“Uh, calm seas, northwesterly winds, no casualties or contacts, Captain,” Kutas said.
“All guns manned and ready,” Minnie squeaked.
Matt looked around, nodding at Courtney where he stood somewhat defiantly near the captain’s chair. “Merry Christmas, all,” he said amiably, then glanced at his watch again. “Thing seems a little off today.”
“I ah, doubt it, Skipper,” Norm said with another gruesome grimace. Chief Gray and Commodore Harvey Jenks appeared on the bridge together, followed quickly by Carl Bashear and Sonny Campeti, both comparing watches.
“All stations report ‘manned and ready,’” Minnie said, looking at the captain. He’d obviously figured out what happened and turned his gaze to Courtney.
“Mr. Bradford, you’ve been with us long enough to know I’ll tolerate no interference in the normal operation of this ship. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you’ll lose all bridge privileges indefinitely. Is that understood?”
“I only wanted—”
“Is that understood?” Matt demanded. Courtney finally nodded, and Matt strode to his chair. “Very well. Pass the word for Juan . . .” He paused, remembering his indomitable Filipino “steward” was still recovering on New Scotland. “For ‘Tabasco,’” he amended. “Coffee.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Norm said, clearly relieved.
“What is ‘Kis-mus’?” Lieutenant Tab-At, or “Tabby,” asked Spanky McFarlane when the skinny exec cycled through the air lock into the forward fireroom. Just as Spanky had been elevated from his beloved engineering spaces, the gray-furred ’Cat—a full member of the “elite” and bizarre fraternity of “Mice” created by the “originals,” Isak Rueben and Gilbert Yeager—had been raised to take his place as engineering officer. The terrible steam burns she’d once suffered were healing nicely, and fur was even creeping back across the ugly, gray-pink scars.
Spanky handed her an akka egg sandwich, and perched on a battered metal stool, nodding benignly at the other ’Cats in the fireroom. There was only one boiler in there now, number two, the rest of the space devoted to a massive fuel bunker. Number two was their current “problem child,” though, and his arrival with an egg sandwich—Tabby’s favorite—had become a morning ritual wherever he suspected she’d be applying her greatest attention. It was his way of “keeping in touch” with engineering in general, something he considered necessary despite Tabby’s professionalism, while at the same time proving to her and himself that they could still be “friends.” Spanky loved Tabby like a daughter, niece, or something, but it was no secret the onetime ’Cat version of a pinup in a fur suit was crazy about him in a more . . . uncomplicated way.
“It’s a religious day where I come from, ’mongst lots of folks,” he said, munching his own sandwich. “Celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Folks would give each other presents and try to be nice for a day.”
Tabby looked at her sandwich. “I heard of that ‘Jeezus’ fella, from Sister Audry. She said he washed away all the bad stuff people do with blood.” She brightened. “Kinda like we been doin’ ’gainst these damn ‘Doms’ lately!”
Spanky shifted on his stool. “It ain’t exactly the same. . . .” Spanky was a nominal Catholic, and no matter how “backslid” he considered himself, the utterly twisted and perverted version of Catholicism the Dominion was trying to cram down everyone’s throat in a “convert or die” manner hit him very personally. He knew the new “Bosun of the Navy,” Chief Gray, felt the same. “Jesus died for our sins, washed ’em away with his own blood,” he said.
Tabby was silent a while, as were the other ’Cats. The only sounds in the fireroom emanating from the blower, the rush of water past creaking plates, and the trembling roar of hellfire in the boiler. “Well . . . we ain’t gonna do that,” she said decisively. “We gonna drown their sins in their blood . . . or the goddamn sea!” She finished her sandwich and looked at Spanky with suddenly liquid eyes, her ears to the side in a submissive . . . seductive way. “Thanks for the ‘Kis-mus’ saammich, Spanky,” she said softly. “You gave me a present. I be nice to you all day!”
His face reddening, Spanky stood. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ll check the other spaces before I see the Skipper. I’m OOD for the forenoon watch.” He paused. “Carry on,” he added, before cycling through to the aft fireroom.
