Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Read online

  Matt looked at Lieutenant (jg) Fred Reynolds, in charge of Walker’s meager air division. The kid was picking at his food too, but not from boredom. He still blamed himself for the life-threatening wounds Ensign Kari-Faask, his ’Cat spotter and friend, had suffered when he pressed his attack too closely on the Dom troop transports that had threatened Scapa Flow. She was improving, but that first taste of responsibility for the life of another, especially a friend, had rattled him. Walker’s gunnery officer, “Sonny” Campeti, was trying to chat him up, but occasionally, he cast a worried look at Matt.

  “That gennel-maan yonder asks if you’d scoot the bottle on around, sur?” Matt looked up in response to the voice that sounded in his ear and saw Taarba-Kar, better known as “Tabasco.” The rust-colored ’Cat was one of Lanier’s mess attendants, filling in as his “personal steward” while Juan Marcos, the little Filipino, was test-driving his new wooden leg. Lanier had almost burst a vessel when Juan “stoled” Tabasco for the mythical “Skipper’s Steward Division” and the ’Cat promptly deserted him to attend “classes” at the church/hospital that had become an amputee ward. Matt stayed out of it. Long ago, Juan had established a position of moral, if not official, power aboard his ship, and Juan’s tragic but heroic wound had only strengthened it. He looked where Tabasco was pointing.

  Across the table, beside Sean Bates—the one-armed, one-time “outlaw” they’d met as Sean O’Casey, now Gerald McDonald’s prime factor and chief of staff—was Lord High Admiral McClain. Matt wasn’t sure what he thought of him. By all accounts, the man was a mariner extraordinaire, and had the trust of Gerald and Harvey Jenks, but he was also a stalwart of the “old guard.” He’d long resisted Jenks’s drive to explore the world beyond Imperial frontiers, and he, almost alone among Gerald’s staff, resisted the proposed reforms regarding the “female question.” He resisted almost all change as a matter of course, in a devil’s advocate fashion, and Matt wasn’t sure if that reflected his honest position or if he was just testing their suggestions. Matt wondered how well he’d adapt to the strategies and tactics required by this “new” war. He nodded at the man and passed the bottle along.

  Sean Bates suddenly stood and glanced at those surrounding him. “P’raps now’s a good time ta adjourn ta the library, ta discuss the campaign that laies ahead,” he suggested. “As ye know, the Gov’ner-Emp’rer remains easely tired, an’ I s’pect many here could use a wee rest after yer long voyage.”

  “Nonsense, Sean, we needn’t rush . . .” Gerald began, but Matt also stood.

  “May as well. It’s been a long day, and we should crack the book and get everybody on the same page. Besides,” he added, “I’m anxious to get back to Walker and check on developments in the west.”

  “Of course,” agreed Gerald, accepting the excuse. “By all means then, let us adjourn to the library.” He gestured around at the other tables. “They shan’t miss us. It’s good to see our . . . peoples . . . agreeing so well! We’ve much to accomplish together, and I’m glad we’ve had this opportunity to begin as friends!” He sobered, looking at the diners, Imperials and Lemurians, mixed together. “They must be friends,” he added, nodding significantly at Chack, acknowledging the crucial role he and his Marines had played toward that end. “Soon they’ll guard one another’s lives.”

  The library was surprisingly quiet, considering the unabated noise outside. Matt had been in the room many times now, and the furnishings reflected their owner well. Gerald was like a cross between Jenks and Bradford, personalitywise. He had the bearing and reserve of his commodore and friend, combined with the eccentric curiosity and (suppressed) enthusiasm for science of the Australian. As plenipotentiary at large for the Alliance, Courtney had been in the room even more often than Matt, but he was immediately drawn to the bookshelves as the officers filed into the room. Matt had to tap his elbow and point to the great map dominating the room’s south wall.

  “You don’t actually need me for this,” Courtney complained. “These military machinations are quite beyond me. If you insist I pay attention . . . I may well ask a question!” he warned.

  “As long as you’re not asking where we all are a month from now when you suddenly notice we’re gone,” Matt countered.

