“I am, sir, but I’ll get there soon enough if I can beg a ride with you to Baalkpan and catch a Clipper from there. My XO is good; she came off the old Fifteen boat. She’ll have the newies whipped into shape before I arrive.”
“I hope so,” Matt said lower, “because we’re probably going to need even more out of your new squadron than your old one gave at Zanzibar.” Nat nodded. He’d expected as much. “But what’re you doing here?” Matt repeated.
Nat grinned. “Right now, I’m your pilot. Shall I?”
“Sure.” Matt turned to Commander Toos-Ay-Chil, who had the watch. Toos was a bear-shaped Lemurian, as big and muscular as “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar, Matt’s best Lemurian friend. He was also the finest damage control officer Walker ever had. He was still a little ham-handed on the bridge, however. “Mr. Hardee has the conn,” Matt announced.
“Ay, ay, sur. Mr. Haardee haas the conn,” Toos replied. “Our course is one, five, seero, making turns for twelve knots.”
Nat hesitated ever so slightly. He’d conned stranger things, such as the old S-19 after her reconfiguration into a surface torpedo boat, but he’d never conned Walker before. “This is Mr. Hardee,” he said. “I have the conn. Helm, maintain course and follow the stern light of the MTB ahead. Lee helm, stand by to reduce speed.” He looked at Matt. “More MTBs will direct the other ships when we get closer to the Navy dock.”
“Very well. Pass the word,” he told Minnie. “Now, Mr. Hardee, why don’t you explain yourself?”
Nat glanced around. “I don’t know, sir. I’m on orders. Perhaps we ought to wait until we anchor and catch a private moment before you brief your officers, and those from other ships all at once.”
“Orders?”
“Yes sir. From Mr. Stokes.” Nat whispered the name, barely audible over the rumbling blower behind the bridge. Henry Stokes was a former Leading Seaman from the Australian light cruiser HMAS Perth, sunk with USS Houston during a furious night action with the Japanese in the very same nearby strait—on another world. He’d arrived on this one via a quite literally torturous route, as a POW in the hellish Japanese prison ship Mizuki Maru, and since become Director of the Office of Strategic Intelligence for the United Homes.
“Oh,” was all Matt said. “Very well. Any reason not to gather everybody aboard Savoie? Her wardroom’s bigger.”
“No Leaguers left aboard her at all?” Nat asked.
Puzzled, Matt shook his head. “Not many stayed with her when Gravois gave her to Kurokawa. Any that did, and survived, got shipped back to Baalkpan.”
“Yes sir. That’s what I thought. Just double-checking. Shouldn’t be a problem then.”
Matt nodded, troubled now, and wondering what this was all about. Instead of pestering Nat, however, he looked out past the fo’c’sle. There was the blue glass sternlight of the MTB in front of them, but aside from the distant glow of the approaching city, which he couldn’t get any sense of in the dark, there were almost no other lights. Not even lanterns rigged out on fishing boats to draw fish into their nets. That was very odd.
“Where’s all the water traffic?” he asked. “I know B’taava hasn’t been reinhabited long, but I thought the Sularaans were packing it with colonists from Saa-leebs. Ought to be more boats.”
“Yes sir,” Nat agreed lowly. “All the docks are closed until further notice, and the MTB squadron enforces it. Mr. Stokes authorized deadly force if necessary.”
“Oh,” Matt said again, eyes widening, and he wondered anew why, whatever was going on, he hadn’t been informed by wireless . . . unless their codes were compromised, and that was what this was all about.
CHAPTER 12
////// USS Savoie
Soonda Bay, Jaava
May 11, 1945
USS Savoie, with the largest fuel reserve, was last to take her place at the fueling pier at the modest Navy Clan base at B’taava, Jaava. Most of those requested to meet aboard her gathered as the sun set on the island-dotted sea to the northwest and the closer, rebuilding city. All while woven, rubberized hoses snaked along the pier from tank batteries ashore and pulsed like massive arteries, filling the old battleship’s bunkers with her black lifeblood.
