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Chapter Sixteen

 
The winds of Paradise are blowing. Where are you who hanker after Paradise?

—Motto of the Ikhwan

 
As a soldier I will fulfill my duties brilliantly. I die with a smile on my face with the deep belief that to meet my end on the kamikaze battleship Yamato is the ultimate honor.

—Chief Petty Officer Yoshiaki Ogasawara Mikoto
KIA 7 April, 1945 (Old Earth Year)

BdL Dos Lindas, Nicobar Straits, 3/6/468 AC

Except for having gone to a much heightened state of alert, and maintaining a lookout for Gallic vessels of war, the election had not much affected the carrier or her escorts. They, like the single legion now deployed on the border between Pashtia and Kashmir, had a contract to fulfill. Now, without the specter of a major war with Taurus in the offing, the classis was able, once again, to concentrate solely on pirate hunting.

Which was . . . disappointing. Since the flotilla had arrived on station, piracy in the Straits had dropped to, essentially, nothing.

"It's almost as if someone's told them to lay off," Fosa said, looking inquiringly at Kurita standing on the bridge overlooking the calm waters.

"Someone has," Kurita answered cryptically. "We don't know why. It could be as simple as the hope that if there's no piracy for a while the Zaibatsu will curtail your contract and send you home. It could be just fear—well founded fear, too, I might add—of what the classis will do if there are any incidents. It could be . . ." Kurita's eyes looked skyward.

Fosa's eyes, too, traveled upward. Fucking Earth-pigs.

UEPF Spirit of Peace, 3/6/468 AC

High Admiral Robinson (Wallenstein understood perfectly that UE senior officials were always "High" in order to make clear to the rest of humanity that they were low) and Captain Wallenstein sat comfortably in the silverwood paneled ship's conference room, along with a few others who were in on enough of the secret to trust. None, of course, barring only Wallenstein, knew everything. Ordinarily, Robinson might have enjoyed the show in the privacy of his own quarters, watching it on the big, crystal-clear Kurosawa. Still, in odd little ways the staff had helped quite a bit and were entitled to their reward.

On the wall past the end of the conference table—the table, like the paneling, brought up from below—a vision screen showed a small flotilla moving majestically through some jungle-lined straits. It was the dry season in that part of the world below, Robinson knew. Even if he had not known, the fires raging uncontrolled that sent thick clouds of smoke across the straits, often blocking the view, would have told him.

Peace was not only too far up to see in this much detail with its own sensors and camera; it was also in the wrong orbit. Instead, the real-time images were being sent by a skimmer launched by the UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood a few hours before daylight had arisen on the straits.

MV Hendrik Hoogaboom, Nicobar Straits, 3/6/468 AC

The captain of the Hoogaboom looked behind him, watching the last sunrise he would ever see in this life. The sun's light shone red, a result of filtering through and bending around the smoke that dominated the straits. In his hand the captain held a picture. It was a family picture, with the females' faces exposed. As such, it was not to be shared. The picture showed the faces of his wife, his two daughters and his three sons.

The captain knew that, by dint of his coming sacrifice, they'd be taken care of, in this life as well as the next. Whatever else might be said of the Ikhwan, it had to be admitted that it took very good care of its martyrs' dependants, lest the supply of martyrs dry up. One of the things that had hurt the movement, indeed, perhaps that infidel action that had hurt the most, was the sequestration, impoundment, and outright confiscation of funds for just that sort of reward. Living single men were cheap. Weapons and ammunition, even explosives, were cheap. To support the families of the fallen was expensive.

Thank Allah, thought the captain, that the infidel press tipped the movement off to what their governments were doing when they went after the money. What would we ever do without the First Landing Times? I could never take the action I am about to if I could not be sure my family would be cared for. Thank You, too, Beneficent One, for the money given in humanitarian aid that frees up money for the fight and to care for the families of those fallen in Your cause.

The captain looked at the covered switch on his control panel, next to the ship's wheel. It led down to the roughly two thousand tons of ammonium nitrate-fuel oil, hydrazine and aluminum powder mix in the bunkered hold. A second switch in the Hoogaboom's informal CIC likewise led to the explosive. The captain's executive, a Kashmiri fanatic named Ishmael, controlled that for the time being; later they would switch. Lastly, below the water line and out of the line of direct fire, was a pressure detonator. If every man on the ship were to be killed or incapacitated, as long as the Hoogaboom was well aimed enough to manage to hit the target or to ground near it, the ship would explode.

The captain looked at the chart of the Nicobar Straits that lay on his plotting table. It showed the positions of the major enemy vessel, and of the two torpedoes, the six cruise missiles, and the dozen fast speedboats that rocked hidden in the jungle inlets to either side of the straits. It also showed his own ship, moving, as was the enemy, to intersection with those speedboats.

Turning again and taking a last deliberate look at the sunrise, the captain told his radio man, "Per our contract"—which raised a slight giggle from the radio operator—"inform the infidels that we are making our passage and should pass them by within two hours. Don't call them 'infidels' when you do."

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

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 and 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 farther 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 farther 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 out 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,' al 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.

UEPF Spirit of Peace, 3/6/468 AC

"They're launching aircraft!" Robinson shouted. "Why the fuck are they launching aircraft?"

