He caught sight of a blurry figure on the far side of the “logjam.” That was about as far as he could see with any clarity anymore. Squinting, he recognized Chinakru. The lizard leader had posted himself there as a lookout, much as Silva had done on this side. Silva was strangely encouraged that the old guy still had the juice to do it, even if there was little point. Maybe, like Silva, he just didn’t have it in him to give up while there was any life left in him at all. He felt light-headed, and his tongue was swollen so tightly in his mouth that he doubted he could speak, but he nodded solemnly, respectfully, at the old lizard. Chinakru nodded back.
The boat shuddered slightly and Sandra moved slowly, painfully, out from under the modest shelter they’d rigged. Seeing Dennis, she crawled in his direction, clumsily seating herself beside him.
“Three days,” she managed to say thickly. Her lips were cracked and her eyes looked dull.
“Yeph,” Silva replied, surprised that he could talk—and by how bad his voice sounded. He wished Sandra hadn’t come out. She looked terrible, and seeing her only reminded him how badly he’d failed to protect her and the others.
“S’vivors won’t ’ast much ’onger now,” Sandra gasped.
“I know.”
The canvas moved again, and Lelaa crawled out to join them, panting. She didn’t look as bad as Sandra, but only because of her fur. If anything, she’d probably suffered worse. ’Cats generally needed even more water than humans did.
“Wat’s dat sound?” Lelaa asked, after several tries.
“What sound?” Dennis croaked. All he could hear was a constant, ringing “reeeee” in his ears.
“Dat . . . rumble, bubble sound.” Lelaa put her ear to the damp hull of the boat and listened again. “Der it is,” she almost crooned. “Louder now. I hear it asleep, and it waked ... woke me up. It’s real.”
“So? It’s prob’ly a mountain fish down there, fartin’. I bet somethin’ that big could fart for an hour.”
Sandra shushed him. “No, I hear it too.” She looked around them at the sea and saw a large, low, fuzzy shape, creeping toward them from the south. “My God!” she practically shouted, and fell down in the boat. Chinakru was yelling something and the mounds of canvas began to stir.
“It is a mountain fish!” Silva hissed, groping for the Doom Whomper. “A baby one!” He tried to raise his massive weapon, but it was just too heavy. “Hel . . . Help me with this thing, Cap’n Lelaa!” he almost roared.
“No!” she said, wonder creeping into her voice. “That’s no mountain fish!” she declared, surprisingly clear.
“Well, whatever the hell it is, gimme a—” Silva stopped, staring at the closing apparition. “Uh . . . Is that . . . ?”
“Ess nineteen!” Lelaa confirmed with utter certainty, helping Sandra back up. She worked her mouth and tried to lick her dry lips. “Though maybe only your God knows what she’s doing here . . . and how she managed it!” The excitement in her voice aroused others in the proa and the canvas fell away, revealing blinking eyes and haggard faces. “Former” Tagranesi on the other boats began to stir as well, and Chinakru was moving around his boat, alerting others.
The battered submarine didn’t look much like her old self anymore; most of the superstructure atop her pressure hull was twisted or gone. She resembled a wallowing, listing, waterlogged tree trunk that had been chewed on by a super lizard, but enough of her distinctive characteristics remained to identify her. The four-inch-fifty gun still stood, supported by the naked, reinforced structure beneath it that had once been concealed by the foredeck. The straight up and down bow was unmistakable, and though both were now fully extended, the aft periscope was decidedly bent near the top. Of course, the filthy, bloodstained men and ’Cats clinging to the remains of the shattered conn tower removed any possible doubt.
“Ess nineteen!” shrieked Captain Lelaa, trying to make her cracking voice heard over the two rumbling diesels as the sub slowed to a stop nearby.
“Ahoy there!” came an answering, almost unbelieving cry through a speaking trumpet. “Captain Lelaa? Is that really you? Who the devil are all those . . . creatures?”
Princess Rebecca stood unsteadily, supported by Lawrence—who was in turn supported by Abel.
“They are Lawrence’s people,” Rebecca managed to cry. “Would you happen to have any water to spare?”