“Attention! Captain . . . and CINCAF on deck!” called Commander Toryu Miyata, lunging to his feet from one of eighteen seats arranged around the long brown linoleum-topped table in Savoie’s wardroom. Compared to Walker’s, even Fitzhugh Gray’s similar compartments, this was practically cavernous. And though just as utilitarian in most respects, Matt noticed the nice hardwood cabinetwork had been refinished by the new, largely Lemurian crew since the last time he was aboard. Those cabinets were probably for the ship’s silver, looted by her French crew when they turned her over to Kurokawa, he mused, following the BB’s skipper, Russ Chappelle, in from the passageway aft. There were places on the bulkheads where plaques or paintings had hung, but those were gone as well. The only decorations were new curtains over the open portholes, finely embroidered in the Lemurian style and stirring listlessly in the faint evening breeze. There was also a large American flag, still the symbol of the American Navy and Marine Clan, hanging behind the head of the table.
Chairs for humans and stools for ’Cats screeched and clattered as others stood, joined by those at two smaller tables flanking the first, and even couches and cushions along the bulkheads. “As you were,” Matt and Russ chorused and shared sheepish smiles. Russ had come a long way and was used to being top dog in his ship. Matt would never get used to being head of the entire Allied war effort. Sandra and her steward/bodyguard Diania followed them in, and Matt’s own steward, Juan Marcos, stumped in last, peg leg thumping on the deck. Most in the compartment hesitated slightly before Sandra smiled and waved, exasperated. “Oh, sit down!”
Matt smiled too as everyone resumed their seats and he and Sandra took theirs at the head of the broad table—Juan and Diania standing behind them—and Russ went down to the other end. Looking around, Matt knew most of the faces. Bernie Sandison, Toos, and Nat, as well as Sandra, Diania, and Juan, of course, had come over with him from Walker. Spanky remained behind to oversee preparations for getting underway. USS Mahan was represented by her proud young female Lemurian skipper, Commander Tiaa-Baari, as well as her XO, Commander Muraak-Saanga. Matt didn’t think there was a single human aboard the other old DD from another world. Commander Perry Brister, originally from Mahan himself, was there for USS James Ellis, along with his XO, Lieutenant Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, Gunnery Officer Lieutenant (jg) Paul Stites, and Engineering Officer Lieutenant (jg) Johnny Parks. Ironically, Ellie—the first Lemurian-built copy of Walker and Mahan—probably had more “old” destroyermen aboard than any ship in the navy.
Next in line had to be USS Savoie herself. Matt recognized Russ’s XO, Lieutenant Commander “Mikey” Monk, as well as Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy. His eyebrows arched when he saw Dean Laney, now Lieutenant (jg), and Savoie’s engineering officer. Laney was a born jerk, transferred out of every post he’d held on this world. Matt long suspected he’d have to banish him for his own good before somebody murdered him. He’d distinguished himself during Santa Catalina’s final fight, however, and there he was, neat and shaved, in a clean white uniform. He’d even lost weight. Next to him, but leaning away as if he didn’t want to sit too close, was Savoie’s acting gunnery officer, a big, black-bearded “China Marine” named Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn. Many considered him a slightly better-behaved version of his old pal Dennis Silva. Sandra certainly approved of him, as did Diania, to whom he was engaged. Matt noted Horn was smiling at the diminutive “Impie gal” behind his wife—until he caught Matt’s gaze. Some bright scars on his tanned right hand suddenly absorbed his attention.
The last Savoie crew member at the table, though there were others in the room, was Imperial Lieutenant Stanly Raj. The Empire of the New Britain Isles had rightly focused its manpower on the war against the Doms in the
Americas. Only a couple of thousand Impies had directly fought the Grik, and most had been in Chack’s 1st Amalgamated Raider Brigade. Raj was one of just a handful to actually serve in First Fleet ships. Another, a Marine (and bugler) was in Walker. Lots of Impies flew off Navy Clan and Union carriers, or served in other Navy Clan ships against the Doms, but Raj was a rare creature here and had become Russ’s First Lieutenant.
Matt looked at the man who’d announced them, Toryu Miyata. Not only was he Japanese and a former enemy, he’d risen to command Fitzhugh Gray. That’s probably the biggest irony of all, Matt supposed, that we’ve entrusted him with the second-most-powerful surface combatant we have. And Matt did trust him. It’s so weird how things turn out! Seated by Miyata were his gunnery and engineering officers, Lieutenants Robert “Bob” Wallace and Sainaa-Asa.
