The Shark Boats, page 34
“I’ve heard good things about you, too, Major Reiner.”
“Major, bring your people in, will you?”
Kaye and the others, outside, heard Macquarie’s order and came in. The general went into a room that led into the office, gestured for them to follow. His personal living quarters, two pleasant rooms. He took a large suitcase, went over to a wardrobe and began to throw clothes into it.
“We don’t have room for your furniture, sir,” Reiner warned, when the general began glancing around his well-appointed living room.
“A pity. I’ll miss it.”
“Sir, General Wright’s here,” said Palmer.
Wright was a limping lieutenant-general with a bandage over his forehead. Reiner turned and saluted him.
“Jim, I’ve been given orders from Schuylerville. To abandon this place, God damn it. You’re in charge now. The office and the quarters are yours.”
“Yessir,” said Wright.
“Should be more of a ceremony,” said Macquarie. “Too bad. They’re good men, Jim. Hold for as long as you can.”
*
The last of Macquarie’s staff was climbing up the step-ladder onto 144. Macquarie stood silent for a few moments, his wife and son already on board. Lewis, her notebook out, stood with Reiner and the general in the knee-deep water.
“Sir, we’d better get moving,” Reiner said. “We have alternate routes planned. Back to Schuylerville. Possibly via New Borneo or somewhere.”
“We’ll be going east,” said Macquarie firmly. “Orders were specific on that.”
More shells were slamming down on Karna. Reiner could see muzzle-flashes and something burning out to sea. The general looked out that way himself. White PNA flares were beginning to illuminate the dark sea, silhouetting distant shapes amidst the flashes and the flames.
“The Chancellor of the United Southern Colonies has ordered me to break through PNA lines and proceed from Karna to the Rim for the purpose, as I understand it, of organizing the Southern offensive against the PNA,” Macquarie said. “Are you getting this down, Lewis?”
“Yessir.”
“A primary objective of this offensive will be the relief of the Puerto Quintan islands. I came through and I shall return.”
With what troops?, Reiner wondered as Macquarie began to climb up onto PT 144.
*
“Grey, it’s time for you to get the hell out. Everyone’s on board and we’re steering for Point Sixteen.”
“Roger. Order can’t have come too soon, sir,” said Grey.
Macquarie and Reiner stood in the 144’s cockpit. Calina was driving the boat hard south, away from dying Karna. The 147 was hugging their starboard.
“What’re you up against, Grey?”
“Originally just a pair of destroyers. We torpedoed one, missed the other. They called in friends. Four of `em out there now, sir. More shit on the way, I think. Aircraft, too. Disengaging as fast as we can. Out.”
Not long after, Grey’s two boats –149 and 150 – showed up. 150 pulled alongside Reiner’s 144 and Grey waved from the cockpit.
“He on board, sir?” he asked over the radio.
Macquarie took the mike.
“I am, Captain. Thank you for providing the diversion.”
“An honor, sir.”
“We’re going to head east, sir?” Reiner asked.
Macquarie took the crumpled yellow code paper out of his pocket. Handed it to Reiner, who carefully read it. It directed Macquarie to go to Te Kauti or Alissandro’s Country, in the northern Rim, and ‘take command of all forces there in preparation for offensive operations.’
What the hell do we have out there?, Reiner wondered. The Rim countries themselves, afraid of PNA invasion, were fully mobilizing. The newspapers said that most of them were now staunch USC allies. What they didn’t say, but Reiner could easily infer from economic and trade figures he’d read in peacetime, was that they weren’t significant numbers. Barely able to defend themselves, and spread too thin across too many small islands.
He said as much to Macquarie.
“Probably not much. I expect a fighting withdrawl down the islands while we mobilize. We’ll win in the end, Major. Have you ever doubted that?”
“Frankly, sir, I’m starting to. Nick has the numbers and the logistics, and we don’t.”