It was true. It was more than true. Robinson had watched this ship, off and on, for months and he'd never before seen such a frantic attempt to get as many aircraft into the air, as quickly, as he was witnessing now. As soon as a plane came up the elevator, a deck crew was manhandling it into position and sending it off. Pilots were lined up waiting for any bird to fly. Once, when an engine refused to start, the deck crew had unceremoniously dragged the protesting pilot out and pushed the thing over the side. Pilots, themselves, were boarding with small arms, an indicator that the planes were being thrown up either unarmed or so lightly armed that even a rifle could make a difference.

Robinson relaxed slightly when he saw the two trails of underwater torpedoes streaking from under the jungle layer that had hidden them. His spirits revived considerably with the appearance of a larger number of cruise missiles coming from the same jungle.

 

Abdul Aziz had, early on, thought that torpedoes and cruise missiles might be a useful adjunct to the Hoogaboom and its mission. Further reflection, however, had convinced him that the risk of detection, if placed aboard ship, was too great. This had not meant the idea was without merit, only that it needed further refinement.

Large torpedoes were out for a number of reasons; chief among these was that "large" equaled both "noticeable" and "too heavy and bulky to transport and set up in the jungle along the straits." There were, however, much smaller torpedoes available, from various Volgan crime syndicates, and for surprisingly little money. These torpedoes were not suitable for sinking a major warship, of course, but that wasn't their purpose. Rather, they were designed to home on engine noise to kill submarines. What would kill a submarine, Abdul thought, was likely to severely damage an AZIPOD.

This both torpedoes were trying to do, streaking under the water straight for the AZIPODs mounted at Dos Lindas' stern.

 

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

"Fish in the water! Fish in the water! Fuck! Fish in the water!"

Fosa heard the sonar man's announcement and dread filled his heart. Looking at the screen and seeing the torpedoes aligning themselves for a run at the propellers, he was about to give the command to kill power when radar screamed, "Moonbats! Moonbats! Moonbats! Cruise missiles incoming . . . Raid count: three . . . no, four . . . ah, shit! Six! Skipper, Moonbats six, all quarters."

"Surface Action, Port and Starboard," Fosa ordered. "Weapons free."

There was a whining overhead and a sudden CRACK as the laser mounted above the tower engaged one of the cruise missiles. Two more, much more muted, CRACKs sounded as the fore and aft lasers likewise engaged. In the distance, and it was not nearly enough distance, two explosions that had to be in the half ton of TNT range, told that the lasers had scored, if imperfectly. There were still four cruise missiles incoming and the smoke, apparently, made engagement more than a little problematic.

Again, the defensive lasers fired. Again, only two hit, creating huge angry clouds of hot gas and flying metal. But there had been six missiles. There were still two . . . and there was no more time.

UEPF Spirit of Peace, 3/6/468 AC

"Fuck!" Robinson cursed as first two, then two more, of the Ikhwan's cruise missiles were destroyed. And then he saw a sight to gratify his heart as a massive explosion erupted on the ship's side, and another self detonated, so he thought, just above the tower atop the carrier. Within moments the ship's rear elevator, likewise, burst forth in smoke and fire. Atop the column of flame, Robinson thought he saw a helicopter being blasted upward.

"Take that, fuckers!"

PTF Santissima Trinidad, 3/6/468 AC

The air was still heavily weighted with smoke from the shoreline fires. Pedraz scanned through it, as best he could, with the binoculars he carried as a matter of habit now. Sweeping his vision along the shoreline, Pedraz whispered, "Nada. Just fucking nada."

Even though the PTF was a few miles away from the Dos Lindas, the battle stations klaxon sounded clearly across the water. Then came the message from CIC to all escorts to expect attack by surface boats, probably suicide boats, and to close in on the flagship. Pedraz pulled on a set of headphones and then reached for the klaxon.

Before Pedraz could give the signal for battle stations a half dozen speedboats swarmed out from the banks of the strait. Clavell and Guptillo, manning the forward forty, engaged even without orders. Their first several shots missed, but then they were rewarded by a major blast as one of the speedboats simply disintegrated when a shell found what must have been a huge charge of explosive.

Cheering was cut short as, just off the port side, a flaming streak shot past, followed by another to starboard. The machine gunners, moving as quickly as their legs would carry them from wherever the call to battle stations had found them, were mostly too late to bring fire on the cruise missiles. Only one gun actually engaged, and it missed.

No time for orders, Pedraz took the con, himself, elbowing Francais out of the way. Pushing the throttle to maximum, he twisted the wheel to point the boat away from the shore and towards the threatened carrier. Clavell and Guptillo swung the forty around to engage another of the small boats but the Trinidad turned faster than they could traverse the gun.

No matter, by the time the Trinidad was headed toward the carrier, the rear machine gun crews were fighting desperately, causing the speedboats to have to maneuver to avoid being hit.

Pedraz thought, If nothing else, it buys time. Now if only—

He saw a massive explosion between the Trinidad and the flagship. He was about to cheer when he saw another explosion, above the carrier, and then another near the stern. He wasn't sure it was the flagship being hit until he spotted the Yakamov helicopter being launched straight up, riding a column of fire and disintegrating as it flew.

"Oh, fuck."

In his headphones, Pedraz heard, "Skipper? Dorado. Sonar's got two fish in the water, running shallow."

Bridge, BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

The ship lurched, tossing to the deck everyone on the bridge not already seated and strapped in. None of the thick windows quite shattered, but every portside window cracked, along with most of those a- starboard. Even through the blurring of the cracks, even from flat on his ass, Fosa saw the abruptly launched Yakamov, streaking upward like a comet.

