CHAPTER 13
////// TFG-2
Mauritius Island
July 16, 1944
Fortunately for USS Donaghey and her crew, the sailing DD finally managed to scud into a somewhat protected anchorage of sorts, on the southeast coast of the island under her jib and forecourse. In that place of relative shelter, she escaped the height of the storm that had lashed the sea for the better part of a week. Since she was still pitching madly at her moorings, her crew spent nearly another entire week in utter misery, but no one was lost and the stout, veteran ship suffered amazingly little damage. Now the weather had turned at last, and the day dawned breezy but blue, and the clearing water of the small protected bay was flattening nicely.
Captain Greg Garrett, who had been staring out to sea as the new day defined it, was currently fighting a superstitious chill that threatened to give him the shakes. Beyond the mouth of the little bay was an almost solid line of breakers where the more tumultuous waves still crashed against some kind of reef. He had no idea how they’d missed hitting it themselves in the stormy gloom, and he knew if they had, his ship, and likely everyone aboard, wouldn’t have survived. He managed a slight smile. Donaghey’s always been a lucky ship, he thought. Pounded in battle, nearly sunk, and even beached and fought over before, she’s always come back, repaired, and better than ever. He knew her survival was a testament to her design, inspired by an early American shipwright named Humphries, and the innovative craftsmanship of the Lemurians who’d built her. And of course her dedicated crews, he added forcefully.
Turning, he stepped to the port side of the quarterdeck and joined Lieutenant Saama-Kera at the rail. His exec was glassing the shore through a tarnished telescope. “Anything yet?” he asked a little anxiously.
Sammy shook his head. “Mornin’, Skipper. No, not yet. Buncha small colorful birds. Maybe lizardbirds; I can’t tell from here. They’re not flyin’ much yet, but the trees is full of ’em. Maybe they still dryin’ their wings? That’s it, though.” The ’Cat hesitated. “I see well why folks’d stay sheltered during the storm, but if they was anybody here, sure they’d come out to gawk at us by now.”
“You’d think,” Garrett agreed. He’d expected to see some kind of people or creatures—most likely Grik—gathering with the dawn on the brilliant white beach to stare, even though they’d seen no other boats at all, or any evidence of a village. But apparently, Donaghey was utterly alone in what appeared to be a pretty agreeable little natural harbor. Of course, that scary reef might have something to do with that, he considered. Still, it was unnerving. Miyata had told them the Grik avoided the open sea beyond Madagascar, and there was ample evidence of that. But Greg never believed Mauritius, nestled so close to the Ancestral Home of his Lemurian friends, and the supposed seat of the Grik Empire, could’ve really remained undiscovered through the ages. “Huh,” he grunted, turning to gaze up at the masts where the lookouts were posted. “Any sign of Sineaa?”
“No, sir,” Sammy replied, flicking his tail in concern. “Not since we lost sight of her the night before we made it here.”
Greg nodded, sure Sammy would’ve reported any sighting of Sineaa first thing, but he’d had to ask.
“We could always, you know, try to contact her. At least with the TBS,” Sammy suggested, but Greg shook his head. “You know we can’t do that. No matter what Miyata said, we have to assume the Grik might hear us. He was away from them a long time, remember, and even if Kurokawa never gave them radio back then, he might have since. Even the TBS is too chancy.” Greg couldn’t risk any communications until the time was right.
“Yes, sir,” Sammy agreed, blinking frustration.
Greg smiled. “But we’ll have our Nancy brought up out of the hold and assembled, if you please. Our pilots have been bored out of their furry skins the entire voyage. We’ll send a few Marines ashore in the motor whaleboat to have a look at the beach, but I want an aerial scout of the island before anybody goes out of sight of the ship. The pilots can look for Sineaa too.”
“You want they should go on to scout Reunion Island? Maybe Sineaa wound up there.”
Greg considered it, then shook his head. “If our old charts are even close to right, and there’s no guarantee—these islands are volcanic after all—Reunion ’s nearly a hundred miles west-southwest. The plane’s got the range, but that’s just too damn far right now. Remember, that’s a hundred miles closer to Madagascar too, where we know there’s a helluva lot of Grik.” He waved around. “We got here by accident, and apparently by luck. I’d rather have sneaked up and had a look from a distance first. That’s what we’ll do at Reunion .”
“But if Sineaa is there . . . ,” Sammy began.