  Those who knew the Australian laughed. He was prone to a notable absentmindedness. That notwithstanding, he had a natural talent for analysis, and when he kept his thoughts on a single track long enough, he was very good at pointing out obvious flaws in plans that others had overlooked. Matt wanted him paying attention.

  The officers and guests made themselves comfortable (a relative thing for Lemurians, since all the chairs were designed for people without tails) and Governor-Emperor McDonald allowed himself to be ushered to a divan, his legs propped up. Matt noticed with pleasure that Ruth McDonald didn’t excuse herself but chose a chair near her husband.

  “There’s one . . . small thing we need to have understood before we begin,” announced Lord High Admiral McClain, glancing at Ruth. He looked around the room with a closed expression. “Who’s the authority here?”

  “The Governor-Emperor, of course,” Matt replied patiently.

  “I mean, the military authority,” McClain pressed.

  “I am,” Matt said simply, “as we’ve discussed before. I remain ‘Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces, by acclamation.’ ”

  “The Empire of the New Britain Isles did not ‘acclaim’ you, sir.”

  “James!” Gerald scolded, and Commodore Jenks stirred angrily.

  “With respect, Your Majesty, I speak only truth,” the admiral maintained.

  “You speak out of place,” Gerald said more forcefully. “Captain Reddy was acclaimed by the other Allied powers long before we became one. You shall not forget that even before our alliance was made—before they had any ‘obligation’ to help us—they willingly spilled their blood to defend us from the despicable Dominion! We’ve joined them, and heartily! They didn’t join us.” He paused, gulping an angry breath. “We may know this region of the world better than they, Lord High Admiral, but largely due to your influence, that knowledge is sorely limited. We know next to nothing of the extent of the enemy realm, for example, but that part that borders the vast Pacific. How deep does it go? What lies beyond?”

  “My apologies, Your Maj—”

  “Let me finish, damn you, sir!” Gerald practically roared. He stopped, forcefully composing himself. “We must not start like this!” he continued quietly. “The time for petty, egoistic squabbles is past. We face a wicked, determined enemy here and in the west! Our allies stand poised to deliver a heavy blow to the Grik, but we’re still on the defensive here. The enemy holds a significant portion of our very homeland! We must throw him out! Captain Reddy and his strategies have been much more recently successful at that than any we can draw upon!”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Matt said, partially to cover Chief Gray’s muttered “puffed-up bugger” and the few ensuing chuckles. Admiral McClain reddened, and Jenks stood and moved toward Matt to add his support. “I’m glad you brought up those ‘strategies,’ because the first thing we need to get clear is, just like our war in the west, we can’t have limits to our ‘war aims’ here. We’re going to fight this war hard, ugly, and as fast as possible. There’re no rules except victory, and there’ll be no ‘negotiated peace.’ ” His green eyes flashed. “They picked this fight, but we’re going to finish it.” He sighed. “Maybe we won’t have to kill them all, as we’ll probably have to do to win in the west, but to accept anything short of complete surrender’ll only waste the blood already lost.”

  There were a few sharp cheers, and the ’Cats stamped their feet in approval. Admiral McClain didn’t cheer, and even the Governor-Emperor seemed dubious.

  “That will be . . . costly,” he said.

  Matt nodded. “Yes, it will, but believe me when I say it’s the only way.” He recalled his interview with the Dominion “Blood Cardinal,” Don Hernan de Devina Dicha. “Those gu
ys are absolutely nuts. Hell, you know that. We beat them now, knock ’em back on their heels, make ‘peace’—it’ll start all over again in a decade.” He looked at Gray’s grim face. “That’s how it works,” he said. “We know. The only way to end a war forever is if somebody wins and somebody loses . . . bad.” He watched Ruth’s face as she stared at her husband. She wouldn’t speak, not yet, but she’d already considered the implications of another, future war. Matt helped Gerald come to the same conclusion. “If you don’t get right with that, wrap it around you, and wade through the awful fact that for us to win, they have to lose, one of these days, maybe when your daughter, Rebecca, is in your place, there’ll be another war; and honestly, they’re liable to win that one because they have the depth, resources, and manpower. Right now, we have a technological edge, but in ten years? Twenty?” He shook his head.