"Near miss . . . ah, Hell, call it a hit. Hit Alpha, island structure, zero-four level. Hit Bravo, hangar deck, starboard side aft. Fire on the hangar deck! Damage control parties away."

A smoke-choked and shock-strained voice from somewhere below came over the speaker. "There are no . . . damage control . . . parties near the . . . hit."

"My shshshiiippp!"

"Captain-san," Kurita said, groggily, "stay here and fight your ship. I will see to damage control." With that, the nonagenarian struggled to his feet and left, seeking the epicenter of the damage.

"Fight my ship . . . fight my ship . . . FIGHT MY FUCKING SHIP!"

In those few seconds, Fosa understood a part of what Kurita had been trying to tell him before, about ships having spirits and souls, about them being alive. At least he understood this much, that his ship was more valuable to him than his own life and must be preserved, at all costs consistent with its own honor.

Can something with honor be without a soul?

Hands gripping a plotting table, Fosa pulled himself to his feet. He heard machine gun and light cannon fire from all around as the gun crews finally got to their battle stations and began engaging the speedboats. Range was long but it couldn't hurt to try. He'd expended something over a million rounds of ammunition in training. If they couldn't get some stinking jury-rigged speedboats, no one could. He'd counted the number of explosions from cruise missiles. There had been six launches and six explosions. If the enemy had had more missiles, they'd have launched more, he thought. What else threatens my ship?

"Report!"

"That one above us took out the radar, Captain. Before that I had no hostile aircraft, Captain," Radar said.

"Ours are still trying to organize out of cluster fuck mode, sir," said the air boss.

Sonar announced, "Skipper, I've still got two fish in the water, one each, port and starboard. Countermeasures are not, I repeat not, effective. First impact expected in seven minutes."

Seven minutes . . . seven minutes . . . a whole lifetime can pass in seven minutes.

Fosa reached for the microphone. "Escorts, this is Fosa."

"Trinidad, here, sir . . . Agustin, sir."

"The flagship's been hit but I think we can save her," Fosa said. "What we can't do anything about from here are the torpedoes—you see them on sonar?"

"Aye" . . . "Aye."

Fosa gulped; this was a hard order to give. "I need you to try to bait the torpedoes away . . . and if that doesn't work . . ."

No arguments, no questions. "It's better they hit us than hit the Dos Lindas. Understood. This is Agustin, we'll try" . . . "Trinidad, Pedraz speaking. I'll give it a shot."

Unseen, Fosa nodded. "Good lads," he said into the microphone. Looking up at the operations board he ordered, "Warn the Hoogaboom off. Tell them we're under attack. And, air boss, get the planes onto those goddamned speedboats."

"Hoogaboom acknowledges, sir."

 

PTF Santissima Trinidad, 3/6/468 AC

"Nav, give me a plot for the torpedo on our side, an intercept plot."

"You're shitting me, right, Chief?"

"Just give me the fucking intercept, Dorado," Pedraz said to the navigator.

"Be a minute," Dorado answered.

"You've got fifteen seconds, Pedro, I want to pass about four hundred meters in front of the thing."

It didn't even take fifteen seconds. In half that time Dorado came back, answering, "Fuck . . . can't do it, Chief. We're not fast enough."

Pedraz picked up the radio microphone and, keying it, said, "Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. No chance to intercept on our side. Sorry."

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

"Captain, Agustin reports that they've caught the torpedo's attention and it's following them. They can stay ahead of it and lead it off. Trinidad says we're fucked. Impact, astern . . . two minutes."

"Hard a-port and then kill the AZIPODs."

The entire bridge crew turned and looked at Fosa as if he were mad.

"Hard a-port and then all, STOP, goddamit. Do it . . . then kill the fucking drives!"

 

 

 

The torpedo noted the instant drop off in screw noise. It might, had it been a less sophisticated torpedo, have then been fooled by the countermeasures the target deployed. It was, however, "competent" and, as such, had already eliminated the false noises from consideration. It had, further, tracked the speed of the carrier and was able, in general terms, to account for the continuing forward momentum of the target even if it lost its acoustic aiming point. A few degrees more steer and the torpedo continued on its merry way, aimed almost perfectly for the port side AZIPOD. Indeed, it would have been perfect, but that the ship was ever so slowly turning head on to the speeding torpedo.

For a nonagenarian, Kurita was fast on his feet. Perhaps it was that, unlike in most human beings, there was just no mechanism in him to give in to frailty or pain. Whichever the case, he was down on third deck, as close as he could get to the fire, within moments of leaving the bridge.

Many men, burned, broken, and bleeding, sat quietly against bulkheads or crawled from the consuming flames. Others, caught in the blaze, screamed like children. Of the former, Kurita thought, Brave boys. I am so proud of you. Of the latter, generously he thought, In extremity even a samurai might scream. And death by fire is extreme.

A fire-suited damage control party from another section of the ship arrived, just as Kurita did, its centurion reporting to the Yamatan.

"There is not enough room for all your people here, Centurion," Kurita said. "Use half to fight the fire. Have the other half carry off the wounded to clear the way."

The smoke wasn't bad, yet, but it was bad enough. Coughing, Kurita grabbed a SCBA, a Self Contained Breathing Apparatus mask, from a dispenser and put it on. It would interfere with giving commands, but continued inhalation of the smoke was likely to make him far too dead to give commands.

