Straits of Hell (25 page)

“I am the senior representative of the youngling Union in the West,” Saan-Kakja confirmed, “and I concur entirely with my sister's decision. And to further reassure you, no alteration in the domestic organization of the various powers that compose that new Union have any bearing on your authority here. You are
still
CINCEAST. But my sister is right. Shin-yaa needs our troops, and we must take them to him.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Jenks said. “Puerto Viejo is roughly four hundred miles distant. A two-day voyage with this wind,” he added, then frowned again. “But do I understand correctly that you both, personally, still intend to go ashore?” he asked sourly.

“Under the circumstances, do you still contend that we'll certainly be safer here than there?” Rebecca asked, her own tone softening. “My orders were clear, and I know I give them with the full concurrence of High Chief Saan-Kakja when I add that you
will
defeat the enemy fleet, even at the cost of this ship.”

Jenks nodded. “Very well, Your Majesty.” He straightened.

“What if we lose?” Tex asked. His tone was matter-of-fact, but it was the question in all their minds.

“Then the fleet will retire to the Enchanted Isles,” Rebecca ordered. She didn't have to add “what's left of it.”

“Leaving you and High Chief Saan-Kakja, two of our
heads of state
, trapped in enemy territory,” Lelaa observed.

“No,” Saan-Kakja denied. “We and Gen-er-aal Shinya's army will continue to occupy friendly territory in the enemy's land, and rely on Second Fleet and the Grand Alliance to find a way to support us.” She looked at Jenks. “But that would be the case in any event . . . and Second Fleet will not lose.”

//////
Fort Defiance
September 13, 1944

“A
squadron of lancers is in!” Major Dao Iverson of the 2nd Battalion, 6th (Imperial) Marines said urgently, when General Tomatsu Shinya glanced up at his hurried entrance to the reinforced comm shack where he'd only just arrived himself. “Through the northeast lunette,” Iverson specified. Each rounded protuberance, or “lunette,” of the pentagon-shaped fort had its own heavily fortified gate, complete with firing steps and embrasures for heavy guns all along their flanks that could pour enfilading fire on any force attacking between them. “Their lieutenant begs to report a matter of importance,” Iverson explained.

“I imagine he does,” Shinya replied, waving the message form he'd been scanning, already suspecting what the report would involve and knowing only something big would even bring the lancers in. They'd
been . . . avoiding him to a degree, and generally reported via semaphore, flashed Morse, or couriers. The Imperial Lancers with his army hadn't been “real” lancers since their prewar career officers had led them through a series of fairly senseless actions during the Battle of Guayak, aimed more at amassing notoriety for themselves than actually accomplishing anything. A lot of good troopers and precious horses had been wasted. Shinya had broken most of the useless officers, done away with the lances, and organized the units as dragoons and mounted infantry scouts, each armed with cutlass, pistol, and a pair of shortened muskets. A large number of captured horses had enabled him to expand this force with locals born to ride any manner of creature, and they were just as effective with the modern weapons he gave them. All this had caused considerable friction, since the lancers had been drawn largely from aristocratic families on New Britain Isle, supplying their own expensive animals. Absorption of local troops had been resisted, and accomplished only with the threat of further demotions. Some resentment still lingered toward him, even after the locals had been largely accepted in the ranks.

Shinya didn't care, as long as they obeyed. He was used to resentment. He still didn't have what he'd call “good” cavalry, not like the me-naak mounted 'cav in the West, from the Filpin Lands, but it was an effective scouting force. The Doms still used lancers, and though they were apparently similarly aristocratic here, and just as prone to impulsive charges, they were actually very good. Firepower evened things out.

“Send to High Admiral Jenks,” Shinya told a harried comm-'Cat. “‘Message received and understood. Good luck. Will advise our situation soonest.'” He looked at Iverson. “Pass the word for my personal staff to assemble at the northeast lunette immediately. No need to summon anyone else yet, but officer's call will be at my HQ at oh two thirty hours. I'll see you at the lunette, Major.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Iverson replied, turning. “Runners!” he cried.

Shinya shook his head, trying to clear a lingering spell of light-headedness, then strode in the direction of the lunette. Colonel Blair and Captain Blas-Ma-Ar joined him almost immediately as he walked.

“Things are poppin,” Blas said. It wasn't a question.

“Yes. Task Force Eleven is heavily engaged with a large enemy fleet carrying many Grikbirds. The flying beasts used explosive devices of a
sort to some effect, and the situation is in doubt. There's no way to know whether we will face similar weapons here,” he added, “but we must be prepared. High Admiral Jenks is taking the rest of Second Fleet to rescue Task Force Eleven and destroy the Dom fleet. Needless to say, that means our own naval air cover will be diminished at a time we are likely to need it most. Our squadrons at Guayakwil Bay are down to the bare bones.”