“We’re building them, Reiner. Fast. Peacetime generals are getting retired and new men are getting promoted. Men who can fight. I’m going to make damn sure of it in my command. Men like you and your boys. That Captain Grey – said he was tying up more than a squadron of destroyers with just two of these little boats. He known to exaggerate?”
“No, sir. He’s a good man.”
“Wonder how he’d look with gold oak leaves on his shoulders. Need to get you a pair of silver ones, for that matter. Give you a battalion if you weren’t so invaluable with this squadron. Maybe more boats – what’s the next unit up, subgroup? Three, four squadrons. How were you at infantry tactics?”
“Not bad, sir.”
“Clarify that, dammit.”
“Since I got D Company, we lost two out of nine company-level tactical exercises, sir.”
Macquarie smiled.
“Yeah, we’re definitely going to have to look at a battalion for you. On extended-range MTBs. Hit the PNA hard, wherever you go. Carry on the war in the Five-Ports. Show Nick he’s not safe anywhere. If we can round up the men and the boats, Reiner, we’ll have to look at that. Hell, with sufficiently-extended range boats – maybe a few dedicated supply boats coming along with your squadrons – you could hit the bastards as far north as Tuan.”
*
There was unusually heavy security at Dennyville when Cromwell nosed the Isabella in. The harbor had been rebuilt since the last time Chavez had been there, and half a dozen supply ships were refuelling from a newly-enlarged tank installation. That didn’t explain the pair of cruisers at anchor outside, or the Brotherhood-flagged shark boat squadron that had joined them as an escort thirty miles south.
Flights of Moscas and Nines circled in the sky above, as the Isabella moved slowly towards their designated dock. The dock itself was guarded by at least two companies of Brotherhood troops.
What’s going on?, Chavez wondered, as they docked.
There was a faint smile on Albertino’s face.
A Special Brotherhood lieutenant-colonel met them. He saluted Albertino, who casually returned the gesture.
“Sir, you and your passengers – and your defector – are to come on shore immediately.”
A Brotherhood Strike platoon, led by a major with several impressive ribbons on his dress uniform, escorted Chavez, Albertino, Munoz and Cromwell across the docks and through the warehouses. Albertino was calm, that faint smile remaining on his face. Cromwell was nervous, his eyes glancing from side to side. Chavez felt a bit of that himself, although he hoped he wasn’t showing it.
Is this platoon an honor guard or an arrest squad?, he wondered.
An office just past the warehouses had a tank parked in front of it, and more Strike troops guarding the entrance. Their commander nodded at the major and stepped out of the doorway.
The major led Albertino, Chavez, Munoz and Cromwell up a flight of stairs. One squad of the platoon followed them. It was a nice building; whichever capitalist trading company had run it, had prospered well off the blood of the oppressed masses. Wide hardwood stairs. Nice plaster walls.
“He’ll see you now,” said the Strike lieutenant in the anteroom of an office that had obviously belonged to the head of the trading company. The anteroom itself was larger than many offices Chavez had seen. Half a Strike squad stood around it, as well as a couple of civilian-dressed men who in this context could only have been Special Brotherhood.
Albertino was the first to enter, followed by Munoz. As Chavez followed them, he saw the explanation for why Dennyville had more security than he’d ever before seen in any liberated area.
Hermano del Suelo Enrico de la Stavrenis slouched against the senior capitalist’s polished hardwood desk, smiling.
Chavez brought himself to stiff attention. So did the others, except for Albertino, who saluted casually and stepped forwards.
“Good work, Jorge,” de la Stavrenis said to him. “Although you failed to bring him in alive. That he’s dead is good enough.”
“I think he’s dead, sir.”
“If he’s badly wounded, he won’t live long. Centralia’s entered the war on our side. No formal declaration and they’re going for the islands rather than attacking the USC on land as we’d hoped. Their fleet – and at least three fresh divisions – is due to arrive in the Uphams within a couple of days. Angle will fall the day after that.”
de la Stavrenis turned to Cromwell.
“Robert Cromwell. A pleasure to meet you. I knew your father. A good socialist. Perhaps we can prevail upon Durant to release him. You’ve been invaluable to the Revolution.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Cromwell. Nervously.