  “He’s right, Your Majesty,” Jenks said. “I’ve seen their war in the west, and it’s the most savage thing you can imagine, but little more so than the fighting we saw here, at the Dueling Grounds!” He was exaggerating, but only slightly. The Dominion forces that attacked, without warning, had done so with massed artillery against civilians. “The Grik are . . . animals, but men would never behave as the Dominion forces did. They, their leadership, this . . . perverted church they worship, must be erased from the world.”

  “All right,” Gerald said softly, glancing at his wife. He wouldn’t leave this mess to be faced by the daughter they thought they’d lost. “How do we beat them this time . . . and forever?”

  Matt nodded at Harvey Jenks, who stepped to the huge map, fingering his long, braided, sun-bleached mustaches. He paused and drew his sword; a most appropriate “pointer” under the circumstances. Matt had seen the blade many times, even faced it in “practice,” but he’d never really appreciated its workmanship before. It was heavier than his own well-battered Academy sword, with a subtle curve toward the tip. Despite all the use it had seen, there were few nicks, and the bright, almost-purple steel was unmarred by rust and lovingly tended. Jenks raised the sword against an island west of New Scotland.

  “First, we have New Ireland,” he said. “The enemy has captured it entire, it would seem, with the aid of Company traitors there.” He glanced at Matt. “Elsewhere, the Company is no more. It’s broken, along with its monopoly on trade, by order of the Governor-Emperor, and distributed among loyal shareholders. Those same shareholders will now become chairmen of their various new companies, and for the duration of the current hostilities, their ships are engaged as auxiliaries to the Imperial Navy, under naval regulations.” He looked back at the map. “The harbor defenses at New Dublin are not the heaviest in the Empire, not compared to those here and at New London and Portsmouth on New Britain, but they’re probably the most formidable. A sustained bombardment of the forts there is difficult because they’re on the windward side of the island and mount thirty-pound guns. We can match that and more with numbers, but with their elevation, not in range. Any ships attempting a bombardment will suffer heavily, and any disabled vessel will likely be driven ashore.”

  After this had been translated to him, Sor-Lomaak leaned forward. “My fifties will outrange their thirties,” he said confidently, “and even if we are hit, with her sweeps, Salaama-Na will not go ashore!”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” Matt said, grinning.

  Jenks grinned too. “Thank you, Your Excellency. You’ve just finalized Major Chack-Sab-At’s and Major Blair’s plan.” He looked smugly at Matt, and motioned the two Marines, one Lemurian-Amer-i-caan, and the other Imperial, to approach the map. They’d fought together splendidly at the Dueling Grounds and become fast friends. Blair still walked stiffly from a wound, but he was anxious to strike back at the Doms.

  “Sirs,” Chack began, blinking only slight self-consciousness, “Major Blair and I believe the enemy will expect us at New Dublin, or possibly Easky in the south. We will not disappoint him.” There were murmurs, and McClain looked alarmed, but Chack continued. “A large naval force composed of the heaviest ships of the line and as many former Company ships as possible, will menace New Dublin. The Company ships will linger in sight but out of range, as though they carry troops—which they will, but not all of them by any means.” He bowed to Sor-Lomaak. “This task force will be gathered around the powerful—and ominously large—Salaama-Na, which will open a steady bombardment of the harbor defenses, supported when possible by Imperial warships. This should, ah, collect the attention of the enemy.” He grinned, showing sharp, white fangs. “The enemy may call troops from Easky or they may not, but it doesn’t matter, because Mr. Blair will land at Cork, east of there, and fortify these mountains.” He pointed at the Wiklow range that began at the northeast panhandle of New Ireland, then fishhooked back into the sea, east of Easky. “He’ll hold there until any Easky troops, or possibly some from across this other range at New Dublin, try to push him off—at which point my force, landed in the extreme north at Bray, will march down the Valley Road and slam into their flank!”

