Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  Shinya suddenly brightened. “Perhaps you’re right,” he allowed. “You are right! It would seem I’ve been wrong about everything today!” He shook his head. “It’s this constant training,” he said. “Each day is the same for me, while far away, my friends continue the struggle. I’ve been away too long, and it’s almost ruined me!” His expression became concerned. “It might have ruined these fine troops if I’d continued to delay their deployment.” He looked at Sandra. “Thank you. Forgive me, but . . . how did a nurse ever become so wise in the ways of war . . . and men?”

  “You mean how does a girl know these things?” Lelaa asked before Sandra could answer. “That’s easy. All girls know. ’Cat girls or Hu-maan. Males are all the same.” She glared at Irvin Laumer. “We girls fight because we have to. Males too, maybe, but girls get sick, wounded, have younglings; they go home and forget the war until they maybe have to fight again. You take males out of the war and it eats them from the inside out, like a nugli woodworm, as long as others still fight! Back before the Grik came, before we had this war, I knew males were silly. Now I know they’re all a buncha’ dopes!” She laughed, and Sandra—and even Laumer—joined her.

  Lawrence sniffed. “I a ’ale, and no ‘nuglis’ eat Lawrence!”

  “Nonsense!” Irvin said, still chuckling. “Look at you! You’re in uniform now!”

  It was true. Lawrence had been “with” the Alliance for quite a while, primarily as Princess Rebecca’s friend and protector. He’d even gained respect and notoriety despite his resemblance to the Grik “Ancient Enemy.” It was becoming increasingly recognized that not all “Grik-like” creatures on the world—far more widespread than previously known—were Grik, and many races that resembled them had wildly different societies. Lawrence’s own people, from an island they called Tagran, had some rather bizarre cultural practices concerning their young—by human or Lemurian standards—and the matriarchal system they practiced was rather extreme as well. In fact, the recent tidal wave caused by the catastrophic explosion of the volcanic Talaud island had so devastated Tagran that the matriarch had banished all but a handful of the island’s population so a few might survive the starving times to come. Of the hundreds set adrift to find another home or die, only seventy-odd survived the later waves that overwhelmed the southern Fil-pin Lands. They’d been rescued with Sandra, Silva, and the others by the remnants of Task Force Laumer and the battered S-19.

  High Chief Saan-Kakja gifted the “ex”-Tagranesi with the virtually uninhabited Fil-pin island of Samaar to possess as a Fil-pin territory—as Fil-pin subjects. There’d be no independent matriarchy of such a despotic sort as to condemn so many of its own people neighboring her Home! This was a complete departure from any previous Lemurian customs, except for a few now-extinct cultures that had inhabited Jaava. Before, all “daughter” colonies, like their seagoing Home counterparts, were independent. The Tagranesi—“Sa’aarans” now—could have the land if they could conquer it, but Saan-Kakja was their sovereign. Sandra wondered if Saan-Kakja, with the Imperial example, was taking a step toward empire herself, but she rather doubted it. More likely, she merely intended to keep a closer eye on this daughter colony than others in the past, simply due to the nature of its inhabitants. That was understandable.

  Ancient Chinakru, leader of the Sa’aarans, and governor of the new colony, wasn’t offended. Saan-Kakja had become a surrogate matriarch in the eyes of his people to an almost-worshipful degree. He’d immedi- ately proclaimed all his people subject to her military service and command. Saan-Kakja knew the Sa’aarans couldn’t fight a war and build a colony at the same time, but agreed to accept four, including Lawrence, as a token force. They had no military training, but like Lawrence, they were innately, possibly instinctively skilled at fieldcraft. They’d become army scouts, and their “uniform,” like Lawrence’s, was a modified version of that worn by the Fil-pin regiments, altered to fit their different shapes. The leather armor was dyed in a camouflage pattern, and gray kilts had been tightly twisted and redyed in green. The result was near invisibility for the otherwise brown-and-orange-striped Sa’aarans when they melted into the woods. The three other Sa’araan warriors were preparing to leave for Baalkpan, in fact, to participate in an “expedition of discovery” led by Abel Cook and an old Lemurian hunter called “Moe.” Cook was a protégé of Courtney Bradford’s, and the mission was a long-delayed effort to find—and hopefully peacefully contact—some feral Grik-like creatures known to roam the dense jungles of north Borno.