Whatever new elements First Fleet gathered as it steamed east to face the Dom-League alliance, regardless of whether the NUS could really help or the Impies and Repubs actually added anything to their force, these people and their ships would be the most crucial. They’d be the point of the spear and had to form the core around which the rest could coalesce. They weren’t ready for that. They were all veterans of hard fighting, in daylight, dark, storm and calm, open sea and even tight rivers, but they’d always had an edge. Their ships were faster, their guns shot farther, and they almost always controlled the air. That was probably over. Except for a very few—Matt’s surviving “old destroyermen” who’d fought the Japanese in the Makassar Strait, Badoeng Strait, and of course the Battle of the Java Sea—few here understood what it was like to be outrun, outgunned, outfought, outthought, and utterly at the mercy of enemy aircraft. Matt bitterly remembered how that felt, and if the League came at them with what it might, the odds could be even longer than what the Americans, British, Dutch, and Australians faced from the Japanese before Walker and Mahan ever came to this world. That had been a disaster.
The good thing was, Matt had learned from that—and everything since. He still felt overwhelmed at times; how could he not, with so much riding on him? Only Sandra knew how haunted he was by doubt and crushing responsibility. Matt thanked God for her confidence, and frequent, even sometimes gently brutal reminders of bloody lessons he might’ve forgotten. Those were the most important because he’d seen what didn’t work. That gave him ideas that might, and he’d do his best to get these people ready to see if he was right.
But now there was the infuriating crap Nat had told him, on top of everything else . . .
“Well,” he said, still smiling, as stewards distributed iced tea or coffee. (They’d laid in a healthy supply of real coffee before leaving Madagascar.) “I’m glad to see you all here. We have a lot to discuss and little time, but first I’d like to confirm some jabber you might’ve caught on the horn.” Radio silent, none of his ships were transmitting, but that didn’t keep them from listening. “First the good news. The Nussie General Cox won a big land battle against the Doms and is already marching south to link up with General Shinya, who’s advancing independently. We probably won’t know much more about what they’re up to for a while.” There was pleased applause, but Matt frowned. “The bad news is, the League’s already building their forces in the Caribbean, preparing Martinique to support a lot of ships and planes. We’re in a hurry, people, and that’s one reason we’ll be leaving as soon as Savoie’s refueling is complete, the same way we came in. In the dark.”
There were murmurs of surprise, but some already suspected why. “I said ‘one reason,’” Matt continued wryly, “but you might’ve noticed, aside from our Navy Clan comrades on the docks, our welcome here hasn’t been as . . . enthusiastic, or even friendly, as we might’ve expected.” B’taava had been liberated from the Grik and opened to repopulation, and the Grik had been pushed back across the Great Western Ocean to their source. Even if the final outcome of the war in Africa remained in doubt, the Grik couldn’t threaten B’taava again for generations. The city and surrounding countryside were filling with colonists from Saa-leebs, the stone walls (unusual for Lemurians, and similar to those surrounding Aryaal on the other end of Jaava) had been neatly reconstructed, and the place, though still not packed, seemed to be thriving.
But there’d been no throngs of Lemurians lining the dock at daylight, no bands or speeches from the High Chief of B’taava. Some civilian yard workers seemed glad to see them, but resentful indifference practically radiated over the walls of the city. A lot of hostility probably resulted from the virtual blockade enforced by the squadron of MTBs, but Matt had been horrified when Nat explained why it was deemed necessary.
“It seems,” he continued, “that not only are certain factions within the United Homes growing weary of the war—understandable, because I am too,” he quickly inserted, “but the Sularaans in particular, where many of the people here are from,” he reminded, “want it stopped. Now.” He waited while the resulting hubbub died down. Most Sularaans were fine folk, just like any Lemurians, and not only did Sularaan soldiers fight as hard as anyone, they had a special affinity for artillery. But a lot of their leaders had fled the Grik early in the war and come back to virtually empty cities and provinces whose populations either also fled or went off to fight. That left no one to challenge their return to power, or prevent them from grabbing more.
Perry Brister grunted and spoke in a raspy voice, ruined in battle, that didn’t match his youthful face. “Sounds like we need to ship a few Sularaan regiments home to straighten things out. The Third and Fifth Sular are with Second Corps, right?”