The problem, though, is that it is hard to tell how much of this smoke is from fire and how much from the initial explosion. Are the fuel lines breached? We have power. Is the air circulation system feeding oxygen to the flames? Has the fire breached the hangar deck fire curtains to either side of the rear elevator?

The only way to determine the answers was to look. Kurita lightly felt the near surface of a hatch that led to a balcony overlooking the hangar deck. Not too bad. I wish the design had included a window. I must advise this to Fosa-san as soon as possible.

He opened the hatch and stuck his head out. His first thought was Thank God the curtain was not breached. Further inspection, however, showed that it was breached higher up. Thus, while no burning fuel was racing across the deck, hot smoke was oozing over and through the rent in the fire curtain's fabric. This was bad enough but what his eyes lit on next was actually enough to set his heart to racing.

Kurita lifted his mask and shouted, "Centurion, have your men stop work on the wounded! There is ordnance on the hangar deck and it MUST BE REMOVED!"

Then the deck lurched, knocking Kurita once again from his feet and slamming his head against a bulkhead. For a few moments he lost consciousness.

 

While the upward lurch of the deck threw Kurita from his feet, at the bridge the motion was much less. Fosa retained his footing, as did almost every man of the bridge crew. What he saw, though, when he looked at the engineering panel—a sudden Christmas tree of red and amber lights—made his heart sink.

Dead in the water. Shit . . . DEAD . . . in the water.

Fosa looked forward and saw that, thank God for small blessings, the Dos Lindas was at least not headed to land. It should, he crudely calculated, have lost all forward motion before there was a risk of grounding.

And when the corvettes get here, they can tow us a bit. Maybe it's not hopeless.

Fosa looked portward and saw a Finch diving on something he couldn't see for the flight deck. The Finch had all guns blazing. He saw it cease fire and pull up just before yet another massive explosion took place off the port side.

Indeed, maybe it's not hopeless.

MV Hoogaboom, 3/6/468 AC

Somewhere, deep in his heart, in a place he probably never would have admitted existed, the captain had hoped that the combination of torpedoes, suicide boats, and cruise missiles would destroy the enemy ship before he had to destroy himself and his own ship.

Yet reports broadcast from observers ashore were clear. The ship was aflame at one quarter, it had been hit at least twice, it was stopped dead in the water, drifting and powerless. But it was not sinking, nor even listing, and its combination of light cannon, lasers, machine guns and aircraft were making short work of the suicide boats that, again, deep at heart, the captain had half expected to hull the carrier.

One good bit of news, for certain values of good, was that the enemy ship was slowly turning to present its side to the Hoogaboom.

At least we will be certain to succeed, attacking at this angle with a helpless target. If self-immolation is difficult, and it is, the captain thought, how much more difficult to do so without the certainty of success?

"All ahead full," he ordered. "Auxiliary crews to the patrol boats. Lower the patrol boats as they're manned. And commend your souls to Allah."

As the captain gave the order, the Tauran slave girls, gifts of Abdul Aziz and Mustafa, began to scream and cry. No sense in keeping their little hearts in fear, the captain thought.

"Go below," he ordered to a seaman standing nearby. "Take a rifle. Kill the slaves."

 

PTF Santissima Trinidad, 3/6/468 AC

The forward forty-millimeter and three of the starboard side tri- barrel .41s spat death at a speedboat winding its way through the smoke in the air and the wreckage floating on the water. With all the surface turbulence—the result not just of natural waves but of the explosions that had churned the water—marksmanship left something to be desired. Even so, the men had adopted the simple expedient of beginning their fire low and letting the boat rock it upward.

The target boat was a flaming mess, with blood running out the gunnels. That was no reason to cease fire until the thing—

Kaboom.

A dark curtain of wind-borne smoke closed down around the Trinidad and the falling debris of its late target. Pedraz looked around for some recognizable landmark, without success. Then a sudden gust of wind tore apart the smoky curtain and he caught sight of the carrier.

Is there less fire and smoke now? Hard to tell. I can only hope . . . 

But there is fire, and then there is "FIRE!" The side of the carrier, so much as was visible, erupted in blossoms of flame as the machine guns and light cannon, catching sudden sight of the Trinidad and not quite recognizing it, opened up.

"KeerIST!" Pedraz jammed the throttle forward and sprang back into the smoke. A quick glance behind him—very quick, under the circumstances—told him that the carrier's gun crews were following and walking—sprinting, really—their fire to where they thought the boat was heading. He jerked the wheel to change course.

"Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. Have we offended you in some way?!?!?!"

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

Kurita bent to one side and pulled his mask away to vomit. The blow to his head had given him a mild concussion and nausea had swiftly followed. He replaced the mask in time to see another group of damage control people, about a dozen of them, materialize on the hangar deck. Reseating the mask to get a breath of non-fatal air, he again pulled it away to shout down below, "Get the foam system into operation!"

The chief of that damage control party looked up at Kurita, recognizing him both by his short stature and his sword, and waved acknowledgment. He and his men split into two groups and immediately ran for the wound hoses at the forward corners of the hangar deck. These they took and began to drag to the stern. As they did so, men, individually and in small groups passed them by, carrying or dragging machine gun ammunition, rockets and bombs away from the fire.

Ideally, they'd simply have dumped the stuff over the side. Unfortunately, the hangar deck didn't really have a portal for that, a clear design flaw. Rather, it did have one, but that was very new and rather on fire at the moment.

