One of Saan-Kakja’s attendants brought refreshments, and Mackey took a mug, staring at the ’Cat the whole time. Like most Lemurians, she wasn’t wearing a top, and because he was seated, her breasts were prominent and right at Mackey’s eye level. Sandra understood his reaction; it had been universal among Walker’s crew when they first met the “People.” Mackey had seen Lemurians before now, among Okada’s folk, but he couldn’t be used to it yet. She nodded, and he took a tentative sip from the mug.
“Uh, thank you, ma’am,” he said to the ’Cat, a little self-consciously.
“What then?” Sandra pressed gently.
“After that, things went pretty much like Okada said. They herded us ashore and just started shooting.” Mackey looked at his companion. “Orrin and I and a bunch of other fellas lit out as best we could.” The tears started again. “Most were too weak or too far gone to even try, and of those that did, just a few made it.”
“How many?”
“All told, maybe sixty out of five hundred,” he said, taking a long gulp from the cup and holding it tight in both hands. “Mostly Americans and Filipinos, I guess, but a few Brits and Aussies too. And some of those poor Javanese.” He shook his head. “I think those poor devils had it worse than any of us. They were animals, far as the Japs were concerned, and were practically dead when we first saw ’em.”
“Didn’t they chase you?” Laumer asked.
Mackey shook his head. “What for?” He sighed. “I don’t know. They couldn’t feed us, they’d decided not to . . . eat us, and they damn sure didn’t want us. Maybe they figured killing us was a mercy.”
“So, sixty-odd survivors,” Sandra said hopefully.
“No, ma’am. Not now. Some were wounded, and others just . . . died. Too far gone, I guess. I’ll give Okada’s people that. They did their best to save us. Took pretty good care of us, as a matter of fact.” He passed Okada an almost-apologetic glance. “I was mainly mad about that ‘happy East Asia’ bunk he was spouting earlier. . . .” He considered. “I guess there’re maybe forty-five of us left, or there were. He brought Orrin and me along to prove his story, and because we were some of the fittest officers for travel. Sergeant Cecil Dixon—he’s the other man—saved us too many times to count. We insisted he come too. There’re other guys in better shape than us; some Filipino Scouts, some Army footsloggers”—he shook his head—“and those China Marines. Weird ducks, but talk about survivors! We left them in charge.”
“No other officers?”
“There are; even a captain and a major, but most are in pretty rough shape. Everything from dysentery to malaria. Some of them are probably goners too, unless you have quinine.”
Sandra shook her head. “No quinine, I’m afraid, but we have other things that may help. We’ll do everything we can.” A bolt of terror suddenly slashed through her. “Commander Okada! Malaria!”
Okada was already nodding grimly. So far, the mosquitoes of this world, at least in the areas they’d touched, didn’t carry or transmit anything they’d noticed. Animals and ’Cats did get sick with evident viruses, but nothing seemed to pass to humans, or vice versa, and mosquitoes left nothing but large, itchy welts that sometimes got topically infected. Some of Walker’s crew had suffered from malaria before, but there’d been no recurrences. Sandra theorized mosquitoes here had evolved a means of “decontaminating” the blood they took. After all, passing diseases among one’s food supply seemed a rather illogical evolutionary adaptation. Or maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe something in the diet here, perhaps even the various inebriating or curative products derived from the amazing polta fruit once again played a role? Regardless . . .
“Those with diseases of that sort are kept inside at all times, smeared with protective lotions, and surrounded by a cordon of smoky fires.” Okada said. “It is all we can do.”
Sandra noticed he didn’t blame the sick men for this new threat to “his” people. Furthermore, he’d already considered the risk, and he took it anyway. That spoke well for him.
Throughout this exchange, Saan-Kakja had remained silent, absorbing all. Like her friend Rebecca, she was a mere youngling, even by her people’s standards; yet she’d displayed a level of maturity, wisdom, and determination far beyond her years in many respects. She continued to do so now by cutting to the heart of the matter.
“You have made your report . . . Mr. Okaa-daa. Forgive me if I’m not yet familiar with this new title you claim. I will try to learn how to speak it. You have my gratitude, and that of the Alliance as a whole, I’m sure. Not only have you rendered assistance to friends of our friends, but you bring warning of this . . . rogue force that wanders waters the Alliance considers its own. As I said before, we must decide how this news affects our priorities—and what we can do for you in return for this service.”
