Savoie was French built, a Bretagne Class superdreadnaught from another, different “earth” where France, Spain, and Italy had all gone fascist in the wake of a broader war against Bolshevism as the Great War juddered to an end. Though crushed in Russia with the help of all the great powers, Bolshevism took firmer root in the rest of Europe and civil wars flared. That apparently triggered a quicker, more aggressive rise of fascism and despite their mutual animosities, the three chief partners in the “Confédération États Souverains” intervened in civil wars in Germany, Austria—and elsewhere, Matt supposed. Ultimately estranged from Great Britain, the United States, and Imperial Russia—virtually all its former allies—and requiring external threats and conquest to keep it together, the Confédération sent a powerful fleet to wrest Egypt and the Suez Canal from the British. That’s when a similar . . . phenomenon . . . to that which brought Walker to this world apparently occurred. And if Walbert Fiedler is to be believed, Matt mused, and he didn’t really doubt the German pilot who’d defected to the Allies, the . . . event . . . brought over nearly the whole damn fleet and a fair portion of the city of Tripoli around the harbor where it had been at anchor. Fiedler had described a cataclysm on shore, particularly where buildings—and a few ships—smashed down on another city already there.
Matt sometimes wondered how the Confédération fared on that other world after such a big chunk of its naval might simply disappeared. I hope they got clobbered, he thought. But its descendant here, ruled by a triumvirate of senior officers from its “big three” members, formed the League of Tripoli and commenced subjugating the Mediterranean’s “indigenous” peoples, many of whom had arrived in a similar fashion through the ages. And the League’s starting to make itself a real pain in the ass for us, Matt thought darkly.
Behind Savoie was Walker’s somewhat misshapen sister from another world, USS Mahan (DD-102). She’d been destroyed and resurrected—from less—even more often than Matt’s own ship. She’d required two entirely new bows and been shortened the length of her forward fireroom. She’d lost a little speed, but no armament, and not much endurance.
Next came USS James Ellis (DD-21). She was another “sister,” though maybe “daughter” was a better term. Copied from Walker and built on this world, she’d been the very first all-steel ship ever made in the Union capital of Baalkpan. Inevitably, she had a number of kinks. Her own first sister, USS Geran-Eras (DD-23), had been better, but she was sunk in the Battle of Mahe. Two more “Wickes/Walker-Class” DDs were supposedly complete, and at least two more were almost ready for sea. Others were being built in the Filpin Lands far to the East.
Bringing up the rear of the column was the light cruiser USS Fitzhugh Gray (CL-1). She was a beautiful thing, the most ambitious naval achievement of the Allies to date. Begun before they knew about the League, however, she’d been built to slaughter the big, tough, and frighteningly powerful Grik battleships and cruisers by running rings around them and outranging their big muzzle-loaders with modern 5.5″ rifles. But the Grik navy was finished and Gray didn’t compare that well with what Matt knew of her League counterparts. And there was only one of her, so far. Another was finishing up in the Maa-ni-la shipyards using machinery shipped there from Baalkpan, but there was no way to know if she’d be complete in time. The Empire of the New Britain Isles, where the Hawaiian Islands ought to be, were drawing on their colonies on the West Coast of North America for materials to build steel-hulled “protected cruisers” of their own, but Matt had no idea about their particulars. And the Republic of Real People, their allies in southern Africa, was building “battlecruisers” as well. Matt had seen preliminary plans and was skeptical of their design.
But Gray sure is pretty, he thought wistfully. She was long and lean like the smaller destroyers, with a similar silhouette and the same four stacks. She might even lick one of the lightest cruisers the League throws at us, Matt cynically appraised, but then shook his head. Not only is she a fine ship with a crew blooded in hard fighting, everyone aboard her believes the ghost of the man she’s named after watches over her. She’ll make a good account of herself. Turning back in his chair, he stared out at the sea ahead.
They’d left La-laanti, where Diego Garcia ought to be, earlier that day after an overnight refueling stop and wouldn’t see land again for two thousand miles. A convoy of oilers bound for where they came from and escorted by the last unaltered sail/steam DD, USS Revenge, would meet them around the halfway point. The task force would fill their bunkers again at the former League outpost of Christmas Island before steaming through the Soonda Strait to B’taava, Jaava. After taking on more fuel, they wouldn’t stop until they crossed the Jaava Sea and opened Baalkpan Bay on the southeast coast of Borno.
