31
////// Port of Madras
Grik Indiaa
General of the Sea and Lord Regent-Consort of All India Hisashi Kurokawa awoke amid soft, lavish cushions and blinked resentfully at the sunlight washing through the “waking window” of the palace he’d commandeered as his headquarters. The place once belonged to the former Regent-Consort, Tsalka, and was much nicer than anything he’d enjoyed since arriving on this terrible world. It was cleaner, prettier, and airier than Tsalka’s palace at Colombo, which the creature had apparently preferred, and the high view it afforded of the city and port of Madras was actually quite beautiful. It must be the breeze, he thought, standing and wrapping a luxurious robe around himself. A fine breeze swirled through the stone passageways, keeping the place cool even here. That could be one reason, he decided. That hideous reptile Tsalka was always going on about cold places and how dreadful they were. Ancient ruins of some sort had been incorporated into the construction, as in various other structures around India, he’d heard. He’d studied them but could make no sense of them. Ultimately, he couldn’t have cared less about the ruins, but perhaps there was something about them that Tsalka disliked? He no longer cared about that either, but remained mystified why the Americans hadn’t used the palace while they were there.
He stepped out on a broad porch with a stunning view of the rising sun and sleepy harbor below. He couldn’t help a feeling of pride, looking down on the mighty fleet he’d not only assembled here, but essentially built from scratch. Nineteen mighty battleships of the ArataAmagi class now rode at anchor on the calm water, smoke wafting gently from their funnels. Tons of plate iron had been discovered, hidden around the city. He knew the Americans and their apes had taken some, but he’d found more than enough, hidden for (or from) him, to repair all his damaged ships and even augment their armor. He’d lost too many to his own Amagi’s salvaged secondaries, and refused to lose more to such comparatively light weapons. The new armor would slow his ships and make them even more top-heavy than he already considered them, but he hadn’t added armor to the peaks of their casemates. The risk shouldn’t be too great in anything but a very rough sea. His massive dreadnaughts could bull through anything less, unaffected and unconcerned, as long as they had power. If their engines failed—something they were prone to do—a battleship might be lost even in a moderate sea. That didn’t concern him personally beyond the potential loss of combat power. If he found himself on any ship with a powerplant casualty, he’d simply shift to another.
A small Japanese orderly approached, carrying a tray of cups, and Kurokawa impatiently motioned him closer. He rather liked the small young man—little more than a boy, really—and never berated him like the others, so he couldn’t understand why the youngster seemed so afraid of him. The fact that he was feared made him happy, but he would’ve preferred this boy in particular just show him due deference. . . . He shook his head, mildly revolted at himself. The utter lack of female company for him—for all his people—was starting to take a strange toll. He now knew the Americans had found women among their British allies in the East, and that was one more reason to conquer them quickly at last. He took a cup of nectar from the tray and began to dismiss the boy, who was clearly uncomfortable.
“General of the Sea!” called one of his Grik aides.
“Yes?” Kurokawa replied, stifling anger at the intrusion.
“Signals Lieutenant Fukui begs an audience!” the creature rasped.
“Very well. Show him in, then excuse us.” Kurokawa looked at the boy. “Leave the tray and go.”
Fukui entered, glancing about to ensure they were alone.
“You have a report?” Kurokawa demanded.
“Yes . . . Lord. Another transmission of the sort you instructed me to listen for has been received. I did not hear it, with my limited capability here, but it was picked up by our people at Zanzibar,” he hesitated, “directed at them, by name, for the very first time.”
“Most interesting,” Kurokawa mumbled, but in his heart, he was terrified. “Did these people identify themselves?”
“N-no, sir. But they called themselves our friends, and said only that they would contact us again.”
“Most interesting,” Kurokawa repeated. He took a calming breath. “So. Somehow, they—whoever they are—have discovered the location of our most secret place, and there are only so many possible ways they could have managed it.”
“Y-yes, Lord. Either they have sophisticated transmission direction-finding capabilities, or they triangulated our location with multiple receivers. It is also possible they have somehow actually observed our presence at Zanzibar . . .”
