Straits of Hell (7 page)

There were other officers—the table was full—but Matt caught himself staring at Ensign Nathaniel Hardee. He was a young man—a
teenager, really—who ate woodenly and had the uncomfortable look of someone with no idea why he was there. Matt
thought
the young Englishman, “evacuated” to this world from Java aboard the now permanently lost
S-19
, had achieved the advanced age of sixteen. Like the slightly older Abel Cook, who'd arrived the same way, Hardee had grown up fast. He'd actually succeeded Lieutenant Irvin Laumer in command of PT-7, after that fine but troubled officer was killed trying to reach the Grik Celestial Mother. Hardee probably didn't expect to keep the “Seven boat,” and even if he did, he had to be wondering why the master of one of the smallest craft the Alliance considered a warship had been summoned here.

The meal was winding down when a steward opened the door and Courtney Bradford swept in. Courtney, an Australian, had been a petroleum engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist.” He remained a very strange but often extremely valuable man. His eccentricities were—usually—more than matched by his insights and other contributions. Named Minister of Science for the Alliance, he'd been busier in his other role of “plenipotentiary at large” of late, but now seemed determined to make up for lost time. Following him through the doorway was a long-haired, black-bearded man whom Matt had never seen. The stranger was dressed in the same long, belted, tie-dyed camouflage frock now standard battle dress for all members of the Allied armies and Marines, but his nervously darting eyes and intent expression made it clear he was in unfamiliar surroundings. Suddenly, Matt knew who he was; he had been hoping for this meeting for some time, in fact.
Trust Mr. Bradford to surprise us—but maybe it's for the best?

“Oh dear,” Courtney exclaimed, worriedly wiping his balding pate. “You started without us!” he accused.

Keje stood. “You are late, Mr. Braad-furd!” he rumbled good-naturedly.

“Nonsense!” Courtney denied, groping for the large Imperial watch that would've rested in his weskit pocket—if he'd been wearing his weskit. His face went blank, then clouded. “If some . . . nautical gentlemen would summon the courtesy to contrive some alarm—fire a gun, perhaps, like civilized folk—to announce that something as momentous as breakfast was about to commence, we shouldn't all dash about in wild, anticipatory confusion!”

Matt joined the laughter, and stood as well. Courtney frowned and
peered over the other diners at the table. “Might there be anything left at all? The merest morsel? I don't ask for myself, of course”—he glared at Keje, then motioned at his companion—“but Commander . . . um, ‘Will,' I suppose must suffice, is quite famished, I'm sure!”

Chack and Major Jindal came around the table, extending their hands in the human fashion. “Will” recognized them, and his expression calmed as they shook.

“My friends,” Chack announced, “this man and his people led my command through the jungle to the Wall of Trees. It is apparent now that had they not done so, the Celestial Palace might not have fallen.”

And as goofed-up as everything else was, we'd have lost the whole battle, most likely,
Matt agreed to himself. He stepped forward, offering his hand as well. “We're in your debt, Commander.”

Will looked down. “Nay. It's we as awes ye. Ye's came an run aff the Garieks, an we did little enaw ta halp.” He straightened and looked Matt in the eye. “Mr. Bradford says the Garieks'll be back, an' ya're army's hartin.' Gi us—me paple—maskits, an' we's'll halp as we can. He looked around the table. “We's nae want the Garieks back,” he said with flashing eyes.

“We'll help each other keep them away, Commander,” Matt promised.

Will grimaced. “Aym nae C'mandar. Jas Will. Anly the cap'n 'as a title.” He cocked his head at Matt. “Ya're a cap'n tae, ain't ya? Cap'n Reddy, as ya've been dascrabbed.”

“I'm Captain Reddy.” Matt turned and introduced the others in the space, ending with Keje and Adar.

“But
ya're
Cap'n Reddy,” Will persisted. “Ya're the man me cap'n wants ta jayn.” He looked at Chack and Jindal. “An thams.”

Matt glanced at Adar, who'd risen and was speaking softly to Keje. Keje nodded. “Please join us for breakfast, Will,” Keje invited. “And Mr. Braad-furd as well, of course. Please forgive us if we begin our discussion before you finish, but we will return to your case in due time. Meanwhile, enjoy your meal.”

A couple of junior officers vacated their stools so Courtney and “Will” could be served at the table. While that happened, the others returned to their seats.

