Into the Storm d-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Matt remembered the skull. “What happened to the Tail-less One?” he demanded. Chack gestured as if it was obvious, and Matt nodded sharply. “You said you know him. Who is he?”

  Chack almost seemed to sigh. “His name is Saak-Fas. Daughter-Mate of Keje-Fris-Ar.”

  Tony Scott and Tamatsu Shinya found Gray resting in the gloom near the ship’s wildly spinning wheel. He was breathing hard and futilely wiping at the salt that stung his eyes. The coxswain had a cut on his shoulder that left a bloody scrap of sleeve flapping in the wind, and his lower lip was split and swollen. He still had no helmet, but he’d tied a rag around his head to keep the hair out of his eyes. The Thompson was lovingly slung over his undamaged shoulder.

  “Cambin’s commimenpfs, Cheeb,” Scott said, trying to talk around his busted lip. “How are eberations goin’ ’or da tow?”

  Gray groaned as he rose to his feet. “We’re under tow, you nitwit. Have been for the last fifteen minutes. I was about to report to the captain myself when you interrupted me!”

  Scott nodded. “’Innat cay, cambin wans you ter sounderwell.”

  Gray looked at him in the near-darkness. The ship rode much easier now that Walker was towing her and she no longer rolled beam-on to the swells.

  “What the hell’s a sounderwell?” he demanded.

  “Sound-the-well!” Scott painfully repeated. “Vinally got da las o’ dat verbin cleared out o’ da hold an’ da cambin wants to know if she’ll f-f-vloat. I’ll go vif you.”

  Gray nodded. “Right. I’ll report to the captain first, though. What’s he doin’, anyway? I figgered he’d of been up here by now.”

  “Lookin’ at fings. Charts an’ stuvv… an’ udder fings. There’s

  … awful fings down dere.”

  Gray turned for the stairs.

  “Chief Boatswain’s Mate Gray,” said Shinya. “May I have a brief word?”

  Gray’s face darkened, but he jerked a nod.

  “I know you don’t like me, but you saved my life today, when the corvus parted. I would like to thank you.”

  Gray shrugged. “There was guys behind you. I had to get your Nip ass out of the way.” He turned to follow Scott, but stopped again. “You got any kids?” he asked. Tamatsu was taken aback.

  “No.”

  “I did. A boy. Close to thirty, now. Took after his old man-’cept he was a snipe. Machinist’s mate. I hadn’t seen him in four years, but I was proud of him. He was my son, you know?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “They never found his body, so officially he was missing. But he was in Oklahoma’s fireroom when she rolled over. At Pearl Harbor. So don’t you dare thank me for saving your worthless ass! It makes me sick! I was just pitching you out of the way.” With that, he stormed down the ladder.

  “Yes,” Shinya said to himself, “but it would have been easier to ‘pitch’ me into the sea instead of on the deck.”

  “Well, we did what we set out to do,” Matt said grimly. “We’ve learned about the enemy.” He, Sandra, Garrett, Shinya, and Alden sat around the Grik captain’s desk poring over the tablets and charts they’d found. Walker towed the derelict charnel house in a wide, lazy circle across the Makassar Strait, into the Java Sea. That would keep them off the islands and shoals through the long night and bring them to Big Sal and their friends by morning. The sea was moderating, and Gray reported they’d float as long as the rhythmic clunk-thump of the chain pumps was maintained.

  His report was uncustomarily subdued after he returned from inspecting the hull. It sustained little battle damage, but seams had opened while she wallowed in the heavy seas and water was coming in. That wasn’t what bothered him about his tour of the well, though. All of them would be haunted by the things they’d seen and survived that day, and by what they’d come to know about the nature of their enemy.

  “They’re worse than Japs, sir!” said Alden with conviction mixed with quiet horror. The exhausted Marine belatedly glanced at Shinya, who bristled at the slightest comparison. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Hell, they’re worse than anything!”

  Captain Reddy had in fact been idly searching his memory for any culture in human history to compare with the Grik. So far, his tired mind wouldn’t oblige. He rubbed his eyes and watched Shinya visibly relax. “Anything,” he repeated dully. “I think you’re right.”

  It had been a long, bloody day. Eighteen Lemurian Marines were killed and almost that many wounded. Most of his destroyermen were lightly injured as well, although only Norman Kutas suffered a serious wound. That was when Scurrey dropped his cutlass down a companionway and nailed his foot to the deck. Miraculously, it missed the bones, but Kutas was off his feet for a while. Aside from the quartermaster’s mate’s pain, it might even have been funny under other circumstances-but nothing was funny now.

  They had one of the Grik charts spread before them on the desk. Matt thought how horrified Adar would be to learn that the Grik had “Scrolls.” They were looking at an overview of the western Indian Ocean, Madagascar, and East Africa up to the equator and south to latitude 30. The eastern boundary of the map was the 80th parallel. The quality of the representations was poor-about on a par with sixteenth-century maps he’d seen in history books, but they, along with the printed information, were more than adequate for rudimentary navigation. The most startling and terrible thing about the charts, however, was that he could read them.

  Most of the writing, and anything added by hand, was incomprehensible and resembled a slashing form of Arabic. But many of the place-names and nautical references used recognizable letters forming English words. All the numbers were familiar too. Obviously, the Grik got much more out of their British teachers than the Lemurians did. From what they’d seen that day, Matt imagined the Grik had certainly been more persuasive.