Damn right he should be nervous, thought Chavez. He was nervous, and he’d met the commander of the Brotherhoods before.
“Captain Munoz. Good job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Munoz, Cromwell, thank you for coming in. It’s been good to meet you both. Cromwell, I trust you’ll be as valuable to the Revolution now you’re officially a part of it, as you were before.”
“Yes sir,” said Cromwell, a little less nervously.
“Major Ortega will take you to your quarters. Dismissed.”
Munoz and Cromwell saluted again and headed out. The door closed behind them.
“Colonel Albertino,” said de la Stavrenis. “You improvised brilliantly. Did you give them much information?”
“A few bones. Mostly lies that they wouldn’t have time to verify. They’re probably just now realizing that most of what I told them was garbage.”
“Chavez.” The Hermano del Suelo’s intense eyes fixed on him.
Chavez felt himself freezing like a transfixed mouse.
“You lost the squadron I gave you. Wiped out to the last boat.”
Oh, no. I did, didn’t I?
Rightfully, the People did not tolerate losses like that.
A few moments of silence before Chavez realized he was probably expected to say something.
“Sir. Yes, I did. Sir.”
More silence. Chavez felt trickles of sweat running down his neck.
I may deserve to be executed. Since I did nothing to help kill Goldstein. I just tagged along.
“You’re not getting another squadron,” said de la Stavrenis. His eyes never looked away from Chavez’.
He doesn’t blink, a part of Chavez’s mind thought.
de la Stavrenis reached behind the desk.
For the button that’ll summon the Strike people to execute me.
The Hermano del Suelo’s left hand suddenly moved. Like a viper’s fangs. Something glinted, flew towards Chavez. Who instinctively caught it. He didn’t – couldn’t – look away from those intense, penetrating, unblinking eyes.
“You’re getting a subgroup. Three squadrons. Albertino’s reports to me have consistently described you as a fine man, a hundred percent reliable.”
For the first time, Chavez looked down at what de la Stavrenis had tossed him. A pair of dual gold anchors. Capitane de Fregata.
Full Commander.
“You lost your squadron well, Chavez. Now you have three to spend. In the Rim. The action’s going to take place there. Centralia is taking over for us in the Uphams, but there are a dozen capitalist countries in the Rim that the USC’s been reinforcing. It’s taken us time to learn this, thanks to certain converts within the Special Brotherhood’s own ranks and a magnificently successful effort by the FIA to keep us in the dark. It would have taken us time to put together the resources anyway. The USCN has a sizable force somewhere in the Rim or the Eastern Sea. Augmented by TransEquaaners – they haven’t yet joined the war, but they will within days.”
“Yessir.”
“A fleet group is being put together. Their objective is Centerfield Atoll. Our hope is that the USCN and their TransEquaaner allies will see fit to engage us there. Centerfield is an essential jumping-off point between the northern Andaians and the Rim itself. Schuylerville knows that if we take it, the whole northern Rim will be vulnerable. They’ll fight for it.”
“Yessir.”
“TransEq’s forthcoming intervention won’t change things. We take Centerfield, destroy the remaining USCN fleet, and sue for peace.”
Peace? Before true victory?
“In exchange for all of the islands. And TransEq. It will take us time to consolidate on Diego Sud, and to take New Texas now we have Centralia’s assistance on the continent. We understand the USC public is already fed up with the war. One more critical defeat will give their antiwar faction the votes they need to get peace.”
“Yessir.”
“At which point they demobilize. We liberate the oppressed Binaries on TransEq and in two or three years move south from Diego Sud and from Centralia, and east from New Texas. We crush the United Southern Colonies, liberate Centralia from that fascist Durant, and bring peace to humanity.”
He’s telling me this. The plan.
And my part in achieving it.
A crucial part.
“Sir,” said Chavez, “it is a true honor. To serve the People in this way.”
