Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(65)
“I do, and will, Lord Chooser. But it was to be expected. We did expect it and acted accordingly.” Esshk snorted impatience. “And they did not harm Old Sofesshk, so there is little to concern us.”
“Of course, Lord Regent Champion,” the Chooser said, now addressing him as the leader of all the Ghaarrichk’k. “But they will be back.”
? ? ?
“Bloody gorgeous!” Courtney Bradford yelled, loud enough to be heard over the four big radials roaring practically overhead. He’d crammed his head up past Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom’s and was peering aft through the pilot’s left-side window as their PB-5D Clipper headed south. Mark’s brown-and-tan-striped Lemurian copilot, Lieutenant Paraal-Taas, snorted a laugh. They’d started some gorgeous fires indeed, and he seemed almost giddy. As did Courtney. “Bloody marvelous,” he enthused again, witnessing the effect of the ton of incendiaries each plane dropped.
Mark Leedom was just as pleased, but wished Courtney would—literally—get out of his hair. Mark was COFO of the air defenses at Grik City, but led this raid because he’d already been over Sofesshk twice. That was how he’d rationalized it to Jumbo, anyway, who actually commanded Pat-Squad 22, the outfit his borrowed plane belonged to. He should’ve stayed out of the raid completely and carried Courtney straight down to Songze, but Courtney wouldn’t countenance a special trip, and the risk of taking him along was deemed relatively minor—as long as they hit the city at night. Mark had personally experienced how effective the new Grik rocket batteries were when they could see you. As it turned out, they’d been right, and now Mark was looking forward to the chance of seeing his old friend Bekiaa-Sab-At. She could be anywhere in the Republic, but there was a chance they’d meet and have a chance to catch up. They’d shared a particularly rough time together, and were two of only a handful who survived it. Now if he could only put up with Courtney for another seven hours or so . . .
After they dropped their bombs, the other four planes turned northeast, back toward the Comoros Islands, but Leedom’s ship still had eight hundred miles to go. Songze was the closest thing to a port city the Republic had on its east coast. It was becoming a port city, at least, a real one, from what Mark heard, sprouting large shipyards and heavy industry. The Republic had never dared grow too conspicuous on that coast before. The Grik had always dominated the littoral waters of the Indian Ocean, ranging ever farther and more boldly over the past two hundred years, and the isolationist Senate feared appearing too provocative—or tempting. That was over now, and the place was jumping, supposedly starting the first blue-water warships the Republic had built in at least a hundred years. (Maybe ever. That remained unclear.) Leedom was anxious to see for himself, but Songze was a long way off, and they’d be flying over a lot of land controlled by the Grik. At least it was dark. They might be heard, but never be seen.
Mark contemplated his Clipper. PB-5Ds were great, reliable planes, improved many times since the first variant flew. Their four engines had ten cylinders now, generating about 365 hp each. They could cruise at 120 miles an hour for almost 2,500 miles—about the same range as the old PBY flying boat that inspired them. Range and speed should improve still more with the next planned variant, when they finally faired the engines into the wing to reduce drag. (Personally, Mark hoped they’d leave them be for now. He’d rather have a bunch more D models before they threw any curves at the assembly line.) Clippers had a crew of six and could carry eight passengers in relative comfort. More important to Leedom, they were armed with five .30-caliber machine guns and could carry a ton of bombs or two torpedoes. But having taken off from Jumbo’s base on the Comoros Island of Mayotte, Songze was near the limit of their range, counting the run up the Zambezi to bomb Sofesshk, and Leedom was concerned about the quality of gasoline their Republic allies would use to replace what they burned.
“Marvelous!” Courtney repeated, still gazing back at the diminishing flames.
“Yeah, yeah, it was swell,” Mark agreed sourly. “A real clambake—or lizard bake, I guess. And if they don’t like that, wait till Jumbo gets more planes. He’ll level the damn place.” He shifted uncomfortably, but Courtney just wedged in tighter, trying for a better view. “Hey, I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford, but could you get off my neck? I’m getting a crick in it.”
“Oh! Of course. Sorry.” Courtney eased back but didn’t leave the flight deck. Mark was suddenly glad, because he had a question maybe Courtney could answer.
“Say, what do you make of our mission orders? If all the top Grik brass was probably on the north side of the river, in that fancier part of the city, why not bomb there? We might’ve gotten lucky and cut the head right off the snake.”
“Hmm. Yes. That was actually my suggestion, in point of fact.”
“You don’t say? What for?”
“Well, other than the possibility—I agree with—that the Grik leaders reside in Old Sofesshk, your own reconnaissance flight revealed little else of consequence there. No large troop concentrations, and all industry appears situated on the other side of the river. And, frankly, Commander, this is total war. Just as the enemy makes no distinction between our civilians and combat troops, we can’t either. Their civilians support their war effort more directly and single-mindedly even than ours, so they’re a legitimate target. A target that must’ve taken severe losses tonight, thanks to you and your mates in the Air Corps.” He beamed, but then looked thoughtful. “And there’s morale to consider. Even the new Grik warriors must have difficulty enduring punishment they can’t reply to. Their Uul workers will find it more challenging still. Finally, on the other end of the morale spectrum, never forget what happened when Mr. Reuben killed their Celestial Mother at Grik City. You weren’t there, but you must’ve heard.”