Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  In Garrett’s and Chapelle’s absence, Saraan-Gaani was in charge of the survivors at the “rest and reorganization” area. He sat on a stool beneath an awning, a “corps-’Cat” finally tending the many small wounds he’d received in the fighting. None was serious, but with his large percentage of white fur, he’d looked a lot worse than he was. Lieutenant Bekiaa was with him there, her own amazingly few wounds already attended, and she’d been teasing him over his discomfort at the hands of the medics. Saaran-Gaani wasn’t sure if she was still flirting with him, or if she ever had been. He liked her, but she was more… forward than females he’d known in the south, and he wondered if she actually was compensating a little for the horrors she’d endured. It didn’t matter. It was no time to contemplate such things. The spectacle before him on the broad, protected beach was sufficient to hold his attention.

  Dozens of ships of various shapes and sizes were moored offshore; transports close in, with shoals of broad-beamed boats plying to and fro, depositing troops and supplies. Farther out were the “DDs” and “DEs,” guarding the helpless flock, and even more distant lay Salissa with her own screen of warships. “Nancys” flew back and f between the carrier and points inland, scouting, or throwing a few bombs at any enemy concentrations they saw. Now and then, one landed among the anchored ships, leaving a passenger to come ashore. A floating pier was already under construction to service the planes from the beach. The activity ashore looked chaotic to Saaran-Gaani, with some troops running around and others just milling about. Different regimental colors were mixed, but those of Baalkpan and Aryaal/B’mbaado prevailed. It looked like most of those in a hurry wore the blue and white of Marines, although the black and gold of Maa-ni-la was represented and seemed purposeful, for the most part.

  He wondered at that. The Marines were all veterans, as were the majority of the Baalkpan and Aryaalan/B’mbaadan troops. But many of the Maa-ni-los were “green.” Maybe it was just that the less organized, such as his own people, simply hadn’t been given anything to do yet. The “rest and reorganization” area could boast little organization at all. Makeshift shelters had been rigged here and there, and the survivors of TF Garrett lounged on the beach in the morning shade, close enough to the shelters to escape the inevitable squalls of the day when they manifested themselves. Saaran-Gaani was a little chagrined to see that Bekiaa’s remaining Marines had at least bivouacked in a creditable way, while the crews of Donaghey, Tolson, and Revenge were mixed and scattered. He sighed. All the survivors had fought like Marines or they wouldn’t be here, but with no ship beneath them and no immediate task, the sailors had reverted to a complete “off-duty” state that contrasted strikingly with the more regimented Marines.

  “I must come up with something for them to do,” he said, nodding at a group of sailors playing one of the many universal Lemurian “hand” games.

  “They still need rest,” Bekiaa said. “Only two days have passed since their ordeal.”

  Saaran-Gaani didn’t mention that it had been his and Bekiaa’s ordeal as well. “Yes, but once relief becomes lethargy, and perhaps fear, it will be harder to return them to their duty.” The medic finished applying the curative polta paste to his now-clean wounds and left them then. Saaran-Gaani sighed with relief and continued. “I must get them back on ships, I suppose-although many might resent being separated after all they’ve been through together. I wish Cap-i-taan Gaar-rett were here to sort this out, but he sent word last night that progress is slow on Donaghey.” He considered. “She must be saved if possible. She’s my ship, my Home, but she’s also the last of her kind

  … and her role at Baalkpan must be considered. Perhaps the only more significant remaining name in our Navy is Walker. Her loss would be hard on the people of Baalkpan, and the Alliance in general.”

  “As will Tolson ’s be,” Bekiaa agreed. “That’s bad enough.” She looked at him and blinked irony. “How very astute for a ‘South Islander’!”

  Saaran’s tail twitched irritably. “I’m as Amer-i-caan as you, now.”

  “Aa-ten-shin!” someone cried, and there was a general stir outside the shelter. Saaran and Bekiaa stood, although they couldn’t see who was approaching. The sailors who’d come to their feet parted, revealing General Alden, Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar, Colonel Flynn, and Lord General Muln Rolak, accompanied by a number of staff officers.