“There’s a plane waiting for you, Chavez. Your subgroup is waiting in Westport Bay. What are you still doing in Dennyville?”
*
Under a blazing early-afternoon sun, Squadron Ten nosed through the eastern Puerto Quintan islands. Reiner’s nervous hand twitched across the dial on the group radio, listening for Nick conversations that might imply they’d been spotted. In the overcast sky it would be difficult to see a camouflaged plane.
Schaffer’s boat had been damaged badly in the diversionary fight, her bow cannon out of action and her engines hit. Reiner was tempted to leave him behind, because he was reducing their speed by more than a third.
On the other hand, he knew the condition of their engines. Two other MTB squadrons had been ripped up for the best parts, but those MTB squadrons had all been out in the Gap for weeks. Even the best parts weren’t going to be in very good shape, and a breakdown in the middle of PNA-occupied territory would be disastrous even without General Macquarie on board.
It was good to have an incentive not to redline towards Alissandro’s Country as fast as possible. He’d decided to avoid Centerfield Atoll, since nobody – not even Macquarie’s staff – knew for sure whether it was controlled by the PNA or the USC. Besides, it was too far north.
“…a special bulletin,” came a voice in Spanish as Reiner changed the dial to another likely-PNA frequency. “Today we celebrate a great victory against the Southern capitalists! Another of their imperialist colonial strongholds has given in to the People’s will – the Puerto Quintan islands have finally been expunged of their capitalist oppressors. Karna has fallen.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“This is General von Minzen, commander of the First Centralian Expeditionary Force,” the open transmission went out. “I wish to speak directly with General Salazar.”
The response came half an hour later.
“This is General Salazar, commander of PNA Forces, Andaian Islands Theater. It’s good to have you on our side, von Minzen. I understand your commander-in-chief thought actions would speak louder than words. Sending you while our diplomats negotiated the alliance.”
“It’s good to be here,” said von Minzen.
“Thank you for coming. Although we have the situation in hand. We could use more help, but Angle is expected to fall within a couple of days as-is. Are you sure you don’t want to go to New Borneo?”
“My orders sent me to West Upham, General Salazar. To engage the enemy there.”
“Well then, maybe we can take Angle tomorrow.”
“I want you to clear me an area of operations on the west side of the island. There are beaches and some coves where I plan to offload my troops.”
“Will you need logistical assistance?”
“No. Just clear landing areas.”
“I’ll withdraw the troops there for you.”
“Thank you, General Salazar. I look forwards to meeting you in person.”
“In Angle, no doubt.”
*
“They’ll be here by tomorrow morning,” an exhausted Portnoy said to van Delft, handing him the transcript. Artillery was coming down hard on the city, now, and van Delft had relocated his headquarters into a crowded sub-basement. “Their MTBs and destroyers could be bombarding us by midnight, if he chooses to detach them. They’ve got to know we don’t have a fleet to speak of – just two MTB squadrons in the harbor.”
“Sortie those around the landing area,” van Delft told a junior officer.
“No fuel for them, sir. The remaining tanks have the last of it. The MTBs have the range to make one limited sortie against an enemy force directly attacking the harbor. No MG ammo – the Army’s got that. No cannon shells remaining. Run in with their torpedoes and then they may as well crash themselves into the enemy boats.”
Van Delft sighed.
“They think we’ll fall in two days,” he said. “Let’s try to make it three, shall we?”
*
144 and 147 were crowded, with eighteen passengers between them. Tex and Ricks had been assigned to take care of the passengers, showing them around and keeping them entertained. Lewis had taken on some of that role, as the only real supernumerary who knew her way around MTBs. Right now she was interviewing Joan Macquarie; the two were sitting crosslegged across from each other by the bow gun.
General Macquarie was asleep in Reiner’s bunk. His G-3, a blocky major-general, was standing in the cockpit talking politics with Pulli, who he’d somehow taken a shine to. They were passing a stogie back and forth.
A one-star named Johnson, a balding, weaselly-looking man, came up into the cockpit to where Reiner was driving the boat.
