Carnifex

BdL Dos Lindas

Ash floated on the breeze, some of it still smoldering. Because of that, Fosa had ordered that all refueling and rearming operations take place below, on the hangar deck. There were some obvious downsides to this; for one thing, the ship reeked. But it was just unwise to take the risk of a deck fire from a stray spark.

Fortunately, the Finches had very long legs, tremendous endurance. It was not difficult to keep two aloft continuously, along with another brace of Cricket Bs. The Crickets kept fairly close to the ship, patrolling the edge of the water where it met jungle.

Annoyingly, one of the Crickets hadn't called in in a while and failed to respond to any radio calls to it. Fosa had already given the order to send out another to replace it.

The Finches he had further out, in case a merchant ship under contract for protection should be attacked. Indeed, each Finch aloft was paired with a corvette, operating at a distance of about twenty five miles southeast or northwest of the main classis. Even further away, to the southeast, the Qamra, formerly The Big ?, churned along in leisurely fashion, trolling for pirates. Unfortunately, the best bait, the girls, had to be kept below for the most part. Nobody was going to be nude sunbathing on the deck with all the smoke and ash on the breeze. It would have been inherently suspicious had anyone tried.

Sealed in by thick, shatterproof glass or not, the reek of smoke still penetrated the bridge. It had to; the Dos Lindas was not a spaceship; it drew its air from its surroundings. Fosa was on the bridge, as was Kurita. Both scanned the waters, such as were visible, for threats or targets. There were none, just the enveloping smoke with occasional clear patches.

Unaccountably, and unknowingly imitating the captain of the Hoogaboom, Kurita pulled out a wallet from which he drew a plastic encased black and white photograph. Fosa stepped over to look. He saw a much—a very much—younger Kurita, in dark naval uniform, surrounded by kimono-clad wife and children. The children were beautiful but Fosa was struck mostly by the wife. He knew the story, of course; Kurita had long before explained that his family had been caught in the nuclear bombing of Yamato by the Federated States near the end of the Great Global War.

Your life must have been hard without her, my friend, Fosa thought. Like our Patricio, losing a woman like that is like having your soul torn out.

As if reading Fosa's thought, Kurita said, "Yes . . . it was . . . difficult."

"Well," the captain of Dos Lindas answered, "perhaps you shall reincarnate together, someday."

Kurita rarely laughed, but at that comment he began first to snicker, then to giggle, then finally was overtaken with belly-ripping hilarity. When he recovered, and that took a while, he explained, "Oh, no, my dear friend. She waits for me in Heaven. You see, when the Federated States decided to drop a nuke, they chose a Christian city. We are Catholic."

Which goes to show that I will never understand Yamato. How does a Catholic believe ships and swords are alive?

* * *

This understanding had not been helped by the late night haiku duel he had engaged in with the commodore the evening before over sake. The subject had been the great Kosmo crisis du jour, planetary warming. And beforehand, Kurita had warned, after explaining the rules, "Never bring a knife to a gunfight unless you bring a gun, too. Never bring a sonnet to a haiku fight."

Kurita, as the host, had begun:

"Useful idiots

Without original thought

Believe in the faith"

Fosa though about that one for a moment, before submitting:

"Government money

Given for the right viewpoint

Keeps Kosmos happy."

It was a weak addendum, so Kurita, always gracious, held himself in check:

"Climate change requires

Solar output be ignored

Or lose nice funding."

Fosa nodded at that one, sipped at his sake contemplatively, then answered:

"Great fireball in sky,

How to explain you away

When moons' icecaps melt?"

"Oh, very good, Fosa-san, Kurita applauded. "You're getting the hang of this." He then declaimed:

"Wondrous hockey stick

Replaces Christ's wooden cross

Comes from white noise."

White? White? Fosa wondered. How to play on that? Ah, sheep are white.

"Climate change white sheep

Hate being out of the flock

Lest they be shorn . . . baaaa"

"Bah! Bah, indeed," Kurita exhulted.

"Great Climate Change!

For heretics, deniers,

Jail cells are waiting."

Fosa answered:

"Even Progressives

In Fed'rated States Senate

Say, 'Piss on Kosmos!'"

From Kurita:

"Climate change loonies

Shriek, 'Heresy! Blasphemy!'

Whenever questioned."

Fosa expanded:

"Gathering firewood

To burn up the deniers.

We've seen this before."

After he stopped laughing, Kurita gave:

"Virgin SUV

Cast into the volcano

As the faithful dance."

At that point, Fosa gave up. The image of ten thousand grass-skirt clad Kosmos, deep in religious ecstasy, sacrificing an innocent automobile to the dark earth gods was too much. No doubt much of his mirth was found in the sake, not the poetry. Even so, Fosa was rolling on the floor laughing when, to cap his victory, Kurita gave his last recital:

"High Kosmo leeches

Attend luxury conference

Always fly first class."

* * *

Fosa's reminiscences were interrupted by the sudden arrival of a Cricket on the flight deck. With a plane needing as short a landing run as the Cricket, and landing into the wind, to boot, all arrivals tended to be very sudden.

No sooner had it landed, and the pilot killed the engine, then that pilot was out the door and racing across the flight deck to the tower. He disappeared from view, only to emerge on the bridge moments later.

"My fucking radio went down, Skipper," Montoya announced, even before formally reporting. "I'd have come back right away but there was something odd, a boat, I saw hidden in the jungle."

"Odd?" Fosa asked.

"Three ways, Skipper. One was that it was pretty well hidden. Another was that it looked fast, what I could make out of it. The last was that there were armed men aboard, and they didn't shoot at me."

Kurita's finger beat Fosa's to the alarm: Battle stations, this is no drill.

* * *

Lovely word, 'karma,' the Naquib thought. Pity we don't have quite the equivalent in Islam. But it was karma, or Allah's will, that the infidel aircraft spotted us. Maybe I should have ordered that aircraft engaged. Maybe I did right in not ordering it engaged. I'll never know in this life. What I do know is we must attack now, even though the enemy is not in the optimal position for our ambush.

One hundred meters up a half choked inlet, al Naquib's boat wound its way through the maze of fallen logs and sand bars. To either side, he heard the distance-dissipated roar of large marine engines coming to life and doing likewise. He could not hear the motors of the half dozen boats on the other side of the Straits. Yet his chief assistant had told him they were likewise on the move.

Unseen and unheard by al Naquib, crews for the cruise missiles and torpedoes were frantically unmasking, activating their guidance systems, and preparing to fire. Hopefully they would launch in good time.