Straits of Hell (33 page)

“He can order away all he wants,” came another distinctive, creaky voice that Lelaa enjoyed—and despised at times like this. “I don't give a damn what he says,” Chief Gilbert Yeager proclaimed in what amounted to, from him, a petulant whine. “I quit.”

As one of
Walker
's “original” Mice, who'd lurked in her firerooms like an immovable, monosyllabic troll, Gilbert had been introverted to a point of apparent near insanity, but as his responsibilities swelled, so had his personality. Now
Maaka-Kakja
's chief engineer and de facto engineering officer (whether he liked it or not), and basking in the reflected glow of what his half brother Isak Reuben had accomplished in the West, he'd grown downright insufferable at times. This was despite his having used the precedent Orrin Reddy had set to flatly refuse a promotion to lieutenant.

“You
can't
quit, you weird little creep,” Tex snorted.

“Can so,” Gilbert sneered at him. “I'm volunteered aboard here as
actin' chief o'
Makky-Kat
's engineerin' division. She's s'posed to be a carrier, which should make that a purty cushy berth. But 'cept for a few o' the new guys you gave me from the other ships, my division's still full o' jugheads an' loafers that don't know live steam from a hot fart. I was wore to a frazzle even before we got shot up. Now, if yer gonna use the ship for a go . . . al danged battleship, I want a transfer back west to my real home on
Walker
!” His lip curled. “If I'm gonna get shot at, an' hafta fix busted crap that's getting' shot at, I'd sooner do it where I nat'rally b'long!”

Tex rolled his eyes. “Of all the . . . Look, genius, since
you're
chief engineer, if your people don't know their jobs, that's at least as much your fault as theirs. You've got to learn to teach people what to do! And even if we could ship you off, which I'd personally
love
, you can't just pick and choose where to fight this war. You go—or stay—where you're needed, and God help us, we need you here!”

Lelaa held up a hand and gave Tex a short, secret blink of assurance, but she spoke in a tone of mock severity. “Enough, Mr. Sheider. No wonder poor Mr. Yeager feels aggrieved!” She looked at Gilbert. “I will forward your transfer request along,” she soothed, blinking regretfully now, “as soon as the current situation has resolved itself. Under the circumstances, I cannot promise it will be acted upon as quickly as you might wish, but I will do it. In the meantime, think of the people who appreciate and rely on you; the engines that need you.
Your
engines and boilers, Mr. Yeager,” she stressed. “Lieuten-aant Tab-At commands
Walker
's engineering division now, and Isaak Reuben is her chief. Your expertise would not be wasted there, but your contributions would be infinitely less profound.” She paused. “You may certainly go if you wish, when the time is right. But until then, I would consider it a personal favor if you continue the work aboard here that you do so well.”

Gilbert opened his mouth, then clacked it shut. “I . . . ,” he finally said, but couldn't go on. He just shuffled out of the bridge and down the stairs outside.

“Why do you coddle that nutcase so?” Tex asked incredulously. “He hasn't got the brains of a grawfish.”

“Oh, but he does,” Lelaa countered. “He is very smart at what he does, and as you said yourself, we need him.” She blinked something Tex didn't recognize. “But as you may or may not also have seen, this
war has made . . . changes to many of our minds and hearts. It has changed mine in many ways, I know. Most are small, and some have even made me a better officer. But once I would never have dreamed of manipulating the thoughts and feelings of another person for any reason, so I am becoming perhaps a less good person as well.” She sighed. “Only time will tell. But Mr. Yeager's mind and heart have changed in big ways, and grown more fragile too, I think. He is
lonely
, Mr. Sheider, and as much as we need him, we need him even more to want to be here, or he will be of no use at all. So, in the future, particularly on days like today when hearts are raw and nerves are frayed and every body and soul is poised on the brink of exhaustion, when you consider calling people like Gilbert Yeager a ‘weird little creep,' please do bear that in mind.”

A signal-'Cat stepped into the pilothouse from the bridgewing. “High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks is coming aboard,” she said.

