Firestorm

CHAPTER 18

New Ireland

T he once almost-pacifistic Major Chack-Sab-At was a veteran of many battles now, but the wild melee that erupted in the darkened streets of New Dublin was something new in his experience. It was somewhat like the climax of the battle at the Dueling Grounds on New Scotland, except here it was on a completely different scale, sprawling through the congested streets of a large, unfamiliar city. He couldn’t even tell which direction was which, because the smoke from guns and burning buildings hid the sky and blotted out the stars. Few of “his” Imperial troops had ever been to New Ireland before, and even fewer had been in this Company city. Most were as lost as he was in the confusion of this bizarre battle.

Blair’s attack down the slope and across the field toward the city had succeeded far better than expected. The enemy positions had been devastated by the aerial bombing and mortar attack, and the remaining Doms were completely surprised when assailed through the smoky darkness by a force they’d been sure was withdrawing. They broke. Blair’s regiments charged onward, yelling like fiends, flush with success-and lost all cohesion. The Imperial Marines weren’t real professionals after all, Chack had reflected sadly, and he tried to round up as many clumps as he could when his own division went in, but when they continued advancing-while trying to maintain some contact with Blair-everything fell apart. By the sound, the seaborne assault had commenced with a will, likely catching the Doms attempting to respond to Chack and Blair’s attack, as hoped, but now there was fighting everywhere, and Chack had personal control of barely a company of mixed “American” and Imperial Marines.

“The harbor’s that way,” gasped Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar, pointing vaguely over the top of a stone barrier that she, Chack, and the rest of his remaining command had been forced to shelter behind. The barrier formed a rectangle around the Company/Government headquarters building, and there were a lot more rebels or Doms within than Chack had Marines outside. “I can hear the monstrous, great guns still firing from one of the forts,” Blas added.

“I’m glad someone can still hear something,” Chack growled irritably. “This war gets noisier all the time.”

“You like the exploding shells,” Blas accused.

“They don’t explode repeatedly next to my ears,” he said. “And if our enemies ever begin using them, I’ll probably like them less.”

“General Aalden was right about the muskets, though,” Blas insisted. “You can’t poke a bow over a rock wall and loose an arrow without showing much of yourself!”

“A point.” He looked around. Firing had resumed in the direction they’d come from, echoing dully down the narrow, debris-strewn streets, and he had no idea who was shooting at whom, or in which direction. It would probably not be a good idea to go back that way. “If they made their buildings up off the ground in a proper fashion, we could see more,” he grumped.

“We can’t stay here, Major. We must get back into the fight.” Blas looked around. “We need a mortar-gre-naades. Something to raise the enemy fire so we can move.” An errant roundshot, a big one, probably from Salaama-Na herself, crashed into the building before them and showered rocky fragments into the street. The strange but geometrically pleasing city was being systematically destroyed. Smoky dust filled the air.

“Major!” cried an Imperial Marine nearby. “Look there!” A door had opened across the street, and an arm was waving them toward it.

“A local?” Blas asked.

“Must be. It may be a trap, though,” someone said.

“Not all here are rebels, surely,” Chack speculated. He looked at the Marine. “Try to make it across. We’ll fire a volley as you move, to cover your sprint!”

At Chack’s signal, the men and ’Cats behind the barrier fired their muskets at the Company headquarters, and the red-coated Marine scrambled through the rubble and disappeared safely through the door. There was little return fire from the Doms. Several minutes later, a red-sleeved arm motioned from the door in the gloom, and Chack ordered the covering fire resumed. The Marine almost made it back before he tripped and fell, but he managed to scrabble back to safety with musket balls “vrooping” by above his head, or sending shattered rock over the top of the wall.

“Major,” he wheezed, crawling up beside Chack, “it’s a New Dubliner, all right. A cobbler.” The man grinned. “He don’t know what you Lee-mooans are, and he was a touch nervous, but he seen our red coats. He’s a loyal man. Says his sons are watchin’ the fight from the rooftop. Lots of locals are, all over the city, an’ many’re with us! The Doms’ve treated folk rough.” He shook his head. “Anyway, a lot have risen up-that’s one reason we’re not takin’ much fire from above. There ain’t many of ’em armed, but those that are are tryin’ to stay out of the way, on the roofs! They ain’t fightin’ much,” he admitted, “just enough to keep the Doms down off their places, see, and not enough to provoke ’em as much against them as they are against us!”

“That’s a larger service than they credit,” Chack mused. “But are they not vulnerable to the flying creatures the Doms control?”

“They might be, but for the smoke. Seems the bloody damn things don’t like it. Can’t see through it, or breathe it, maybe. They don’t know why. Anyway, all them devils are gone, or stayin’ above the fight, says he.”

“Does he know where our closest friends are?”

“Aye. If you’ll look up, he has three stories. A fair view. There’s maybe another company just two streets yonder!” The Marine pointed beyond the cobbler’s establishment.

“Okay,” Chack said, deciding. “Will you take me to meet your new friend?”

The Marine looked back across the avenue he’d just crossed twice. “Aye, sir.”

“Good. Blas? Same procedure as before.”

They both made it again, though a few balls came close, and they bolted through the door followed by splinters and powdered, gravelly dust. The “cobbler” was still in the dark room, standing behind a substantial wall. He started to move to greet them, then stopped, his eyes going wide in the gloom at the sight of the Lemurian.

Chack touched his battered helmet. “Major Chack-Sab-At, of the Amer-i-caan Navy and Maa-rine Corps,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage. “Ally and friend of His Highness, Gerald McDonald. I am at your service, sir.”

