“This fight looks… even bigger,” he observed a while later as they descended into the valley and neared what could only be the city of Waterford. A vast crescent of fire enveloped the northern part of the town, and Lake Shannon shimmered and glowed like a great puddle of blood. Bright flashes lit the valley, and crimson arcs of exploding shells fell on what had to be enemy positions, fired from the city and the mountains beyond. Cork was a holding action. Beyond the next range was the main Allied push, but here, the enemy had the whole campaign by the throat. If Waterford fell, each force would be isolated and vulnerable. From altiude, the battle resembled an inferno as the damp, but sappy forest burned almost everywhere. Immediately, Orrin Reddy changed his entire plan.
“Watch really carefully now,” he instructed Silva. “That moon’s a big help to us, but it’ll help those flying creatures too!”
In the event, the entire 10th Pursuit Squadron set down on the placid, brightly lit lake without incident, and motored toward a pier where nearly a dozen other “Nancys” were tied. Willing hands helped secure the bobbing aircraft as the engines were cut, and weary, stiff-legged aircrews scrambled onto the dock.
“Where’s HQ?” Orrin shouted.
“You not like it, sur,” warned a ’Cat.
“Why?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Just take me there.”
There was excited chattering he didn’t understand, and he was quickly led through a maze of battered waterfront buildings to a long, low-slung structure that reminded him of an army barracks. Probably every one of his fliers gaggled behind him.
“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded an Imperial officer as Orrin, Silva, and the leading edge of aviators burst into the building. Orrin was shocked by the tone, but also the level of chaos he beheld. At first glance, the activity they’d interrupted seemed to border on panic.
“Lieutenant Orrin Reddy, COFO of Maaka-Kakja, reporting,” he said. He didn’t salute, partly because he had no idea about Imperial rank devices, but also because his temper was rising.
“Very well, you’ve reported!” the officer said brusquely. “Now get out of the way! In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve a battle on our hands!”
“That’s pretty clear from the air. What’s also clear is a way to end it in a hurry!”
“Ridiculous! We’re doing all that can be done with our meager forces here.”
“You’re not doing anything with the planes yet.”
“Yes… well, I heard there was some scheme to use them in the morning for something,” the man replied vaguely, “though I’ve no idea what possible use they might be. Freakish curiosities!”
“Who’s in command here?” Silva demanded menacingly, taking a step forward. Lawrence squeezed in beside him, and his frightening visage and strangely colored armor were at least as disconcerting as Silva’s sudden entrance into the conversation.
“Why… Commodore Luce came forward with the reinforcements from Cork. I suppose he’s the highest in rank…”
“So he’s in charge?”
“I don’t know as if you could say he’s in charge, per se…”
“Is anybody in charge?” Silva roared.
The Imperials visibly flinched.
“Uh, Major Blair was in charge of this element of the operation, though we’ve occupied an area originally designated for the Ape-Major Chack, I mean! Neither is here at present, so I command my forces, Commodore Luce has his, though his artillery is controlled by… someone else. Major Brighton has the troops that fled here from Bray, but his supply train security force is under Major Grimes.”
“Nobody’s in charge?” Silva roared again, but with a tone of furious incredulity. “Good Gawd a’font›hell kind of a way is this to run a war? You fellas haven’t done much o’ this, have you?”
“Perhaps not on this scale, but I assure you…!”
Dennis turned to Orrin. “Sir,’ he said with more gravity than Orrin had ever heard him use, “as the senior officer on the scene who has the only f… lipperin’ clue what the flyin’…” He stopped. “Oh goddamn, Lieutenant! Just rear up an’ take charge o’ this chickenshit outfit!”
“Jesus, Silva, I can’t do that!” Orrin objected, his young face reddening in the lamplight.
“Of course not!” the Imperial practically squealed.
Silva raised the Thompson SMG he’d been holding innocuously by his side and yanked the bolt back. “Lieutenant Reddy, you’re fixin’ to hafta take charge after I shoot all these useless sons-o’-goats!”
“Just wait, damn it!” Orrin shouted. He spun back to face the Imperial “commander.” “Look, I don’t want your job and I sure don’t want you fellows dead, but I do have a plan!” He pushed his way through the suddenly very quiet and attentive officers in the room to a map spread on a table. “The Doms are all around here,” he said, drawing a crescent with his finger. “Some big fires are burning here”-he pointed again-“between the enemy and this little river, probably started by Chack and Blair’s artillery.”
“Yes,” muttered another officer. “A great tragedy, all those trees!”
Orrin looked at the man and blinked. “Uh, okay. The thing is, those guns can’t reach any farther. We can! Maaka-Kakja ’s planes!”
“For what purpose?”
“We brought fuel for the planes that landed on the lake, but we don’t need all of them for this. You pull all your troops back to the city, and we rig fuel cans with mortar bombs and drop ’em on the enemy! The whole valley north of the city will go up in a wall of fire, and the Doms we don’t burn will have no choice but to pull back! By the time the fire simmers down, you should have reinforcements from the coast!”
“Madness!” cried the “tree” officer. “To burn the enemy alive! It’s monstrous, simply monstrous! And all those trees! The beauty of the valley will be lost!”
“You’re all nuts,” shouted Orrin in return. “You’d rather lose the battle and get nailed to a post-and maybe lose the whole damn war-than kill the enemy and burn a few trees?” He looked at Silva. “I should’ve let you shoot ’em!”
“Still can,” Silva said.
“Now, now!” cried the first Imperial. “This is madness! We’re all on the same side, by Imperial decree. I will respect that. You have your own command, so please do as you think best with it! I’ll pass the word to Commodore Luce and the others! Just leave us.”
“I need some mortar bombs,” Orrin insisted.
“As do we all. I don’t know if any can be had, but if so, you’ll have to get them from… oh, blast! I still can’t remember his name! The artillery gentleman! Now, if you don’t mean to shoot us, please leave us to fight our battle!”
Orrin turned without saluting and strode out the door, followed by his fliers. “Silva,” he said sharply.
“Sir?”
“Take a dil and get me some mortar bombs… I don’t care how you do it.”
“You bet! C’mon, Larry, you fuzzy little salamander. Let’s go get some bombs!”
Half a dozen ’Cats followed Silva and Lawrence into the noisy, fiery night.
“What we do now?” another ’Cat asked Orrin.
“Let’s go see how many planes we can gas up enough to do the job, and still have enough fuel to burn the Doms out of this place!” He looked back at the HQ. “This joint’s even more screwed up than things were back in the Philippines when the Japs came! I didn’t think that was possible!”
Within an hour, Silva returned with almost forty bombs; Orrin had eleven planes with tanks topped off, each with two five-gallon gas cans slung under it’s wings. They hadn’t figured out a way to secure the bombs to the cans in a way that would ensure the contact fuses were pointed down when the ungainly weapons were dropped, so they decided to try something like what Orrin had heard First Fleet did in the west, except in this case the observers would toss a couple of bombs at the same time the pilots yanked a release lanyard on a gas tank. If they hit close enough together, swell. Some would, certainly, and their next pass with their second cans would connect the dots. Orrin knew “real” incendiaries were now in production at Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la, but they wouldn’t have them here for some time.
“I’m almost surprised that crazy-assed Imperial gardener hasn’t sent troops to stop us,” Silva said as he propped his and Orrin’s plane, and then sat down in the observer’s seat when the engine caught and farted to
