Straits of Hell (4 page)

It began to drizzle as the big low-wing trimotor circled the airfield, then swept almost gracefully down toward the strip. Kurokawa saw the corrugated metal skin, and the designation “Ju-52” suddenly popped into his mind.
German,
then,
he mused
.
The markings were Italian, though—at least he thought so—and other, unfamiliar markings had been added. The paint scheme was a brown-and-tan camouflage pattern, and he wondered if that was a clue to their source.
Impossible to say. If they are Italian, they could be from somewhere in Italian East Africa—or as far as Italy itself. A long distance, either way.
The latter was farther than the plane could fly without refueling, he realized, and the former was impossible—wasn't it? According to his understanding of Grik holdings in Africa, Arabia, and until recently, India, Italians
couldn't be
in East Africa without First General Esshk knowing about it . . . could they? And if Esshk had known . . . The trimotor touched down, bounced, then settled as it lost speed. Kurokawa hadn't allowed for an ostentatious greeting ceremony, but the pavilion full of officers had drawn the pilot's attention and the plane taxied back in its direction. He noted with annoyance that the plane, far heavier than anything the airstrip had been designed for, was leaving ruts that would have to be leveled.

The drizzle increased and became a typical afternoon deluge. For a
while, the plane just sat there with muddy grass on its wheels, the engines winding down to a stop, and the exhaust stacks ticking and hissing, while the Japanese remained under cover. Kurokawa actually chuckled, a sound that drew several concerned looks.
Let them fret,
he thought.
It really is rather funny. Neither of us is willing to go to the other in the rain
.

Eventually the torrent eased, and a large cargo door opened in the plane's fuselage. A ladderlike step arrangement unfolded from inside, and four men stepped down on the wet, prickly grass. Kurokawa noted they all wore similar dress—rather faded, yellowish tan bush jackets and darker trousers—but a few differences were striking. Three of the men wore tall boots, but two wore brown and one wore black. The fourth man had scuffed shoes and puttees. All wore pistol belts, but these were different colors too. Most unusual of all, each man wore a distinctly different hat, from overseas caps to pith helmets—which also struck Kurokawa as rather amusing. His amusement didn't last, however, when he saw that the visitors were not gaping around with curiosity or interest; they were very calmly, intently, watching him.
Waiting
.

He glanced at the sky. The rain had passed, evolving into a heavy haze of moisture-laden air. “Well, let us see what we have here,” he said, suddenly nervously furious enough to let his voice ring harshly. He stepped forward, followed by his immediate staff. Only then did the visitors move forward as well. Two other men, apparently pilots, appeared in the door of the plane but didn't step down. Instead, they merely sat, their feet dangling in the air.
Even they wear different hats!
Kurokawa told himself, attempting to lighten his mood. It didn't work. When they drew within a few feet, the visitors finally saluted. With some hesitation, Kurokawa returned the gesture, followed by his officers.

“Ah,” said the tallest of the four strangers. He wore a round-topped hat with a patent leather brim and displayed a thin mustache. “You must be Monsieur Kuro. . . .” He paused and smiled apologetically. “Monsieur ‘General of the Sea' Kurokawa! It is an honor to meet you in person at last. It is I, Capitaine de Fregate Victor Gravois, who has been responsible for contacting you in the past!”

“I am he,” Kurokawa answered in the same English the visitor used.
They already know so much about us, including who—and where!—we are, which is
disconcerting enough,
but how does he know my name, my title, and that I speak English?
His mind raced.

“Excellent! Then please allow me to present my colleagues.” The man gestured at the thin, dark-haired man beside him. “This is Maggiore Antonio Rizzo, of the Italian Aeronautica Militaire. No doubt he will find your aircraft interesting, should you care to let him see them more closely.”

“It would be my great pleasure to examine them,” Rizzo said, also in English.

“I am Commandante Fidel Morrillo,” said an equally thin man with blond hair, not waiting to be introduced, “and I have the honor to serve the Spanish Nationalist Army.”