“By all that’s holy!” blurted the balding, tall man. “The Doms said ye were demons, an’ ye do look like one!”

“I hope we are demons to them, sir,” Chack said, “but we’re friends of the Empire.”

“Well… that’s good enough for me,” the man decided. “If those bloody bastards fear ye, an’ men such as this Marine obey ye, I’d wager ye’re near a saint! How can I help?”

Chack quickly scanned the room. Shadowy objects were discernible. Shoe lasts, benches, stacks of leather, tools. “I’m told you can see the battle from above?”

“Aye.”

“May I have a look?”

The man hesitated only slightly before nodding. “Aye, follow me.” He opened a door that concealed a flight of stairs and retrieved a burning lamp from a step. “This way, if ye please.”

Up the stairs they went, passing through the second-story living space. The third was much the same-possibly for the sons? Finally, the trio emerged on the roof, surrounded by a high continuation of the out- side wall. Four young men greeted them with muskets, but turned them away when they recognized the cobbler. A middle-aged woman and a girl sat huddled to one side, wrapped in blankets head to foot, to protect them from flying debris. Chack didn’t know if he’d ever seen such concern for Imperial females demonstrated by anyone other than Commodore Jenks-or Governor Radcliff on Respite Island. The reaction of the “sons” was similar to the cobbler, but he quickly assured them.

“Watch yerself near the edge,” the cobbler warned as Chack started to look around. “I doubt the sods’ll hit ye, but they might get grit in yer eyes!”

Chack nodded his thanks and began to absorb the Battle of New Dublin. The house/store/shop wasn’t the tallest building in the city by any means, several being two or more stories taller, but it afforded an excellent view of the chaotic struggle. It was surreal. Salaama-Na had moved quite close to one of the forts with her great sweeps, and the two traded heavy fire like angry volcanoes locked in a hellish embrace. The Home had the advantage in firepower, but whether the great ship or the fort was more durable was anyone’s guess. The other fort was a smoldering ruin, probably destroyed by a hit in its magazine, and Chack realized he must have missed its demolition during the bombing. He doubted it was constructed to protect against attack from the air.

The harbor glowed and pulsed with burning ships of all sizes, and buildings and warehouses all along the waterfront were in flames. Small flashes lit the night in all directions, like granules of gunpowder trickled in a fire, and he finally gained a semblance of understanding where the general respective lines were. A light gun barked in the street to the south and canister crackled down an alleyway amid foreign screams. Must be one of our light six-pounders, he thought. Bringing it down the mountains behind them would have been a nightre. I wonder how many there are? Few pieces were firing anywhere in the city; the Doms must’ve had all of theirs pointing outward, and spiked them as they were overrun. The only other big guns still in the fight were those of the fort, a few light pieces firing inward that the landing Marines must have brought, and what appeared to be a Dom bastion of some kind far on the northwest side of the city. Guns from there belched fire in all directions.

“Maarine,” he snapped, “what’s your name, anyway?”

“Private Shmuke, sir.”

“ Corporal Shmuke, after I talk to Mr. Blair,” Chack said. “I need you to contact that company fighting to our rear. I presume it’s they who have the gun. Tell them to bring it up here to support us. We can’t link up with anyone until we get past that building there.” He pointed at the one they’d stalled in front of. “I assume that’s this city’s Government House?” he asked the cobbler.

“Aye, or at least it was. As ye may imagine, it was taken over by the Comp’ny several months ago when the Doms first started coming in,” he seethed.

“Months?” Chack asked.

“Aye. Didn’t anyone know?”

“No one who mattered, apparently,” Chack said. “None of the shipping from here reported it, but it rarely touches at Scapa Flow.. ..” He paused. “Or anywhere I’m aware of except for New Britain Island, come to that. There’s been… suspicion of late.”

“Aye,” the cobbler said, “an’ naught but Comp’ny ships’ve been allowed to come an’ go this past year!”

“That explains a lot,” Chack murmured, “but not why.” He looked at Corporal Shmuke. “Bring them up!”

“Aye, sir!”

“Corp’ral,” said the cobbler, “one of my boys’ll lead ye. Ye can get quite close moving along the rooftops. He’ll know those ye meet, an’ which dwellin’s are safe to descend within.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Another broadside thundered from Salaama-Na in the harbor and other Imperial ships had joined her at last, risking their comparatively thin skins in an effort to overwhelm the fort. The fort wasn’t finished yet, however, and the night lit up with a terrible eruption as an Imperial “liner” disintegrated as a result of a lucky shot.

“Ye asked why,” the cobbler said softly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Many of us here, on New Ireland an’ elsewhere, adhere ta the Catholic faith-the old, true faith some of the Founders brought with ’em. Even if it weren’t for the Doms an’ their perversions, the ‘Old Church’ is frowned upon. Its practice is legal, but grounds for revocation of citizen- ship. One cannot be an open Catholic an’ vote for the court, so those of us who’re honest to our God an’ our emperor have no say. The dishonest sell their votes ta the Comp’ny. Some here, the ‘rebels,’ would have independence. Most would be happy just ta worship as we would. The Comp’ny, as separatist rebels, or for reasons of their own, p’raps hoped the Doms would help us gain independence and just be happy ta have us move a tad closer ta their way of thinkin’.” He spat. “Madness, o’ course. The ‘Old Church’ has nothin’ in common with the filthy version the Doms advance-an’ any fool could see they don’t accept half measures. If they’re in, they’re in, an’ the suffering here, especially after whatever transpired on New Scotland, has been enough to kill a man’s soul. I an’ me family’ve been lucky ta survive the ‘cleansin’,’ an’ me poor daughter’s been hid ever since they arrived. Most females of childbearin’ age… The sacrifices, ye see…”

Chack could bear no more. He hadn’t really considered the lot of those on New Ireland who didn’t support the new regime. He looked once more at the dying city. “There will be a reckoning for this, sir, I assure you. Now I must return to my Marines. You’ve been most helpful and kind.”