“She’s already done for if she ran into Grik,” Greg stated grimly. “Risking a plane, or running over there hell for leather won’t change that.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Sammy agreed reluctantly, closing his telescope. “I’ll see to the Naan-cee immediately.”
A brand-new PB-1-B “Nancy” flying boat, its blue and white paint and distinctive darker blue, white star, and red dot roundels not yet faded by the sun or stained by the sea, was hoisted from the hold in three pieces. Great care was taken not to puncture the stiff, bowstring-tight fabric covering the rigid, laminated bamboo frames. Nancys were amazingly strong and light, but it didn’t take much to poke a hole in one. The broad wing came up first and was carefully secured to the starboard bulwark. Next came the crated engine, to be bolted to the wing once it was attached to the top of the fuselage by numerous complex supports. The fuselage itself, which looked like a narrow cigarette boat with an airplane tail attached, appeared last. Greg watched with satisfaction as the two pilots and crew chief commanded and organized the assembly operation like they’d done it a dozen times. They had, in a way. Neither pilot, straight from training at Kaufman Field in Baalkpan, were veterans, but they’d been well-trained and they’d drilled their detail for this operation almost daily when the weather permitted. In less than an hour, the plane was fully assembled, lowered to the water alongside the ship, fueled, and the engine run up. Garrett knew Nancys were designed with this capability in mind, but he’d never seen it performed. He wondered if they could take the thing apart and strike it back down in the hold nearly as fast.
“I want to go on the scout,” Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At told him while the pilots were preparing to go over the side. It hadn’t been a request, and Greg stiffened, surprised by her tone. The pilots heard her and paused, blinking at Greg. “You have enough spare parts aboard to assemble another plane, so it makes no sense to send both pilots on this flight,” Bekiaa explained. Her tone was still determined, but she laid her ears back in apology. “I am a better choice to go as an observer,” she added.
“The commander of my Marine contingent is more expendable than another pilot, you mean?” Greg said, raising an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”
“I can be replaced,” she said simply. “Lieuten-aant Ra-Saan is an experienced officer, and a capable successor to me. I have already instructed him to take the squad of Maa-rines to the beach. Your only other pilot cannot be replaced. At least in the foreseeable future. Besides, I doubt you will find a more experienced observer of terrain aboard—particularly with my . . . intimate familiarity with the kind of threats that may lurk within landscapes that seem benign to less, aah, educated eyes.”
“Hmm. And of course you’re implying you’d also be better at protecting the plane itself from a threat, I suppose.”
Bekiaa shrugged and actually grinned. “Any such implication should be unnecessary to you, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett.”
Greg nodded. She was right. “Okay, but be careful. You’ll have a Blitzer Bug and the usual loadout of hand-dropped bombs, just in case, but don’t forget: this is a scout, not a combat mission!”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan. But you of all people know how quickly a mere scout can turn into combat!”
Greg frowned, but had to agree.
“But which of us will go?” asked one of the pilots, blinking open discontent.
“You will, Ensign Kaar-Raan!” Bekiaa glanced at Greg. “If the cap-i-taan has no preference.”
Garrett shook his head, still looking at Bekiaa. “Nope. Just remember what I said, Captain. Just now, and some time ago. You can’t be replaced as easily as you think either!”
Lieutenant Ra-Saan and his detail descended the port side of the ship to the motor whaleboat, conned by a Navy ’Cat coxswain, while Kaar and Bekiaa scampered over to starboard. They boarded the plane one at a time. Too much weight on the wing might sink the float and overturn the craft. Kaar dropped in the primary pilot seat, a little cockpit forward of the wing. Bekiaa went to the aft cockpit, located disconcertingly close behind where the pusher prop would spin. Before she could sit, she had to wait for Kaar to yell “Con-taact!” and then manually prop the engine herself. She’d never done that, but she’d seen it often enough that she did a creditable job. The motor blatted up, and she sat behind the little windscreen, pulling the goggles she found on the seat over her head. With a final salute, and looking kind of like a bug with the oversize goggles over her eyes, she shouted into the speaking tube beside her. Kaar advanced the throttle, and the little plane wallowed away from the ship, picking up speed.
“The whaleboat’s away,” Smitty reported, having come aft to watch the takeoff with Inquisitor Kon Choon. “She’ll be fine, Skipper,” he added, nodding at the little blue seaplane. “They’ll both be fine.”
“A remarkable machine,” Choon exclaimed. “And such a pretty color. Ingenious how you have painted them to resemble the sea from above, but the clouds from below. But building them to float and fly—I never tire of watching them.”