“Or the Grik told them,” Kurokawa finished coldly. He shook his head. “I find that difficult to believe.”
“What? That the Grik may have told them, or they may have been in contact with others such as ourselves and never told you?”
“Either. Both!” Kurokawa snapped. “It is not possible, Lieutenant! I would have known!”
“Are . . . are you sure, Lord?”
Suddenly, Kurokawa wasn’t sure at all. The Grik controlled vast territories and could certainly have come in contact with other beings. He knew they had in the past, and unless they decided to tell him, he’d never know. His fear turned to a mounting rage but he managed to control it. If the Grik had met more . . . others, they’d done so recently, since he led the Grand Fleet against Madras. The Celestial Mother was capable of guile, but the Chooser would’ve told him, and First General Esshk would have contrived to use the knowledge against him somehow. Kurokawa’s rage diminished as quickly as it built, and he considered. “These . . . beings say they are our friends?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Then we can assume, if they know of the Grik at all, they find them just as vile as we do. If you hear any more, report to me at once!”
“Of course, Lord.” Fuqui paused. “Lord, I do hear something.”
So did Kurokawa. A growing, roaring drone was building, seemingly just above his head. He stepped out from under the porch and looked up. “No!” he whispered.
He’d never personally seen a P-40 before. Most of the frontline American fighters in his old theater of war had been destroyed in the Philippines. He’d seen Hurricanes and a few Spitfires mobbed out of the sky over Singapore, but there’d been few, if any, American fighters over Sumatra and Java when his old task force moved south. He recognized them, though, from identifications cards distributed throughout the Japanese fleet. He’d also heard they’d proven very difficult for the army flyers in China, so they were far more capable than their quick annihilation in the Philippines implied. But where did they come from? How could they be here? And what terrible stroke of destiny could allow eight of them to come barreling out of the south like vengeful ghosts of another war on a different world, aiming directly for his precious, helplessly anchored battleships?
No alarm he could sound from here would be of any possible use. Even if it was heard, the planes were impossibly fast, and whatever they planned to do to his ships with those large bombs beneath their center lines would be done before anyone in the harbor could react. For just an instant, he was tempted to flee, to hide, to send to the aerodrome and have Lieutenant Iguri fly over and take him away because he knew, knew that the Americans and their apes wouldn’t have sent these precious planes now unless they were but the tip of a bigger, broader spear. But he’d be helpless in a zeppelin. Those terrible planes would blot him from the sky in a tumbling ball of fire as effortlessly as swatting a fly. As it so often did, Hisashi Kurokawa’s terror turned to rage, and he tore the robe from his back.
“Bring my uniform!” he roared in the halls that still echoed with the thunder of passing engines.
Flashy Lead
Over Port of Madras 0748
They’re big mothers, all right, Colonel Ben Mallory thought as the anchored ironclads came in view. Nearly as big as Lemurian Homes, and mostly gathered together in a nice, tidy square in the middle of the harbor like a buncha ducks!
“Flashy Flight, Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead,” he spoke into his mic. “Snuffy and I will go in first and take the far-left wagon. Soupy, Conrad, Shirley, you lead your guys in an orbit back around and observe the effect of our attack.” They’d planned as best they could, based on recon gained by Nancys, but they hadn’t known exactly where the Grik battleships would be because the enemy moved them around the harbor from time to time, completing repairs and practicing maneuvers. But the word had been they were always bunched up somewhere like this at dawn. Based on that, they planned to use two planes for each ship, at least for the first attack. They didn’t have a lot of bombs, but they wanted their first strike to make an impression. That agreed, Ben wanted to evaluate how well their weapons and tactics performed before they went all in. If just one bomb would do the trick, they could potentially double the damage before retiring to rearm and refuel. It was a thousand-mile round-trip from Mackey Field to Madras, and would take several hours before they could return and hit them again. That was a long time for the Grik to do something different. Besides, even with better gas, that was a long flight with nowhere to set down if an engine crapped out or something. Fortunately, the 3rd Pursuit Squadron wasn’t the only punch the Allies had today. Too bad they couldn’t have built us a strip at Lake Flynn, he thought, and flown us in some bombs. But if things kicked off there like they were supposed to this morning, it would probably be like setting down in a meat grinder!