“I thought you said your ‘beloved ass’ wouldn’t fly!” Second Lieutenant Orrin Reddy shouted through the voice tube to his passenger, as the NC-1B “Nancy” achieved a cruising altitude of about five thousand feet. There were no lights on the plane-something that needed fixing-but his “passenger” knew enough Morse to confirm the other ships in the 10th Pursuit Squadron had converged on the orange exhaust flare from the lead plane’s engine. Orrin hoped they wouldn’t “converge” too close! He couldn’t make out any details in his little mirror, but he suspected he’d see Dennis Silva’s gap-toothed grin if it was light.

“ I ain’t flyin’; you are!” came the reply.

“I thought you were afraid to fly!”

“I am! That’s why you’re doin’ it, damn it!”

“Well…” Orrin shook his head in frustration. “What difference does that make?”

“I ain’t at the controls!”

Orrin started to ask at what point a maniacal gunner’s mate in the Asiatic Fleet had ever controlled an aircraft, when something bumped into the back of his leg. “What the hell!” He looked down but saw nothing in the darkness.

“It’s cold!” came a strange voice from within the fuselage/hull of the plane.

“My God, Lawrence! Is that you?” Orrin demanded.

“Course it is! Who else do you think could get in here?”

“But what are you doing in there? I thought this thing was heavy.

…”

“Look, Mr. Reddy,” Silva yelled. “I work for the Skipper, an’ my job’s to take care of stuff for him, you know, the gals an’ such. Well, Miss Lieutenant Minister Tucker an’ the Munchkin princess are safe as can be right now. They both think maybe you need a little watchin’ over right now, you an’ the Skipper bein’ related an’ all.”

“That’s bullshit!”

“Sure it is, an’ I said so, but they made me come! It was a face-to-face, direct order!”

“But… what’s Lawrence doing here?”

“He kinda thinks of himself as my sidekick, see? Sometimes I let him carry one of my guns.”

“I ain’t no sidekick!” Lawrence said.

“Hey, there’s the moon!” Silva said, diverting the conversation. The bright orb, nearly full, had begun emerging from the sea. “Boy, it sure looks close! Hey! How come it always looks closer when it rears up than when it’s right overhead, Lieutenant? I’ve always wondered that.”

“You’re kidding? Well… there’s more atmosphere between us and it when it first comes up. It acts like a magnifying glass… I think.”

“So… it’s because there’s more air between us and it now than when it’s straight up?”

“That’s what I just said!”

“Then if you had a glass tank and filled it with compressed air, you could really see somethin’, right?”

Orrin shook his head but didn’t reply. What a dopey question, he thought. Now it’s going to drive me nuts! He was glad to see the moon, though; it would make setting down on that lake in the dark a lot easier. He looked over his shoulder and saw the silhouettes of the rest of his flight. Maybe we won’t be as likely to run into each other either. The silhouette of New Ireland had appeared as well, as the moon rose higher, looking like a mountain range surrounded by a sea of mercury. “We should see the southern elements of Second Fleet soon. Start keeping your eyes peeled, in case any of those damn lizard birds are waiting for us.”

The four-cylinder engine droned companionably above them as the coastline neared and the dark shapes of ships emerged. On shore, northeast and southwest of Cork, a battle raged, with vertical slashes of fire in both directions pinpointing artillery emplacements. Occasionally, clusters of mortar bombs sputtered where observers must have spotted enemy troop concentrations. The ships weren’t firing much, since all were Imperial vessels and had no explosive shells, but they’d probably rejoin the fight in earnest at dawn, once they could see what they were shooting at again.

“Anything on the horn I ought to know about?” Orrin asked.

“I can’t make heads or tails of it,” Silva confessed. “I ain’t no spark catcher, but I can hold my own. Every time I start pickin’ up a thread, somebody stomps all over it. Sounds like a mess, though. Everbody’s screamin’ for those swell new mortar bombs. Apparently, they’re about all that’s keepin’ the bad guys back. Must be runnin’ out.”

“I’m not surprised,” Orrin said. “This turned into a lot bigger fight than anybody expected, and all the artillery that fires exploding shells are with Chack and Blair, or left behind at Waterford.” He looked down at the fighting around Cork as they flew above it. “They’ll get more ordnance in the morning when that Jap colonel comes ashore-if they can hold that long.” Orrin’s tone revealed he still wasn’t comfortable relying on Shinya. He liked and respected Sandra, Laumer, and Captain Lelaa (he’d taken to the ’Cats as quickly as anyone). He even liked Lawrence right off, but, of course, he’d never seen a Grik. In many ways, Orrin Reddy was still entranced and fascinated by this bizarre “Oz” he’d found himself in, and it sure beat the fate that awaited him aboard-or beyond-that hellish ship he’d ridden to this world. But no matter whose side he was on, Shinya was still a Jap.

Ahead were the Wiklow Mountains. Soon they’d cross them and view the valley beyond-and the lake that ought to be Pearl Harbor.