"Drop it here. Drop. It. Here." The chief of the damage control party shouted to the ordnance carriers. They looked at him, not quite understanding, until he pointed at the nozzle of the foam hose he carried. Mental lights came on. They began making a pile, more or less carefully, of the ordnance they carried. As soon as there was enough of a pile the chief turned the hose on it and began to cover it with a thick layer of fireproof, and cooling, foam. More ordnance, and more foam, added to the pile.

Above, Kurita saw the foamed pile grow and began to breathe a sigh of relief. He never quite got the sigh out, however, as another wave of nausea overtook him, causing him, once again, to doff the mask, bend over, and hurl.

 

Sick at heart over the harm done to his ship and crew, Fosa peered desperately through the thick smoke of ship's fire, jungle fire, and explosion. Tracer still lanced out in mass, all around the boundaries of the ship, before they disappeared into the smoke.

Fosa heard the radio loudspeaker ask, "Have we offended you in some way?" He picked up the microphone and asked, 'What the fuck are you talking about, Trinidad?

"Your gunners are shooting at anything they spy," came the answer. "They engaged us . . . tried to anyway."

"Roger," Fosa answered. "I'll see to it." Before he could give an order he heard one of the bridge crew screaming into another microphone, one that serviced the ship's intercom, "You assholes nearly sunk one of ours. Identify your targets carefully. Dumb-asses."

Once again, smoke swirled around the tower, blocking Fosa's view. He said, "Order Agustin and Trinidad out past our cannon and machine gun range."

PTF Santissima Trinidad, 3/6/468 AC

For now, Pedraz was keeping inside the smoke. Later, when he was reasonably sure that he was out of range, or at least far enough away that the carrier wouldn't mistake his boat for a threat, he'd emerge into the open. For now, he and his men were on a definite post- adrenaline let down and would just as soon ride that out.

"Did we win, Chief?" Francais asked.

"Win? What's a win," Pedraz answered, sadly and quietly. "Dos Lindas is still there, after they threw everything they had at it. I guess that's a win. Though I don't know if she'll ever fight again."

"She will," Francais answered, as if sure. "As long as she floats and has a crew, she can be repaired."

Suddenly, without warning, the Trinidad emerged into the clear. Francais pointed and asked, "Skipper, what's that doing here?"

MV Hendrick Hoogaboom, 3/6/468 AC

The Tauran slave girls weren't crying or screaming anymore. Neither were there any klaxons or alarms. Instead, "All hands to battle station," announced the captain, through the ship's intercom. Then he and his own bridge crew retired below to the armored CIC. From there, they'd direct the ship via video camera and remote control. There were redundant systems for both.

Down in CIC a mullah, one of the very few willing to die the same way they encouraged others to die, spoke into a microphone. His words were carried to small speakers all over the ship, and especially to the individual fighting compartments where the mujahadin waited by their machine guns to fight, if necessary, for the right to destroy the warship of the wicked.

"No doubt it is a clear honor," said the mullah, "a clear honor which Allah has bestowed on us. Honor on us; honor to us. He will give us blessing and great victory, now, and by the acts of the faithful inspired by us, in the future.

"Across this world, this is what everyone is hoping for. Thank Allah that the Federated States came out of their caves. Those who came and fell before us hit her the first. Now we shall hit her lackeys, those wicked and faithless ones, with the strong hands of true believers.

"By Allah, this is a great work. Allah prepares for you a great reward for this work. By Allah, who there is no god besides, my brothers, we shall live in happiness, happiness such as we have never before experienced.

"Remember, the words of Mustafa, the great and pious. He said they made a coalition against us in the winter with the infidels. And they surrounded us as in the days of the prophet Muhammad. This is exactly like what has been happening recently, with the faithless and the apostates turning on the One True God. But the Prophet, peace be upon him, comforted his followers and said, 'This is going to turn and hit them back.' As we are hitting back, my brothers."

The mullah noticed the arrival of the captain and stopped speaking. "Would you like to address the crew?" he asked.

"No, holy man. My words are small things against the great words of Allah, and of his messengers, and of those who teach the faithful. Please, continue with this sermon."

Nodding, the mullah went back to his microphone and continued, "And it is a mercy for us and a blessing upon us. It will bring people back. And Allah will pour upon us blessings untold. And the day will come when the symbols of Islam will rise up and it will be similar to the early days of the Salafi, back on Old Earth. And victory shall be upon the sons of the Prophet . . ."

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

"Dos Lindas, this is Trinidad. I've got a ship, a smallish freighter, maybe five thousand tons, maybe six, heading towards you. Considering what we've just been through . . ."

Fosa picked up the microphone and asked, "Can you see the name?"

The speaker crackled back, "Hendrick Hoogaboom, it says."

"Didn't we warn her off?" Fosa asked aloud.

"We did, Skipper," answered a radio man. "About thirty seconds after the attack started."

Radar spoke up. "Captain, I wasn't paying close attention, but I don't recall them coming to a stop before we lost radar. I mean . . ."

"It would have taken a while for them to have come to a stop," Fosa finished. "I understand. But it wouldn't have taken this long."

It could just be a mistake . . . but what are the odds? What are the odds when you factor in the very complex ambush they set for us here? And then . . . oh shit, they never touched the pork.

Fosa's voice was just short of panic. "Trinidad, Agustin, STOP THAT SHIP!"