Sandra looked at Dennis, a grin further splitting her dry lips. “Your gun is empty anyway, Mr. Silva, and your gunpowder is all wet!”
“A good thing too,” Silva replied, strength seeming to surge back into his limbs as he stared at the battered wreck before him. Clearly, the old submarine had been through hell. He couldn’t wait to hear her story. “I bet one shot would’ve finished her.”
Petey squirmed out from under the heaped canvas and sluggishly hopped to the bulwark beside Rebecca, where he goggled at the submarine. “Eat?” he moaned plaintively.
EPILOGUE
Baalkpan
Alan Letts, chief of staff to Adar—the High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and chairman of the Grand Alliance—bounced the burbling infant in his arms. Across from him on a similar, decidedly human-style chair, Adar himself lounged awkwardly, but as comfortably as he could. They were in the “living room” of Alan’s new “house,” provided by the “grateful people of Baalkpan.” Alan and his wife, Karen, had both refused the gift as originally presented, but Adar assured them that homes such as theirs would eventually be available to all “mated” officers. There was already a bachelor officers’ quarters and numerous barracks for the single enlisted soldiers, sailors, and Marines. The small female bachelor officers’ quarters, or “fem-box” as it was called, had been around ever since the human females spent their first night ashore. Now there’d be quarters for married officers, according to Adar. Something like “base housing.”
Alan wasn’t sure that was the original plan, and frankly doubted it would be the case if he and Karen hadn’t raised a stink. He was pretty sure the initial idea arose because Adar wanted his chief of staff and his family—particularly young Allison Verdia—to have a suitable roof over their heads. The home was relatively modest—by an admiral’s standards—and would have been “suitable” for a very extended Lemurian family, but Adar had hinted more than once that Alan and Karen should quickly add to their brood. Alan wondered how Adar would cope with the anticipated flood of mated officers once the “liberated” women of Respite began to arrive—and, of course, there were already plenty of mated Lemurian officers, though most had homes of their own.
A lot would depend on how the fragile new “financial system” they’d created held up. The Alliance was now officially on the “gold standard,” and the transition from the age-old barter system was moving in fits and starts. Gold was recognized as “pretty” by the aesthetic Lemurians, but with the possible exception of the Maa-ni-los, few ’Cats recognized the metal as possessing any intrinsic value, particularly when compared to iron. Gold was easy to form and didn’t corrode, but it made poor tools and weapons. Alan explained that besides its value as a “pretty,” decorative, metal, gold could be used as a symbol to represent the relative value of goods and services that Lemurians had always kept up with by means of a complex system of tabulated obligations. Gold would eliminate the need for that—once they calculated a baseline for what a given quantity of gold should be worth. Adar complained that “anybody” could just go out and “find” gold, but Alan countered that simply finding the stuff required labor too, and maybe that time and effort might be used to establish a “baseline” of sorts.
It was all very complicated, and Letts was no economist. His experience as a Navy supply officer actually had more in common with the old Lemurian system. He’d always relied on sometimes complex and overlapping commitments and favors to get what he needed for the ship before their “old” war with the Japanese began, but that experience had also reinforced his firm commitment to the capitalist system. He’d been lazy then, because he was good
at his job and hadn’t had to work very hard. Besides, there’d been an all-pervading “what’s the point?” attitude in the Asiatic Fleet. Still, with his family’s farming roots, he knew that the harder you worked, the more you should make, and the more you made, the more people you could hire to help you make more. He devoutly despised the socialist systems in Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union, and like most of his human destroyermen comrades, didn’t see much distinction between the two. Both were brutal totalitarian regimes, and he blamed the socialist-leaning American “progressives” for his own country’s utter unpreparedness for war. He knew something had to be done, and gold was the simplest, most obvious answer.