“I wish we’d had a chance to practice this more,” Ben continued. “But just remember what we figured: treat it like a strafing run. Use your sights, and keep your airspeed up. We need our bombs to hit their armor square to punch through. I’ll try to make corrections if me and Snuffy screw it up, so abort your runs if we don’t blow that first bastard sky high!”
A series of “Rogers” answered, and he keyed the mic once more. “C’mon, Snuffy. On my wing,” he said to the tall ’Cat who reminded him of a Lemurian version of Sergeant Dixon. He’d arrived from Baalkpan with his nickname, and Ben hadn’t asked what inspired it. “Let’s show these Jap-Grik bastards what Pearl Harbor felt like!”
“You bet, Col-nol,” came the terse reply.
Already in a gradual descent, Ben Mallory pushed the stick forward at 2,900 feet and advanced his throttle. With his airspeed indicator creeping toward 350 mph, he found his target in his gunsight. They’d carefully calculated the airspeed, dive angle, point of aim, and release point that should put their five-hundred-pound bombs somewhere on the armored casemate of the Grik battleships. The flat fo’c’sle and poop decks were tempting targets, but were much smaller and would require a steeper dive to hit. If the target was moving, they’d be almost impossible to hit. Besides, the engines, boilers, guns, and ammunition were all behind the casemate. Punch through that, and blooey! At least that was the theory.
“Damn, that thing’s big!” Ben muttered again, centering his sight on the top of the second funnel aft, engine roaring, airspeed creeping toward 370. His fingers touched the auxiliary fuel-tank release that would drop his ten-inch, five-hundred-pound armor-piercing, high-explosive shell with the tail tacked on. He glanced to his left and there was Snuffy’s ship, maybe ninety feet off his port wing. He grinned. The dark gray, nearly black ironclad loomed ever larger in his sights. He saw the weird Japanese-like flags streaming from the two tall masts, and noted the dozens of Grik racing for cover all over the ship. Some were even trying to climb the forward casemate. All the gunports were open, probably for ventilation, and he supposed even Nancy firebombs might’ve done some good today, so complete was the surprise. They’ll have their chance soon, he thought to himself. This one’s mine! Just a moment more, just . . . NOW! He shifted the lever and pulled back on the stick. He was gratified to feel the plane leap upward as the weight of the bomb fell cleanly away and he roared through the smoke hazing the top of the funnel he’d been concentrating on. Another quick glance revealed that Snuffy was still with him, climbing away, and before he could look back through the small windows on either side of the narrow armor behind the headrest, his earphones exploded with whoops of glee.
“Looky dat!” Shirley squealed.
“Oh, magnifiek!” came Conrad Diebel’s voice.
Snuffy was banking left, and Ben crawled up beside him. “Holy shit!” Ben breathed. Below them, the first target had opened like a great, jagged iron flower. Shards of shattered timbers and twisted iron plates were still tumbling into the sea in all directions, but except for a monstrous toadstool of smoke, there was no more gushing from within the wreck because water was already pouring in to douse the flames and quench the hot iron. Only steam remained, spurting fitfully as the sea choked it out. “One bomb! One bomb!” Ben shouted, trying to stamp on the jabbering that filled his ears. “Silence!” he roared. “Flashy Flight, this is Flashy Lead! All Flashies confirm receipt! Use one bomb only on each target! One bomb only! Misses can be retargeted, but not hits! Assume any noncatastrophic hit has caused some damage! We don’t have to sink ’em all, just put as many as we can on the bench, understood?” He waited while the replies tumbled in. “Good! Soupy, Shirley, Conrad, designate targets for your wingmen. Take ’em by sections in the order I called your names so there’s no doubling up! You can shoot up their armored cruisers after you drop your bombs, but we gotta clear the airspace before the Navy air arrives! Snuffy and I will fly top cover and keep our guns loaded in case any zeps show up or we run into anything on the way home. Tally ho, kids, and give ’em hell!”
