Straits of Hell (28 page)

Nerino said nothing. He wasn't “inspired” by the waste and suffering he'd seen that day, but he began to hope it had served a purpose after all. “The attack was costly,” he ventured. “For the enemy as well, no doubt. But I beg you again to allow me more time to prepare my final assault. Further . . . precipitous . . .” He paused, frantically searching for a better way to phrase it. Failing, he continued. “Attacks such as those we launched today are impossible to coordinate, as you have seen. The enemy's defenses are formidable,” he reminded yet again, “and those who serve in his army, both animal and human, are not as weakened by El Vómito as we prayed. I beg you to allow a more thoughtful attack, and fear that more such as we launched today must result in similarly indecisive, and even more costly, um,
delays
to our final triumph.” Unconsciously, Ghanan Nerino held his breath.

“It is not that simple,” Don Hernan snapped. “I swore an oath to His Supreme Holiness and God Himself that I would not rest once the battle was joined. The battle
is
now joined, yet you counsel a pause!” He released a long-suffering sigh. “You bear no blame, my general,” he assured. “Your counsel has been consistent. Yet my oath demands that the attacks
must
continue. . . .”

“The fighting cannot cease, with us now in direct contact with the enemy,” Nerino assured, his mind leaping, “and we can proceed with certain attacks while we construct protections, fortifications of our
own, for the bulk of God's army. Many will still be rewarded with grace,” he added, hiding the bitterness he felt for the euphemism for agony and suffering, “but our army here can continue to grow while Shinya's can only dwindle.”

“And the attacks?”

“Still significant,” Nerino conceded, “but aimed at their vulnerabilities. We discovered a number of those today. The Imperial Marines were resolute.” He hesitated only an instant before adding, “As were the demon animals that style themselves ‘Amer-i-caan Marines.'” Don Hernan had seen that for himself now, if only from a distance, but Nerino's reports and warnings had been vindicated. “The regiments of local traitors who joined their ranks remain inexperienced and fragile with fear, however. Without them, the rest would be hard-pressed to man their lengthy walls and cannot be strong at every point. I propose that our frontal attacks be coordinated to commence simultaneously, at unexpected times, and at various places at once, all focusing on those areas defended by Guayakans and Puerto Viejans.” He looked down, and then at the carpet of bodies on the ground. “I cannot guarantee any of these attacks will break through. The reserves they hold in the fort move quite rapidly to bolster such threats. But the attacks will continue to weaken the enemy's more unstable elements, which cannot long remain strong of spirit in the face of suffering
they
do not revere.” He wondered if he'd gone too far with that, doubting Don Hernan really believed that his definition of supreme grace was quite as devout as his own, but he actually did think that might become a factor to some degree, particularly in conjunction with the rest of his plan. “In the meantime, we should send our lancers beyond the fort, directly against their lines of supply, and perhaps even against the rebellious cities themselves. Unlike a lumbering host, they will be less vulnerable to flying machines and can strike and retire more quickly than the enemy can respond with anything other than its own lancers—which are of little account. Ours are just as useless against fixed defenses and heavy guns. We should use them otherwise.”

Don Hernan's brows turned downward. “I see the wisdom of cutting the heretics off from the rebellious cities, though I suspect they have sufficient supplies. They have had long enough to amass them! But I remain less convinced that our noble lancers are of no use in breaking
through the defenders in the fort. They move so quickly, with such lethal precision! They are the finest troops in all the Dominion!” The lancers were the elite, and had been for two hundred years. All were from noble families and “Blood Drinkers” in their own right. Nearly all were related to priests in Don Hernan's order. It was only natural for him to expect them to prove the decisive force.

“I cast no aspersions on their quality, Your Holiness, only their utility here. Even without their unholy weapons, the heretics' individual marksmanship is better than ours. Our infantry are peasants, conscripts,” he stressed, “and individual marksmanship has never been a priority in their training. Not only was it considered unnecessary, but even a somewhat dangerous skill for them to retain after discharge. . . .”

Don Hernan nodded impatiently.

“My point is, Your Holiness, that whether or not the heretics can consistently hit a mounted man at the gallop, they can most assuredly hit their horses, which has the same effect. That said, I do envision a role for the lancers in our final, coordinated, overwhelming assault against the fort, but I hesitate to commit them unsupported. Let us use them elsewhere for now.”

“But the effect? The purpose?” Don Hernan persisted.

“Brings us back to the spirit of the traitors,” Nerino said. “Remember, they do not fight for God. Not the One God at any rate. They fight to protect their homes and families from His wrath! If those things are threatened . . .”

