…”
“Courtney,” Matt said dryly.
“Oh. Bloody hell! Of course,” Bradford fumed, but inhaled to calm himself. “Based on my own studies, I feel comfortable stating that, for all practical purposes, ‘lizard birds,’ ‘dragons,’ are flying Grik! Their physiology is somewhat different, of course-their arms and fingers have become the framework for wings; the tails are longer and the plumage more specialized. They’re also lighter for their size, but the corresponding flight muscles are greatly exaggerated.” He looked at Spanky. “Your ‘bug spray’ analogy might be as good as any, strangely enough. Their lungs are immense, and they clearly rely on a great volume of air to sustain their prodigious cardiopulmonary requirements…” He considered. “I don’t imagine they could thrive for long in a smoky environment, for example. Set fire to their ships, and I doubt they could loiter above them. The smoke alone might well choke them, or at least tire them quickly.” He shrugged. “That’s all I have for you, I’m afraid-besides what you already know: they’re vulnerable to gunfire, structurally and otherwise, and bleed rather copiously from any serious wound. Another drawback to their amazing ‘power plant,’ as it were.”
Jenks was watching Matt’s face. “Does that give you an idea, my friend?”
“Maybe.” Matt glanced at his watch. “In any event, you should probably go ashore and start sorting out your ‘army.’ I expect the enemy to try a coordinated attack of some kind, but we all know how hard that can be. You had better be in position as early as possible.” He looked at Rempel. “The ‘fleet’ will make all preparations for getting underway.”
CHAPTER 17
Grik East Africa Primary Industrial Site
G eneral of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa smoldered with anger as he stepped onto the dock from the deck of his stately yacht. His Grik protectors hurried after him, but he ignored them. Once again, he was being forced to do something against his will, before he was ready, and the results might well be catastrophic. Word had arrived on a few ships that managed to run the Allied blockade that Generals Halik and Niwa hoped to hold Ceylon after all. General Esshk still doubted they could; they now knew the Allied fleet had thoroughly invested the place and had deployed a variety of highly effective attack aircraft there. This news didn’t come from Halik, but from the sole survivor of a supply convoy they’d tried to push through on the heels of the successful breakout. Lord Regent Tsalka seized on the notion, however, as a possibility that his beloved regency might be preserved, and he’d convinced the Celestial Mother to instruct Kurokawa to deploy his own as yet “idle” airpower to counter the enemy and ravage the Allied fleet.
Kurokawa objected as strenuously as he dared, citing the many obstacles to deployment: the craft weren’t ready in the numbers he desired for a decisive blow, the crews were barely proficient, and even navigation would be a problem. He laid out his argument as carefully and respectfully as he could, even referencing the disaster that ensued the last time his advice was ignored, all to no avail. Esshk was on his side, as was the Chooser, but in the end it was Tsalka’s argument that they must resist the conquest of Ceylon with every asset available if they hoped to save the sacred “Ancestral Lands” from the corrupting tread of former prey that won the day.
Kurokawa did manage to gain a major concession from the Celestial Mother. She understood his and Esshk’s desire to prevent another disaster and valued their opinions. Therefore, if there was a “setback,” on Tsalka would be blamed. Kurokawa was still enraged but managed to hide his temper-a skill he’d worked hard to master, and one that had served him well of late. He took the reversal with an apparent grace that visibly surprised General Esshk, but he’d secretly resolved to do everything in his growing power to ensure Tsalka took sufficient blame for any number of things to cost him his miserable life.
At least Tsalka hadn’t insisted that Kurokawa’s New Navy be involved in this fiasco, but likely only time and distance preserved it. That could have been a real disaster. The Navy he was building would soon be invincible, but upon learning of the threat from the air, he’d realized overhead protection was now essential, and his projected date for completion had been postponed accordingly. He slowed his pace and gazed out into the massive, artificial harbor and marveled at his own genius. Once his fleet was complete, nothing the ridiculous “allies” had, or could conceivably make, would be able to stop it. Certainly, there’d be losses. His machinery was crude and many of his ships might simply break down, but the rest-the best-would be impervious to anything but modern weapons. He looked at his flagship, which was undergoing topside reinforcement. Not since Amagi was lost had there been anything like her on this world, and he felt a thrill at the prospect of “taking her out” against the foe. It would be a very different meeting from the last one, he swore.
He growled and slapped his boot with his macabre riding crop. Damn Tsalka! Kurokawa had confidence in his fleet, but an unexpected combined attack would’ve been utterly irresistible, and he’d have had his own revenge at last! He paced the dock, watching the dronelike labor of the Uul, and hearing the harsh commands of his own Japanese officers as they instructed their overseers. He’d finally begun to forgive some of his old crew. Not all could have been traitors, he convinced himself, and they worked now with an apparently single-minded passion that mirrored his own. Perhaps they knew, with victory, a new order would emerge, and they wanted to be a part of it. Whatever the reason, most of his surviving “old crew” now worked with a will, and even if it was only to improve their own lot and not necessarily to advance the glory of Kurokawa or Emperor Hirohito, he was satisfied with what they’d accomplished on his behalf.
He left the dock, his unspeaking Grik close behind. The guards themselves signified a shift in his personal fortunes; they were there to protect him with their lives, not monitor or curtail his activities. They belonged to him. He managed a brief, snorting smile at that and worked his way quickly past the tightly constructed buildings holding the acid baths, trying to hold his breath the entire length of the structures. It was impossible. He finally took a gasping breath and inhaled some of the fumes. “Aggh!” he said, and worked his way upwind. Soon the smell was gone, and he beheld the dozens of massive structures built to protect his mighty flying machines from the elements. Only one craft was currently in view, and he stopped to marvel at the scope of this, his second greatest achievement.
“Magnificent,” he muttered, a little wistfully. Turning, he stepped toward the office of “General of the Sky,” Hideki Muriname, the last pilot of the old Type 95 floatplane that once bombed Baalkpan. The plane had been seriously damaged, and though it hadn’t been cannibalized, Kurokawa was assured it could never fly again. They used it now as a pattern for gauges and other technical things Kurokawa had no interest in.
“General Muriname!” he boomed, throwing the door aside.
“Sir?” answered a small man seated at a large desk, bluerints scattered before him.
“You have orders.” Kurokawa proceeded to explain the mission and the timetable.
“But”-the small man searched the room with his eyes-“that is madness! Such a distance! There will not be fuel for them to return against contrary winds! We will not only waste the machines, but all the aircrews we’ve worked so hard to form!”