Matt chuckled, a little darkly. General Queen Safir-Maraan’s II Corps had been the hardest fighting force in the First Fleet AEF, and suffered commensurate casualties. Matt had finally pulled it—and its wounded CO—out of the line in Africa and sent it home to Baalkpan for a much-needed rest. He also thought he might need it against the Doms. “I’ll see what Safir has to say. I doubt we can transport the entire corps to the Caribbean, anyway. But that doesn’t solve our immediate problem. Chiefly”—he nodded at Nat Hardee—“Mr. Stokes believes that, not only is B’taava not necessarily a friendly port anymore, some elements here—and elsewhere—aren’t just agitating for an end to all our offensive operations, but may be actively seeking a separate peace with the League.”
“Holy smokes,” muttered Mikey Monk. “That’s crazy!” Realization appeared to dawn. “And nobody could’ve cooked that up if they weren’t already in contact with the League.” He also looked at Nat. “So you closed the port, afraid of spies?”
“I didn’t close it,” Nat objected, “it was already done. I just stayed here to tell you in person. Nothing about this goes out on the air. Nothing about anything anymore,” he added with a glance at Russ Chappelle.
“We continue radio silence, maybe indefinitely,” Matt confirmed. “Not even TBS. Flag or Morse lamp signals only.”
“Sonofabitch,” Russ hissed, glancing apologetically at Sandra and Diania, then Kathy McCoy and the female ’Cats as well, as if any cared. Habits die hard. “That’s why no liberty when we got here, and why we’re coming and going in darkness. Not sure what good it’ll do.” He rubbed his forehead. “We expected spies in the Republic and Empire, but if they’re sneakin’ around here, they’ll be in Baalkpan, the Filpin Lands . . . everywhere. They’ll know we’ve got Savoie, probably even the pigboat—U-112. Who knows what all. We won’t have any surprises left to spring on ’em!”
Matt doubted that, but nodded. “We’ll proceed as if that’s the case; that when we finally meet the League in force, we won’t have any material secrets left.”
“What does that mean, sir?” Miyata inquired, rather boldly Matt thought. Miyata had never been comfortable with freewheeling discussions like this. They were so different from what he was used to. There was no denying they were effective, however. “What does that leave us?”
“We’ll still keep a lid on what we have, in case the enemy doesn’t have a
ll the dope,” Matt replied evenly, “but the biggest whammy we’ll throw at ’em is something I doubt they’ll prepare for.” No one spoke, and he looked around the table. “As soon as we clear the Soonda Strait, and any time we’re away from prying eyes, we’re going to train like mad.”
Commander Toos blinked inquiringly at him. “We train at daam-age control, gener-aal quaarters . . . maany things, every daay. Whaat more do you haave in mind, sur?”
Matt smiled grimly and leaned back in his chair, nodding for his wife to answer. Sandra leaned forward. “I learned a lot about the League while I was a prisoner on this very ship. I learned more from other members of the League on Zanzibar, and I had time to talk with the German defectors—Walbert Fiedler and Kurt Hoffman—before they shipped back to Baalkpan.” Her lip twisted. “And I talked with ‘Capitaine’ Dupont before we sent him too. I’m sure Chairman Letts and Mr. Stokes’ve made the same conclusions I have, but one of our most valuable assets is, no matter how much they respect what we’ve accomplished—and they do—the League in general doesn’t respect us. They’re profoundly confident in their material, cultural, even racial superiority, and that makes them unwaveringly arrogant. Their commanders are professionals, but just as inexperienced at dealing with anything like us as we are them. More so,” she insisted, and smiled at Matt, melting his heart with the love and support he saw in her eyes. “And they’ll be stuck reading manuals, wondering what the hell we’re up to, while we run around kicking hell out of them!”
There were shouts of approval, and Lemurians stamped the deck beneath their stools. Matt regarded Commander Toos, then gazed around the table. “So. While the League comes at us like an avalanche, secure in their awe-inspiring might, we’ll practice maneuvers all across the Pacific and through the Pass of Fire, daylight and dark, rain or shine, until we can change formations in any conditions in our sleep.” He looked at Russ. “And we’re going to shoot the hell out of the sea. Until you get your new gun director sorted out, you can slave your main battery to the number two turret. It has its own range finder and director if I recall.” His gaze swept across a thoughtful-looking Gunny Horn. “Put a good man in there and I don’t think your salvos will suffer much at moderate range.”
Winds of Wrath Page 17