“This fight looks… even bigger,” he observed a while later as they descended into the valley and neared what could only be the city of Waterford. A vast crescent of fire enveloped the northern part of the town, and Lake Shannon shimmered and glowed like a great puddle of blood. Bright flashes lit the valley, and crimson arcs of exploding shells fell on what had to be enemy positions, fired from the city and the mountains beyond. Cork was a holding action. Beyond the next range was the main Allied push, but here, the enemy had the whole campaign by the throat. If Waterford fell, each force would be isolated and vulnerable. From altiude, the battle resembled an inferno as the damp, but sappy forest burned almost everywhere. Immediately, Orrin Reddy changed his entire plan.

“Watch really carefully now,” he instructed Silva. “That moon’s a big help to us, but it’ll help those flying creatures too!”

In the event, the entire 10th Pursuit Squadron set down on the placid, brightly lit lake without incident, and motored toward a pier where nearly a dozen other “Nancys” were tied. Willing hands helped secure the bobbing aircraft as the engines were cut, and weary, stiff-legged aircrews scrambled onto the dock.

“Where’s HQ?” Orrin shouted.

“You not like it, sur,” warned a ’Cat.

“Why?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just take me there.”

There was excited chattering he didn’t understand, and he was quickly led through a maze of battered waterfront buildings to a long, low-slung structure that reminded him of an army barracks. Probably every one of his fliers gaggled behind him.

“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded an Imperial officer as Orrin, Silva, and the leading edge of aviators burst into the building. Orrin was shocked by the tone, but also the level of chaos he beheld. At first glance, the activity they’d interrupted seemed to border on panic.

“Lieutenant Orrin Reddy, COFO of Maaka-Kakja, reporting,” he said. He didn’t salute, partly because he had no idea about Imperial rank devices, but also because his temper was rising.

“Very well, you’ve reported!” the officer said brusquely. “Now get out of the way! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve a battle on our hands!”

“That’s pretty clear from the air. What’s also clear is a way to end it in a hurry!”

“Ridiculous! We’re doing all that can be done with our meager forces here.”

“You’re not doing anything with the planes yet.”

“Yes… well, I heard there was some scheme to use them in the morning for something,” the man replied vaguely, “though I’ve no idea what possible use they might be. Freakish curiosities!”

“Who’s in command here?” Silva demanded menacingly, taking a step forward. Lawrence squeezed in beside him, and his frightening visage and strangely colored armor were at least as disconcerting as Silva’s sudden entrance into the conversation.

“Why… Commodore Luce came forward with the reinforcements from Cork. I suppose he’s the highest in rank…”

“So he’s in charge?”

“I don’t know as if you could say he’s in charge, per se…”

“Is anybody in charge?” Silva roared.

The Imperials visibly flinched.

“Uh, Major Blair was in charge of this element of the operation, though we’ve occupied an area originally designated for the Ape-Major Chack, I mean! Neither is here at present, so I command my forces, Commodore Luce has his, though his artillery is controlled by… someone else. Major Brighton has the troops that fled here from Bray, but his supply train security force is under Major Grimes.”

“Nobody’s in charge?” Silva roared again, but with a tone of furious incredulity. “Good Gawd a’font›hell kind of a way is this to run a war? You fellas haven’t done much o’ this, have you?”

“Perhaps not on this scale, but I assure you…!”

Dennis turned to Orrin. “Sir,’ he said with more gravity than Orrin had ever heard him use, “as the senior officer on the scene who has the only f… lipperin’ clue what the flyin’…” He stopped. “Oh goddamn, Lieutenant! Just rear up an’ take charge o’ this chickenshit outfit!”

“Jesus, Silva, I can’t do that!” Orrin objected, his young face reddening in the lamplight.

“Of course not!” the Imperial practically squealed.

Silva raised the Thompson SMG he’d been holding innocuously by his side and yanked the bolt back. “Lieutenant Reddy, you’re fixin’ to hafta take charge after I shoot all these useless sons-o’-goats!”

“Just wait, damn it!” Orrin shouted. He spun back to face the Imperial “commander.” “Look, I don’t want your job and I sure don’t want you fellows dead, but I do have a plan!” He pushed his way through the suddenly very quiet and attentive officers in the room to a map spread on a table. “The Doms are all around here,” he said, drawing a crescent with his finger. “Some big fires are burning here”-he pointed again-“between the enemy and this little river, probably started by Chack and Blair’s artillery.”

“Yes,” muttered another officer. “A great tragedy, all those trees!”

Orrin looked at the man and blinked. “Uh, okay. The thing is, those guns can’t reach any farther. We can! Maaka-Kakja ’s planes!”

“For what purpose?”

“We brought fuel for the planes that landed on the lake, but we don’t need all of them for this. You pull all your troops back to the city, and we rig fuel cans with mortar bombs and drop ’em on the enemy! The whole valley north of the city will go up in a wall of fire, and the Doms we don’t burn will have no choice but to pull back! By the time the fire simmers down, you should have reinforcements from the coast!”

“Madness!” cried the “tree” officer. “To burn the enemy alive! It’s monstrous, simply monstrous! And all those trees! The beauty of the valley will be lost!”

“You’re all nuts,” shouted Orrin in return. “You’d rather lose the battle and get nailed to a post-and maybe lose the whole damn war-than kill the enemy and burn a few trees?” He looked at Silva. “I should’ve let you shoot ’em!”

“Still can,” Silva said.