Port of Madras
Kurokawa was stunned by the sight he beheld when he reached the waterfront. Without a word to the pair of Grik pulling his rickshaw, he leaped from it as it slowed and stumbled slightly before gaining his balance. Six of his mighty dreadnaughts were either sunk at their moorings or streaming tall columns of dark, acrid smoke! Even as he watched, one of his burning ships, already listing, suddenly rolled on its side and rapidly filled. Grik in their hundreds squirmed out through open gunports and raced about in panic as the deadly sea approached. They were doomed. The fleet was anchored in the main channel, the deepest part of the harbor, and that ship, at least, would disappear entirely. They’d long known the waters around India were some of the most dangerous ever encountered, and voracious tuna-size predators swarmed in the shallows. The port of Madras was no exception, and all who went in the water would be shredded in moments. One of the ships had gone down a little shallower, where its crew had managed to move it after a near miss opened great seams below the waterline, and the horde of Grik clinging to the funnels and apex of the casemate would’ve struck Kurokawa as amusing under other circumstances.
More smoke rose in the distance from his squadrons of protected cruisers. They were lovely if somewhat disappointing ships, designed to destroy the powerful American frigates, but sadly vulnerable to air attack. He had no idea how many of those he’d lost to the strafing P-40s. P-40s! His mind still reeled over that.
“My lord!” came a cry. It was his Grik aide again, breathing hard after running all the way from the palace.
“What are you doing here?” Kurokawa roared. “I want my fleet underway this instant! Do you want every ship destroyed at anchor?”
The aide gestured at the sky. “But the flying predator has gone, Lord!”
“They will be back, fool! Can you really be such an imbecile?” He paused, listening. “You see? They are back already!” He pointed. A large flight of planes was approaching from the sea, out of the still-rising sun.
“They are just more water planes!” the aide objected. “They cannot harm the Grand Fleet!”
“Idiot!” Kurokawa shrieked. “They couldn’t before, and they knew it. But would they send them now if they thought that still? Regardless, they’re dangerous to all our other ships, and the harbor facilities as well!” He squinted. “And look, fool. Those are not the patchwork planes from the lake! They’re new, brightly painted—from an enemy carrier, no doubt! The enemy is here. His fleet is here!” He gasped to control the fit threatening to overwhelm him. “Everything he has is here!” He straightened, his hand straying to his sword. He was so tempted to slay this hideous, ridiculous creature! “Get word to General Halik immediately! I don’t care how you do it or what it costs. Run the messengers to death! Tell him to attack General Alden’s perimeter at once with everything he has! I want no survivors from that place. Kill everyone!”
“Lord,” the aide said nervously, as though finally realizing his danger. “A runner arrived from General Halik just moments ago! He is being carried here now to report! Another runner just told me, while I was on my way to join you, and I ordered the creature fetched here as well. It is nearly destroyed,” he added.
The flying boats began swooping at the ships, and bombs fell on and around them. Real bombs, Kurokawa thought sickly. Amid the booming on the water and the buzzing of small engines, Commodore Fuji arrived, trailing some of his staff. He looked just as stunned as Kurokawa felt.
“Fuji! Good! You must get the Grand Fleet underway immediately! I will board Kongo as quickly as I can, but do not wait for me!”
“A-at once, General of the Sea . . . but what is our objective?”
“To save the fleet, of course! And destroy the enemy!” Kurokawa pointed east. “He is out there now, Commodore, and I assure you he’s coming this way!” He turned at the arrival of several Grik bearing a litter. “Is this the runner from Halik?” he demanded.
“It is, Lord.”
Kurokawa looked at the wasted creature. It had clearly run its life out. “Ask its message.”
The aide spoke, and the runner gabbled weakly in reply. Kurokawa understood most of what it said, and his face went hard.
“It says Alden is attacking all around his perimeter and has made significant gains. General Halik is trying to contain him now—or was a few hours ago.”