“With respect, Your Excellency, I might make a few recommendations—and a request.”
Saan-Kakja glanced briefly at her advisors and bowed her head.
“First, beyond a perhaps-increased patrol, equipped with the wireless gear you possess, we were not challenged short of your harbor defenses ourselves,” he inserted pointedly, “you should not significantly alter your plans. I understand you suffered sorely from the tsunami that also lightly affected my land, and in addition to the Grik menace, you also confront a new enemy in the east.”
“That is true,” Saan-Kakja conceded, “and with the demands of war and disaster, few resources have been spared for patrolling waters we considered secure. That must change. But surely, with this ‘Hido-i-aame’ full of murderers on the loose, we cannot ignore it!”
“You must not,” Okada agreed, “but it is alone and isolated for now. I trust you have monitored no transmissions of unknown origin?”
Shinya’s face reflected some doubt, but he shook his head. “There’s always . . . noise that sounds tantalizingly like communications, but nothing definitive from any but expected sources. If Hidoiame or her consort transmitted, they’d be heard.”
“I’m sure they can transmit,” Okada said, “Even Mizuki Maru has serviceable, if antiquated communications gear.” He blinked. “I’m frankly astonished they didn’t take it with them, or destroy it. Possibly, they were still somewhat overwhelmed. Regardless, you can be sure they’ve been monitoring your transmissions. Most likely, your code is secure, but they will recognize it as an American code. They will be cautious. They have no idea what they face, and no real understanding of their situation beyond what the people of Ani-aaki tried to tell them.”
His face clouded. “They will search for a place to stop, refit, consider their circumstances—much as we . . . or the American destroyers did when they arrived. Though powerful, I doubt they will seek heavily populated areas, at least with the same aggression they displayed at my Home. That said, even with the tanker, one of their most pressing concerns will be fuel, and that narrows the regional choices their commanders might make. The American defenses at Tarakan Island should be strengthened, for example. It was well-known in our world to be rich in petroleum. If they arrive here, or at other well-defended Allied ports, they could stand off beyond the range of your heavy guns and do much damage to your forts, but not enough to survive a forced passage, I suspect. Hidoiame is no Amagi. Consider her a more modern, more capable version of Walker. Even she couldn’t enter Maa-ni-la if you didn’t want her to. If Hidoiame does come seeking assistance, enters within range of your guns, you will know her. You can pound her to scrap or force her surrender, and capture the murderers aboard. In any event, as long as she does not slip so far away as to join your”—he paused, and his jaw muscles worked—“our enemies, there are only so many places she can hide without our learning her whereabouts.”
Saan-Kakja blinked. “And should we learn her whereabouts, what do you propose we do?”
“I have a request, several actually, but they all serve the same end. First, I beg membership in the Grand Alliance on behalf of my people. I understand there are elements
who desire to create a more formal—even permanent—union of the member states, and I—we—do not wish to be considered part of that faction at present, but I will guarantee loyal service for the duration of the current hostilities, however long they last. To facilitate that service, I beg that a medical mission be sent to Yokohama to tend those injured in the recent invasion, and to transport the former prisoners back here where they may be more properly tended, and perhaps employed by the cause. Finally, I ask that Mizuki Maru be immediately moved into your new dry dock so she might be properly repaired and sufficiently modified with increased bunker capacity, armor, or protective structures for her machinery, and as much of Amagi’s salvaged secondary armament as can quickly be dispatched here from Baalkpan. These modifications will be undertaken with an eye to retaining Mizuki Maru’s original, helpless appearance.”
Saan-Kakja hesitated only a moment. “O-kay,” she said, and the col- loquialism sounded strange from her lips. “The work you speak of will require considerable time and resources, but I will grant them if you tell me . . . why I should?”
Okada took a breath and his eyes flashed. “I’m sure you already suspect the answer, Your Excellency. Hidoiame is a threat to the Alliance. Moreover, her officers at least are responsible for the murder of helpless prisoners and more than a hundred People of Ani-aaki who were under my protection. I desire that my first assignment as a member of the Grand Alliance be to hunt down and take or kill Hidoiame and the tanker accompanying her, as well as everyone aboard them.”
