any possible use. Even if it was heard, the planes were impossibly fast, and whatever they planned to do to his ships with those large bombs beneath their center lines would be done before anyone in the harbor could react. For just an instant, he was tempted to flee, to hide, to send to the aerodrome and have Lieutenant Iguri fly over and take him away because he knew,
knew
that the Americans and their apes wouldn’t have sent these precious planes now unless they were but the tip of a bigger, broader spear. But he’d be helpless in a zeppelin. Those terrible planes would blot him from the sky in a tumbling ball of fire as effortlessly as swatting a fly. As it so often did, Hisashi Kurokawa’s terror turned to rage, and he tore the robe from his back.

“Bring my uniform!” he roared in the halls that still echoed with the thunder of passing engines.

Flashy Lead
Over Port of Madras 0748

They’re big mothers, all right,
Colonel Ben Mallory thought as the anchored ironclads came in view.
Nearly as big as Lemurian Homes, and mostly gathered together in a nice, tidy square in the middle of the harbor like a buncha ducks!

“Flashy Flight, Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead,” he spoke into his mic. “Snuffy and I will go in first and take the far-left wagon. Soupy, Conrad, Shirley, you lead your guys in an orbit back around and observe the effect of our attack.” They’d planned as best they could, based on recon gained by Nancys, but they hadn’t known exactly where the Grik battleships would be because the enemy moved them around the harbor from time to time, completing repairs and practicing maneuvers. But the word had been they were always bunched up somewhere like this at dawn. Based on that, they
planned
to use two planes for each ship, at least for the first attack. They didn’t have a lot of bombs, but they wanted their first strike to make an impression. That agreed, Ben wanted to evaluate how well their weapons and tactics performed before they went all in. If just one bomb would do the trick, they could potentially double the damage before retiring to rearm and refuel. It was a thousand-mile round-trip from Mackey Field to Madras, and would take several hours before they could return and hit them again. That was a long time for the Grik to do something different. Besides, even with better gas, that was a long flight with nowhere to set down if an engine crapped out or something. Fortunately, the 3rd Pursuit Squadron wasn’t the only punch the Allies had today.
Too bad they couldn’t have built us a strip at Lake Flynn,
he thought,
and flown us in some bombs. But if things kicked off there like they were supposed to this morning, it would probably be like setting down in a meat grinder!

“I wish we’d had a chance to practice this more,” Ben continued. “But just remember what we figured: treat it like a strafing run. Use your sights, and keep your airspeed up. We need our bombs to hit their armor square to punch through. I’ll try to make corrections if me and Snuffy screw it up, so abort your runs if we don’t blow that first bastard sky high!”

A series of “Rogers” answered, and he keyed the mic once more. “C’mon, Snuffy. On my wing,” he said to the tall ’Cat who reminded him of a Lemurian version of Sergeant Dixon. He’d arrived from Baalkpan with his nickname, and Ben hadn’t asked what inspired it. “Let’s show these Jap-Grik bastards what Pearl Harbor felt like!”

“You bet, Col-nol,” came the terse reply.

Already in a gradual descent, Ben Mallory pushed the stick forward at 2,900 feet and advanced his throttle. With his airspeed indicator creeping toward 350 mph, he found his target in his gunsight. They’d carefully calculated the airspeed, dive angle, point of aim, and release point that
should
put their five-hundred-pound bombs somewhere on the armored casemate of the Grik battleships. The flat fo’c’sle and poop decks were tempting targets, but were much smaller and would require a steeper dive to hit. If the target was moving, they’d be almost impossible to hit. Besides, the engines, boilers, guns, and ammunition were all behind the casemate. Punch through that, and blooey! At least that was the theory.

“Damn, that thing’s big!” Ben muttered again, centering his sight on the top of the second funnel aft, engine roaring, airspeed creeping toward 370. His fingers touched the auxiliary fuel-tank release that would drop his ten-inch, five-hundred-pound armor-piercing, high-explosive shell with the tail tacked on. He glanced to his left and there was Snuffy’s ship, maybe ninety feet off his port wing. He grinned. The dark gray, nearly black ironclad loomed ever larger in his sights. He saw the weird Japanese-like flags streaming from the two tall masts, and noted the dozens of Grik racing for cover all over the ship. Some were even trying to climb the forward casemate. All the gunports were open, probably for ventilation, and he supposed even Nancy firebombs might’ve done some good today, so complete was the surprise.
They’ll have their chance soon, he thought to himself. This one’s mine! Just a moment more, just . . . NOW!
He shifted the lever and pulled back on the stick. He was gratified to feel the plane leap upward as the weight of the bomb fell cleanly away and he roared through the smoke hazing the top of the funnel he’d been concentrating on. Another quick glance revealed that Snuffy was still with him, climbing away, and before he could look back through the small windows on either side of the narrow armor behind the headrest, his earphones exploded with whoops of glee.

“Looky dat!” Shirley squealed.

“Oh,
magnifiek
!” came Conrad Diebel’s voice.

Snuffy was banking left, and Ben crawled up beside him. “Holy shit!” Ben breathed. Below them, the first target had opened like a great, jagged iron flower. Shards of shattered timbers and twisted iron plates were still tumbling into the sea in all directions, but except for a monstrous toadstool of smoke, there was no more gushing from within the wreck because water was already pouring in to douse the flames and quench the hot iron. Only steam remained, spurting fitfully as the sea choked it out. “One bomb! One bomb!” Ben shouted, trying to stamp on the jabbering that filled his ears. “Silence!” he roared. “Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead! All Flashies confirm receipt! Use one bomb only on each target! One bomb only! Misses can be retargeted, but not hits! Assume any noncatastrophic hit has caused
some
damage! We don’t have to sink ’em all, just put as many as we can on the bench, understood?” He waited while the replies tumbled in. “Good! Soupy, Shirley, Conrad, designate targets for your wingmen. Take ’em by sections in the order I called your names so there’s no doubling up! You can shoot up their armored cruisers after you drop your bombs, but we gotta clear the airspace before the Navy air arrives! Snuffy and I will fly top cover and keep our guns loaded in case any zeps show up or we run into anything on the way home. Tally ho, kids, and give ’em hell!”