  “Good morning, Lieutenants!” Keje boomed, and the officers with him returned the salutes they received.

  “Good morning, Ahd-mi-raal, Gener-aals, Colonel,” Saraan-Gaani replied.

  “How do you feel?” Alden asked them.

  “Fine,” Saaran and Bekiaa chorused.

  Keje grunted. “One of the reasons we came ashore…” He glanced around. “Where has Mr. Letts run off to?”

  “He has gone to begin the chore of organizing this ridiculous mess,” Rolak muttered. “ Another of the reasons we are here,” he explained. “Thank the Heavens we did not face an opposed landing!”

  “Yes. Well, one reason was to congratulate you two and your companions”-Keje gestured around-“for your survival and perseverance during the recent… situation.” His gruff voice grew soft. “We came as fast as we could.”

  “We could not have asked for more, Ahd-mi-raal,” Bekiaa said, “and as it turned out, you were just in time.”

  “Perhaps for some,” Keje hedged.

  “That’s enough of that crap,” Alden said tiredly, clearly continuing an argument between the two. “Nobody can do anything faster than ‘as fast as they can’!”

  “Just so,” Rolak agreed, taking Alden’s side.

  Keje straightened. “Just so,” he repeated. “In any event, we must see to the disposition of your people here, Commander Saaran-Gaani, Cap-i-taan Bekiaa-Sab-At.”

  Saaran and Bekiaa both gulped at the unexpected promotions.

  “You have almost two hundred sailors and Marines fit for duty,” Keje continued. “I feel the most appropriate thing would be to transport them to An-da-maan to await the arrival and refit of Donaghey. Captain Garrett has… virtually demanded that he be allowed to remain here, in the fight, while Donaghey is repaired”-he shook his head-“but that is impossible. With his experience at sea, he is far too valuable to further risk on land. The same goes for Mr. Chapelle. Both may resent my decision, but there it is.” His tail swished and he grinned. “I am reliably informed that ahd-mi-raals may do as they please.” He paused. “That said, the notion they proposed has merit. I see several options for your people here. You may all go to An-da-maan as a single crew, and assist in Donaghey ’s refit. More ships are on their way, but it would be unfair to replace their crews as soon as they arrive. You may all go back to Baalkpan and be assigned one of the new steam frigates they’re now building. It would likely take more time than refitting Donaghey, but you’ve certainly earned the rest and a more capable ship. Or, some of your people might choose to join the fleet and be absorbed into one of the ship’s companies here.”

  Bekiaa hesitated but managed to speak. “Is there an option that might allow my Marines and me, at least, to remain here and do as Cap-i-taans Garrett and Chapelle desired? If you please, we do have a score to settle.”

  “This isn’t baseball, damn it; it’s war,” Alden growled. “There’s no such thing as an ‘even score.’ We fight to win, and your Marines are a ship contingent. The sailors aren’t infantry at all.”

  “I propose that most of the sailors who fought at the Sand Spit are infantry now,” Bekiaa said. “And were you not once also part of a ‘ship contingent’ as well, Gen-er-aal? Did that make you less of a Marine?”

  “Bekiaa!” Saraan hissed, but Alden scratched his beard and chuckled.

  “Good point, Captain.” He groaned and looked at Colonel Flynn. “Make your pitch, Billy,” he said.

  The former submariner with the strange red mustache and chin whiskers grinned. “Well, it just so happens that the ‘First Amalgamated Regiment’ is a company short, and if I don’t put one to
gether, General Alden has threatened to snatch away the allocated rifled muskets and dole ’em out to a bunch of other fellas. That’ll dilute their effectiveness, since the Lord knows where they’ll wind up.”

  “Rifled muskets?” Bekiaa asked, confused.

  “I know of these!” Saraan interjected. “They load like the muskets the Marines already have, but they are far more accurate. They spin the bullets like the”-he looked apologetically at Keje-“ ‘Holy’ ’03 Springfields and Kraags the first Amer-i-caans brought!”

