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 anydoes, 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?”
“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.
Sandra was there to meet the PB-2’s copilot, or still more appropriately, her spotter/wireless operator who’d sent that he had a letter for her from Karen Letts, and after the traffic they’d begun picking up late the previous day, she felt compelled to get it herself. Lawrence came along simply because at some point, however briefly, Sandra might be by herself. She refused a protective detail, but he and a number of others had determined that nobody “important” ever be alone again. There was no mad “Company” warden in Maa-ni-la, but there were dissatisfied elements.
Tremendous activity was already underway at the waterfront. Troops had been crossing from Bataan all night and marching through the bustling shipyard district to bivouac on the plain beyond the city to prepare for embarkation. The predawn departure of the Maa-ni-la fishing fleet had caused some disorganization, but everything seemed back under control now. Mizuki Maru was still there, floating much higher in the water with the aid of shore-based pumps.
“Okay, dammit!” came a surly cry from within the passenger compartment of the plane. “I’m gettin ’ out! Quit pokin’ me!” A last, unexpected passenger crept carefully through the tiny hatch, and Sandra was surprised to recognize Gilbert Yeager, one of the bizarrely eccentric, original “Mice,” from Walker ’s firerooms. He was a chief now, but at heart, he’d always be a boilerman who loved nothing more than the music of steam and forced-draft fires. Despite his exalted status, he still looked like a rodent, sniffing the air and squinting his eyes. “Joint’s changed since I was here last,” he declared disapprovingly.
“Mr. Yeager!” Sandra exclaimed. “I never dreamed they’d pry you away from your… colleague, Mr. Rueben, once you’d been reunited!”
Gilbert snatched the new, somehow already grimy “Dixie cup” from his head and clutched it in his hands. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miz Tucker,” he said, “but it was my damn turn, I s’pose. Isak went off last time, an’ he’s busy helpin’ to overhaul them jug-jumpers on Santa Catalina. He’ll prob’ly go back to First Fleet after that. They figgered there oughta be somebody in this new flat-top, might could light a fire in her guts an’ make her go.”
“I guess that means you belong to me,” Irvin said with a neutral expression. He was ecstatic to have Gilbert for his ex-juence, but.. . along with that experience, there was Gilbert to consider. He didn’t know the man well, but his reputation was widespread. Oh well, at least he wasn’t as weird as Isak…
“You say so, sir,” Gilbert replied forlornly. With the weary fliers and the unexpected addition in hand, Irvin took his leave of Sandra and Lawrence.
The ’Cat aircrew scrambled ashore, their new goggles pushed up between their ears, resembling another pair of darker eyes. They saluted Sandra. “Min’ster Tukker,” one said, “this for you.” He handed over a folded, rumpled sheet, sealed with a blob of wax. “We got more mail too!” he added. The other ’Cat, probably the pilot, saluted again and went to oversee the refueling of his plane. When he was satisfied it was in good hands, the aircrew would snatch a few hours of sleep before taking off again.
“More?”
“Yes! We bring new mail, person-aal!” The Lemurian seemed more excited that people could send personal letters so quickly than he was about wireless. “Whole big saack. I bring aa-shore, now I know somebody offish-aal here to see it get here!” He blinked seriously in the growing light. “I s’posed to waatch mail till then with one eye. No foolin!”
It wasn’t really a very big sack, and Lawrence took it. Sandra unfolded the letter from Karen as they walked away from the pier. They were finally making real paper in Baalkpan. She smiled at the hurriedly written note from her friend, describing the antics of her new daughter, Allison Verdia, but frowned when she noted Karen’s complaint about her husband, Alan, going “off to the war” when he didn’t have to. She felt a surge of irritation. Ultimately, it could be argued none of the “old” destroyermen, the humans, had to fight this war. When Lemurians took the same oath to join the same Navy the humans served, it wasn’t really the same, and everybody knew it. The United States of America didn’t even exist here. Though Matt considered the oath very real and essential, any ’Cat would tell you that ultimately, their oath was to Captain Reddy; the High Chief of the Amer-i-caan Naa-vee clan. Maybe Matt really didn’t see a difference. Sandra knew the meaning of his oath hadn’t changed-although it had been expanded considerably to encompass his new people. Still, if any of his “old hands” wanted to “retire” and go off in the jungle and live in a hut somewhere, Matt would probably let them.
She quickly forgave her friend. Karen had come a long way from the sobbing wreck she’d been when they first “got here.” If she was feeling put upon because her husband ran off to the sound of the guns, leaving her with a new baby and all her responsibilities as Deputy Minister of Medicine-doing Sandra’s job in her absence-it was understandable.
Sandra’s attention snapped back to the moment at the sound of a horrified shriek.
In their path stood a dark-haired, dusky-skinned woman in the loose-fitting, somewhat immodest working garb of the recently arrived immigrants from Respite Island. Sandra knew that, as they were “processed,” the women-virtual slaves within the Empire-were encouraged to wander the city at their own pace to grow accustomed to their freedom and this new culture. The processing consisted of little more than a checkup, a few short lectures about the laws and customs of Maa-ni-la, Baalkpan, and the seagoing Homes, and the assurance they could stay in their arrival compound where food and shelter were provided for a “reasonable” period while they decided whether they wanted to find a life in Maa-ni-la (there was plenty of work in the factories and shipyards), go on to Baalkpan(this was encouraged), or even joi
n the Navy. (As far as Sandra knew, this last option hadn’t been seriously discussed with Matt; it was simply assumed. Female Lemurians joined the Navy, after all.)
The woman gave only the one cry, but stood ready to bolt, staring at Lawrence, her dark, pretty face contorted by an expression of terror.
“Don’t run, scared lady,” Lawrence said as softly as he could. “I not eat you!”
“Yes, please!” Sandra said. “He’s a friend! Perfectly ah… tame.” Sandra immediately regretted the inappropriate term. Lawrence wasn’t an animal. She hoped he wasn’t offended. “Do you understand?”
The woman assumed a doubtful expression, but some of the tension left her. “Course I do. Yer speakin’ ainglish, ain’t ye?”
Sandra was taken aback by the weird, almost-Cockney accent coming from what looked like a Polynesian princess. “Why, yes I am.”
“An’ he ain’t a dee-min, then? Looks loik a dee-min, er divil!”
“He’s neither, I assure you. He’s my good friend, and a friend of Princess Rebecca McDonald, daughter of the Governor-Emperor. His name’s Lawrence, and mine’s Sandra Tucker. What’s yours?”
The woman began to relax, but seemed to realize how brusquely she’d spoken to someone she shouldn’t even have addressed where she came from. She almost fled again, but maybe the lectures had gotten through, and she went to one knee and bowed her head instead. “Diania,” she whispered.
A burst of anger jolted Sandra. She hadn’t had a chance to visit the immigrant women, and now she knew she should’ve made time. The now-dead “Honorable New Britain Company” had long fostered a system of virtually perpetual indenture of women in the Empire to such a degree that even “free” women had little status. Matt had sent reports that seethed with his own disgust regarding the situation, and inflamed Sandra’s indignation, but this was her first real encounter with what he’d been talking about. “Stand up, Diania, and face me!” she demanded.
“Aye’m,” said the woman, and hastily stood, but kept her head bowed. She might have been slightly taller than Sandra if she stood straight, but Sandra wouldn’t press or berate her-yet.
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