“Never tire of watching aircraft? Or just our aircraft?” Greg probed. The Republic was an ally, but so far of necessity rather than of complete trust. Just as there remained a few things Matt didn’t want to share with them, such as torpedoes, armor-piercing shells, and the new fire-control system aboard Donaghey, for example; they kept secrets too. One such secret was whether they had aircraft of their own. There was no doubt they had the technology. Greg suspected that, as Captain Reddy, Adar—and Herring, of course—got to know Von Melhausen, Lange, Meek, and others, they’d probably start blabbing all sorts of things to one another. It was in everyone’s interest to know one another’s capabilities, after all. But Choon was enigmatic and secretive by nature, so he might not have told even if allowed. It mattered little to Greg, and he’d find out for himself when Donaghey reached the Republic. Trying to get Choon to open up had begun to amuse him as much as it did Bekiaa, though, just as Choon still seemed to delight in playing his own game of evasion.
“We have no air-craaft like those,” Choon said, blinking to acknowledge the ongoing sport. “Nor have we any like the smaller planes, the ‘Flea-shooters,’ I think you call them, that fly off the deck of Salissa. What need have we of such? With the sadly poor exception of the War Palace, ah, Amerika, we are not a high-seas naval power.”
Greg grinned. SMS Amerika was still decrepit despite her repairs; her old hull was awfully thin. But she did have some teeth, and she was at least twice as fast as anything the Grik had—that they’d seen. Greg knew that any “naval power” might have a hard time entering a Republic port uninvited, however. Lange had very matter-of-factly described the powerful harbor gunboats they maintained, and Miyata had appeared free to discuss them as well. Sadly, given the descriptions of the weather off the cape, no one seriously thought they could be brought to bear against the Grik. Apparently, barring something unrevealed, the Republic’s greatest contribution would be some excellent, if somewhat gaudy, infantry and cavalry, and some good artillery as well—although what manner of artillery they possessed hadn’t been much discussed either.
“You may not get a good look at how effective our air can be before we reach Alex-aandra, Inquisitor,” Greg said as the Nancy roared into the sky, “but I bet Captain Von Melhausen and Mr. Lange will.”
“Oh, splendid!” Choon exclaimed with a clap of his hands, his eyes on the plane.
Lizard birds swirled from the trees on shore to take flight in great, convulsing clouds at the startling thunder of the Nancy, and perhaps the sight of the giant blue bird they’d never seen before. The plane banked to avoid the swarm that seemed equally intent on avoiding it, and clawed for altitude.
“But you already know how effective they can be, if you have any of your own,” Greg said almost absently, suddenly focusing on the bird-things of Mauritius. Thousands—millions—of them were erupting from the jungle.
“Indeed I do . . . if we do,” Choon replied. He was watching the lizardbirds with keen interest now as well. Waves of the colorful fliers continued to surge randomly about, the rising plane apparently already forgotten. Greg raised his own glass to watch. Random at first, he realized, but the collective behavior grew more organized. And despite the passage of the plane, he got the impression he was seeing some kind of purposeful, morning ritual. The creatures were indeed “ordinary” lizardbirds in form, though the riot of colors was more spectacular than any he’d seen before. Many had longer heads as well, some with slender jaws full of tiny teeth, and others with genuine beaks. He also began to realize that animals of similar form and color tended to throng together, and that was something kind of unusual too. Then, as the swarms appeared to sort themselves out, they began to pursue very specialized behavior. One type of lizardbird descended on the beach, overwhelming it with their numbers, and started gorging on whatever the storm and surf had washed ashore. Other fliers of various types slashed down in the shallows, chasing baitfish or other swimmers. Their impacts on the water threw up stabbing splashes like automatic weapons fire. With a tidbit in their mouths or beaks, these fliers then bolted back into the sky to consume their meal before repeating the process. Even in this melee of “bird bullets,” as Greg thought of them, he was amazed to see the various species maintain a kind of separation. He’d never seen anything like that at all. Similar creatures on Borno and other places always commingled and often fought viciously over the slightest morsel, or even ate one another. There was some of that. One species, larger than most but few in number, struck victims out of the teeming multitudes and carried them screeching back to the trees.
“I wish Mr. Bradford could see this,” Greg murmured.
“He shall, if we determine this is a good place for another ‘staging point’ as you put it,” Choon said. He’d borrowed Sammy’s glass and was raptly watching the colorful, chaotic drama. Greg felt a prickly suspicion, however, as he watched the line of bird splashes edging toward his ship—and the whaleboat that had slowed almost to a stop.