“Very well,” Lelaa said. “Assemble the side party, if you please. Mr. Sheider, do accompany me to welcome him aboard.”

//////
Fort Defiance

I
t was windy, and even a bit chilly now, and the darkness around Fort Defiance pulsed and flared with fiery lights that left burning, sparkly afterimages in the eyes. The fight had raged all day long, sometimes desperately, and often at widely separated points of the perimeter. Between each assault, a counter battery duel resumed that had been stunning and destructive within the fort, but far harder on the hasty Dom artillery emplacements than those the Allies had erected with thoughtful redundancy. But then the Doms always seemed to have more guns and crews to replace those that were dismounted and annihilated. With yet another dusk attack finally repulsed from Colonel Blair's area of responsibility, the man, red-eyed, almost dead from fatigue, hurried stiffly to Shinya's HQ in response to an urgent summons. He was easy to spot in the gunflashes as he approached because, like other senior Imperial Marine officers, he'd returned to wearing his red uniform coat with yellow facings, insisting it “gave the lads heart.”
Shinya was doubtful, particularly since the coat showed dust, grime, powder stains—and blood, of course, on the yellow—much more readily than the green and brown tie-dyed frocks that had become the near-universal battle dress of all Allied armies. Then there was his very real concern that Blair's uniform coat, so distinctive now, made him a more tempting target. Despite all that, there was nothing he could say since no one had ever actually gotten around to making the new battle dress “regulation.” Blair would do as he saw fit, and after the long, grueling day, Tomatsu Shinya wouldn't criticize.

Blair managed a sharp salute when he joined his commander, and Shinya returned it with equal formality.

“You've done well,” Shinya complimented. “Your troops have done well.”

“Thank you, General,” Blair said, his voice raspy. “A hot day.”

“Indeed,” Shinya agreed with a frown. “For everyone. Here and at sea.” He proceeded to describe what they'd heard of the naval battle that raged that day, complete with the initial assessment by some that it had ended less conclusively than anyone would've preferred.

“So,” Blair said, the exhaustion seeping into his hard-used voice, “what does that mean to us? I mean, here, of course.”

“Second Fleet must disperse. For a time, at least. Some of the least—and most—damaged ships will come to Puerto Viejo and Guayakwil Bay to help protect the approaches. Others will have to retire to places where better repair facilities exist.” He looked squarely at Blair. “That means the Enchanted Isles, or even as far away as Saint Francis. The new American harbor at San Diego is not yet complete.”

“Are there any ships there that can augment Second Fleet?”

“Only support vessels. No warships beyond a couple of DDs necessary for their protection.”

Blair removed his helmet and ran his fingers through sweat-plastered hair. “Some of the worst damaged are coming here, you say?”

“Under tow if they can't move themselves, or are in particular distress,” Shinya confirmed.

“Why?”

Shinya sighed. “Because, if early reports are correct, Second Fleet has virtually ceased to exist as an effective fighting force. We can only hope the Doms suffered equally or worse, but we cannot know that for
certain. Jenks claims a victory, if a pyrrhic one, but the Doms may have yet another fleet they did not send. So at present, whatever survivors of the engagement that retain significant combat power but may founder on a longer voyage will come to Puerto Viejo or Guayak—and be beached in the harbors as static batteries, if necessary.” He watched Blair's reaction, guessing his thoughts. “There are no dry docks, permanent or floating, any closer than the New Britain Isles. Those that need a dry dock to stay afloat . . . won't. If they make it here, whether we need them or not, perhaps they can be refloated at a later date.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “In the meantime, just as our surgeons must quickly decide whom they are most likely to save in the heat of battle, repair work must focus on ships that can be most quickly returned to action, since even the facilities at the Enchanted Isles are limited.”

Blair seemed to absorb that. “What of
Maaka-Kakja
and our air support?”

“Our air here will improve for a time as planes the Governor-Empress brings are assembled, and we will soon have more pilots as well. But
Maaka-Kakja
's ability to launch and recover aircraft was seriously damaged. She will retire to the Enchanted Isles with the highest priority for repair—but that could take weeks.”