“Ah! I see! A threat beyond the fort where they remain entrapped, against their very homes, would further erode their resolve! They would desire to leave the fort, if only to die defending their squalid kin!”

“Indeed,” Nerino confirmed, suddenly feeling vaguely squalid himself. A mental image of a pretty young peasant girl, selflessly nursing him during his convalescence, sprang to mind. He suddenly remembered a fleeting, drug-hazed glimpse of a tiny cross she couldn't have wanted him to see dangling between her breasts. It was the old cross, the unadorned
Christian
cross of the Spaniards, whose followers were considered just as heretical as the Jaguaristas.
How is she any different from those I have just proposed to threaten?
He shook his head. “General Shinya is no fool, and he could never allow that. Both military necessity and his sense of humanity, I think, would prevent it. But if the threat
were dire enough, he might have difficulty
preventing
it, and a revolt within the fort could give us just the opportunity we seek, particularly if we are fully prepared.”

“By ‘fully prepared,' I assume you mean that you desire to continue this strategy until the Blood Drinkers and the ‘gift' arrive?” Don Hernan surmised.

“That would be my preference, and what I pray of you.”
And that, having given me command, you will finally allow me to do so,
he didn't add aloud.

“Oh, very well. They cannot be many more days away by now, and you are the general here, I suppose,” Don Hernan granted a bit grudgingly, though also wistfully, glancing back at the field of wounded. There was a long silence before he continued, and when he did, his tone was steeped in regret. “I confess that I had hoped for a single great battle, not a days-long, lingering, flutter of souls. Just imagine! A single, majestic,
epic
release of divine grace, all compressed into a solitary, glorious day! With such a powerful, focused, effusion of penitent pain, all in one place and at one time, surely God Himself would rise to the surface of the world to stand beside us!” He sighed again, looking back at Ghanan Nerino. “But this will ensure success? That is the most important thing, after all.”

Nerino nodded.

“So close to God,” Don Hernan whispered sadly, then smiled. “It will be as you say. You will prepare the protections for the army that you desire, while continuing your focused assaults—all while we await the Blood Drinkers and the gift from His Supreme Holiness. I'm sure, in retrospect, that he will be delighted that we made use of it.”

Nerino bowed and Don Hernan spun, his robes flaring wide. He then strode away from the field, his priests scurrying to join him. “Just one thing more,” he added almost casually over his shoulder. “Do not fail me, General Nerino.”

“Never, Your Holiness,” Nerino piped, his throat raw with terror at the very definitive position he'd placed himself in. “And I'm sure there will be sufficient ‘grace' in the coming days to satisfy both you and God,” he added more softly.

•   •   •

“They're digging in,” General Tomatsu Shinya said, staring over the breastworks beside Captain Blas in the predawn gloom. It was clear he already knew; had seen it from other vantage points and was repeating his conclusion as he and Colonel Blair made their rounds. Blas looked at him.
He seems better,
she thought,
but that could be an illusion of his personality and the dark
.

“Been at it all night,” Spook chimed in. “Gonna be harder to kill 'em now.”

“Not when they come at us,” Blas said, “but yeah, our long-range aar-tillery won't be as effective. Wonder what they're up to?”

“Another change in strategy, I suspect,” Shinya murmured darkly. “Their General Nerino would seem to be a quick study after all, but he jumps to extremes. That can make him predictable as well, over time.” He rubbed his forehead, caught himself, and quickly lowered his hand. “Normally, I believe I'd expect a siege from him now. They must know there's a naval battle underway, or at least about to begin, and in their demonstrated arrogance, they'll expect a victory that will leave us dangerously exposed.” He shook his head. “But they won't just sit there. Don Hernan's not a patient man. And with such a large army, his supply problems, in the short term at least, will be even more pressing than ours. They
will
do something.”

“They're appallingly arrogant,” Colonel Blair agreed, “but possibly right about the outcome at sea.” He glanced at Blas and lowered his voice. He kept no secrets from Captain Blas, and if she trusted Spook to keep his mouth shut . . . “Yesterday was not a good day for us in that respect. The night before was dreadful enough; Admiral Hibbs being whittled down to a handful of frigates and only six of the line able to keep their distance from the enemy—which we now know boasted more than
thirty
of the line, and at least that many frigates. All steam,” he added for emphasis.