  “I in uni’orn,” Lawrence agreed. (He could understand Lemurian or “American” quite well, but there were some sounds he simply couldn’t form.) “I go where I sent, I kill who I told, ’ut no nuglis eat I when I here, where ’riends are!”

  “Well said!” complimented Lelaa. “There’s plenty of war to go around, for all of us. There’s no point in longing for it when it is far away.”

  “True,” Sandra agreed, “but even I’m a little anxious to get underway—the better to keep the war as far from here as possible.”

  “I know why you’re anxious,” Lelaa proclaimed, “and it has nothing to do with war! Tell me, now there are human females, ‘women,’ coming here from the east, are you going to finally mate . . . ‘marry’ with Captain Reddy and stop torturing each other, yourselves, and everyone around you?”

  Sandra blushed visibly, even through her tan. “That, Captain Lelaa, is privileged, ‘secret’ information. While I may allow that you have a ‘need to know,’ for various reasons”—she straightened and stuck out her chin—“this gossipy, tale-bearing pack of pubescent males surrounding us, does not.”

  Irvin chuckled, and even Shinya smiled. Lawrence glowered as best he could. Of them all, he truly was a—rapidly and visibly maturing—“teenager,” and he took the jest a little more personally than the others.

  “As we speak, USS Maaka-Kakja is being loaded and provisioned for her voyage,” Lelaa said. “Her sea trials were necessarily brief”—she blinked embarrassment at Laumer—“but the very . . . awkwardness of those trials should have revealed any major flaws.” It was Irvin’s turn to blush. No decision had yet been taken as to what to do with the old S-boat he’d raised from the dead. She might be broken up for her priceless steel and other components; her diesels, electric motors; the list was endless. He was against it and hoped she might eventually be returned to duty as a submarine—despite the added hazards lurking in this world’s seas. For the time being, she’d be stabilized and towed to Baalkpan before any decision was made, and that released Irvin Laumer to serve as Lelaa’s exec, or “salig-maastir” since he did understand the fundamentals of maneuvering a ship—albeit a much smaller one—under power. Lelaa would continue to teach him the consummate seamanship she’d learned from a lifetime on the waves, while he taught her how to operate a ship without sails. Saan-Kakja admired them both and thought they’d make a good team.

  Lelaa’s reference to their handling of the massive vessel was not exaggeration, however, and while Irvin blushed and Lelaa blinked, both readily admitted they had a lot to learn. Neither had a clue about flight ops, for example. A few instructors from the Army and Navy Air Corps Academy in Baalkpan had been arriving periodically to teach Fil-pin cadets to fly the “Nancys” being built in Maa-ni-la, and each improvement made in the standardized model was forwarded immediately with detailed explanations. Ultimately, a few improvements cooked up in Maa-ni-la started going back to Baalkpan. Some of the most important training information was constantly being updated as well, and Captain Jis-Tikar, or “Tikker,” COFO (Commander of Flight Operations) aboard Big Sal, and ultimately First Fleet, forwarded every new, real-world combat technique his fliers learned—sometimes the hard way. Although Tikker’s and Mallory’s tables of organization had been established, there was no COFO for Second Fleet yet, and if they couldn’t swipe one of the Baalkpan instructors, Lelaa and Irvin didn’t know where they’d get one.

  “In any event,” Lelaa continued, “Maaka-Ka
kja must sail within the week. She’ll be accompanied by Pu-cot and Pecos, the two new, ‘fast fleet oilers.’ ”

  “What of warships and transports?” Shinya asked.

  “They should be unnecessary. Maaka-Kakja carries fifty of the new fifty-pounder smoothbores for serious pounding at close range, and she has four of Amag’s five-point-five-inch secondaries, tied into one of the functional fire control computers that were located above the waterline when Amagi sank.”