“Needless to say,” Blair agreed wryly.

Many of Shinya's staff was already gathering at the lunette when they arrived, including Lieutenants “Finny” and “Stumpy,” who were waiting for Blas. Gun's crews and infantry were watching the lancers tend their animals, pulling saddles, watering, and distributing feed bags. Except for their weapons, the troopers looked just like most other Allied troops now, with their tie-dyed camouflage frocks and trousers—which was yet another source of resentment. They'd been proud of their elaborate uniforms. Ironically, the only Imperial troops still in their red coats were some “regular” Marines, and that was only because supply hadn't yet filled the need. Shinya was perfectly happy that new uniforms to replace the older but still serviceable ones already in use didn't enjoy the same shipping priority as ammunition and other martial supplies. A young man with sergeant's stripes, noticing their approach, snapped to attention. “Sir,” he said, aside to another man who was examining his horse's hoof in the light of an oil lamp. He looked up and saluted as well.

“General Shinya. Lieutenant Freeman, sir, C Troop of the Sixth New London Lancers. Beg to report.”

“A moment, Lieutenant, if you please,” Shinya replied, returning the salute. He noticed with amusement how the lieutenant's lip curled at the mention of his lettered troop instead of numbered squadron. That change had been made to standardize the regimental organization of all mounted units in the Alliance and was unpopular as well. “My staff is gathering, and I'd like them to hear your news.” He nodded at the watching hundreds. “And we might not want the entire army to hear it before they do.” The fact that Shinya relied so heavily on a number of relatively junior officers for advice actually endeared him to the enlisted ranks a degree, but was yet another source of discontent among his Imperial brigadiers. Having had it once explained to them by Blair that it was a matter of long use and familiarity to Shinya and no reflection on their capabilities, they'd unhappily acquiesced. Of course, always
implied had been the obvious precedent Shinya had set that if they complained too much, they might quickly find themselves
replaced
by relatively junior officers. Ever since the New Ireland Campaign, Shinya had lost all patience with political, egocentric commanders.

“Yes, sir.”

Withdrawing to the hardened comm shack/HQ for the lunette, they ran everyone out but a single wireless operator. When Dao Iverson arrived, somewhat breathless, Shinya was satisfied that most of his closest advisors, easily available, were present.

“Very well, Lieutenant Freeman, please make your report.”

“Thank you, sir. The Doms are on the move.”

Shinya nodded impatiently. That was self-evident. “In what force?”

“All of them, General. It started with some skirmishing in the heights between their native scouts and ours. Not unusual that, but there's weight behind their thrust this time and our scouts were pushed back. Colonel Smith took the Twentieth to stiffen the local lads, and it worked for a while. The firepower of dismounted troopers seemed to come as a nasty surprise for the Doms,” he added, a touch grudgingly. “Must've thought we had infantry up there for a while, and they didn't quite know what to do at first. Never occurred to them that mounted troops might actually choose to fight on foot.” He shook his head. “Didn't last. There were just too many, and Smith's flanks were unsupported. He had to pull back.” He paused, moving to the map on the wall and pointing. “To this descending ridge here, paralleling the road from Chimborazo. He called the Sixth up to support him, but there was little we could add. With a few light guns and some of the new breechloaders, we might've kept them bottled up all day in such a lovely gap, but our smoothbore carbines hadn't the range. In the end, all we could do was watch them watching us while a full division of their lancers—more mounted troops than they even had at Guayak—swept down out of the mountains shortly before dark, screening columns of infantry.” He frowned. “We watched them pass, still mindful of our flanks, until the light failed, but they made no further effort to have us off. In the meantime, more local chaps, the ‘infiltrators,'” he said, using what many Imperials considered the more polite euphemism for “spy,” “joined us with observations of their own. Not sure how reliable they are, sir. . . .”

Shinya made a beckoning gesture.

“Yes, sir. They told us the whole Dom army is coming. Troops, artillery, baggage trains, everything. The environs of Chimborazo are emptying as quickly as a bath with the drain plug pulled, all flooding this direction.”

“As High Admiral Jenks and the Governor-Empress predicted,” Shinya said. “A coordinated stroke.” He glanced around. “Our enemies in this land are evil men, my friends, but not strategic fools. Let us hope their tactical sense has not improved since our last meeting!” He turned to Blair. “Who is deputy COFO at Guayak in Lieutenant Reddy's absence?” He should've known that, but his mind remained muzzy at times.