“I heard him,” Kurokawa seethed. He looked at Fuji. “You have your orders.” The harbor had become a maelstrom of explosions, smoke, and flitting aircraft. “All signals are now acceptable. I’ll have my communications officer transmit the sortie command. All ships will engage the enemy as closely as they can and leave nothing alive upon the sea!” A plane roared by, low, like nothing he’d seen before. It was painted like the floatplanes, but smaller, with a radial engine and fixed landing gear! For just an instant, he thought Muriname had returned with one of the planes his people were working on back at Zanzibar—it did look similar—but the American roundel and single small bomb tumbling from its belly quickly convinced him otherwise. Muriname promised me an advantage, but already the apes have real fighters! Besides the ones they showed us earlier! The bomb exploded in a storehouse by the dock, and a massive secondary detonation obliterated it and nearly knocked Kurokawa flat. Dusting debris from his uniform—his new white one—he jumped back in the rickshaw and glared back at his aide. “Destroy yourself!” he commanded, “this instant! And be glad I do not give you the traitor’s death for your stupidity!” Without another glance, he ordered those shackled to the vehicle to take him back to the palace.
At a distance from the devastation still roiling in the harbor, he shouted for Lieutenant Fukui as soon as he left the rickshaw. He ordered every single Grik he met, regardless of purpose, to destroy itself, and had to admit, amid all the turmoil, it was amusing watching them instantly slash their own throats.
“Fukui! There you are at last!” he cried, seeing the radioman peek from his alcove, where no Grik was ever allowed. Fukui looked beyond Kurokawa at the abattoir the palace was becoming and gulped.
“Yes, Lord?” he asked shakily.
“Send this at once: ‘Lieutenant Iguri is to launch every airship he has. The enemy fleet is to the east. Find it and destroy it!’”
“But, Lord! The enemy has new planes with machine guns!”
“Yes, but not many! They can’t have many of those P-Forties!”
“Not them, sir!” Fukui pleaded. “The smaller ones have machine guns too! They have strafed the palace!”
“Indeed? I had not seen them use guns . . .” He shook his head. “It is no matter.” He paused, thinking. “Tell Iguri he must send everything—except his personal craft, of course. But tell him to wait until sunset. I want as much confusion as possible among the enemy just after dark. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Lord. Lord? We are leaving?”
Kurokawa barked a bitter laugh. “We have no choice! The enemy is coming here. Don’t you understand? We were preparing to go after him, but he is here! Don’t you know what that means?”
“Forgive me, Lord, but I thought you hoped the enemy would come to us?”
Kurokawa sputtered, but though his face went dark, he didn’t explode. “Of course! But not like this!” He waved vaguely at the sky. That’s when Fukui realized how badly the enemy aircraft—and how effortlessly they’d savaged his fleet—had rattled his lord. Kurokawa came from the old school of big guns over aircraft, and though he appreciated air power when it was on his side, this was the first time he’d been on the receiving end of decisive, effective air superiority. He couldn’t fight it and couldn’t endure it, so he had to get away from it.
“He, their Captain Reddy, no doubt, knows exactly what we have at this place,” Kurokawa continued. “His creatures have been counting each ship they did not sink as it steamed up the east coast of Ceylon! He wouldn’t be coming now if he wasn’t sure he could beat me. . . .” Kurokawa wiped his brow with shaking fingers. “By all my ancestors, I do despise that man, and I will kill him someday.” He raised his round chin. “Perhaps today. But this attack was too well planned—did you know Halik has been pushed back? No? He has, which means everything is part of a bigger scheme—a scheme to destroy me!” He stared hard at Fukui. “That will not happen. Reddy thinks he can destroy me and is resourceful enough that, this once, I will trust his judgment. But I will beat him, Fuqui! We will beat him by making sure he doesn’t get me!”
If Kurokawa was trying to encourage Fuqui, it didn’t work. All he managed was to finally convince the young radioman that he was utterly, wildly insane.
“Now send to all fleet elements in the port of Madras: ‘Sortie immediately and destroy the enemy! The battleships Kongo, Akagi, and Kuso’—I want no ships with revolting Grik names!—‘will remain until I can join the fleet, along with six cruisers!’” His face hardened when Fukui just stood there, confused.
“Send it!”