 

So far, so good, thought Kurita. Though the smoke was still atrocious and the heat almost unbearable, the fires were under control and there had been no more secondary explosions. He knew, from long years at sea, that the ship was drifting without power. That could be fixed and, so long as the carrier didn't sink, would be, he was sure.

The damage control and firefighting efforts had reach past the twenty-foot gaping hole in the hull blasted by the cruise missile. Resting against this while waiting for another bout of vomiting to claim him, Kurita saw the outline of a freighter, bearing down on the immobile Dos Lindas.

He heard the loudspeakers proclaim, in Fosa's voice, "Surface action, Port. Surface action, Port. We're not out of this yet, boys. On the port side is a ship . . . I think it intends to ram us. Surface action, Port. All guns: engage."

Kurita looked around, thinking, Things are under control here; nothing the centurions can't handle, surely. Let's go see to the guns. They lost some crew to the missile attack, I'm sure.

PTF Santissima Trinidad, 3/6/468 AC

Clavell and Guptillo worked their gun furiously, sheltering behind the mantlet at the heavy return machine gun fire from the ship. The Trinidad's own machine guns returned fire, of course, but seemed to be having absolutely no effect.

"Shit," cursed Clavell. He keyed his microphone and told Pedraz, "Skipper, we're hitting the thing, easily, and penetrating it, too. I can see the shells going off inside. But they're having no effect that I can see."

Pedraz was about to respond when a sudden flurry of fire burst from the Dos Lindas. He followed the tracers to where they impacted on the bow of the Hoogaboom. It was being chewed apart; that much was clear from the pieces of hull sloughing off under the fire. But beyond that? Nothing.

Machine gun fire raked out from the Hoogaboom, sweeping Trinidad's deck. Most of the crew was under reasonable cover. Not so, the machine gunners, and notably Santiona who was the target. With a scream, he went down, minus his legs and with the stumps gushing blood.

Without being told to, the ship's corpsman raced out from under cover and began tourniqueting off the wounded Santiona's stumps.

Hmmm . . . even the forty isn't doing shit to the ship. Hmmm . . . 

"Clavell, target that ship's machine gunners."

God, why the fuck didn't we mount torpedoes on this thing? We're a fucking Patrol Torpedo Fast and we don't have torpedoes? Shit.

MV Hendrick Hoogaboom, 3/6/468 AC

Deep in his steel cocoon, Hoogaboom's captain thought, Thank Allah they don't have torpedoes. If they did, we'd be lost. For that matter, thank you, Almighty, that none of their aircraft were carrying, or got off with, any large bombs.

Overhead the captain heard what he thought must be aerial rockets smashing the upper deck. No matter; those can't penetrate. He looked at the screen tied in to the forward cameras. It was in this that the enemy ship was in view. There on the screen, the image amplified, a short man pointing with a sword directed the futile fire coming at Hoogaboom's bow. The captain laughed. Maybe if you had a couple of days to chew through, it might do some good, he thought. But you have mere minutes.

 

That worked, thought Pedraz, looking over the smoking holes in the enemy ship created by the forty, but it didn't buy us much.

Indeed, it had not bought anything but a reduction in fire from the freighter. It still closed on the helpless Dos Lindas; the distance now was just over one thousand meters.

Especially did it not buy us any time. Oh, God, for some time. With time even our forties could chew through. With time . . . 

 

The patrol boats launched by the Hoogaboom went by the simple names of "Wahid" and "Ithnayn;" "One" and "Two." Why, after all, invest any emotion or any name into what amounted to throwaway weapons?

They'd held back, One and Two, after being launched. This was not out of any fear; the men aboard the boats had no expectation, nor perhaps even any desire, to live. But there were only the two. Ahead, they'd be vulnerable to the defensive armaments of the target. Astern, they could react to any threats that arose to their primary, and do so especially well against any threats to their primary's greatest point of vulnerability, its long, broad flanks.

Thus, when the captains of One and Two saw the tracers from Trinidad, they'd begun to move cautiously and carefully through the smoke to where they thought they would find the rear quarter of whatever was engaging the Hoogaboom. Side by side they moved until the bow gunner on One saw the infidel boat. He immediately engaged, followed by Two's bow gunner as soon as that boat had closed enough to make out a target.

 

Pedraz felt more than heard the incoming fire from his starboard aft quarter. Indeed, the first he actually heard was when the machine gunner on that point screamed at being chopped apart by the concentrated fire of first one, then two, then a half dozen enemy machine guns that came from astern.

Poor Marco, Pedraz thought as he applied throttle to get the hell away from the position in which he found himself. Unseen, Legionary Turco's body slid across the deck, leaving a broad swath of blood behind, before plunging over the stern. He'd never had a chance to strap himself in.

 

There wasn't a lot of advantage either way. All three patrol boats, Trinidad, One and Two, were sleek and fast and armed. Trinidad with her forty, was much more heavily armed. Sadly, though, the forty could not fire astern and Trinidad could not turn without presenting a vulnerable side to the pursuing craft.

"And that fucking freighter is closing on the Dos Lindas," Pedraz fumed. "Shit, shit, SHIT!"

A near burst of machine gun fire passed just to Pedraz's right, splintering the glass to his front. "Shit!" Pedraz repeated.

Nothing for it but to go for the glory, he thought.

"Cris," the skipper shouted to his XO, "get astern and be prepared to man Turco's gun. You'll know when."