  “Lovely,” muttered McClain, “and delightfully complicated. But what will it accomplish? The enemy will still hold New Dublin, and you cannot expect me to believe you’ll scale those heights behind the city and take it from behind!”

  Chack looked at him with his big, amber eyes. “Why else would I do as I propose?”

  “You must be mad.”

  “But you believe that is my intent?”

  “There can be no oth . . .” McClain’s jaw clamped shut.

  “Indeed,” said Major Blair. “That will clearly be our intent and the enemy must prepare for it, regardless how imprudent it appears—and we will make the attack . . . !”

  “What?” McClain was incredulous.

  “In the dark of night, coordinated with an attack by boat from the sea, launched by the bombardment fleet—which the Doms will now consider a diversion!”

  “By God!” Gerald barked approval.

  “I told you those guys were clever,” Matt said, prodding him.

  “I knew it already, but this! It’s better than chess!”

  “Quite clever,” McClain muttered under his breath.

  “In any event,” Jenks said, “hopefully, that’ll solve the problem of New Ireland.” He waited for the approving applause to wane, then returned to the map. He drew the point of his sword down along the coast of California, near where San Francisco ought to be. “But, even more important than New Ireland, our continental colonies are at risk,” he said abruptly. “Before, or while we do anything else, they must be secured. The vast majority of our raw material comes from there and without them, we can’t sustain this . . . front . . . in the wider war, on our own. It’s that simple. If we lose those colonies, we’ll represent nothing but a material drain on our new allies who have concerns of their own, and that just to keep us alive.” His gaze fell heavily on Lord High Admiral McClain.

  “Fast ships were dispatched, immediately after the attempted invasion, to warn the colonies of a Dom attack,” McClain said in response. “We now know the attack here was premature, that it was originally planned to coincide with the Founders’ Day festivities. The combination of the Christmas Feast, followed quickly by the New Year and Founders’ Day observances, would have left us singularly unprepared.” He paused. “We still don’t know if the Temple of the Popes is aware of the current situation, or that hostilities have already begun, but we do know that after January fifth, things are ‘automatically going to happen.’ ” There were murmurings at the now-infamous phrase that had been made public shortly before.

  “Obviously,” McClain continued, “one of those ‘things’ was to be the attack here. We must presume other operations were meant to coincide with it. In my view, the next most logical enemy objective is our garrison on the Enchanted Isles, not Saint Francis.”

  Courtney perked up. “The Galápagos Islands?” he interrupted insistently.

  “Aye,” McClain confirmed, looking at him oddly, “tho
ugh only the enemy calls them that. The ‘Insulae de los Galápagos.’ ”

  “Good God!” Courtney exclaimed. “We mustn’t allow those”—he searched for a suitable epithet—“buggerers of a . . . an otherwise-sensible faith to defile that place!”

  Matt almost chuckled, but thoughts of the very dark . . . per version . . . of Catholicism practiced by the Dominion stopped him. “The islands aren’t the same here, Courtney,” he reminded.

  “Of course not!” Bradford exclaimed. “But they’re liable to be different in very fascinating ways!”

  Matt sighed. “Go ahead and find a book, Courtney. We’ve got war stuff to talk about.”

  Muttering, Bradford stood and marched to the shelves.

  Matt closed his eyes and shook his head. “Your Majesty?” he prompted.

  “Yes. Well. Obviously, we mustn’t let the Enchanted Isles fall, but they’re well fortified. The enemy will likely bypass them and hope they wither on the vine. The colonies are the main, immediate concern.”

  “I beg to differ,” McClain said.

  “We have perhaps two weeks,” Jenks said. He pointed at the map with his sword. “The Doms may even now have an army poised to strike from the south, but the land bordering the Sea of Bones is a terrible place; a sparse, rocky desert inhabited by unimaginable horrors. Oddly, the lands on either side are just as fertile as it is desolate, but therefore teeming with vast numbers of large, terrifying beasts.” He shook his head. “Any force attempting such a march would likely lose half its number before the first shot was fired. I predict the assault will come from the sea, as it did here, and it’s on the sea we must meet it.”