  Keje grinned. “Do not be concerned. I will not denounce you as a heretic,” he said. “I wouldn’t, anyway; our Alliance is full of them now. And besides, Gen-er-aal Aal-den has convinced me that those first Springfields and Kraags could at least commune with the Maker, since their bullets must be divinely guided!”

  “Oh-threes are holy… to me,” Pete grumped, fingering the sling of the one he always carried. The weapon was somewhat battered now, but no one doubted it was clean-and capable of miracles in his hands.

  “How many for a company?” Saraan asked, almost greedily.

  “At least a hundred,” Flynn said, glancing at Keje, “But maybe you fall in the same category as those other distinguished naval officers?”

  Keje grunted. “Certainly. Commander Saraan-Gaani is a valuable naval resource… but he’s also known and trusted by these people here.” He glanced around at the curious faces that had gathered around them. “He has proven himself, according to Cap-i-taan Cha-pelle, and if he desires it, he may command this ‘Dee’ company you wish to form.”

  “Of course I desire it!” Saraan said. “Particularly if Cap-i-taan Bekiaa should second me!”

  “It’s settled then,” Alden said, with the air of someone who’d solved a nagging problem. “If you can rake up the volunteers,” he added, noticing the crowd around them growing even more as word began to spread. There’d be some who’d had enough, he knew, but Saraan would likely have more trouble keeping the number down than raking it up. He looked at Bekiaa. “The First Amalgamated isn’t a Marine regiment,” he said, “but you and yours’ll still be Marines regardless, if you want in.”

  “I do,” she replied, with a glance at Saraan, “as long as I’m still a Marine, and I keep my uniform.”

  Flynn laughed. “The Amalgamated wears many ‘uniforms.’ ” He looked at Alden. “I personally prefer the name ‘Flynn’s Rangers,’ as a matter of fact, but that doesn’t matter either. All that does is that you can shoot!” He paused. “And sing. Sometimes we sing.”

  Pete rolled his eyes. “Get your volunteers,” he told Saraan, “and report to Colonel Flynn by evening. Things are poppin’, and we don’t have time to screw around. I’m sure Flynn’ll be happy to instruct you on the new weapons. Those you can’t take will still have the choice of joining the fleet here or going back to Andaman with Mr. Garrett.”

  USS Donaghey

  All her guns had been removed, and there were occasi moments of semibuoyancy as Donaghey waited for the tide to reach its peak. Her upper hull was a shambles after the beating she’d taken, but her bottom was still remarkably tight despite working on the beach for the better part of a week. Further testimony to the skill, ingenuity, and planning that built her in the first place. There was no doubt she’d float if they got her off, but they’d likely get only one chance. The “stormy” time of year kept a different schedule in the Western Ocean, and it was doubtful she’d survive until the next time the tide ran this high.

  “Commodore” Jim Ellis was aboard to coordinate the effort and discuss the signals they’d make. He’d also delivered some unwelcome news.

  “Damn,” Garrett said. “I wanted to stay.”

  “I know,” said Jim, “and I understand how you feel. The trouble is, frankly, you’re too good at what you do. You and Russ both. Face it; you’re heroes back home, naval heroes. You’re the best frigate skippers we have.” He grinned. “‘ DD’ skippers. And you had to learn the hard way, without power. Honestly, if I had it my way, I’d send you both to Baalkpan to teach, so consider yourselves lucky.” He looked at Garrett, leaning on the shattered capstan. There was a lot going on around the capstan on the deck below, where the heavy hawser was being secured. Offshore, Dowden and Tassat would try to bring Donaghey ’s bow around and pull her off by the nose. The rudder had been unshipped to prevent damage to it or the sternpost. There, on the upper deck, however, the crew knew a “stay away” meeting when they saw it, and they had relative privacy.

  “Okay.” Garrett sighed. “At least I’ll keep Donaghey -if we get her loose.” He didn’t want to jinx them. “But what about Russ?”

  “Yeah, what about me? I can fight. Why can’t I stay? There’s no extra ships just lying around for me, that’s for sure.”

  “There would be if it was up to me,” Jim said cryptically. “There’re a few out here I’d like to send to the school I wish you could teach.” He sighed. “Politics,” he spat. “I guess it was inevitable with the Alliance growing so, but I kind of miss the way it was around here at first.”