"What are ya gonna do, Skipper?"

"Diekplous," Pedraz shouted, as Francais scurried astern. Then he said into his microphone, "Clavell, bring your gun to bear ninety degrees to port. Guys, we're gonna turn and go right in between them. Fire as you bear."

 

Both One's and Two's crews, and especially the gunners, laughed maniacally as they pursued the fleeing infidel boat. It had been all too rare, in this war, to see the enemy actually turn and run on the battlefield. Such moments were to be savored. Especially were they to be savored when the time available for such savoring was destined to be very short.

 

Sweating profusely, heart pounding fit to burst from his chest, Clavell huddled behind his gun shield, eye pressed firmly to his sight. Beside him, Guptillo held on for dear life against the turn he was pretty sure the skipper was about to make.

"If you ever made a good shot, Jose, make one now," Guptillo said.

Eye still to his sight, Clavell couldn't answer by nod. Instead, he stuck one thumb in the air.

Suddenly, the boat slowed and began to turn to port. Clavell cranked the gun down to compensate, never moving his eye from his sight. Sea passed in his view, then more sea, then more . . . then . . . 

Kawhamkawhamkawhamkawhamkawham. Clavell depressed the trigger on the forty as the veer of the boat brought it into view and almost aligned. Downrange, his first shell missed, bursting in the water. His second missed as well. But he held true to his aim and trusted the movement of the ship to align the target perfectly. Shells three through five, rewarding his faith, found their target, smashing the front of Two like so much kindling. Enemy sailors, and pieces of sailors, went flying in all directions. Others aboard Two, those further astern, continued to fire after only a brief, shocked pause.

"And now we charge. Banzai, motherfuckers!" Pedraz shouted over the rising roar of the engines, the crash of the cannon, and the cloth- ripping hum of his machine guns.

The Trinidad spurted ahead, her machine gunners, plus Guptillo and Clavell, trading what amounted to mutual automatic broadsides with the Ikhwan fighters of One and those remaining aboard Two. Sailors on both sides went down, some suddenly and silently, others with curses and screams. The armor worn by Pedraz's crew helped, but at this range, perhaps one hundred meters, it didn't help much. And the greaves didn't cover the back of the sailors' legs at all.

Astern, Francais leapt to his feet, almost losing his footing to Turco's wet blood, and grabbed the spade grips of the .41-caliber tribarrel. From across the water, he and an Ikhwan gunner from Two stared at each other for what might have been the longest nanosecond in human history.

"Motherfucker!" Francais exclaimed as he deftly swung the tribarrel to bear on the machine gunner. Before the gun was on target, his finger was already depressing the trigger, causing the electrically driven barrels to spin and the gun to spit out its eighteen hundred rounds per minute. While the mujahad's bullets went wide, Francés' swath of fire cut right across his target, from left hip to right ribs, slicing—though by no means neatly—the Ikhwan gunner in two, spilling his intestines to the deck.

 

Pedraz looked around his half ruined boat and his mostly ruined crew. Men shrieked in agony on the deck, with the boat's sole medic frantically going from one to the other, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood here, relieve pain there.

Behind the Trinidad, One and Two lay smoking and dead in the water. Two was plainly sinking, though it was taking its time about it.

If I had more time . . . 

Time was about up, however, and Pedraz knew what he had to do. "Clavell, cease fire," he said, gunning the engine and twisting the boat away. It made a tight turn, then headed off away from the Hoogaboom and slightly towards the carrier.

Picking up his microphone, Pedraz broadcast, "Agustin, this is Trinidad. Get the hell away from the freighter. Don't argue. Just do it."

BdL Dos Lindas, 3/6/468 AC

Kurita had stationed himself beside the one serviceable forty-millimeter gun on the carrier's stern port quarter. To either side of him, twenty-millimeter cannon and forty-one caliber machine guns churned futily at the oncoming scow. And the forty does no good either. For that matter, the pounding isn't doing my head much good. No help for that, though.

He watched a small and gallant patrol boat, the Trinidad, he thought, trading fire with, then turn and run right in between two patrol boats. Glorious, thought Kurita, In the best naval tradition. Brave boys. Bravo. Banzai.

Kurita watched as the PTF, smoking and clearly hurt, pulled away and began to retreat. No shame in that, my friends, he thought. You must save whatever you can of this fleet. We here are, after all, just dead men now.

No matter for me, of course. I've been dead since I failed my emperor. But it's a shame about the others.

Kurita watched a Finch swoop down to lay a barrage of rockets on the top of the freighter. They seemed to have no effect at all, except to cause a missile to be launched upward at the Finch. Then Kurita remembered something old and sacred. I wonder if . . . but, no, there's no way to suggest it to you.

Kurita looked out and saw a most remarkable thing. The small patrol boat he thought was the Trinidad turned and almost stopped, as about half a dozen men began to assemble on the rear deck.

 

"I . . . can't . . . go . . . into the water, skipper. With this blood . . . the sharks will come . . . for me. I can't."

"All right, Santiona," Pedraz agreed.

"You'll need a back up, Chief," Francais said. "And that's, rightfully, my place."

Pedraz had intended to make his last ride alone. It was frustrating and infuriating that more than half his never-sufficiently-to-be- damned, mutinous crew wouldn't go along.