“I suppose we may as well get started,” Matt suggested to Adar. Adar
glanced down the table at their visitor and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Commander Herring will no doubt complain that we reveal too many plans to the ears of strangers, but Will's folk cannot possibly want to betray us to the Grik!”

Herring sat back from the table, wiping his lips. “On the contrary, Mr. Chairman. I've already spoken with Mr. Bradford about the . . .” He paused and frowned apologetically. “They don't really have a name for their people other than ‘people,' which seems fairly universal. Most claim British descent, but that might grow confusing with the Imperial presence here. . . .”

“Call us ‘Maroons,' if ye mast name us,” Will said around a mouthful of eggs. “'Tis what we are.”

Herring nodded thoughtfully. “In any event, I've interviewed Mr. . . . Will, and a number of his associates, and fully endorse his presence here. As Colonel Chack stated, the Maroons have already done us a number of services, not the least of which was the expulsion of the Grik from a couple of smaller settlements down the coast. This was done without the aid of modern weapons, I might add. I suggest they be incorporated into our land forces in some capacity without delay. Scouts and coast watchers, at least.” He blinked. “I'm sure we all agree that our most pressing need is troops, after all.”

Adar nodded. “Indeed. COFO Jis-Tikkar's limited reconnaissance flights in the P-Forty floatplane have confirmed that the enemy is massing an . . . intimidating force across the strait on the continent, though how they mean to get it here is not apparent. We have yet to determine where the enemy's primary naval bases are.”

“We
must
get more eyes on what the Grik are up to,” Herring stated unhappily. “One plane cannot scout sufficiently and with other unknown participants possibly in the game, I dislike continuing to risk our only modern aircraft.” He looked at Tikker. “The Nancys do have the range.”

“Barely,” Tikker conceded reluctantly. “But they're our only real strike aircraft. An' we've lost so many to combat and fatigue—most fought in the battles around Madras, after all—that I can't like spending them or their pilots on reconnaissance flights. We'll quickly wear them out. They're also, well, kinda slow compared to the Pee Forty, an' the Grik have gotten better at hittin' 'em with their caanister mortars.” He
blinked a warning at Herring. “And don't forget the new weapon we found.”

Near the airship field in Grik City, they'd discovered what amounted to a massed battery of hundreds of
rockets
. They were ridiculously simple—just large signal rockets—like they'd seen during the battle—but with small charges in their noses detonated by a contact fuse. Bernie Sandison had been amazed by their ingenuity and confessed he'd considered something like them for engaging Grik zeppelins from the ground, but the deployment of the P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or “Fleashooters,” had made him abandon the scheme as too wasteful in time and materials. But like all Grik weapons, how wasteful they were didn't seem a concern, and he was worried about their potential. It was probably very fortunate that the field had been overrun before any aircraft flew over.

“In any event,” Adar continued, redirecting the discussion, “it's clear that the Grik will come, and rather soon, I should think. It must be difficult for them to feed even the masses of warriors we
have
seen.” He cleared his throat. “Our forces, on the other hand, are . . . limited. Some reinforcements have arrived; the two Austraalan regiments that were staging at La-laanti—or ‘Diego Garciaa'—have brought General Maraan's Second Corps back near full strength, and the oilers and supply ships that accompanied them were welcome. Our ammunition and fuel reserves were grievously low. Other troops and replacement ships and aircraft are on their way directly from Baalkpan, but . . .” He paused, refusing to meet Matt's eyes. “Since it was not originally contemplated that we attempt to
take
this place so soon, it may be some time before further replenishments of any sort arrive.” Matt nodded. He'd already said all he intended to on that subject. Belaboring it now was pointless.

“What about General Alden and General Rolak?” Safir asked. “With the Grik General Halik expelled from Indiaa, First and Third Corps should be free to come here.”

“They are, and will,” Adar assured, “but Third Corps is strung out between Lake Flynn, the Rocky Gap, and the low-tide crossing between Indiaa and Say-lon. General Alden has left all his cavalry, including Colonel Dalibor Svec's ‘Czech Legion,' to guard against Halik's return, but First Corps must still march across half of Indiaa before it can embark. General Linaa-Fas-Ra's Sixth Corps might be brought more
quickly, but it consists mostly of green recruits, still in training.” He looked at Matt and Keje. “We have decided that it should remain behind to replace First and Third Corps when they come.”