Courtney’s hideous breech of protocol had been largely forgotten by the time the sun gushed over the horizon and bathed the limitless, purple sea with an achingly clear and sharp radiance. Not a single cloud marred the sky, and visibility seemed infinite. A cool breeze circulated through the pilothouse, and the group that gathered there earlier mostly remained. Courtney had eagerly broached the subject of what they might encounter—besides the enemy—as they neared the Americas, a subject that until now, only he had seemed interested in. Now, with that coast less than a week away, everyone seemed curious, and Jenks did his best to answer their questions. As an explorer and something of a naturalist himself, he was able to make some interesting observations.
“But that still doesn’t explain why they seem so . . . single-minded,” Matt said, referring to a virtual procession of “mountain fish” they’d spotted—and duly avoided—the day before. The ridiculously huge beasts were notoriously territorial, and none of the “Americans,” human or Lemurian, had ever seen two in close proximity, certainly not the apparent dozens they’d seen, dotting the horizon like a distant island chain.
“I can’t explain it,” Jenks replied. “Particularly since it’s not an annual event that might be explained by migratory habits. It seems continuous. All I know is that, year round, occasional groups of the devils are observed, traveling through these comparatively barren seas, always on an easterly course. There are collisions, usually in the dark, but they seem disinclined to attack vessels as they sometimes do in the west.” He shook his head. “As I mentioned before, the shallow bay between what you call the Baja peninsula and the mainland is referred to by the Doms as ‘el Mar de Huesos,’ or the Sea of Bones. That may provide some explanation, given study, but I’ve never ventured there. The Doms claim it, and even in less . . . hostile times, I’ve never been allowed entry.”
“You reckon they go there to die? The old ones, maybe?” Gray ventured gruffly. Matt looked at him carefully. At sixty-something, the Bosun was still a pillar of strength, but he’d begun to make comments now and then, as if starting to feel his age.
Jenks shrugged. “That would seem a sound assumption, but not all the migrants are of the largest size. Perhaps some grow bigger than others, but based on size alone, one would infer specimens of all ages make the trip.”
“Fascinating!” Courtney gushed. “Tell us more about these flying creatures, these ‘dragons’!” he demanded.
“They can be a menace,” Jenks confessed. “They look much like the ‘lizard birds,’ as you call them, or the small ‘dragon fowl’ we hunt at home, with fowling pieces, but they’re much larger. Bigger even than the ones Mr. Bradford compared in size to an albatross.” He paused, looking at Courtney. “Speaking of those midsize creatures, did you know, though seen throughout the isles of the Empire, and even as far as the continental colonies, they’re known to nest only on a small atoll in the Normandy Isles, far to the west of New Wales?”
“Oh my,” said Bradford.
“About these ‘dragons,’” Matt persisted. “You say they’re a menace? I guess they fly, but they don’t . . . spit fire or anything?”
“Heavens no.” Jenks chuckled. “But they’re large enough to snatch seamen from ships, and they’re quite clever, I’m afraid. They carry their prey to great heights and dash it against land or sea to kill it or render it senseless before they eat it. They’ve been known to bombard ships with rocks in excess of a hundred pounds.”
“Shit!” the Bosun exclaimed.
Bradford eyed him. “Please. It is Christmas!”
“I was about to beg pardon,” Gray defended himself.
&
nbsp; Spanky clomped up the stairs aft. “Mornin’, Skipper,” he said. “Everybody.”
“And a Merry Christmas to you!” Courtney said sourly.
“Yeah. Hey, what’s this about ‘dragon bombers’?” he asked. Matt filled him in. “Wow. Better get busy training the ’Cat gunners to hit flying targets!”
“Hey, you’re right,” said Campeti. “I’ll get with Stites and see how we can do that without wasting a bunch of ammo. Maybe those Jap pom-poms we mounted where the numbers three and four torpedo mounts used to be’ll come in handy for something.”
“Do it,” said Matt. He looked at Jenks. “What other . . . surprises can we expect?”
“Probably not much you haven’t already seen, at least at sea. The gri-kakka, you call them, are considerably larger off the coast, and something like your ‘flashies’—perhaps the same species—are just as thick in the shallows as you’re accustomed to within the barrier. Sharks too, like the one that disabled Revenge and caused all that trouble for Task Force Garrett.”