“Very well, Mr. Okaa-daa. I accept your offer, your counsel, and your request.” Meksnaak stirred himself to protest, but Saan-Kakja silenced him with a glare. “It will be done,” she said. “I will request the arms you ask in my next dispatch to Chairman Adar. I don’t know what remains to be spared, but there should be something. A new frigate is currently being coppered in the dry dock, but the task will be complete in a few days. Your . . . Maa-ru will be the next ship to go in.” She looked at Shinya and Lelaa. “Second Fleet will depart as scheduled, but remain extra vigilant for this Jaap destroyer.”
“Thank you,” Captain Lelaa said. “Maybe we’ll find her. With our planes and long-range guns from Amagi, I hope we do! She can be no match for the mighty Maaka-Kakja,” she boasted.
“You’re probably right,” Okada said, but added ominously; “unless she has torpedoes!”
That thought sent a chill through everyone. It had been so long since Walker had any torpedoes, they’d almost forgotten about the weapons. There were few enemy targets worthy of the complicated machines. Bernie Sandison had a program dedicated to creating more, but it had received a low priority. Saan-Kakja determined to recommend he “get on the stick.”
“Colonel Shinya,” she continued, “I’m glad you’ve decided to go east yourself. Please inform the quartermaster which regiments you will take, and what their requirements are.” She gazed at him fondly. “I’ll miss you.” She looked at Rebecca, Sandra, and Laumer. “I’ll miss you all. But Captain Reddy needs you, and we will be fine here.”
The meeting began to dissolve. Okada looked at Shinya, gave him a brisk nod, and turned toward the chamber entrance, followed by his officers. Sandra, Laumer, and the corpsman helped the two former prisoners to their feet, and Shinya started to join them. Apparently, he thought better of it, and moved to speak further with Saan-Kakja.
“You’re both fliers, correct?” Sandra asked the men.
“Yeah,” Orrin answered, speaking directly to her for the first time. “Used to be. Probably not much use for us in the fight you’ve got here—although when there weren’t any more planes, Mack and I both fought with the Forty-fifth Philippine Scouts. We were in an antiaircraft crew on Corregidor when Wainwright threw in the towel too.”
“You might be surprised.” Laumer grinned.
“About what?”
“We have planes, homebuilt mostly, and pretty good ones. But also a few you might recognize.” Now Orrin remembered the one called “Captain Lelaa” referring to “planes,” and his ears perked up.
“No kidding?” Mackey demanded. He took on an almost-dreamy look. “Boy, it’d be swell to fly again.” Irvin Laumer looked significantly at Sandra. “Air Minister” Colonel (after his latest escapade) Benjamin Mallory was about to get yet another present.
“No kidding,” Irvin confirmed. “As a matter of fact, one of our new long-range jobs’ll be here tomorrow on its semiweekly run. It’s a goofy-looking beast; kind of like a PBY with three engines.”
The Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la “Internal Combustion Engine factories,” or “ICEhouses” as they’d come to be known, had virtually perfected the manufacture of a ridiculously simple, and even further simplified, Wright-Gypsy-type engine. The Alliance relied on them for everything from aircraft power plants, to “portable” generators and boat motors. So many were being produced that they had enough to send out spares—and experiment with multiengine aircraft. The little engines performed well and were extremely reliable since there was so little to go wrong with them. Mallory took them so much for granted now that he’d started bellyaching for bigger, lighter, air-cooled versions, and had begun to experiment with radials. “Officially, they’re PB-2s,” Irvin continued, “but everybody calls ’em ‘Buzzards.’ You’ll see why. Anyway, they carry ten passengers, or about two thousand pounds of freight. If you guys are up to it, we can get you and your buddy on its return flight to Baalkpan. That’s where the real ‘air stuff’ is going on.”
“That’d be swell,” Mackey repeated, “as long as I know everybody we left behind’ll be taken care of.”
“Of course they will be,” Sandra assured him. Suddenly, she remembered something she’d meant to ask earlier. “Excuse me, Lieutenant Reddy—Orrin. You said you’re from San Diego?”