“Planes from
Maaka-Kakja
made their attack in the late morning, and did some ‘whittling' of their own,” Shinya said, “but they were surprised by yet another new tactic employed by the Grikbirds. It seems they've taken to charging straight in, then, instead of attacking with teeth and claws, they pull up and cast bundled
nets
at our aircraft, which foul their propellers! We lost nearly an entire squadron between that tactic and those they've employed before. I've already ordered our
aviators to be watchful for such things here,” he assured. “In any event, the fleet air attacks were largely distracted from their primary targets and devolved into desperate dogfights for the most part.” His tone brightened. “On the other hand, costly as it was to our air, it seems to have been harder on theirs. And the last strike of the day, just before dark, met little air resistance at all and managed to sink several more of their ships of the line.”

“Sever-aal,” Blas said gloomily. “Out of how many left?”

“Eighteen or twenty,” Blair confirmed. “And we didn't do much to weed out their frigates, I'm afraid.” He glanced at the distant campfires, listening to the work of tools and men. “The rest of Second Fleet should join what remains of Task Force Eleven sometime today,” he said, “in what is shaping into the greatest naval battle ever fought in this hemisphere. Seems a shame to miss it.”

“I imagine we'll be sufficiently busy here, Colonel Blair,” Shinya reminded.

“Quite.”

//////
Battle off Malpelo
September 14, 1944

“O
h no you don't, you furry, flyin' freak!” Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds shrieked as he banked hard left in a half roll and yanked back on the stick, pulling his now-inverted PB-1B “Nancy” plummeting straight down at the sea.

“Daamn!” squealed Ensign Kari-Faask through the voice tube near his ear. “You said you don't do that no more!”

“And I won't!” Fred grated, still pulling on the stick. They weren't that high, and the sea—and the Dom battle line—was coming up awful fast. “Not until the next time I have to! Why aren't you shooting at that damn thing?” Fred had barely missed colliding with a Grikbird arrowing in out of the late-morning sun above his right wing. He'd never even seen it until it was almost too late, and if it had still been carrying one of
those damn net things, they'd be falling all the way to the water right now no matter what Fred did.

“It ain't chasin' us! It go away!” she shouted in reply from the seat behind the motor. Fred had the nose up now, turning away from the Doms. The Nancy still had two “light” general purpose (GP) bombs slung under each of its wings on this, their second sortie of the day. The “GPs” weighed roughly fifty pounds apiece and were basically the same “common” projectiles fired by
Walker
's 4"-50 main battery, and all the copies being made that would become the standard light breech-loading naval rifle in the Alliance. The only difference was that GPs had tapered tails and fins attached, which made them respectable little aerial bombs against even lightly armored targets. Dom warships had no armor at all beyond their heavy wooden decks and scantlings, and a single GP was often enough to do them in. But the Grikbird had spoiled Fred's run. Now, close to the deck, he and Kari were the target of a
lot
of Dom guns as two frigates fired entire broadsides at their tiny plane, hoping for a lucky hit. The scary part was, with more than thirty cannon firing grapeshot in their wake, a hit wouldn't be all luck, and Fred and Kari had seen more than one squadron mate swatted from the sky in such a way.
They'd
been knocked down like that before, off Scapa Flow. Fred concentrated on gaining distance and altitude as fast as he could, and tried to ignore the itch between his shoulder blades.

“Aact-ooly,” Kari added a moment later when the splashes of small shot no longer rose in their path, “I never seen it, 'cept right when you flopped us over.”

“Then keep a sharper eye out! That's your main job right now.”

“Wil-co,
Ahd-mi-raal
Fred!” Kari snapped sourly. “Sorry, but I was gettin' ready for my right
then
main job o' droppin' bombs, right after I did my other main job o' answerin' COFO Reddy's order to taagit DDs instead o' waagons. Which came right after my
other
main job o' hosin' them first two Grikbirds that jumped us, and got the ‘Two' ship. Oh, an' my shoulder's still sore from my main job o' crankin' up the wing floats after we took off. Still think that's dumb; takin' off from the ship with them floats down.”

“That's so we'll float if we lose power and go in the drink. You know that.”

“An' get smushed by the whole daamn ship, just bobbin' there in front of her. Seen
that
too.”

“Are you finished?” Fred demanded, glancing in the little mirror that let him see behind. Despite her bantering complaints, Kari's head was in constant motion, scanning for threats.

“Nope. I'm back at my main,
main
job, o' watchin' your tail-less aass, so why don't you do your only one main job o' flyin' us back up in the air high enough to take another whaack at our taagit!”