“Lieutenant Te-Aad, of the Tenth Pursuit Squadron. He has the Tenth Pursuit and Twelfth Bomb Squadrons, both ‘heavy,' with a total of nearly forty planes between them, but less than half of what we're accustomed to having at our disposal, of course.”

“I want Lieutenant Freeman's gap under continuous aerial assault, beginning immediately,” Shinya ordered, knowing full well how dangerous night ops were for his meager air force, Grikbirds or not. He looked at Freeman. “I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I must ask you to return to your regiment at once. We've lost contact with many of our forward observation posts. Enemy infiltrators have cut our telegraph lines no doubt. But we need timely reports of the enemy advance through the night.”

“Of course, General. I'll lead my troop back out at once.”

“A question first, Lieutenant,” Blair said. “I understand your own perspective has been limited, but you've spoken with our local friends. Have you, through any source, been able to arrive at a better estimate of the enemy force approaching?”

“The numbers vary,” Freeman hedged grimly, “and I must dismiss many reports as wild, fearful speculation. But I confess a personal confidence in the figure describing the Dom army at a hundred thousand men.”

“Very well, Lieutenant. Thank you for your report. Please express my compliments to your commanding officer. Carry on.”

When Freeman was gone, Shinya glanced around at his friends once more, studying their faces in the dim lamplight. “We've prepared for this,” he reminded them. “Our own flanks are secure as are the roads to Guayak and Puerto Viejo. The enemy cannot pass this fort in strength. He must reduce it to move beyond.”

“Clearly what they mean to do,” Blas said, then shrugged. “I don't know why ever'body worries so much how many daamn Doms there are. They all comin' here. We'll get to count 'em ourselves soon enough.”

“I worry, my dear Captain Blas,” Blair confessed, “because we have half that number, and a large measure of our human troops remains indisposed. What's more alarming, with Second Fleet steaming toward an encounter with the enemy fleet, we'll have no reinforcements.”

Shinya smiled mirthlessly, holding up the message form still in his hand. At some time during Freeman's report, he'd unconsciously folded it several times. Now he straightened it out. “Untrue, Colonel Blair. Her Excellency Saan-Kakja and the Governor-Empress themselves have separated from Second Fleet and sail for Puerto Viejo with the forces they brought from the New Britain Isles.” He snorted. “Including Sister Audry's . . . interesting regiment of Dom converts. They should arrive at Puerto Viejo in two days, more likely three, and join us here within a week. They've decided, and I agree, that the fever is less of a threat to them than a general fleet action, and without fleet protection, they must come ashore in any event.” He shrugged. “And we will need them.”

“We're
gonna
need 'em,” Finny whispered fervently to Stumpy, but everyone heard. “Doms'll be here tomorrow night. Day after, in force, if they movin' like Free-maan says. A hundred thousands? More, maybe? We daamn sure gonna need a hand—if they's any of us lef' by then.”

“Don't sell our defenses here short, Lieutenant Finny,” Shinya scolded, but then his tone turned hard. “And don't ever even whisper a sentiment like that where anyone else might hear. I've no concerns about our Lemurian Marines, or even our Imperials.” He nodded at Blair who'd been just as frustrated as he in the past. “But we have whole regiments of local, largely untried troops now as well. If they hear you, officers,
respected veterans
talking like that, they'll flee their posts like water at the critical moment, and what I'm morally certain would have been a resounding victory will end in all our deaths. Do I make myself clear?”

Finny and Stumpy both gulped, blinking furiously. “Clear, sur,” they chorused.

•   •   •

The morning was late in dawning on Fort Defiance, as usual, in the shadow of the great mountains to the east, and the Chimborazo road
that snaked up into the heights remained lost in gloom. Flashes of light and burning trees and clumps of foliage still lit the pass, however, as they had throughout the early-morning hours, as flight after flight of Nancys out of Guayakwil Bay swooped on the advancing columns approaching the crossroads. The pounding had been vicious, if very difficult and hazardous in the dark, and doubtless large numbers of casualties had been inflicted on the serpentine host. But accurate bombing under the conditions was impossible, and Shinya had ordered it more as an assault on the enemy's nerve. Staring through his Imperial telescope, he hoped it had been worth the three planes and crews he'd lost. Two had collided, and one might've fallen prey to Grikbirds, but so far few of the winged devils had made an appearance. He wondered if that meant the Doms were saving them for a bomb attack on the fort, or if the distant fleet action had drawn most away. It was impossible to say since no one had any idea how many Grikbirds the Doms controlled.