The likely inclusion of the Empire of the New Britain Isles in the Grand Alliance reinforced that conclusion, since gold and silver were their only currency. There’d be “growing pains” and a lot of confusion at first, but at least those with property and goods wouldn’t “lose” anything, and services would have immediate value. The value was yet to be determined, but Alan had faith that the free market would quickly establish that on its own. A lot of “debt” would have to be forgiven at first, since the war effort had required much of everyone without anyone being paid, but at least the “government” would start with a surplus. It would retain ownership of all community industry created for, and essential to, the war effort. That meant Adar would still control those industries over which he’d placed the various ministers, at least until they were sold to budding “industrialists.” Needless to say, all military assets already complete, the ships, ordnance, fortifications, dry dock, etc., as well as Amagi’s steel, would remain the property of the Allied powers and the US Navy.
“I never tire of looking at your delightful youngling!” Adar practically gushed, leaning forward to stare at the squirming, cooing creature. They’d already kicked around a few more of Adar’s concerns about the economic revolution, and they’d settled into a simple, friendly visit. Adar stopped by several times a week now, mostly for that very purpose, and Alan suspected the chairman needed the break. Adar’s own residence was within the Great Hall itself, so he was never truly off duty even at home.
“Neither do I,” Letts confessed, “but the . . . smell gets old. Ah . . . Karen?” he said, raising his voice.
Karen Theimer Letts swept into the room and snatched the child away. “There’s no law that says you can’t change a diaper now and then,” she scolded.
“I do!” Alan replied in his defense, “but I can’t do it here, in front of the Chairman!”
Karen harrumphed, but Adar saw a smile on her face as she retreated from the room.
Letts sighed, his eyes following the pair. “You know,” he said softly, “in spite of everything, these last few months have been the happiest of my whole life.”
“All the more reason why I do not understand this request of yours,” Adar said, just as quietly. They were resuming a conversation that wasn’t for Karen to hear . . . yet. “I do not know how I would ever manage without you. If you join First Fleet now, all we have accomplished, all we have set in motion, might be undone.”
“We’ve already been over this,” Letts insisted. “I’m not ‘essential’ here anymore. Brister, Riggs, or even Sandison has a better handle on this economic stuff than I do, and with their greater combat experience, they’ll be better advisors on defense. My staff can easily take up the logistical slack around here.” He paused. “Besides, you read General Alden’s report. Logistics on the sharp end is a mess. They do need me in the fleet, and . . . damn it, I’ve been on the sidelines almost from the start! It isn’t right and it’s not fair!”
“Fair? To whom?” Adar almost snapped. “Fair to you?”
“No! It’s not fair to all the guys who’ve been putting their lives on the line while I sit here, nice and comfortable, with a wife I love and a kid I adore! It’s eating me alive! I’ve done some good work here,” Alan admitted. “I’m not complaining about my job. It’s just . . . It’s time for me to ‘pitch in,’ to ‘do my part.’ ” He rubbed his eyes. “We don’t know what’s going on in the east yet. Captain Reddy’s helped the Imperials win a battle, but that’s all we really know. What’s next? There’s a real mess out there, and we may have a whole other war on our hands! In the meantime, General Alden and Admiral Keje are building for their push against Ceylon!”
“All the more reason you should remain here!” Adar argued. “Coordinating logistics for two possible fronts should be at least twice as difficult!”
Letts shook his head. “There’s nothing we can do for Captain Reddy; any help he gets will have to come directly from Saan-Kakja, not through here—and Saan-Kakja’s got problems of her own, after that damn volcano went off. That’s going to make it even harder on First Fleet, because who knows when we’ll get the promised reinforcements?” He shrugged. “That might sort itself out over time, as the Fil-pin Lands get over their current emergency. If we get sucked into a full-blown war in the east, it’s liable to be a Navy show for the most part, at least for a while. Saan-Kakja is better situated to support that. The war in the west is about to become increasingly land-oriented, though, and that’s where I need to be! We can’t afford another logistical fiasco like the one at Rangoon. We can’t afford the lives it might cost.”
Alan let that sink in for a moment before he continued. “Ceylon will be the biggest stunt we’ve ever pulled, maybe bigger than Baalkpan. Surely our biggest offensive to date. If, God forbid, it all falls in the pot and I’m not there, how will I live with myself?” He gestured in the direction Karen had taken Allison. “How will I look Them in the eye, when I might have made a difference?”