  Shinya nodded. “You’re right. She should have little to fear. But what of the troops? How many can we take and where will they be put?”

  “Maaka-Kakja has sufficient space for three full regiments, all their field artillery, pack train, and supplies,” Lelaa said proudly. “It will be crowded, of course, with thirty assembled aircraft and another thirty stowed, but you forget; the ship was built for this, not merely converted from a Home. Her hull dimensions are much the same, as you can see”—she pointed at the distant shipyard, and the monstrosity dominating the fueling pier—“but inside, she’s laid out much differently and needs only a crew of about a thousand, including flight crews and support elements.”

  “We can also carry another full regiment, split between the oilers,” Sandra prompted.

  “I should think so,” Shinya said thoughtfully, gazing at the troops on the parade ground. “Roughly four thousand Fil-pin soldiers and Marines,” he mused, “would initially outnumber the existing Imperial troop levels, if Captain Reddy’s assessment is accurate. What are Saan-Kakja’s thoughts regarding sending such a large percentage of her army to this ‘other’ war?”

  “She doesn’t like it,” Sandra admitted, “but backed by Matt’s and Princess Rebecca’s arguments, she recognizes the necessity. The Empire and the Holy Dominion are very far away—impossibly far, Meksnaak, her Sky Priest, still says—but there’s nothing but the hostile sea between them and the Fil-pin Lands, and now they know we’re here. She’d much rather have a friendly Empire of the New Britain Isles as a beholden, distant neighbor, than this . . . perverted, expansionist, ‘Holy Dominion.’”

  “I see,” Shinya said. “In that case, four regiments it shall be.” He turned from the group and raised his voice. “Orderly! Pass the word to all commanders; I don’t care if they’re here or on maneuvers in the mountains! Mandatory officer’s call at my HQ tent at”—he glanced at his watch—“nineteen hundred hours—that’s fifteen hand-spans from now! I’ll be choosing ‘volunteers’ for a mission, and if they aren’t here, they’ll definitely miss the show!” He looked at Lelaa and grinned. “Now, tell me truly; not even a ‘girl’ could ignore such an attractively phrased invitation!”

  Suddenly, they were all alarmed by the distant, insistent gonging of a harbor alarm bell, coming from the direction of Fort Maara-vella. It was quickly echoed by others, and the wind-muffled thud of one of the great guns in the fort, firing a warning. Shinya ordered another orderly to assemble all officers immediately; then he, Sandra, Lelaa, Irvin, and Lawrence quickly followed the roughly mile-long path Silva had taken earlier down to the ferry pier. They arrived, breathing hard, to find Silva and a group of assorted prospective passengers still waiting for the wide-beamed steam ferry only now approaching from across the bay.

  “I bet you’re wonderin’ what all the fuss is about,” Silva grumped as a greeting. He pointed at the mouth of the bay, beyond Corregidor. No one but the humans had ever seen anything like it. Creeping along, black smoke wheezing into the sky, was a medium-size freighter, a Japanese “maru” by the look of her, beneath the easily defined white flag with a red circle in the center, streaming from her foremast. She was low by the bow and seemed somewhat the worse for wear. “Goddamn Japs is inva-din’ the Philippines,” Silva growled. “Again!”

  Shinya rapidly collected an armed party of about forty Fil-pin troops and commandeered the ferry to take them out to the wounded ship. Silva went, of course, even though he didn’t have his trusty BAR, or even his giant “Doom Whomper” musket, made from a 25-mm Japanese antiaircraft gun. He did have his M-1911 .45, ’03 Springfield bayonet and the pattern of 1917 Navy cutlass he always carried. For him, those weapons should be sufficient for nearly anything. Lawrence, Irvin, and Shinya all accepted Maa-ni-la Arsenal “Springfield” muskets, and black leather cartridge boxes of ammunition. Shinya was annoyed to see Sandra and Lelaa take muskets for themselves, naturally intending to accompany him to investigate the intruder. He fumed. If those on the strange ship were hostile, a single machine gun . . . He had to put it out of his mind. It wasn’t as though he could order them to stay behind. Lemurian females and the few American women could be so . . . infuriatingly uncooperative! The women beginning to arrive from the Empire behaved more as he was accustomed to, but then he was as horrified as anyone by their formerly “indentured” status. He wondered what that said about him.