“Say,” said Campeti, “I wonder how that’s going?”
Matt shook his head. “No way to know. The comm post we set up on that mountain on New Britain can probably still hear us; our transmitter is a lot more powerful. But Palmer said everything from there finally faded out last night. We’re cut off, comm-wise.” He brightened. “At least we know Admiral McClain, the fleet, and our oilers are on the way—a day late.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it, I guess.”
“Skipper, you know no big fleet ever sailed on time, with such short notice,” Spanky consoled.
“Keje and First Fleet did,” Matt replied. “And so did Task Force Maaka-Kakja.” He rubbed his face. “I hope that was the right thing to do. With that murderous Jap ’can running around . . .”
“I told you to expect such things,” Bradford reminded him. “My theory regarding how objects and people arrive on this world is still all ahoo, but I’m convinced that metal and magnetism, or electrical conductivity is somehow involved. With a global war underway back home, brimming with magnetic or conductive weapons scattered prolifically about, we’re likely to have more visits here as time goes by.”
“I’m not so sure,” Matt said slowly. “I mean, I agree with your theory for the most part, but I’m not convinced that nothing from ‘here’ ever wound up ‘there.’”
Courtney stared at him blankly.
“Jenks’s ‘dragons,’” he explained. “The ‘sea monsters.’ If a few things from here got snatched the other way over time, that could explain a lot of human mythology.”
“Don’t forget the ‘mer-lizards’ of Chill-Chaap!” the Bosun snorted through clenched teeth, trying not to laugh.
Courtney’s eyebrows furrowed. “Blast!” he said suddenly. “My beautiful theory is assailed! Now I shall lie awake at night, trying to reconcile this new variable, deprived of sleep!”
“Don’t sweat it.” Matt laughed. “When you get it all sorted out, I’m sure it’ll make perfect sense. Remember, we came with the ship, and we’re not magnetic!”
“But . . .” Courtney clamped his mouth shut. The ’Cats on the bridge were just beginning to “believe” in the invisible force of gravity. He didn’t want to distract them with even more “invisible” powers just now. Maybe some of the ’Cat EMs would understand, and he was sure Matt did, despite what he’d just said. Spanky and Palmer probably did as well.... Suddenly, he realized he’d inflicted consideration of the greatest “invisible” power of all upon Walker’s crew just that morning. He shook his head. “I am the most incredibly inconsistent creature alive,” he admitted.
“Yeah, but at least you’re consistently inconsistent,” Gray jabbed.
“Lookout reports a sail, off the starboard bow!” Minnie interrupted.
“Range?” Matt asked, raising his binoculars.
“Lookout say ‘on horizon.’ It so clear, an’ with no range-finder. . . .”
Matt thought for a moment. The sea was calm, the sky cloudless . . . and the kid needed to get back on the horse. “Call the air division to action stations and have them stand by for flight operations,” he ordered.
Lieutenant Fred Reynolds heard the call he’d both dreaded and craved. He yearned to get back in the air, but he hated that somebody had to ride the “Nancy” with him—somebody who might wind up dead because of him. Kari Faask, his friend and former spotter/wireless operator/ bombardier and copilot, had remained aboard despite Selass-Fris-Ar’s misgivings, but she was still recovering from serious wounds. Fred spent almost all his off-duty time with her, escorting her around the ship, gently helping with her therapy—and generally treating her like a china doll. It helped salve his conscience. His first real taste of responsibility as an officer had resulted in a lost plane, a wounded friend, and a severely shaken self-confidence that hadn’t had much to rebuild on. He’d manage, he was a good flier, but without Kari in the backseat . . . He wondered who Mr. Palmer would replace her with.
The deck crew chief, Jeek, met him as he emerged from beneath the amidships deckhouse and handed him his leather helmet, goggles, and scarf—pretty much the only “special” equipment he required to fly. After his previous flights in the open-air cockpit, he’d taken to wearing a peacoat, which he already had on. It seemed hot as hell right now, but he’d welcome the coat’s warmth when he got in the air. Jeek escorted him to the “new” plane they’d assembled from parts stowed in the torpedo workshop, aft. Jeek, or somebody, had painted the word “No” on both sides of the forward fuselage this time. Jeek had painted it on Fred’s first plane after he returned from the action against “Company” warships sent to intercept them, and Reynolds somehow contrived to shoot his own plane in the nose with a .45. Despite his resistance, the tradition stuck, but now it seemed appropriate. He viewed the warning as a reminder not to pull any stupid stunts.
