Free B00BPJL400 EBOK by Taylor Anderson Page B

wouldn’t confirm that. Pete shook his head. It was hard to imagine that canny old warrior, Lord Muln-Rolak, trusting the weird little Grik so. “They’re not content to just keep us cornered here; they want us gone—or that damn Kurokawa does.” They’d also learned that General of the Sea Hisashi Kurokawa himself was in personal charge of this enemy campaign.
    “We still block the Rocky Gap; the most direct route to Madraas,” Major Daanis said. “His fleet is there, but he cannot feel secure as long as we are at his back. . . . There! I think I hear the large plane. It sounds different from the others.”
    Daanis was right. A crackling rumble of multiple engines throttling back reached their ears, and they saw the blue exhaust flares slide across the darkness, dropping toward the darker water. Torches flared to life in little boats on the lake so the pilot would have some reference for where the slick surface was, and the engines roared as the pilot advanced his throttles to check his descent. A moment later, a yellow-gray splash reflected the firelight and the glare of lightning and war as the big PB-5 “Clipper” slammed down on the lake. One of the powerboats raced to lead it in to the hasty docks. Pete and his companions strode out on the rough-hewn planks and edged away from the busy stevedores unloading a long train of barges recently arrived from the transfer point at the ford. Crates of ammunition, weapons, food, equipment, and medical supplies were piling high, waiting to be dispersed to the scattered, improvised supply sheds, or whisked away to needy troops.
    “They’re weird-lookin’ ducks,” Pete said as the shape of the PB-5 resolved itself, drawing near.
    “I think they’re swell,” Leedom said. “They look kind of like a Sikorsky S-40—with a proper tail.”
    “I do not care what they look like, only what they can do,” Tikker said. “They can carry a ton of supplies—or maybe bombs—and more people than anything else we have. Once they are equipped with Colonel Maallory’s rad-iaals, we will have true, long-range reconnaissance such as we haven’t enjoyed since we lost the old PBY.”
    “And a relatively heavy bomber,” Pete added. “I sure would like a heavy bomber!” He paused, looking at Leedom. “Anything else on those . . . mounted folks you and Captain Saachic reported when you broke out of the trap west of the Rocky Gap?” Pete immediately regretted asking. Leedom or Tikker would’ve reported if their pilots saw anything. Besides, what happened to Colonel Flynn and several thousand troops was still a very sore subject, and Leedom, shot down in the action, and the few others who made it out were amazingly lucky. Still puzzling, however, was that the survivors reported meeting some very oddly mounted . . . strangers, apparently led by some Czech guy. The mystery was driving Pete nuts.
    “Ah, no, sir,” Leedom said. “The guys are keeping their eyes peeled.”
    The big seaplane approached the dock and was fended off and secured while Pete and his staff waited expectantly. Finally, a hatch opened in the wood-and-fabric fuselage aft of the port wing, and a Lemurian face appeared.
    “Watcha got?” Pete cried out.
    “Mortar bombs, mostly,” the ’Cat replied. “An’ dispatches for you, Gener-aal.”
    “How many wounded can you take out this time?” Daanis asked.
    “Only ten, they say, which means I take fifteen, anyway,” the pilot grinned. “’Cats don’t weigh so much as hu-maans! I ordered to pick up passengers this time too. Don’t know who. They names in the dispatch.” He tossed a wrapped packet to Major Daanis, who’d jumped down on a floating gangway being pushed up to the hatch. Daanis nodded and blinked his thanks, then brought the packet to Pete.
    “It says COTGA, Gener-aal,” Daanis said. COTGA stood for “Chairman of the Grand Alliance,” which meant the dispatch was from Adar himself. A dispatch from Adar was akin to receiving