Fred grinned in spite of himself, but it would never do to let her hear it in his voice. “There's that creepy-looking island again,” he observed, staring far out to starboard as he guided his plane in a spiraling climb. The island, called Malpelo, or something like that on their charts, had been the waypoint for their first attack that morning, and it had looked to Fred like a freaky huge mountain fish in the gloom. Now the battle below had progressed closer to it and he could see that it was basically a single, giant rock sticking up out of the sea all by itself, maybe a mile long and half a mile wide.
Damn near as tall as it is long too. Weird
. It didn't look like anybody lived there, or even could, but as the only speck for as far as the eye could see, he was willing to bet the whole damn battle would wind up named after it.
Lucky, stupid island hasn't done anything for a million years but sit there, and now it'll be in the history books
. He sobered, his view now on the beleaguered survivors of TF-11.
One way or another
.

Only two battlewagons remained,
Mars
and
Centurion
. Six frigates, or DDs, still paced them, but every other auxiliary, including the transports, thank God, had been sent east, then south, under cover of darkness, escorted by the antiair DEs. The rest had all died, gaining this tattered remnant a final chance to reach the embrace of the rest of the onrushing fleet. Looking south-southwest, Fred knew it would be close. Second Fleet was on the horizon, making full steam and closing as fast as it could. The Dom fleet, still bigger than the whole Allied force combined, had been slowed by the latest sacrificial rear guard, but the fleet was cracking on to catch its prey and finish it before help could arrive. Barring a miracle, they would, and there wasn't much Fred or anyone else could do about it. The Grikbirds were bad news, and had prevented anything like the “turkey shoots” that First Fleet had enjoyed against
the Grik in the West. Now, though most of the Grikbirds seemed to be out of it,
Maaka-Kakja
's 3rd Air Wing had been butchered too. Only the few new P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or “Fleashooters,” she'd just received seemed immune to Grikbird attack, being much faster and just as nimble, but they couldn't carry bombs
and
ammunition for their wheel-pant mounted SMGs at the same time and still have the speed and agility that kept them alive. Fully loaded, they could barely even fly. They'd been tasked with clearing the sky. Even so, they'd lost several to collisions with Grikbirds or one another.
What a mess
. Nobody out here had any real time in the hot little planes, and that had cost them.

“COFO Reddy's comin' out with the last six o' our Nancys. The other four o' our flight that made it is headed back to the barn to rearm. Reddy wants to know if we still alive an' got our bombs . . . since I didn't report back after we started our last attack. Don't know why he ask that,” she added brightly, “since I heard the ‘Fifteen' ship tell 'im we're okay!”

Fred groaned. He didn't like formation flying and hadn't done very much. He considered himself a good pilot, but ever since he started, flying
Walker
's only observation plane, he preferred not having to worry about running into his own people. “He wants to know if we'll join his attack?” he prodded.

“Oh yeah. That. Yes.”

“Then send ‘yes'!”

Fred kept climbing until he saw the incoming flight. When it passed him, he fastened on to Reddy's plane, easily distinguishable by the bright yellow streamer trailing a few feet behind his wing. Directly alongside, Fred waved at his nominal commander. Orrin pointed at him and then made a spiraling gesture beside his right ear before pointing down at the Dom fleet. Fred looked. The enemy frigates, maybe twenty of them in two lines, were sprinting ahead, trying to stay beyond the reach of TF-11's guns while racing to get between the two Allied forces. The Dom “battlewagons,” or ships of the line, were shaking out into a battle line of their own, poising to range up and administer the coup de grace when TF-11 was inevitably slowed by the blocking frigates. Fred craned his neck around. It wouldn't be long after that before the rest of Second Fleet arrived, and he realized that the Doms were trying to bring on a decisive, general fleet action in the shadow of that big stupid rock. They'd
have
to name it
Malpelo
, he thought grimly.

Now on the far right of the formation, Fred would attack the seventh ship back with two bombs on his first run. Reddy would designate the targets for the next—probably the leading ships in the second line.

“Taall-ee ho!” Kari called, receiving the order, and the formation dove, each ship diverging toward its designated prey. Nancys had proven themselves to be pretty good little dive bombers, as long as the angle of attack wasn't too great. And angles always varied somewhat from pilot to pilot based on their skill level and experience. Fred was the first to admit he wasn't much of a dive-bomber yet, and kept his own angle at about forty-five degrees. Not the most accurate, he supposed, but easier to get out of without hitting a tall mast—or the water. And it wasn't like Dom ships could easily evade. . . . He concentrated on the growing form below.
Another side-wheeler, of course, kind of nicely built. Looks more like an Impie DD than the older, galleon-like ships the Doms started the war with.
Course now folks figure they already had these for a while.
 . . . Men grew more distinct on the bright wooden deck, some scrambling for cover, others still. Some were firing muskets up at him. He bored in.