“Now, now!” cried the first Imperial. “This is madness! We’re all on the same side, by Imperial decree. I will respect that. You have your own command, so please do as you think best with it! I’ll pass the word to Commodore Luce and the others! Just leave us.”

“I need some mortar bombs,” Orrin insisted.

“As do we all. I don’t know if any can be had, but if so, you’ll have to get them from… oh, blast! I still can’t remember his name! The artillery gentleman! Now, if you don’t mean to shoot us, please leave us to fight our battle!”

Orrin turned without saluting and strode out the door, followed by his fliers. “Silva,” he said sharply.

“Sir?”

“Take a dil and get me some mortar bombs… I don’t care how you do it.”

“You bet! C’mon, Larry, you fuzzy little salamander. Let’s go get some bombs!”

Half a dozen ’Cats followed Silva and Lawrence into the noisy, fiery night.

“What we do now?” another ’Cat asked Orrin.

“Let’s go see how many planes we can gas up enough to do the job, and still have enough fuel to burn the Doms out of this place!” He looked back at the HQ. “This joint’s even more screwed up than things were back in the Philippines when the Japs came! I didn’t think that was possible!”

Within an hour, Silva returned with almost forty bombs; Orrin had eleven planes with tanks topped off, each with two five-gallon gas cans slung under it’s wings. They hadn’t figured out a way to secure the bombs to the cans in a way that would ensure the contact fuses were pointed down when the ungainly weapons were dropped, so they decided to try something like what Orrin had heard First Fleet did in the west, except in this case the observers would toss a couple of bombs at the same time the pilots yanked a release lanyard on a gas tank. If they hit close enough together, swell. Some would, certainly, and their next pass with their second cans would connect the dots. Orrin knew “real” incendiaries were now in production at Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la, but they wouldn’t have them here for some time.

“I’m almost surprised that crazy-assed Imperial gardener hasn’t sent troops to stop us,” Silva said as he propped his and Orrin’s plane, and then sat down in the observer’s seat when the engine caught and farted to life.

“Me too,” replied Orrin, shouting over the sudden rumble of engines up and down the dock.

“Watch where your giant shoes go!” Lawrence suddenly protested from within the fuselage.

“Well, move your damn lizardy face out from under ’em!”

“Lay off, you two!” Orrin said. The moon had dulled behind the smoke, and there was less visibility on the lake now. “I need to concentrate- and you do too! Don’t forget, there’re still some other ‘lizardy’ things out there!” He paused. “Besides, why’d you bring Lawrence this time?”

“What, you wanna leave him back there with that buncha dopes? I doubt any of ’em has ever seen his type before. Hell, they’d have ’em on a leash-or in a fish tank-by the time we got back.”

“Just as well,” Orrin said. “After the stunt you pulled, I’m not sure we should go back! Listen, as soon as we’re up and get some altitude, send a report to Makka-Kakja about the mess here, and what we’re going to try.”

“Okay,” Silva responded doubtfully, “I’ll try. They may have trouble readin’ my writin, though!”

“Just do your best,” Orrin directed. “Use the ‘air’ frequency. You’ll have a better chance of getting through that mush offshore.” With that, he advanced the throttle and the “Nancy” accelerated across the water.

Once they were airborne and the rest of the pickup squadron, mostly from the 10th Pursuit, had formed on them, Orrin banked wide around the valley to the south of the lake, almost to the sea. There, the sky was clear and the bright moon was almost overhead now. He circled to the east, near the Sperrin Mountains, and tried to view the battle for New Dublin, but all he saw was a bright glow on smoky clouds beyond the cggy peaks. He steadied up on a northeast to southwest flight path that put the greater enemy concentration directly ahead.

“We’re first,” Orrin shouted back. “The rest of the guys’ll try to lay their eggs just beyond ours, and then the next plane’s in succession! It’s gonna be tough in the dark. Hell, it’d be tough in daylight, but there’s not much else we can do. If we leave it to those rear area… gentlemen at their supposed HQ, your Jap buddy’ll have to fight this whole campaign all over again.”

“He may be a Jap,” Silva returned, “an we ain’t exactly ‘buddies,’ but if he has to start over, I guarantee his campaign-with our guys-won’t be anything like this one! These New Brits ain’t like our Marines, but they ain’t bad soljers, I hear. I can tell you their Navy men are damn good-but their Navy’s kept ’em from havin’ to fight a big land war before, an’ except for that Blair fella-accordin’ to Chack-they don’t much know how.” He looked over his shoulder at the glare beyond the moun- tains. “An’ which it looks like ol Chack an’ Blair are stuck in pretty good. Chack damn sure knows how to fight!”

“Yeah, well maybe we’ll have a look after we’re done here.” Orrin nodded back toward the lake. “As I said, maybe we ought not go back there. Now hang on!”

Suddenly, the nose pitched down and the plane aimed for the edge of the now-much-larger fire burning on the enemy’s left flank. Orrin’s warning had really been just a figure of speech, because Silva couldn’t hold on with a ten-pound bomb in each hand. The “Nancy” hurtled downward, and if it hadn’t been for the sudden fusillade of musketry crackling toward them, it would’ve been frighteningly difficult to tell how low they were getting.

“Get ready!” Orrin yelled. Musket balls began striking the plane. “Now!”

