Straits of Hell (3 page)

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Zanzibar
Airfield #1
Near Menai Bay

“I
am . . . uncomfortable with this meeting, my lord,” General of the Sky Hideki Muriname cautiously admitted to Hisashi Kurokawa. The small, narrow-faced, balding officer had been
Amagi
's last surviving pilot for her sole remaining Type 95 floatplane, and he'd since created an air fleet of dirigibles and helped train countless aircrews for their Grik allies. He'd also been responsible for creating an entirely different—secret—air force for Hisashi Kurokawa, and the stress of that might have contributed more to his baldness than anything else. He gauged the reaction of the brooding . . . madman who stood beside him (even Muriname no longer doubted Kurokawa was mad), who had become, for all intents and purposes, his emperor on this world. A furious grimace split Kurokawa's round face, and Muriname instinctively
prepared for one of his leader's signature vitriolic rants. Instead, he watched with mounting relief as Kurokawa visibly controlled his rage and his expression changed to a rational frown. Lately, he'd been managing that more often than not. Muriname had to admit that his lord, mad or not, was a brilliant man—and an extraordinarily capable survivor. That their current situation was so much better than he could've dared hope just a few short months before—almost entirely due to Kurokawa's obsessive, manic determination—was conclusive proof of that. And for better or worse, Muriname knew his own destiny was irrevocably linked to Hisashi Kurokawa's.

Muriname glanced back at the cloudy sky they'd been staring at all morning while Kurokawa contemplated a measured reply, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead with a brilliant white pocket handkerchief. He almost snorted at the sight of it. The Grik had never denied even the most frivolous requests by their Japanese benefactors during their association, and he'd used that openhandedness to amass far more than handkerchiefs on his “Sovereign Nest” of Zanzibar.

“I confess that I am . . . less than enthusiastic myself, General of the Sky Muriname,” Kurokawa finally said, affecting a mild tone. He'd continued using Muriname's Grik title, just as he had his own, “General of the Sea.” He'd gotten used to it, and rather enjoyed it now. He still considered himself “Regent of All India” as well, but reasserting that—and more—would have to wait.

“We don't need these strangers!” Commander Riku, head of Ordnance, flared. “We have our own army and navy now”—he bowed to Muriname—“and our own air fleet as well. All better than anything the Americans and their ape-man lackeys—or even the Grik—can muster!”

That was more than likely true, Kurokawa mused, but they'd believed that before. The 354 Japanese survivors of the battle cruiser
Amagi
now gathered on the island had supervised the construction of the Grik war machine from scratch. Since the Grik weren't much interested in keeping records, all it had ever taken to shift untold tons of material, supplies, new machinery, and labor all over the place to build artillery, munitions, and mighty fleets of ships and dirigibles, was a Japanese project supervisor's word, or short note. That such a large percentage of all that—in addition to what the “Jaaphs” overtly asked for—had quietly gone from the very beginning to Zanzibar would've come as a great
surprise to First General Esshk and the Celestial Mother. Of course, Kurokawa had added even more to their hoard by intercepting every Grik ship and warrior sent to Madras to aid General Halik for the past several months, and without long-range communications, the Grik had no idea. The convoys had finally stopped, however, just a few weeks before, and that left him wondering whether the Grik had finally figured out what was happening—or if something else had occurred.

“Our new equipment and weapons
should
be better,” Lieutenant Iguri, Muriname's Exec, agreed tightly. “But
enough
better? And largely manned by Grik who still think we aid their vile Celestial Mother!” He looked imploringly at Muriname. “And our pilots . . . !”

Kurokawa kept a placid face as he tamed another inner spike of fury at these men's daring to question, or even discuss, his decisions. But he'd learned that the best way to keep and build their loyalty was to encourage them to invest themselves in his schemes. So long as they ultimately did what he wanted, he could control his anger and project an air of serene confidence. Let them dither and bicker all they wanted. He'd finally perfected the art of persuading men to believe he was wiser than they were yet truly respectful of their ideas. That way, even when he discarded their suggestions, they felt valued, as though they'd contributed and were involved.