  “Take in all lines,” Silva roared, effectively taking command of the ferry’s small deck crew.

  Shinya stepped into the cramped, offset, pilothouse directly in front of the single, smoldering funnel. Inside, the small vessel’s equally small captain stood alone. The little guy was blinking nervously. “Steer to intercept that ship,” Shinya said. In the background, he heard Silva’s loud command, “Shove off!”

  “But . . . maybe we let Navy ships, closer in, deal with it!” He gestured at one of the speaking tubes beside the wheel. “My signalman already report!”

  “Good. Then tell him to send that we’re investigating the visitor before it has a chance to study our harbor defenses!” The defenses he referred to were already manned, their heavy guns trained on the apparent Japanese ship. Except for the warning shot, none had fired, however. Their crews were under standing orders not to fire on any “anomalous” vessels that might appear without direct orders—unless they were fired on first. “You might also recall that this ferry is a naval auxiliary and you hold a reserve Navy commission.” Shinya waved at another voice tube. “If that connects you to the engine room, do tell your engineers to ‘step on it’!”

  With the loud, monotonous, whackety-whack, whackety-whack of the early-model compound engine belowdeck, the relatively new, but already hopelessly outdated little ferry turned toward the strange intruder that seemed to be slowing in response to their approach. “Lay us as close alongside as you can,” Shinya instructed, and taking the ’Cat’s speaking trumpet, he moved back outside.

  “What do you make of her?” Silva asked.

  “Probably the same as you,” Shinya replied. “She’s a Japanese freighter from our ‘old’ world. Most likely, she arrived here the same way we did. When is the first question that strikes me. When and where she ‘came through,’ as well as how much trouble those aboard her will cause for us.”

  Silva looked at the dilapidated, heavily damaged ship, and grunted. “She don’t look in any shape to cause much trouble, unless she sinks in the main channel and we have to steer around her from now on. Look at all them bullet holes!” Dennis couldn’t hide the glee the sight of a shot-up Japanese ship gave him. “I bet she got strafed by planes!” he chortled.

  “You may be right,” Shinya agreed as they drew closer. Many of the holes did appear to have been caused by heavy machine-gun fire. He let Silva’s attitude wash over him with as little notice as a clam gives the marching waves. He knew it wasn’t personal, not anymore. He’d long since become almost as “American” as the Lemurian recruits who joined the Navy. He hadn’t taken the oath they took, the same oath every human destroyerman had once taken, but he was still “one of them,” sworn to the same cause they fought for on this world. If Silva had been given to considering his words before they flew out of his mouth, even he might have been more careful of his tone. The others joined them.

  “It’s a Jap ship, all right,” Silva announced. “A ‘ma-roo.’ You can kind of tell, even without that damn meatball she’s flyin’. Jap-built ships always have a sorta funny look to ’em, like you’re lookin’ at regular ships through the bottom of a bee
r bottle. Not ugly, like Dutch ships,” he hastened to add, glancing at Shinya, “just . . . weird.” His expression changed. “Say, I never got a chance to ask . . . anybody who’d know. How come Jap freighters an’ such always hang ‘Ma-roo’ on the end of their names? Seems like it’d be confusin’.”

  A little startled by Dennis’s unusual chattiness, particularly with him, Shinya tried to explain. “There’s a . . . spiritual root I’ve never closely studied, since I’ve not been particularly spiritual. I suppose the simplest translation of ‘maru’ to a sailor might be something like ‘beloved home,’ but the term also implies an invocation of spiritual protection.”

  “Didn’t work,” Silva observed, poking a yellowish wad of Lemurian “tobacco” leaves in his cheek. The local stuff was even worse than the Aryaalan substitute he’d used before, but if there might be a fight, he wanted a chew. “Looks like she’s been through a shredder.”