It’ll be the first time I’ve been home in the better part of a year, Matt realized, never associating the word “home” with the small ranch in Texas where he grew up anymore. I wonder how it’s changed? He started calculating all the things they had to do once they got there, and grasped he wouldn’t have much time to enjoy his “leave.” Pushing that away, he decided, like his friend, to just enjoy the moment. “Not ragging you,” he said at last, “I’m just as glad to be back out on the open sea.”
“I think everyone agrees with that,” added Sandra Reddy pleasantly, stepping up the ladder behind them. Matt froze after a quick glance in her direction because his wife had brought their infant son, Fitzhugh Adar Reddy, on the bridge, swaddled in a soft white blanket. We’ve talked about this, he inwardly groaned. He’d lost all preconceived notions against women aboard ship; a third of his crew was female now, both Lemurians and ex-pat Impie humans. Fully half the snipes in Lieutenant Tab-At’s (Tabby had been the first female ’Cat to join) engineering spaces were female as well. And there’d been babies aboard before—briefly, either rescued from other ships, like Neracca, or twice when crew members gave birth. But it was still against regulations for “mates” to serve on the same ship, and infants were quickly transferred with their mothers.
But transfer to safer, more suitable transport hadn’t been an option for Sandra and their son. Both the great carriers, Salissa (Big Sal), under Matt’s best Lemurian friend, Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar, and Madraas, now under Keje’s intended, Commodore Tassanna-Ay-Arracca, had offloaded most of their planes at Arracca Field and promptly left the theater right after the Battle of the Zambezi. Most of the other large ships in the fleet, like the floating dry dock Tarakan Island and the armored transport Sular, went with them, relying on the carrier’s remaining planes for protection. Not only did they require refits and upgrades at Baalkpan, they carried most of the campaign’s wounded, as well as Colonel Chack-Sab-At’s extremely hard-used 1st Raider Brigade and the equally exhausted II Corps. II Corps’ badly wounded commander (and Chack’s mate) General Queen Safir-Maraan was in Salissa’s extensive infirmary with Chack by her side.
In any event, in the wake of the terrible battles and their child’s birth at their height, Matt relented when Sandra insisted on joining him in Walker, as he’d earlier promised she could. But this wasn’t part of the deal. Parading around the ship, and on the bridge, with infants hadn’t been any part of the Navy he’d come from, or was trying to build on this world. More importantly, he had to set an example. If he let his wife cart babies up on the bridge—drawing along doting admirers, he noted, as Tabby, Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross, and Diania (Sandra’s steward/bodyguard) tromped up the stairs behind her—how was he ever going to stop others from doing it? And to top things off, Silva’s here too! he seethed, darting a glance at the fo’c’sle. How did he get up here so fast, with Lawrence in tow? And that ridiculous tree-gliding lizard named Petey was peering, big-eyed, from beside the big man’s scarred, bearded face. Matt almost felt like it was mocking him too.
Sandra saw the thoughts behind his face as surely as if he’d spoken them and smiled sweetly. She looked so much better than after they’d rescued her from Kurokawa, and to see her eyes gl
itter with such genuine mirth . . . Matt’s outrage deflated.
“You don’t need to worry about having the carpenter build a playpen behind the chart table, Captain Reddy,” Sandra said dryly, almost formally. “And one visit by your son to enjoy such a wonderful day for a few moments with his father isn’t going to set a corrosive example and crack the discipline of the American Navy Clan!”
“Damn straight,” Silva agreed seriously, scratching the patch over his left eye. “Little scudder needs sunlight an’ fresh air or he’ll wither up. Why, look at all them wrinkles on him! Poor little Fitzy!” he cooed.
“All babies are wrinkled, jerk,” Pam snapped at Silva. Everybody knew the petite, dark-haired nurse from Brooklyn loved him, but she rarely let it show. Particularly to Dennis Silva.
“Don’t ever call him ‘Fitzy,’” Spanky growled.
“Well, I reckon so at that,” Silva conceded to Pam, ignoring the XO. “I ain’t seen many o’ the critters, mind, but it seems they were all a little creased. I guess they come that way, like folded balloons, an’ grow so fast they gotta have room to shake out.”