“Not originally,” the young man replied. “I was born in Texas, like Mack, but my folks picked up and ran for California when the dust bowl hit.”
“I don’t suppose . . .” She shook her head. How common was the Reddy name?
“What?”
“Well, you wouldn’t happen to be related to a Matthew Patrick Reddy, of the Navy?”
Orrin looked at her, astonished. “Sure. Tall guy? Brown hair, green eyes?”
Sandra nodded.
“He’s my first cousin! Six, seven years older than me. Used to take me hunting and fishing on his dad’s place. A good guy, but always bossing me around. I guess I needed it, though.... Say, you don’t mean . . . ?” Sandra was still nodding, a grin spreading across her face. “I swear. The last letter I got from home, Mom wrote that he and his whole ship were MIA.” The sudden excitement seemed to tire the young man, and he slumped. “Of course, I’ve been MIA since shortly after that. Where is he?”
Sandra sobered. “Right now, he’s halfway around the world.” She managed a grin. “I’ll be going to join him with our new aircraft carrier within the week.”
“You his girl?”
Sandra hesitated, but only for a moment. Old habits die hard. “Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Orrin shook his head in admiration. “I figured you must be, soon as I realized what you were talking about. You’re the best-looking dame around, and Cousin Matt always could pick ’em!”
Sandra’s face heated, but the grin stayed. “There aren’t many ‘dames’ to choose from, but that’s starting to change. There are almost none where you’re going yet, but some will be along once they’ve been processed. There are plenty where Matt is now.”
“Maybe that’s where we should go?” Mackey suggested hopefully.
Sandra laughed. “Maybe one of you, if you’re fit, but not all. Captain Lelaa might need someone with combat experience to advise her on air operations, even if our carrier aircraft are seaplanes.” She looked at the two pilots appraisingly. “And neither of you fly until you’ve got some meat back on your bones. That’s a medical order. Beyond that, if one of you feels up to the job, take it up with Captain Lelaa. The rest of you belong to Colonel
Mallory!”
Orrin still seemed tired, but more engaged—far more so than during the conference. “Well of course I should go!” he said. “Matt Reddy’s family, after all.”
Mackey seemed philosophical. “Okay,” he said, “but there has to be a trade-off, if I go to this ‘Baalkpan’ place.”
“Sure,” said Sandra. “Good people, a relatively secure rear area to rest up, and a lot hotter aircraft!” She looked at Orrin. “And I hate to tell you, but Matt’s still going to be bossing you around!”
The next morning, the PB-2 flew over Maa-ni-la Bay when the purple-gray sky was marred only by an orange-pink slash. It rumbled over the water as if searching for a roost amid the haphazard cluster of masts and ships moored close in. Immense, seagoing Homes rested at anchor with their “wings” stowed diagonally across their decks like massive, snowy ridgelines, and Lemurians went about their morning chores aboard them. The two steam oilers that would accompany USS Maaka-Kakja east were jockeying for position at the fueling pier the carrier had abandoned during the night. They looked a lot like Allied frigates, but they weren’t as heavily armed and had broader beams.
Like the “Buzzard” she did resemble, with her fixed wingfloats that gave her a droop-winged appearance, the PB-2 lumbered slowly in, banked, and settled for a landing on the water short of the new pier dedicated to her visits. Line handlers awaited her approach as the pilot killed all but the center engine and maneuvered her expertly to a stop.
Sandra, Lawrence, and Irvin Laumer watched all this from the pier. Irvin was there to greet the tired passengers that crawled from the cramped waist of the plane. Most were “newies” from the Baalkpan Army-Navy Air Corps Training Center, and he’d take them to Maaka-Kakja . He didn’t have to be there, but the ship didn’t have a COFO yet. Besides, he liked to come down and look at the old S-19, moored nearby. She’d been his first command. There was just a skeleton crew aboard now, including Danny Porter and Sandy Whitcomb. Both had other jobs during the day, but they still slept on the boat. They’d accompany her to Baalkpan. Irvin knew the sub was a wreck, and her problems were almost insurmountable. Still, he couldn’t help thinking they’d need her someday.
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 11