"See, it's like this, Chief," Francais explained, with a casual shrug. "That ship is probably loaded with explosives. This wasn't a minor effort, here, after all, so I figure two, maybe three thousand tons. Nobody who gets off has much of a prayer of surviving that, if it goes off. So . . . all the same, I'd rather not jump ship. It wouldn't do any good anyway. Besides, like Santiona said, we put wounded into the water we'll have sharks all over everyone."

But still, Pedraz wanted to save something. He looked at the youngest crewman, and nearly the only one unhurt who could be spared. That youngest was a nice kid named Miguel Quijana. Quijana, like the others, wore helmet, body armor, and over that a life vest.

Pedraz grabbed the seaman by the shoulders and said, "Stay as much on the surface as possible. Watch carefully; when we hit you'll have a few moments between when the first wave of concussion passes under water and the debris starts falling. Remember, the concussion under water will be worse. Don't get under water until you can feel that wave of concussion pass. Then get under fast. Good luck, son."

With that, Pedraz turned the boy around to face the stern and, placing a boot on his rear end, shoved him off into the sea.

"For the rest of you, Battle Stations! Banzai, motherfuckers!"

 

Nobody left the boat, Kurita could see, except for one man deliberately booted off, probably by the captain. And then the boat began to move forward, picking up speed at an amazing rate.

Another man might not have understood. Yet Kurita understood perfectly and immediately. Divine wind. Kamikaze.

He tapped the leader of the forty-millimeter crew and said, "Go and warn the other gunners on this side, you and your crew. Get the hell behind cover. Now!"

Then, as soon as that crew had sped off, Kurita drew himself to attention, saluted the Trinidad with his sword, and began, softly and in an old man's reedy voice, to sing Kimigayo—

". . . Until pebbles

Turn into boulders

Covered with moss."

 

Fosa, too, saw Trinidad's death ride, through the cracked windows of the bridge. He, like Kurita, stood to attention and saluted. Though he had his sword, the one that Kurita had given him, saluting with the hand just seemed more . . . personal.

Some members of the bridge crew, following their commander's gaze and understanding what the salute meant, likewise came to attention and rendered the hand salute. They and Fosa held those salutes all the way to when the Trinidad disappeared into the hull of the enemy freighter, and halfway through the incredible, barely sub- nuclear, explosion that followed.

UEPF Spirit of Peace, 3/6/468 AC

"They survived," Robinson said, later, in his quarters. "They couldn't have survived, but they did. The Ikhwan ship was that fucking close," he held out his hand with thumb and forefinger a bare inch apart, "that fucking close, and still that fucking ship survived. It isn't possible."

The high admiral of the United Earth Peace Fleet nearly wept with the sheer frustration of it all. So upset was he that Wallenstein, without being ordered to, dropped to her knees and began to undo his belt. He pushed her away, roughly.

"No . . . not you tonight, Marguerite. Send me Khan, the wife. I want to hurt something."

Interlude

2/1/49 AC, Atlantis Base, Terra Nova

A messenger was waiting when Bernard Chanet arrived at his office for the morning's work. Standing at attention, the messenger passed over a sealed letter from one of the outlying offices. Chanet was surprised at the origin of the missive; he had observers at several locations in Southern Columbia but was denied any control over the area.

Opening the letter, Chanet paced his office as he read:

Your Excellency:

I've had the most intriguing request and proposition that I thought I must present to you before going any further with it.

A small group of the local regressives from North America, back home, approached me the other day and requested arms. I thought this especially odd in that they are already self sufficient for the primitive arms they tend to use. But, no, it wasn't flintlocks or even percussion weapons they were looking for. They wanted modern, military arms.

On the face of it, I'd have laughed them out of my office. Yet the leader of the group, who is also a political figure of some local importance, had a most compelling argument. He took out a pouch of gold, weighing perhaps two and a half kilograms, and proceeded to pour it out onto my desk. He said to me, "One dozen modern rifles and twelve-thousand rounds of ammunition and it's yours. A thousand times that and a thousand of these are yours."

I, of course, have no weaponry here beyond the few carried by my security staff. Yet it occurred to me that in your position . . . 

9/8/49 AC

Belisario had about given up hope. His band was down to seventy- five men, perhaps less by sunrise, and he'd found no solution to the problem. Even now his men were scattered across two hundred square kilometers, in little groups of five or ten, partly to ease foraging and partly so as not to attract the attention of the always- threatening UN air power. Of the modern weapons he and his group had captured, few remained. For those few there was no ammunition. Even Pedro had wrapped and buried his prized heavy sniper rifle for lack of anything to feed it with.

Hanging his head in despair, Belisario thought, for perhaps the thousandth time, about just giving it up and surrendering to the Gurkhas and Sikhs who hunted his men morn and night. They were good men, those. Better, by far, than the other troops the UN set loose to terrorize the population.

"Don't shoot, Dad," he heard and looked up. It was the voice of his daughter, Mitzi. She walked into the center of the camp, gripping an escopeta and accompanied by a young man.

A gringo, by his looks, Belisario thought. He saw half a dozen others, leading heavily laden mules. Gringos, too, most likely.

"Mom says 'hi,'" Mitzi said. "She told me to lead these men to you. Even loaned me her shotgun for safety and I never would have expected her to do that."

"Are you Belisario Carrera?" the young man with Mitzi asked.

"I am."

"Sir, I'm Juan Alvarez, Jr., from down in Southern Columbia, and, sir, I've brought some things I think you maybe need."

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