  “What, with us in charge of everything?” Greg chuckled.

  “Well… yeah. Some of these skippers took the Navy oath and all, but I guarantee they got commands because Adar leaned on Keje because he needed to keep important people happy.”

  “Adar knows the stakes as well as anyone,” Russ said, considering. “He wouldn’t make Keje take anybody who was flat unfit-or has he?”

  Jim shook his head. “No. They’re decent seamen… sea-’Cats. Just kind of puffed up about not much. You remember the type.”

  “Sure.”

  “So what about me?” Russ asked.

  “As of right now, you’re going back to Baalkpan, but to complete and work up a new frigate and get your butt back in the war as fast as you can.”

  “Where? Here, or in the east?”

  “I can’t tell you that. Wherever you’re needed most when the time comes, I guess.”

  Chapelle mulled that over. “Huh. Weird.” He shook his head. “I’d love to go east and help the Skipper against those screwy Spics… .” His face brightened. “And there’s the women, of course! Givenmy choice, though, I guess I’d rather keep killin’ Grik.”

  Jim Ellis shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter. Wherever we go, whatever we do in this goofed-up world, somebody or something always needs killing. In that sense, I guess it’s not so different from the world we came from. Courtney Bradford would probably come up with something profound, but I guess what it all boils down to is the white hats and black hats in the Westerns.” He tugged on the brim of his battered tan cover. “This one may not be white, but our guys’ Dixie cups are, and you know? Maybe that’s all they need to think about.”

  “That is profound,” Garrett said. He still wore his white cover; his other was lost, but the white one had turned a blotchy tan. First, it had been stained with coffee-the result of a nutty order at a nutty time. Time itself had done the rest. “I wonder if some genius figured out, a long time ago, that officers and chiefs-maybe particularly chiefs-need to remember that sometimes things aren’t all black or white.”

  “Tell it to Captain Reddy. He knows it like nobody I ever saw, but he’s also figured out there’s no way to sort out all the different shades anymore, even if there really ever was, which I doubt.” Jim shook his head. “It was easy against the Japs. They sneaked up and bombed Pearl Harbor; then they came after us. Easy. They were the bad guys and we were the good guys. Same here. The Grik want to eat all of us. In my humble opinion, that’s bad. Folks can stay out of the fight, but if they do, they’d better stay the hell out of the way.” He looked at Russ. “I don’t blame you for wanting to stay out here. Sure, there’s broads starting to make it to Baalkpan, but the situation in the east is a mess. Lots of different colors to worry about and the Skipper hates that.” He paused. “I guess you did catch that a new Jap ’can came through, before Clancy bought it and you lost your comm?”

  There were nods.

/>   “I guess if it’s any consolation, it looks like we’re winning the war back home. We bombed Tokyo, smashed a bunch of their carriers at Midway, retook some place called Guadalcanal. Stopped their butts cold and started rolling them up. The guys that told us didn’t know much more, but that’s swell. It’s a hell of a lot better than it was when we left. But here? In the east?” He removed his hat and scratched his greasy scalp. “We’ve got Japs chasing Japs, we’re helping Brits fight Brits, and”-he looked at Chapelle-“some kind of goofy Spaniard Indians. Hell, there’s even a tribe of Grik on our side! No, I don’t blame you for wanting to stay out here at all.”

  The ship juddered beneath his feet, and Garrett held his watch to the lantern light. “I guess we’d better get started, Commodore,” he said. “We’ve got about two hours. Just let us know when you’re about to hit the gas.” He glanced out at the lanterns on Dowden and Tassat. Other ships were beyond them, he knew, darkened in case the enemy chose to interrupt them. “We’ll hold on for the first jolt, but I may have to have the guys run back and forth to rock her.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Jim promised. “We will get her off.”

  “Don’t say that!” Garrett grinned. “Just go out there and break both your legs, blow the main steam line, and run aground yourself!”

  “My, you’re getting superstitious!” Jim laughed.

  “Can’t help it,” Greg said.