“We must seek alliances,” Kurokawa declared. “Our power is great, but Lieutenant Iguri is correct: that's largely due to the many Grik we control. The world is too large, and we are too few, to face it all alone,” he added with great solemnity. “These strangers do not threaten us—they can't—but they might be of help.” He snorted. “And frankly, they have taunted us long enough with their cryptic messages and solicitations. It's time we finally met.”

The discussion ended, as it should with such an absolute pronouncement, and the men stood beneath the broad pavilion on the jungle-bordered airstrip, silently sipping refreshments brought by Grik servants. The strip was one of three in the vicinity of the growing installation around what they still called Menai Bay, on the southwest coast of Zanzibar. The island retained its brilliant white beaches, but was considerably larger on this world and the interior jungle was remarkably dense. The airstrips had been difficult to construct, taking tremendous effort to clear and prepare, but “their” Grik troops had provided all the
labor required. Responsible for controlling that labor—and the warriors performing it—were other officers, all former members of
Amagi
's crew, promoted to lofty ranks. Many were present now, quietly conversing nearby in their surprisingly fine Grik-made “temperate white” uniforms.
That was another excellent stroke,
Kurokawa reflected, watching them.
Nice new uniforms—except for the painted-on rank,
he reminded himself, with a splash of annoyance
. But Grik embroidery is deplorable, and it's the symbol that matters, after all. Even
Amagi
's lowliest seamen have some rank now, and it makes no difference if they only outrank Grik. A little power is enough to “invest” them too—and make them want more
. He smiled.

Turning to Muriname, he waved at the long row of aircraft lining the north side of the runway, their dull paint shiny with dew under a brief beam of sunlight. “They are wonderful, General of the Sky! I never tire of looking at them! The lovely green color and glorious, undefiled
hinomaru
! You have outdone yourself.”

Muriname recognized the backhanded compliment. His first aircraft had been dirigibles—quite an achievement—but filled with hydrogen, they'd been very vulnerable in combat. He also knew Kurokawa hadn't been pleased when he added Grik swords to the otherwise Japanese insignia on the big airships. He'd done it to inspire his Grik crews to think it symbolized
them
—and it worked. Over time, the modified rising sun flag had been embraced by all the Grik at sea and in the sky, and Kurokawa had grudgingly accepted it. Now, however, even the simple red disk was recognized by the Grik as their own (red had always symbolized the Celestial Mother, after all), and Muriname had been more than happy to revert to it on his new aircraft.

“You have done well,” Kurokawa decreed.

“Thank you, Lord. I apologize that they were not ready sooner. Perhaps they might have . . .” He stopped, preferring not to remind Kurokawa that they hadn't been available for the disastrous battles around Madras. A few had been complete, after more than a year of development, but large-scale production had been delayed by everything from problems with the radial engines, to the rubberlike material they needed for tires—from Madras. Commander Riku had certainly taken his time developing something to arm them with as well. “They're monoplanes, of course,” Muriname continued, “but you can certainly see the
fuselage shape of the Type Ninety-five floatplane we used as a pattern so extensively. I also incorporated many aspects of the Mitsubishi A Five M, Type Ninety-six, as best I could from memory, as I'm sure you've noticed. The elliptical wing and wheel pants, for instance. There is even a cowling for the engine, made of thinly rolled steel,” he added proudly.

“Indeed,” Kurokawa vaguely agreed. He cared little for the details of the planes, but was impressed by their existence—and Muriname's enthusiasm. And of course the last comment reminded him of how far their steel-rolling capabilities had advanced, and that had countless applications. The planes were mostly wood and fabric, and he doubted they'd ever have aluminum. But they were doing wonderful things with the hoard of reasonably good steel he'd secretly sent from Madras. “You know,” he continued, “I had seen your sketches, and with their open cockpits and fixed landing gear, they look much like the new American planes. The first time I saw them, I thought you had surprised me with some of these!” His smile vanished. “Until they attacked.”