Adar shifted in his chair, but said nothing. After a while, he steepled his hands, elbows on his knees, and stared long and hard at Alan with his large, penetrating eyes. “I will consider it,” he whispered at last. “In the meantime, please do concentrate on helping get Aracca out of the dry dock.” He chuckled, in his Lemurian way. “Major Mallory pesters me constantly about putting Saanta Caat-alinaa in there to retrieve the rest of his toys from her hold. He fears she will sink beside the dock! Moving his great, heavy boxes to the still incomplete ‘airstrip,’ is proving quite a chore as well!”
USS WALKER—Scapa Flow
“It’s official, Skipper,” Ed Palmer said, handing over a sheet of the yellowish Imperial paper. It was a report via Government House forwarded straight to Matt. “Two Imperial frigates tried to enter the harbor at New Dublin and take possession of the Dom ships that escaped the battle and wound up there. The frigates were fired on by the forts! There was no damage, and they lit out, but New Ireland’s either been occupied by the Doms—or they’ve thrown their hat in the ring with ’em.”
Matt had been leaning on the rail by the signal lockers behind the pilothouse, surrounded by Bradford, Spanky, Chack, and the Bosun. All were staring aft at the repairs underway. Sparks jetted from torches, and lines and hoses littered the deck. Almost all the hull damage was on the starboard side, and scaffolds had been rigged to straighten plates and rerivet seams near the waterline. When that work was finished, they’d turn the ship and continue upward from the safety of the dock. (Even if the local variety of flashies weren’t as big, or apparently as insatiable, as those within the Malay Barrier, they were still damned dangerous, and there’d been a lot more in the neighborhood since the battle.)
They had all the help they needed. Walker had actually been given priority over the Imperial ships in the yard, but she had plenty of hands with the arrival of Simms, and local technicians and specialists were better employed fixing Imperial damage. Some of the female yard workers still tried to do anything they could. They wanted to help. Chief Bashear finally told them to get scrapers, chippers, and brushes and turned them loose with paint cans. The portside had barely been touched, since TaciTus had absorbed most of the shot fired from that direction. They could paint there until the starboard side was ready.
Spanky was a hero—again. He’d fought Walker brillia
ntly after power was restored, and through speed and maneuver he’d savaged most of the Dom ships that Tacitus and Euripides had protected Walker from—then worked tirelessly to save them in turn. Matt finally forced him to accept that he was Walker’s de facto exec. Either Tabby could handle engineering or she couldn’t. Which would it be? Reluctantly, Spanky admitted she was “better than most” engineering officers he’d known, and if he “helped her out” now and then, she could probably “manage.”
The new Nancy had been assembled and lowered over the side to keep it safe and out of the way, but Reynolds was in no shape to fly it. He was banged up and needed a rest, but his worst injury was mental. He blamed himself for Kari-Faask’s critical condition, and even if she lived, Matt wasn’t sure the young flier would bounce back. Maybe he should talk to him. He knew all too well how it felt when someone died because he’d made a mistake. Ultimately, he would order the kid to fly if he had to—they needed recon now more than ever—but it was important for Reynolds to snap out of it on his own . . . if he could.
Matt took the sheet from Palmer and looked it over before passing it to Spanky. “Stupid,” he said.
“Yes, sir,” Palmer agreed. Everyone was mentally and physically exhausted from the labor of repairing the ship. The services for Frankie, Miami, and nearly thirty ’Cat sailors and Marines had left them emotionally drained as well. Sensing the dark mood that prevailed, Palmer quietly left the bridge.
“So what’s the deal, Courtney?” Matt asked. Almost a week had passed since the battle, and Bradford had spent most of the time sequestered with the Governor-Emperor and Sean “O’Casey” Bates. Gerald McDonald was much improved, almost magically so, and Selass had decided not to remove his leg. He would limp forever, but he would walk—and live. Even as the man’s health improved, his rage toward the Dominion became more acute. “Has anybody found Don Hernan yet?”
Rising Tides: Destroyermen Page 49