“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Sammy,” he said louder, suddenly decisive, “signal the whaleboat to return to the ship at once! Fire a gun to get their attention if you have to.”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan!” Sammy replied, a new urgency in his tone. Smitty went to prepare a gun.
Greg raised the glass again, even as the signal raced up the halyard. Bekiaa had been right—her lieutenant knew his stuff. He’d already ordered the boat about. In a sick instant, though, Greg realized it wouldn’t make any difference. New explosions of water erupted on the bay, from below this time. Apparently, the birds had chased their prey to a drop-off or other underwater feature guarded by something like flasher fish—voracious, tuna-size predators that congregated in virtually every shallows they’d visited. Here, they began snatching the swooping lizardbirds in their jagged teeth even as the fliers slammed the water with even greater determination to eat their fill before the baitfish, or whatever they chased, escaped their grasp for another day. Caught in the middle of this sudden confluence of savage appetites was the whaleboat.
Flashies started hammering the boat with their hard, bony heads, probably going for the brightly spinning screw at first. The coxswain, standing in the sternsheets at the tiller, was pitched sprawling into the sea. He never even surfaced. A growing number of lizardbirds dove on the Marines, snatching bites from furry arms or bouncing off helmets and leather armor. Somebody, probably Lieutenant Ra-Saan—it was impossible to tell at this distance—opened up with a Blitzer, the muffled report reaching them seconds later. The lizardbirds recoiled from the unfamiliar sound, but they quickly renewed their attack. Screams began to reach the ship.
“Fire a gun, Smitty!” Greg yelled in desperation. Almost immediately, one of the eighteen-pounders directly below in the waist roared, spitting fire and a dense cloud of white smoke that swept swiftly downwind. Greg focused his glass, but quickly saw the great gun had no effect. Either the lizardbirds were so used to thunder or the booming surf on the reef, or they simply didn’t care what transpired beyond their apparent boundary, and they flocked around the boat in countless numbers. The whaleboat itself, now settling due to the battering the flashies had given it, had become a heaving mound of colorful lizardbirds, frantically feeding on the unfortunate Marines. As the boat flooded lower, it looked like a little flowery island in the calm water of the bay, surrounded by white, splashing breakers of its own. If anyone was left alive to scream by now, the sounds were mercifully drowned by the raucous roar of feasting birds.
“Lookouts and topmen below! Get out of the rigging!” Greg bellowed. “Clear for action!”
“Rig the overhead netting,” Sammy added. “Marines will draw shotguns, but all others will go below and batten down!”
Greg nodded agreement. Some of the smoothbore muskets had been converted to breechloaders with the same Allin-Silva technique as the standard-issue rifles, essentially becoming 20-gauge shotguns. They might be effective, but to use them, they had to get as many people out of the way as they could. He stared back at the colorful swarm as ’Cats slid down stays and bare feet thundered on the deck.
“They are not coming,” Choon said mildly. “They have stopped.” Greg felt an irrational surge of anger at the Republic snoop, but it quickly vanished as he realized his rage was misplaced. He wanted the lizardbirds to come on so he could kill them for what they’d done. But that was nuts. There weren’t enough shotshells in the entire ship to put a dent in the swirling mass, and Donaghey would be lucky to escape an attack with no worse than shredded rigging. He sighed with belated relief, but he had to wonder if Choon really was as unaffected by all this as he appeared. Shaking his head, he stared toward shore. Slowly, like a receding wave, the swirling clouds of lizardbirds had begun edging back toward the island. Already, the explosive splashing of the flashies had ceased. A couple of orange, black, and green fliers still stalked the gunwales of the whaleboat, the only part still visible, but when it finally slipped under entirely, the lizardbirds flapped their furry, membranous wings and joined others of their kind surging back toward the trees.
“The island is theirs,” Choon observed. “And the waters to a point. There is no food—or life for them—beyond where the water belongs to the fish, so they do not cross.” He regarded Greg with his big, sky blue eyes. “Quite fortunate for us, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” Greg agreed hollowly. “But I guess Mr. Bradford won’t see this place after all. Not much point.”
“No.”
“Now we know why nobody lives here, though,” Saama-Kera softly agreed.
“Secure from battle stations, but keep a sharp lookout,” Greg told his exec. “And run up a signal Captain Bekiaa and Ensign Kaar can see when they return. Tell them, whatever they do, to stay the hell away from that island when they set down!”