Pam rolled her eyes and Silva glanced at the gray-furred Tabby with his good eye and sniffed. “Still, no proper sailor can thrive in the dark, belowdecks. I noticed ol’ Isak creepin’ around on the aft deckhouse under the moon the other night, checkin’ the voice tubes to the engineerin’ spaces. He’s lost all his tan an’ I thought he was a spook.”
Tabby laughed. “He might be. Stinks like he’s dead, an’ he never sleeps. Just haunts the firerooms night and day. Drives my snipes crazy.”
Matt chuckled and took his son when Sandra thrust him forward. What the hell? What’re we fighting for, anyway? He eased the blanket aside and saw a pair of dark green eyes regarding him intently from a round, pink face. “Isak’s always been weird,” he agreed, softening his voice unconsciously, “but he’s the best there is. I told him he could be engineering officer aboard any ship in the fleet”—he glanced at Tabby—“including this one. It’s time you moved up and out, Lieutenant.” He looked back down at his child. “He refused. Said we’d have to pry him out of Walker’s firerooms like a hermit crab from its shell. Probably kill him, doing that.”
“Same here, skipper,” Tabby said matter-of-factly. “There ain’t no ‘up and out’ for me. Not yet. I’m still not a good enough bridge officer for aany kind o’ commaand,” she added, but it was clear she’d stay with Walker until they dealt with the League, no matter what.
“I wonder how many others feel that way?” Pam speculated, responding to what Tabby meant, not what she said.
“Ha. I’ve been fielding requests from every ship back there,” Spanky grouched, pointing aft with his thumb. “An’ it ain’t just the few guys left who came here with us, it’s ’Cats too, them that started out in Walker or Mahan. Every one of ’em figures we’re heading for the old girl’s last fight. Ensigns, even a few lieutenants, have begged to come over as apprentice seamen if they have to! Shit!” He glanced quickly at Sandra. “S’cuse me.”
“Stupid,” Silva agreed levelly.
“The thing is, I kind of understand how they feel,” Matt objected, “and I honestly wish we could oblige them, but we need them where they are.”
“You don’t really need me, Skipper,” Silva said, surprising everyone. “Not aboard here. An’ poor Larry’s about to die with nothin’ to do, to keep him from pinin’ away over his lady love: the Sequestr’al Mammy.”
“I glad to ha’ nothing to do,” Lawrence objected incredulously, his Grik-like face managing a hunted expression. “And I not going to die, now. She’d ha’ killed I, sonhow. Squshed I . . . or torn I head.” He shuddered at the memory of something he and Silva had seen.
“I reckon she might’a loved you to death at that,” Silva allowed and shook his head. He looked back at his captain. “But you got Campeti for gunnery, an’ he’s trained up a whole new team.”
“You’re still their chief,” Spanky pointed out. “Pack-Rat’s gone off to Mahan.”
Silva shrugged. “Anybody can do what I’m doin’, an’ Jeek’s a good bosun too.” He hesitated, exhibiting a degree of uncertainty, even vulnerability very unlike him. “Walker’s my home,” he finally continued, “the only family I ever had is here”—he paused—“or was. But maybe me an’ ol’ Larry should’a stayed with Chackie an’ his Raiders. Seems we do more good for ever-body when we’re with them.”
“No you don’t!” Pam countered angrily. “You’ve done more than enough for everybody else already! It’s time you quit goofin’ off and stuck with your ship. You said you were ‘back in the Navy for good,’” she almost pleaded.
Matt cleared his throat. Pam’s personal considerations aside, Colonel Chack was physically and emotionally exhausted—who could blame him? His 1st Raider Brigade had been in the grinder for months and all its senior leadership, including his sister Risa, was gone. And now, after what happened to his beloved Safir-Maraan . . . Chack needed a break. They all did, but Chack was a special case. He’d gone from being a pacifist to one of the most lethal commanders in the Grand Alliance, fighting on every front. And so soon after Matt’s own wife and unborn child had been threatened, he could particularly sympathize with Chack’s mental state. There was no guarantee he was even fit to command his Raiders. And how would Silva function without Chack to guide and temper him? He wouldn’t obey anyone else, and wasn’t fit to lead the brigade himself. He was too impulsive to command that many troops, and he knew it.