Silva pitched his bombs just as the plane jolted to starboard with the sudden lightening of the port wing. He was pressed back into his seat as Orrin pulled back on the stick and applied full throttle, but still managed to keep his eyes on the general area where their “ordnance” fell. “Who-eeee!” he roared when two small flashes ignited a mushroom of orange and black. Myriad trees and limbs were silhouetted, many already adding yellowish wisps to the fireball. “That was a good-un!” he cried as the plane continued climbing, banking east over the city and out of the haze already lingering over the enemy position. Another fiery eruption extended the fire a little southwest, and Silva whooped again. There was nothing more for several moments beyond a few probable mortar bursts, long past the time for the next two planes to drop. Suddenly, the sky spit a spiraling meteor that spun out of control and impacted almost a quarter mile past the last explosion. It detonated with even greater force than their own bomb had done-just as another “Nancy” suddenly blew up a little beyond where the first had fallen.

“Two of them must’ve run into each other,” Orrin said stiffly. Even as they watched, the new flames leaped back the distance toward the first. Evidently, the drops had been good; they just hadn’t ignited. They did now. Tall, sappy trees became instant torches, swirling flames coiling around them and pointing at the sky. Another plane dropped its payload, then another. Orrin was sad about the pilots he’d just lost, but damn, the rest of the “boys” were pasting them!

“Okay, one more run!” he commanded. “Send it, if you can.” He circled around, out of the growing haze of smoke to the southwest, and tried to line up on the procession of strengthening firesi›It must be hell down there, he thought, but then tried not to think about it. They took more bullets on this run, and Lawrence squeaked when a ball tore through the hull and exploded some of his tail plumage, but they made their drop without serious injury to the plane or themselves. The gas didn’t burn this time, but a plane behind them connected fuel to the flame, and the whole thing went up in a quickening rush. Orrin was probably only imagining the screams he thought he heard over the engine and the wind rushing by.

“Jesus,” he muttered, looking down. The Dom artillery flashes had all but stopped, and the semicircle of encroaching fires had become a cauldron of flame. Somewhere in the midst of all that were hundreds- thousands of men who’d had absolutely no idea what was coming, how to deal with it, or even how to take cover. They’d never been attacked from the sky before. He felt a little sick. In the dark days before the Philippines fell, the few remaining American planes had been forbidden to tangle with Zeros. They could outrun them or dive away, and that was what they’d been told to do, to preserve their planes for recon and ground attack. Mixing it up with the nimble Japanese planes was a losing proposition. Therefore, he’d strafed and bombed his share of landing craft and troop columns-but that was different. They were Japs, they’d attacked his country, and they were after him. He felt protective of “his” pilots now and he mourned those he’d lost, but this still just didn’t feel like “his” war yet.

Below, the flames grew more intense as the prevailing east wind curled around the flank of the Sperrin Mountains and blew them northwest. He began to see why the “tree officer” had been so concerned; the conflagration was growing and threatened to consume the entire valley in a sea of fire. Well, that was tough. He’d come to save people, not trees, and the increased fire from the Imperial positions showed that “his” side was taking advantage of the situation and pressing the Dom survivors back toward the blaze. Their reserves, caught on the other side of the advancing firestorm, were abandoning them and starting to flee up the Waterford road. Soon, those left behind would have to surrender or die.

“Our work here is done,” Silva shouted in the lofty tone of some satisfied warrior prophet. “Let us go across the mountains!”

“You think we ought to take the rest of the flight?”

“I dunno. They’re as likely to be welcomed as hee-roes as shot, I guess, an’ they was just followin’ orders. Then there’s them giant lizard birds to consider.”

“Right. Tell ’em to set back down on Lake Shannon and await further orders. If they don’t hear from us in a couple of hours, they’re on their own. If they can’t get any reception, they can take a plane up once an hour and try to contact Maaka-Kakja. Otherwise, they can still support the ground elements here, but don’t let the boneheads push ’em around! We just won their damn battle for ’em,” he added grimly.

Silva sent the message, and the two men and Lawrence turned northeast for the pass Chack and Blair had crossed to New Dublin.

“Have Major Jindal bring his company up even with us, on those parallel streets to the right, then move up several more… sections? Blocks! Several blocks, and wait for us to do the same! Oh, and watch for people on the roofs! Ask their aid in spotting enemy concentrations. They’ve been most helpful.”

“Aye, sir,” said Shmuke, and he trotted off with his squad.

The “mystery company” they’d joined near the Company HQ was one Jindal put together much like Chack had. It even included some of Blair’s men. No one had been prepared for urban combat like this. The only good thing was that the Doms apparently weren’t very good at it either; and even fractured as they were, the allies were pushing from all directions while the enemy had little choice but to contract toward that heavy bastion in the northwest of the city.

That didn’t mean the fighting had gotten easier. The first thing Chack and Jindal accomplished together-with the help of the light six-pounder an industrious Lemurian artillery crew had brought forward-was the capture of the holdouts in the Company HQ house. Several double-shotted loads collapsed the south-facing portico, and a final round of double canister preceded a bayonet charge by the two companies of’Cats and men. The fighting in the rubble of the entrance, and then through the corridors of the building, had been savage but ultimately futile for the defenders. Some surrendered-rebels and Company men for the most part-and were dragged roughly into the street where Chack and his Marines had been pinned down.

“What shall we do with them?” Jindal had asked, still breathless after the fight. Chack saw the cobbler and his sons coming from the door he’d entered earlier. More “rooftop militia” appeared as well, from other doors and buildings.

“We can’t take them with us,” Chack said. “You, sir,” he addressed the cobbler. “We must move on. We have wounded, and perhaps twenty prisoners here. Can we leave them with you?”