“Ready!” he shouted.

“Ready!” Kari cried back.

“Drop!” he yelled, and almost instantly, the Nancy bounded upward as a hundred pounds fell clear and he pulled back on the stick. There was a
thwack
 . . .
thwack-thwack
as musket balls hit the plane, more felt than heard, and he shouted back at Kari, always mindful of the time she'd been hit from below.

“I'm fine!” she shouted back, scolding. “Near miss long! Near miss long!” she reported. He frowned, but nodded. Orders were not to automatically retarget a near miss since an explosion close alongside might do as much or more damage than a direct hit, but he still preferred a hit. All seven planes made it through and were climbing now, passing over the second line. More musket fire flared below, but they were out of range. The flight tightened up, still climbing, and Reddy ordered a turn. Finally, Fred could clearly see the effect of their strike. Two Dom ships were dead in the water, burning, and several more were bunched up, black smoke piling high from their stacks. He couldn't tell whether they were damaged or if the shattered line was just the result of the confusion they'd sown. Either way, they'd slowed the advance.

“Near line!” Kari called, relaying the order to attack the second line of
ships they'd passed over. Fred's target this time would be the lead enemy vessel and they'd be diving from a lower altitude, but that was fine with Fred. He could still make his forty-five-degree approach. The flight continued its careful, somewhat leisurely turn, and aimed back at the enemy.

“Taall-ee ho!” Kari shouted, her voice high-pitched and tinny.

“Roger that!” Fred replied, waiting a moment longer to get his angle before pushing forward on the stick. “Stand by!”

The ship below looked identical to the first; three tall masts with taut red and gold sails drawing nicely. A tall funnel between the main and foremast belched black smoke. High, thin geysers marched toward the ship just aft of his target, and he remembered that Orrin's plane had a .50-caliber machine gun in its nose, just as a great cloud of splinters exploded from the side of the Dom frigate.
Wish I had one of those! Course, he doesn't have any more bombs.
 . . . Refocusing his attention on the top of the mast before him, he mentally adjusted when to call for Kari to drop. They'd be shooting now, he knew, even if he couldn't see them. Most of their shots would go wide, or pass beneath and behind, but he and Kari were doubtless rushing right toward a few that were rising to meet them. “Drop!” he yelled.

“Bombs away!” Kari shouted, and the plane leaped again, just as a sustained
thwack-thwack-thwack
shivered through its frame.

“Near miss short
hit
!” Kari cried, just as Fred began to realize the sound and vibration he heard and felt hadn't gone away. “Big hit!” Kari crowed. “Maybe got the boiler!”

“I think we're hit too!” he shouted through clenched teeth, the stick between his legs starting to rattle violently in his hand.

“Yeah? Oh!”

“What's ‘oh'?”

“We fixin' to lose the starboard ale-eron!”

Fred risked a quick glance and saw that it was true. They'd taken a lot of hits, more than he'd have thought possible.
Must've packed the best shots in the whole damn Dominion on that ship,
he realized sickeningly when he saw that several balls had struck amazingly close together and shattered an area around the inboard hinge pin. The aileron, though still attached and still operating, was definitely loose and banging around. Instinctively, he reduced power and pulled the nose up a bit to slow the plane, then applied a little right rudder to throw it into a slip.
The vibration eased slightly, and only then did he notice how fast and hard his heart was pounding. He took a deep breath. “Send that we're all shot up and gonna try to make it back to
Maaka-Kakja
!” he instructed.

“Okay,” Kari said. “We gonna make it?”

Fred hesitated only an instant. “Sure, kid. Get the wing floats down, wilya?”

“Sure,” came the uncertain reply. “But I'm getting oily. I turn around an' my goggles got all fuzzed. I think they get us in the oil pan.”

Fred swore, then looked at the oil pressure gauge. Sure enough, the needle was starting to bounce—and drop.

“Shit!”

“Why shit?”

“Because we've just been shot down.
Again!
” He looked at distant
Maaka-Kakja
, looming large on the horizon and a good five miles beyond the advancing battle line, or about fifteen miles away. Then he looked around at the sea, barely a thousand feet below. They were getting close to TF-11 now, its eight battered ships doggedly churning to meet their friends. “Look, I'm still gonna try to make the
Makky-Kat
,” he said. “We could set down forward of TF Eleven and hope they pick us up as they pass—before we sink. But even if they do, we'll be stuck in the same boat as them, with the whole Dom navy roarin' down. I don't know about you, but I'd rather do my fighting in the air from now on.”