Almost hesitantly, Sandra patted Silva’s arm. Petey perked up, thinking she might be extending a biscuit. “Eat?” he inquired, rather softly for him, but then settled back on his perch when no food was forthcoming. “Colonel Chack’s got some healing to do,” Sandra said. “We’ll see how he is when we get home. Safir-Maraan will recuperate at Baalkpan for quite a while. The hospitals are better there, and Chack’ll be at her side. After that I suspect she’ll resume her duties as queen of Aryaal and B’mbaado. We’ll see what Chack’s up for then. Few commanders in the Alliance can lead like he does, but we owe it to him to let him decide what’s next.” She squeezed Silva’s tight bicep. “Same as you, Chief Silva. Captain Reddy and I already discussed it. But whether you’re with Chack, or by your captain’s side, nobody fights like you do,” she stated simply. “And this ship”—she glanced at Matt—“and her crew, are going to be in the fight of their lives. One way or another, there’ll be plenty for you to do.”
Silva blinked, touched by the words of praise, then straightened and reassumed his normal demeanor. He thumped Petey on the head. “You hear that? I get to pick what I do next. What do you think?”
Petey seemed to contemplate that. “Eat,” he decided.
Lawrence had been looking on, and now shuffled back toward the ladder in resignation. “I guess I don’t get to choose,” he murmured, the words whistling through sharp, Grik-like teeth.
Matt heard him, even over the roar of the blower. “Of course you do. Everybody has to fight this war, even those at home who make our weapons and keep us supplied. There aren’t many of your people left, but most still work in dangerous occupations, making high explosive for our shells on Samar. Even so, you’re the only one who’s seen actual combat, lots of it, right along with Silva. You’ve earned the right to choose how you fight too. Same as him.”
Lawrence looked at the big one-eyed man speculatively, eyes narrowing. Then he shook his head. “I guess I’ll stay ’ith he. I don’t know anything else. ’Ut I not get sad to stay in ’alker a’hile,” he added. “There’s scary hoogers on shore!”
Nearly everyone laughed at that. Even Minnie the talker chimed in with her tiny, mousy voice. This whole world was frightening to everyone else, even without enemies to contend with, but Lawrence was originally from a small island in the Pacific and his race made a living from the terrible sea. He was used to it. He’d rarely encountered dangerous creatur
es on land before he met them.
Pam didn’t laugh. She looked close to tears, in fact.
“This is all just a big damn game to you!” she snapped loudly, turning to look several of those on the bridge in the eye. “Just some damn game, a big adventure,” she added, her voice dripping scorn.
Matt stood and walked to her, holding his child. The laughter and her raised voice had made the boy cry. Flustered, Pam took the baby when he handed it to her. “No, Lieutenant Cross, it’s not a game, and never was. Not at all.” He paused and glanced at Lawrence, then looked at his wife. “But sometimes you gotta laugh—or you’ll go nuts.”
CHAPTER 2
////// Near Puerto del Cielo
Holy Dominion
May 3, 1945
I guess we’re ‘expend-aable,’ now!” came Lieutenant (jg) Kari-Faask’s tinny shout through the voice tube by Lieutenant Fred Reynolds’s ear. It was midafternoon and they were flying their well-worn PB-1B “Nancy” floatplane five thousand feet above the Caribbean, just off the coast of the Holy Dominion. Fred heard his best friend fine, even over the roar of the wing-mounted engine above and between them. Holding the stick straight, he scrunched around in his wicker seat to look at her, sitting behind the tiny windscreen in the aft “observer/copilot” cockpit in the waist. Kari’s goggles barely covered her large Lemurian eyes and the dark fur on her face was slicked back by the wind.
“Why do you say that?” Fred yelled back, disdaining the tube.
If Kari could’ve blinked cynicism around the confining goggles she would have. “Yesterdaay, they had us scout Maartinique Islaand, where Caap’n Gaarrett saank thaat League destroyer with Donaghey an’ thaat Dom frigate she caaptured,” she began. Their observation of the previously deserted island had been an eye-opener. Several modern ships, including a pair of oilers, a couple of tenders, and a large destroyer were anchored in the bay on the island’s northeast coast. Not only had the sunken Atúnez been righted in the shallows, space for a significant presence—and what could only be an airstrip—was being hacked out of the snake-infested jungle ashore.
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