“Aye,” said the cobbler. ‘We’ll do whatever we can for your wounded.” He’d looked hard at the prisoners, some he likely knew. “We’ll take care of them as well.”

That was almost two hours ago, and Chack and Jindal had finally linked up with the Marines who’d taken the port facilities. Most of those had moved east and southeast toward the still-unconquered fort. Its guns had finally fallen silent, but it hadn’t surrendered. Apparently, Blair was moving north, going for the bastion, but much was still confused. Many enemy troops were still encountered in what had to be Blair’s rear, and clumps of Marines were swept along as Chack and Jindal advanced.

“Jindal’s on the move!” came a cry from above. Chack had sent a few Marines to augment the rooftop militia and help form a verbal semaphore system.

“All right, take your positions,” Chack ordered. As often as not, when one element moved forward, enemy troops ran out in front of the other, trying to flank the first, or just get out of the way. Chack never knew what their intent was, and didn’t care. The idea of receiving or giving quarter still struck him as odd. Sure enough, dark forms appeared in the flame-lit streets, scurrying around a corner and heading in their direction.

“Make ready!” Blas-Ma-Ar cried beside him. The growing gaggle of Doms tried to slow their advance, suddenly aware of their mistake.

“Fire!” Chack yelled. The booming volley echoed down the rubble- strewn avenue and men fell, or clutched themselves, screaming. Others bored in. In the flashes, Chack saw the uniforms of these men and recognized them as “Blood Drinkers,” the elite, special force of the Dom Army, commanded by their “Blood Cardinals” and sworn to their twisted “pope.” They wouldn’t ask for quarter. “Bayonets!” Chack yelled. “At them!” He lunged forward himself, his old Krag lowered. His hatred for the “Blood Drinkers” rivaled his hatred for the Grik. Even badly outnumbered, this group of Doms sold hack yell lives dearly, but none were left for Chack to kill when he reached the melee.

Blas grabbed him from behind. “Quit that!” she seethed forcefully. “You get killed, who’ll take over here? Not me! Our guys would be okay, but you think these Im-pees do what I say?” She snorted. “Not god-daamn likely! I’m just a dame to them, a forrin ‘ape’ dame to some! We still win this fight if you’re dead?”

Chack almost laughed at the little female shaking him by the arm-then remembered a time when she’d been shaking, under entirely different circumstances. She’d been through a lot and come a long way. And she was right. Suddenly, as often happened in the midst of battle, he thought of his love, Safir Maraan, impossibly distant. She wouldn’t be holding him back; he’d be trying to restrain her -but that was what kept them balanced. She’d been born to this, but he’d come to it late and without her influence, or more properly his need to influence her, he chased it like an addict. He suddenly missed her so intensely, he felt almost ill.

“I… will try to refrain from impulsive acts, in future, that might leave you with the burden of command,” he said.

“Daamn well better,” Blas muttered, blinking rapidly as she released him and turned away.

“Females,” Chack grunted. “All right,” he said, raising his voice. “Wounded to the rear. The rest of you, let’s move up to that next street crossing. Major Jindal may be about to give us more business; I hear firing from his direction!”

“That’s not Jindal!” came the voice of a Marine on a rooftop. “That’s one o’ yer bloody flyin’ machines! There’s a dragon latched onto it, an’ it’s comin’ down! Somebody’s shootin’ one o’ them fast shooters at it!”

Almost at that instant, the plane staggered overhead, aiming for a bayside park a few blocks over. A grotesque, winged shape was plummeting away from it, but another was underneath, clutching its tail.

“Continue the push,” Chack said. “I’ll rejoin you shortly. If any still live when that craft comes to rest, I must hear their news and observations at once! Anyone who questions Lieutenant Blas-Ma-Ar’s orders will regret it! Half a dozen volunteers, with me!” He looked at Blas, and his eyes and tail flashed irony, confidence, and fondness simultaneously in the pulsing lights of the citywide battle. In an instant, he raced off in the direction the “Nancy” disappeared, followed by a mixed group.

“Hold up!” cried a ’Cat in the “point” position of the squad, flinging himself against a plastered corner as white, dusty chunks erupted around him. He slammed back against the wall as several more musket balls whizzed past. “A dozen-red on coat fronts; more ‘bloody boys,’ work their way to plane!” he said.

“Did you see it?”

“Ay, te plane busted up, one wing tore off-hit tree, I tink. Lizard bird still ’live, but busted up too!”

“Did all the Doms fire?” Chack demanded.

“Ah,” the point ’Cat blinked furiously. “Ay, most.”

“Then at them!” Chack yelled.

Not all the Doms had fired, and one of the two Imperials in Chack’s squad went down as they rushed the “Blood Drinkers” with the disconcerting Lemurian battle shriek Pete Alden had once compared to a “Rebel yell.” Almost on top of the frantically reloading Doms, they all planed their feet and fired directly into them, then leaped forward with their bayonets. The elite troops almost never surrendered, but these never even had a chance to decide. All were killed while either still doggedly reloading, or reaching for bayonets. Chack twisted his Krag and dragged his own sixteen-inch steel from the chest of a writhing man and snapped his gaze toward the wrecked plane, when a mournful, hissing wail caught his attention. The lizard bird had been flung against some other trees beside a nearby circle of benches in this apparent “park” area, and it was quickly stumping back toward the smoking wreckage, dragging a shattered wing and leg. It used its other folded wing like a foreleg, though, and its progress was surprisingly swift. In an instant, it was be- tween them and the broken “Nancy,” its jaws agape, protecting its “prize.”