“The engine is still warm,” Jeek assured him, uncharacteristically serious. He worried about his pilot and the funk he’d settled into. “We ran it up for morning GQ.” Implicit also was Jeek’s reminder that Fred should have been there for that. Reynolds looked at the plane and did a quick walkaround. It looked just like his old one, a PB-1B with its broad, high wing and single four-cylinder engine. If not for that and the reversed position of the prop, the thing looked much like the old PBY Catalina that inspired its form.
“That’s fine, Jeek,” Fred said. “Thanks.” He clambered up the ladder to the cockpit and settled himself in the wicker seat, strapping himself in. The rest of the air division scampered about, preparing the plane for launch. They hadn’t done the “real thing” for a while, but they drilled for it every day. Fred was impressed by how efficient they’d become since that first awkward time. He felt the plane settle slightly aft as his new spotter clumsily joined him. He didn’t look back to see who it was, not yet; a ’Cat was hooking the forward lifting points to the crude davit arrangement that would hoist them up and lower them into the sea, and he always liked to make sure that was carefully done. “Cast off the tie-downs,” he shouted, noticing way coming off the ship by the diminishing wake alongside. “Take her up!”
The mostly wood and fabric plane creaked as the davit took its weight, and taglines, attached to the pin-release lifting points, controlled the plane’s orientation as it swung out over the water. He motioned for the ’Cats on the davit to let him down. With a shuddering splap! the “Nancy” was in the sea and Fred lost no time. “Contact!” he shouted aft.
“Contact,” confirmed a familiar—wrong—voice. He turned.
“Kari!” he shouted back, incredulous. “What the devil are you doing here? Doc’ Selass’ll skin you!”
“She not here. Beside, she release me for light duty,” Kari said. “Sit in airplane while somebody else fly not hard. She no say I not fly!”
“That’s because it never occurred to her you’d be so stupid!” Fred roared. Somehow, Kari managed to stand and grasp the prop.
“You been actin’ too goofy to fly with any
body not say how goofy you are. You think I let you fly with some dope not know you?” She paused, waiting for a response. “You say ‘contact,’ right?”
Fred turned back to stare straight ahead. “Contact,” he confirmed in a subdued voice. Propping the motor was bound to hurt the wound in his friend’s side, and Kari-Faask didn’t even like to fly.
The takeoff was uneventful, and soon, amid the contented drone of her plucky motor, the “Nancy” was winging her way toward the distant contact while Walker resumed her twenty-knot gallop to close.
“Just one ship, it looks like,” Fred instructed Kari to report, through the speaking tube. From about two thousand feet, he could see the horizon beyond the stranger, and nothing else was in view. “White sails,” he added with mixed relief. Dominion warships wore a red suit—but that didn’t mean the contact was friendly. “I won’t get any nearer than necessary to make an identification,” he assured his companion self-consciously.
“You go close as you have to,” Kari scolded. “You go in mast high, an’ I drop my little bombs if Cap-i-taan Reddy says. You fly close enough to shoot them with you pistol again, you have to. Hear?”
His face hot, Fred could only nod. Evidently, they were seen before too much longer, and the ship suddenly hove to, its sails flapping in helpless disarray. A few white puffs from small-arms fire, at ridiculously long range, blossomed on the deck. They were more a reaction of panic at the sight of such a strange contraption as the plane, Fred thought, than any type of disciplined response. Still, conscious of what happened last time, he maintained his altitude and settled into a banking orbit about a thousand yards out.
“Is ‘Comp’ny’ ship,” Kari declared, identifying the red-and-white-striped flag through an Imperial telescope. Her precious Bausch & Lomb binoculars had been lost in the last crash.
“They can’t know the situation in New Britain yet,” Fred said. “Send it.”
Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Page 17