“I had already left Madras, on your orders, when the new American planes came,” Muriname reminded him. “I did not see them. From descriptions, however, I'm certain these will outperform them.”

“Even with Grik at the controls?” Kurokawa probed, and Muriname hesitated, looking hard at Iguri. His executive officer had been against teaching Grik to fly anything but the suicide bombs they dropped from the dirigibles to an almost insubordinate degree, but they'd finally managed to contrive a seating arrangement adapted to Grik physiology. They
crouched
inside the fuselage, strapped to a saddlelike seat, and operated rudder controls in the
back
of the cockpit. The stick and other controls remained unchanged. It was awkward, and aircraft so configured couldn't be operated by humans, but it worked.

“The smarter ones fly well enough,” Muriname defended with another glance at Iguri. “And we can't spare enough of our people from their industrial pursuits to form more than a core of pilots to build our squadrons around. I believe we have woefully misjudged the . . . intellectual potential of the Grik in the past. Only now, after the programs you initiated that allowed them to achieve mental as well as physical maturity, do we begin to see what they're capable of.” He shrugged. “They make . . . adequate pilots, though they are, of course, difficult to train. And they have trouble with certain physical stresses of flight.” He
brightened. “I suggest they will make excellent pilots for the twin-engine bomber I have proposed.”

“But you cannot assure me they will be a match for the enemy fighters in those.” Kurokawa waved at the planes.

“With our better machines, they should do well,” Muriname temporized, “and they will be more than a match for the enemy floatplanes that have plagued us so. And few as they are, our Japanese pilots will have no trouble with the American fighters, against human or Lemurian pilots.” He looked at Kurokawa and the other officers. “I . . . doubt we can compete with the enemy's
modern
aircraft, their P-Forties, but they can't have many of those and they won't last long.”

“Very interesting. An honest assessment, as usual,” Kurokawa said, looking at the sky and calculating. “And I'm sure you're right, General of the Sky,” he agreed, much to Muriname's surprise and relief. “We have little to fear from the P-Forties. They proved decisive at Madras, but I cannot imagine how the enemy could ever get them here. I doubt they can be configured to land on the enemy carriers, so they must operate from airfields like this—and there is no such thing even remotely nearby.”

“How indeed.” Muriname paused, glancing back over his own row of planes. “To slightly change the subject, my lord: clearly, I'm quite proud of them, but . . . are you sure we should display our latest aircraft to these strangers we wait to meet? I understand you want to impress them, but should we not conceal our strengths? I doubt they will be so open with us.”

Kurokawa hesitated, absorbing the implied criticism with difficulty but granting Muriname's point. He took a breath. “We will not show them everything, General of the Sky, but since they are
flying
here to meet us, we must demonstrate we are their equals—not mere supplicants. If they can fly as far as it seems they have, then we must show ourselves equally capable. At no point can we let them sense that we actually
need
them, and we must stress always how much they need us.”

Signal Lieutenant Fukui strode quickly under the pavilion from the radio shack nearby and braced to attention. “My lord!” he cried. “I received the expected request for a low-power, high-frequency transmission.”

“You sent it?”

“Hai!”

“As we suspected, they obviously have sophisticated radio direction-finding capabilities,” Muriname said. “And they must be quite close.” Almost immediately, they began to hear a dull rumble, and everyone, including the “tame” Grik servants, craned their necks to the sky. Shortly, a large shape appeared, circling in from the southwest, and Kurokawa nodded in satisfaction. The strangers were approaching over the harbor where his impressive fleet lay at anchor. Some of the ships, his “dreadnaughts,” had proven somewhat disappointing, but he'd been working hard to improve them and they were remarkably large; bigger than most “old world” battleships. The plane drew closer, and he recognized it as a three-engine transport of a style ubiquitous for a decade before the war back home. He couldn't tell if it was the German or Italian version, a J-U . . . something or other, or . . . whatever the other one was. They looked so much alike, and it didn't really matter. He'd find out soon, no doubt.