This was Chack’s and his squad’s first real look at one of the things, and it did look shockingly like a big Grik, with thicker, oddly colored plumage-and, of course, wings instead of arms. Chack’s squad was furiously loading its muskets, and the thing, seemingly convinced they didn’t mean to challenge it, turned its attention back to the plane. Chack opened the bolt of his Krag enough to ensure there was a round in the chamber, and raised it to his shoulder. Just as the beast peered into the rear opening in the fuselage, where the observer sat, a rapid burst of yellow-orange flashes tat-tat-tat ted from within, and the “flying Grik” collapsed backward, flailing and flopping with a spastic energy that only lifeless creatures seemed capable of. Chack lowered the Krag and sprinted for the plane. “Two with me!” he shouted. “The rest of you, keep a careful watch! Others will have seen the crash!”

Reaching the warped, wingless wreckage, he saw a practically shaven head, followed by a pair of massive shoulders, a Thomson SMG, and then mighty arms pried themselves through the relatively small oval opening like a brontasarry emerging from an improbably tiny egg. The head swiveled, exposing a blond beard and black eye patch. A good eye focused on Chack, and the brow above it arched.

“Goddamn snakey-bird bastards!” Dennis Silva grumbled. “ This ain’t my fault!”

“Dennis!” Chack was utterly stunned. He’d heard of Silva’s recent exploits, but the last time he’d seen his friend was before the “Second Allied Expeditionary Force” left to secure Aryaal and B’mbaado, and finally invaded Singapore. That force was now collectively referred to as “First Fleet,” and so much had happened since…

“It’s me in the battered flesh, Chackie! Are you gonna stand there starin’ and chewin’ yer cud, or help me outta this junk heap before I have a hydrophobic fit?”

Except for a few ugly cuts, Silva emerged relatively unharmed. Quickly, they practically tore the plane off Lieutenant Reddy. The man was unconscious but alive, and they carried him to a group of trees and laid him on the grass. Lawrence was banged up, but not too badly. They’d found him in the nose of the plane, under its pilot, where he’d tumbled during the crash. He limped a little from smashing the control stick and rudder pedals with his hip, but he quickly busied himself removing their weapons from the wreckage.

“What about the wireless set?” Silva demanded loudly, checking Orrin’s pulse.

“It’s ’usted,” Lawrence cried back, his voice muffled. “You ’recked it’ith your idiot ass!” Despite his aches, Lawrence was very happy to be on the ground, in one piece.

“Okay… burn the wreck. Don’t want the Doms getting a good loot it!”

“Ay, ay, General Sil’a!” Lawrence retorted.

“Our little lizard is growing up,” Chack said fondly. He was surprised how glad he was to see them both. He stooped. “This is the ‘Reddy Cousin’ the reports mentioned?” he asked, looking down at the unconscious man. “Doesn’t look like him… to me.”

“Me neither,” Silva said. “Not much. But he’s a good’un-in different ways. We need to take care of him.”

“Of course. The area behind us is mostly secure now. Take these troops and escort him back to the harbor. You will meet Imperial Marines and possibly shore parties from Salaama-Na. ”

“Nope,” Silva said as the ruined “Nancy” began to burn and Lawrence limp-trotted back with weapons on his shoulders-and a long object in his hands.

“Send these other fellas. I done all I can in the Air Corps. I ain’t been in a real fight in a while. I’m with you.” He suddenly noticed what Lawrence had. “Oh nooooo!”

“What?” Chack asked.

“The war’s lost! My be-loved ‘Doom Whomper’ is busted!” The giant flintlock rifled musket he’d made from a turned-down 25-mm antiaircraft gun barrel from sunken Amagi had broken at the wrist in the crash. He shouldn’t have brought it, not for this fight, but it had saved him so many times in such a variety of ways, he never knew when he’d need it. It was his lucky charm.

“You can ’ix it,” Lawrence said. He seemed equally affected.

“Yeah… well, bring it with us,” Silva said. “You can still sling the big part, an’ stick the buttstock in the shootin’ pouch!”

“Why I gotta carry it?” Lawrence demanded, suddenly less concerned.

“I gotta wag this Thompson an’ this heavy bag o’ magazines,” Dennis retorted. “Not to mention my cutlass, bayonet, an’ pistol. You don’t even need a sword-you got them claws.”

“I broke one!” Lawrence complained.

“Woop-te-do. We get in a fight, you can set my poor rifle down-gently-an’ pitch in. Till then, you wag it… or I won’t let you go huntin’ with me no more!”

Lawrence fumed but slung the broken weapon and heavy pouch that went with it.

“This reunion is swell,” Chack said, “but we must get out of here.” He motioned toward the now furiously burning “Nancy.” “Besides, we still have a battle. We must finish it before the enemy comes over the mountains behind us.”

“I agree on all counts,” Silva said, “but don’t worry about the last. Shinya’s comin’ ashore at Cork, an’ maybe Easky in the mornin’, with four nice, fresh, well-trained regiments, chompin’ at the bit. He’ll have more air too. There ain’t nothin’ on this whole shitty island he’ll even notice bustin’ through. An’ as for the bad guys attackin’ that Waterford burg”-he shrugged-“me an’ the lieutenant, an’ a few other planes pretty much took care o’ that, I figger.”

“What did you do?”

Dennis chuckled. “Wasn’t my fault… mostly. Wasn’t even my idea.” He nodded at the motionless man and looked at the squad that would carry him out. “You take good care o’ him. Like I said, he’s a good’un!”