There was murmuring over that. They needed troops
now
, green or not. Most rightly suspected that General Linaa, a representative of Sular on the Island of “Saa-leebs” and a powerful opponent of uniting the various land and sea Homes into a single nation, had “objected” to a more active role for his corps.
Politics already,
Matt thought with a grimace.

“What help can we expect from First Fleet?” Jarrik-Fas asked.

“
Arracca
's battle group, escorted by
Saanta Caata-lina
, has been ordered to join us, but repairs to both larger vessels will require perhaps another week,” Keje replied.

“So a month or more, at
Arracca
's best speed, to arrive,” someone murmured.

“Furthermore,” Adar added sadly, “it has been determined that
Mahaan
cannot be sufficiently repaired at Madraas for combat, or to endure the long voyage here. Nor can an SPD be spared to carry her to Baalkpan. Cap-i-taan Reddy has ordered that she be maintained at Madraas until she can be properly repaired or moved.” Everyone looked at Matt, knowing how hard it must've been for him to order work suspended on
Walker
's mangled sister, particularly since it had been one of
Walker
's own errant torpedoes that nearly sank her. “The advantage to this arrangement, however, is that
Mahaan
's entire experienced crew will transfer to one of the new-construction destroyers about to join First Fleet. That ship's current crew will be disappointed, no doubt, to transfer to one of the captured Grik dreadnaughts, but I think their disappointment will fade when they discover the interesting . . . improvements our people are making to them.” He sighed, and looked at Jarrik. “To fully answer your question, however, it is my order—after consultation—that all elements of First Fleet now marshaling at Madraas, besides
Saanta Caata-lina
and
Arracca
's battle group, must wait to escort First and Third Corps to us. The sea between there and here is too terrible to risk so many troops upon without powerful protection.” He bowed his head to Herring. “And we still do not know the motives of the ‘unknown participants' who attacked us with the strange sub-maarine, or if they have more.”

“So . . . what does this mean?” Becher Lange asked, stirring on his
stool. “How long before we can expect
significant
aid?” Everyone knew Lange was no coward, but as time passed with no response from his own Republic of Real People in southern Africa, he grew increasingly nervous. The Republic had agreed to join the war against the Grik by attacking from what the enemy considered a relatively safe direction, the “frigid” wasteland to the south. The Allied forces had initially conceived the attack as a mere demonstration to distract the Grik from an eventual attempt to seize Madagascar, but now the Allied forces needed the attack to prevent the Grik from focusing all their power against the island. The Republic had maintained wireless silence for a very long time to avoid unwanted attention, but when they struck, there'd be no reason to continue that policy. The lingering silence meant not only had they not yet attacked, but they might not have even received the news that they needed to.

“A month for
Arracca
and her battle group, as has been observed. Perhaps another for the rest,” Adar replied. “I'm afraid that, for now, we will have to make do with what we have.”

“We
will
make do, Mr. Chairman,” Matt said, then added, “Somehow,” with a wry smile. “And on paper, it doesn't look so bad. With Second Corps back to strength and everything else ashore, we have close to thirty thousand troops. That's as many as we defended Baalkpan with. And these are mostly veterans with way better weapons. We've got more ships, artillery, mortars, and air power than we had then—and the supply ships brought up some of the stuff we'd wanted to take this place: more Blitzerbugs, shotguns—and the first
good
copies of a Browning thirty cal.” He grinned. “You all know what a chore it's been to perfect those!”

There'd been those who wanted to make Gatling guns all along, in the same.50-80 caliber as the “Allin-Silva” conversion muskets, but though they'd had the ability to do that for some time, Silva himself had suggested to Bernie that they concentrate all such efforts on making the far less complicated Brownings. The only thing holding them back had been good barrel steel to cope with jacketed bullets, and they'd accomplished that at last. They'd even provided a water jacket for good measure. Silva, Bernie, and eventually Matt had resisted Gatlings because, as Silva put it in a nutshell, “They're five times as heavy, six times more complicated, and with black powder loads at the ranges we been
fighting, the smoke they make means you're done aiming as soon as you turn the crank. They'd still need gun carriages and at least one paalka each for the heavy damn things, so I say stick with twelve-pounders and canister—that you can aim between shots!”