Kurokawa nodded at him, blinking surprise.

“And this,” Gravois added smoothly, indicating the fourth and youngest man standing, “is Aspirant Gilles Babin, my aide. Maggiore Rizzo's aide, Teniente de Luca, is one of our pilots”—he frowned, glancing back—“as is the representative of our German allies, Oberleutnant Fiedler,” he added almost dismissively.

Kurokawa's racing mind sped up. Here were Frenchmen, Italians, a Spaniard, and a German, who'd all arrived in a German-made plane, all together and apparently friendly despite the obvious undertones of tension. Additionally, the Frenchman seemed to lead the delegation; its German representative had merely waved, somewhat sullenly, when he was named. Most bizarre. “You are welcome, gentlemen,” he managed, and named his staff. When that was complete, he invited them under the pavilion for refreshments, and to avoid the rain that had fitfully resumed. Kurokawa was interested to see that the strangers were not surprised, or even overly nervous about the Grik servants. Obviously, they not only knew about Grik, but they also knew they could be “domesticated.” Conversation was light but increasingly frustrating. The flight had been “long and uncomfortable,” but there was no mention of its origin. The climate was “wetter here” than what the visitors were accustomed to. The nectar the Grik servants brought had a most “vigorous” flavor.

Never one for small talk, or much of anyone's talk but his own, Kurokawa felt his neck grow increasingly hot. Finally, he could help himself no longer. “I've long been extremely curious,” he said, “ever since we received your first transmission. . . .” He paused, clasping his hands behind his back, and then blurted, “Just who and what are you, Captain Gravois?”

Gravois dabbed at his mustache with one of the handkerchiefs that seemed to be in such abundance. “To business so soon? I had thought we might take a little longer to simply enjoy the wonder of meeting new friends on this outlandish, savage world. No?” He sighed. “Who I am, I have told you, General of the Sea Kurokawa. It is I with whom you have communicated. My duty for the service I represent is that of . . . let us say ‘analysis.'” He smiled. “And now envoy as well!”

“But . . . you apparently know a great deal about us—about
me
,” Kurokawa said, heroically masking his growing rage and frustration. “Yet we know virtually nothing about you!”

“All in good time! We will tell you everything you wish to know, within reason, of course. To exchange information and establish friendly relations is why we came, after all. At present, I will simply say that my colleagues and I represent several . . . powers that have joined together for our mutual benefit and protection. I won't go into the background of it all just now, as you may find it extraordinarily confusing, but you may call us the ‘League of Tripoli.' From that you may even deduce our origins on this world. . . .” Gravois smiled engagingly. “Or perhaps not. It matters little to you now in any event, and no doubt you are familiar with the circumstances of our arrival, having endured the same yourself—as all
real
people have. But our time here has been somewhat longer than yours, and slightly less contentious in some respects, allowing greater leisure to consolidate, grow, and begin looking around for friends—and enemies.”

“You have enemies?”

“Of course! As well as friends. We always seek new friends.”

“You are obviously aware that I—that
we
—have enemies,” Kurokawa ground out. “Perhaps you have also seen how well I have prepared to face them again?”

“Impressive ships,” Rizzo said, addressing Kurokawa for the first time since their initial exchange. “But how capable? Capitaine Gravois is a better judge of that than I, no doubt. Your new aircraft, on the other hand, appear a great improvement over your last attempts—though even dirigibles have their place.” His last words sounded speculative.

Kurokawa could no longer hide his fury. “How
can
you know so much! How can you be so dismissive of my power, through a few short transmissions—and perhaps what you might have monitored. You
cannot have known the things—the dirigibles, where we are, my
name
”—he stopped, staring directly at Gravois—“unless you have
spied
on us!”

“
I
have not spied, General of the Sea,” the Frenchman stated soothingly, “but the League has eyes in as many places as it can put them. We must protect ourselves, as I have said. I merely analyze the information brought to me, about you, the Grik, others you do not know, and your primary enemies, of course. It is they and the Grik that make us most interested in you, as it turns out.” He looked around, finding a chair. “May I sit?” Kurokawa nodded sharply and found a seat himself. Gravois sighed when he was settled. “Allow me to briefly summarize your situation, as I see it. Feel free to correct me at any point if I am mistaken. When I am done, I will go into more detail about the League.”