“So, one way or another, whether the Doms can strike Puerto Viejo and Guayak by sea or not, supplies will soon grow tight—and the only reserve we can count on for the foreseeable future is only just arriving at Puerto Viejo with the Governor-Empress.”

“Essentially, yes.”

Blair grimaced, the news and exhaustion visibly deflating him further. Shinya grimaced as well, with a new determination. “We shall
still
win here, Colonel Blair,” he promised.

Blair sighed. “What makes you so sure, sir? Because frankly, it seemed to me that we very nearly lost today—and beyond that, I can't help but feel that the enemy is somehow . . . holding back.”

Shinya nodded. “Good. I'm glad you saw that. From the thick of the battle, I wasn't sure you would notice the . . . pattern that has emerged.”

“I noticed that the Doms didn't support their near success at certain points as vigorously as I'd have expected,” Blair said, “but my attention was somewhat focused,” he added dryly, “and I'm not sure I saw a pattern to it.”

“There was. Please, come inside my headquarters. Sit, have refreshment, and I will show you on the map what I saw.”

Blair was nodding. “Thank you, General. I could use a drink and a chair. I must admit I feel quite stupid right now.”

Shortly after, with a glass of watered rum on the table that jostled with the concussion of guns outside, Blair leaned over a map and followed Shinya's tracing finger with bleary eyes. “It took a while for me to realize it myself, Colonel,” Shinya explained, shaking his head. “I have . . . recovered significantly, I believe, but the aftereffects of the fever have left me feeling quite foolish as well. In any event, it's become clear to me that the Doms are deliberately focusing on what they must consider ‘weak' points along our perimeter, defended by local troops from the liberated cities. Those troops have done remarkably well,” he stressed, “and remain highly motivated, in spite of the enemy's obvious efforts to exhaust and dispirit them.” It was unnecessary to repeat that the locals knew they'd get no more mercy from the Doms than their new allies. Less, most likely. “But the enemy's ostentatious redeployment of their lancers today, in clear view of the fort, in an attempt to edge past around us to threaten the cities beyond, caused great distress.”

“Yes, sir.” Blair nodded. “Until we reminded their officers that there were probably more than enough militia and support troops remaining in Guayak to see the lancers off. And your orders to our own lance—our own
horse soldiers
, to intercept them in any case, reassured them amazingly.”

Shinya shifted uncomfortably. “Yes. Well. As you know, I consider the mounted troops our weakest branch at present, but practice may improve them. I do think Guayak is secure, and believe the move was designed more as a psychological assault on our already hard-pressed allies.”

“The Puerto Viejans were less reassured,” Blair warned.

“Their city can fend for itself, and the Governor-Empress, Saan-Kakja—and Sister Audry”—he raised his eyebrows—“are landing nearly five thousand fresh troops of their own.”
Troops that we need
here,
Shinya thought but didn't say aloud. “In any event, the locals should no longer fear for their homes and families. That's the main thing. But the problem they face most keenly now, besides the disproportionate attention of the enemy, is arms.” All the Lemurian Marines had recently
received the new Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la Arsenal Allin-Silva breechloaders. There'd been yet more resentment from the Imperials over that, but even they had to admit it was only natural that the Lemurians should get the first shipments sent by their own people. As some consolation, the 'Cats had turned their old weapons over to the Imperial Marines. Those were still smoothbore muskets, but they were better made and used the more reliable percussion ignition system. With at least slightly superior weapons in hand, the Imperials then turned their flintlock smoothbores over to the local regiments. These were essentially identical in function to the captured Dom muskets they'd used at the Battle of Guayak, but their offset socket bayonets allowed them to keep firing even with bayonets fixed, whereas Dominion troops used plug bayonets that, once installed in the muzzles, had to be driven out, turning their weapons into little more than short spears. Still, the Doms had discovered these “soft points” where the rate of defensive fire was least, and their spies had confirmed who was standing there.