“Very well.”

Gravois sipped his nectar and smiled. “
Bon
. Now, where to begin? Ah. Your Imperial Japan was principally at war with the British, American, and Russian empires—”

“Not the Soviets!” Kurokawa pounced.

“Soviets?”

“The Russians, as you call them.”

Gravois glanced at his colleagues, but the smile never left his face. “Indeed,” he said, “such a major difference so quickly,” he added cryptically.

“And proof you do not know everything!” Kurokawa almost gloated.

“And perhaps proof that there is a great deal about the nature of the event that brought us all here that
you
do not yet know, Monsieur Kurokawa,” Gravois countered. “May I continue?”

Angry, but confused, Kurokawa nodded.

“You were at war with . . . some of the same powers that we were in conflict with,” Gravois stressed. “And when you arrived here with your mighty battle cruiser, you allied yourself with the reptile folk. Entirely understandable, in your situation.” He waved expansively. “And you have done amazingly well, considering what you had to start with. I commend you! The League commends you! Unfortunately, you have suffered a series of . . . misfortunes, that not only cost you your excellent ship and a majority of your crew, but a rather impressive fleet—and several armies of reptiles as well.” He gestured around again. “You have
rebuilt with astonishing speed and resourcefulness but have apparently withdrawn from your alliance with the reptiles and contracted into what is, of necessity, a principally defensive posture. What is more, your primary enemy, this ‘American'-led alliance—of more powers than you might perhaps be aware—not only remains on the march, but has likely conquered the very capital of your former reptilian allies on Madagascar by now!”

“That's impossible!” Iguri blurted, and Kurokawa glared at him.

“Quite possible, I assure you,” Gravois countered. “Even probable, given the transmissions we have monitored and certain . . . observations that were made, regarding the course of one of their fleets.” He arched his eyebrows. “That, and the fact that apparently a major battle was fought, and we are still intercepting transmissions from that direction. Most are in code, of course,” he said, waving the fact aside, “but we can deduce enough to be relatively sure that the action was at least partially successful for your enemies.”

“Observations? Deductions?” Kurokawa demanded.

Gravois shrugged. “We were . . . observing with a submarine,” he confessed, “that we have since lost contact with. I fear it may have run afoul of one of the monstrous fishes in this terrible sea.” He cocked his head and smiled. “I don't suppose it has turned up here?”

They lost a
submarine
and treat it like a minor inconvenience—or is that just what they want me to
think?
“It did not. And if it was tracking a fleet under his protection, I consider it most likely of all that Captain Reddy sank it with his tiny destroyer!” Kurokawa almost gloated again.
What's the matter with me? Why should I antagonize these people? And I certainly should not relish any success achieved by my most mortal foe!

Gravois glanced at Rizzo, then back. “That is a distinct possibility. The commander of the submarine had orders not to interfere with the Allied fleet unless he was certain it was in a position to threaten the reptile capital directly, and even then he was only authorized to . . . discourage it. Perhaps sink something important.” He sighed. “The ‘little destroyer,' as you call it, may indeed have destroyed our vessel. My analysis of Captain Reddy has painted him—and his people—as disconcertingly capable, and his ship
was
reported to be the primary escort of the Allied fleet.” He sipped again.

“But . . . why should you want to ‘discourage' Captain Reddy and
protect the Grik capital? Are you allied with them?” Kurokawa demanded at last, voicing his chief concern that had been building as the discussion progressed. These people
could
have come from Italian East Africa, and General Esshk probably
would
have kept them secret from him if he could, particularly after their falling-out over Kurokawa's insistence that Regent Tsalka be destroyed. . . .

Gravois and Rizzo both laughed, and even Commandante Morrillo managed a sour smile.