“I agree,” Blair said. “But what can we do about it? Pull the locals off the line? God knows they deserve a rest, particularly the Fourth Guayak. But Blas's Second of the Second has suffered nearly as badly supporting them, as has the First of the Tenth Imperial. We
can
put them all in reserve for a day, but then I'd think we should replace them with other tested battalions from elsewhere on the line.” He exhaled and closed his eyes briefly. “I do fear tomorrow will be even worse than today.”

“I'm not sure it won't get worse
tonight
,” Shinya said broodingly. “Doms do fight at night, you know, so there can be no question of a major shift of forces.” He tapped his nose, staring at the map. “What we can do, is pull the Fourth back, as you suggest. They are down nearly thirty percent, even beyond the fever depletion they had before the assaults began. Pull them back and reinforce them from the general local reserve. They
are
good troops, and that way we can plug them back into the line if we must.” He paused, a slight smile forming on his face in the lamplight. “But they will leave their flag,” he said, “and beneath that flag we will shift the Second of the Second. The two battalions to their right will shift left as well, and we'll put a fresh Imperial battalion in the northeast lunette. The Doms have begun to avoid those.”

“I see your plan. The Doms will likely keep at the locals, but will instead be met by troops with the highest rate of fire instead of the
lowest.” He frowned. “But those battalions, and particularly that of Captain Blas, have been sorely tested as well.”

“And passed the test, as always. Exactly why we need her—our best,” he stressed, eyebrows rising again, “there. But they'll have help. Captain Blas and . . . Let's give Lieutenant Finny a brevet to captain, at last, shall we? Both have fought alongside your colonial frontier troops before. We will directly reinforce them and the First of the Tenth with the Third Saint Francis Regiment.”

Blair considered, then nodded. “If anyone can get the most out of those undisciplined ruffians, Blas and Finny will.”

“Excellent. That's settled.” He smiled, but shifted uneasily, staring at the map. “We
will
win,” he stressed again, “but it will be costly in many ways.” His smile faded. “We built this fort for a larger force than we currently have. It's as simple as that, and the outer wall is just too long to sufficiently defend. In strictest confidence I must tell you that I consider it inevitable that the Doms will breach it at some point, probably in yours—and Captain Blas's—sector. We must bleed them white before they do, and that's why your men and Lemurians, our very best,” he stipulated again, “must remain in place: to kill as many of the enemy as they possibly can before they're pushed back. I'm making other preparations based on that assumption, pulling men and guns from the southwest ramparts. Those have thus far only been lightly engaged and are likely to remain so. No large force can march entirely around the fort to exploit a breakthrough there in any case, so I'll use those men and guns to bolster our inner defenses.” He looked hard at Blair, who'd grown suddenly more alert. “The enemy will get in,” he predicted darkly, “but I truly believe that the deadly space
between
the walls is where we'll finally break them.” He paused, before continuing in a quiet tone. “Even if it breaks our hearts to do it.”

He took a long breath, gauging Blair's reaction.

“Strictest confidence,” Blair repeated slowly. “Surely that does not exclude Captain Blas?”

“I'm afraid it must,” Shinya said, his eyes narrowing. “By that I mean that you are to tell no one at all. Spies concern me.”

“But spies are a constant concern. I'm sure our local ranks are thick with them. And they'll see the redeployments anyway, and report them if they have the means.”

“That's why we do it now, at the last moment, so to speak. But I think the enemy will now do what they mean to do regardless. We can respond to changing dispositions more quickly than he. What I fear more than his knowledge of our redeployments is his understanding of what they mean—and what our underlying expectations might be. That's why you must tell no one”—he looked away—“and because even Captain Blas must not suspect that we expect her to lose the wall. She loves her Marines and might pull them back sooner if she knew.” He shrugged. “I would. But we need her to stand as long as she can not only to kill more Doms, but to make them absolutely sure that when she does pull back it was because she
had
to—and so they'll send everything they have left in after her. In
between
the walls,” he added grimly. “Now,” he said, suddenly brisk, “having expressed my concern for a night attack, I find myself somewhat anxious. I don't know how far back it goes, so you may not know it, but our American friends have a saying: ‘Speak of the devil and he will appear at your door,' or something like that. Orderly!” he cried, to be heard over the cannonade outside.