  “Madagascar,” Matt said at last. “I bet old Bradford’s right about that being the original home of the ’Cats.” Sandra peered at the island.

  “Probably. It’s been well within the Grik empire for a long, long time. In fact, every landmass shown seems to be part of their territory.” Garrett glanced at Matt with a worried frown.

  “They’ve got a lot of weight behind them, that’s for sure. Way more than us.”

  Matt looked at Alden. “Anything from the tablets yet?”

  Pete shook his head. He’d been skimming the roughly twelve-by-twelve-inch booklets while the others studied the charts. They were filled, mostly, with pen-and-ink illustrations. “Captain Grik was a pretty good drawer, or his clerk was. Mostly animals, bugs, places, and such. Must’ve been a naturalist like Bradford, in a perverted, lizard sort of way.” Matt nodded absently and motioned Shinya to bring another chart. He unrolled it carefully and placed his cutlass on one end and a couple of. 45s on the other.

  At a glance, this one seemed most pertinent, at least in the short term. Even cruder than the others, it was less like a navigational chart than a map of enemy territory. It extended from the mouth of the Ganges River southward to include the Cocos Islands. From there, west to Timor, then back to Formosa. All French Indochina and the Dutch East Indies showed varying detail. The farther east, the vaguer the shapes of landmasses became. The Philippines weren’t shown at all.

  Matt leaned over the desk, trying to see better by the light of the swaying lanterns. He was painfully reminded he’d discovered unknown muscles that day.

  “Skipper, look at this!” exclaimed Alden. He held a tablet close to his face to see in the dim light. Reversing it, he displayed the page. Sandra cried out and sprang to her feet. Matt managed only a short bark of incredulous laughter. There, on the yellowish paper, was a highly stylized but clearly recognizable drawing of USS Walker, down to the “163” on her bow.

  “Son of a bitch!” Alden breathed. “This must be the one that got away!”

  “Maybe,” murmured Matt, “but does that make it the same one in company with the other two we destroyed? Why was it with two more so fast-if it’s the
same? I wonder how many others it came in contact with.”

  “Quite a few,” said Sandra, leaning back over the chart. Her voice was brittle. “Look. Many of these coastlines have been updated or redrawn periodically, like survey corrections. Also, see this dark splotch here?” She pointed at a spot on the map. “I’m no navigator, but that’s almost the exact place we came to Salissa’s assistance.”

  Garrett squinted. “Looks like… blood, Captain. And look! Next to it there’s a little drawing of us! Just a thick line with four small lines sticking up, but I bet that’s supposed to be Walker.”

  Shinya nodded. “It does look like blood. Possibly representing a place of battle? If that’s the case, you may note there are many such spots on this map.”

  “There’s one at Tjilatjap,” Sandra confirmed. “Mr. Shinya may be right. There’s dozens of ‘spots.’ If they denote battles, and the picture of Walker seems to confirm that, this ship couldn’t have engaged in them all, or surveyed all these coastlines alone.”

  “That means they communicate among themselves, even from one task force to the next.” Garrett’s brow was creased with concern. “That means…”

  “Right.” Matt finished for him. “This may not be the one that got away. They might all know about Walker.”

  There was a contemplative, nervous silence as they considered the implications.

  “Okay,” said Matt, pointing back at the chart. “Battle here, battle here, battle here-each battle mark is accompanied by this thing that looks like a tree. Maybe that’s their symbol for the ’cats.” His finger traced the coast of Borneo. “Nothing at Baalkpan, so maybe they don’t know about Nakja-Mur’s People yet.”

  “There is such a symbol at Surabaya,” Shinya pointed out, “although no battle mark.”

  “I bet it won’t be long,” Alden growled. “I wonder what these little triangle symbols mean.”

  Matt felt a chill, despite the dank, oppressive warmth of the cabin. “I bet those are Grik ships. And the circles around them represent their areas of operation. See? There’re three in the Makassar Strait.”

  “Not anymore,” Alden quipped.

  “They’re everywhere, then,” Sandra murmured, her voice quiet with despair. “There must be a dozen triangles in the Java Sea alone. And all those other charts we’ve looked at-there’re scores of triangles on them!”

  “My God,” muttered Garrett.

  Alden was idly tracing the procession of battle marks up the coast of Java and Sumatra. Suddenly he stiffened. “Look,” he said, his finger beside a brownish stain near the Banjak Islands. There was another thick line, but with only three smaller lines sticking out. With a rush of realization, Matt remembered a funnel that fell across a davit.

  “Mahan,” he breathed.

  The storm dwindled to nothing as the night wore on, and its only remnant in the boulder-strewn approaches to the refloated Big Sal was a disorganized chop. Otherwise, the sun rose bright above Celebes and the sky was blue and cloudless. All was back to normal aboard the huge ship, fake debris was cleared away and the stores that littered the beach returned. Water still coursed over the side, and it would for some time, since so much had been required to “sink” the great vessel. That was the part of the plan Matt had been most concerned about, but Keje himself suggested it as bait for the trap. He’d assured his friend that sinking and refloating Big Sal wasn’t difficult, or even unusual. They did it all the time.

  Once a year it was deliberately done to cleanse the lower decks and “sweeten” the air. A suitable, sandy bottom in sheltered shallows was all they needed, and water was let in until Big Sal gently settled to the bottom of the sea. After a few days passed, she was pumped out and all hatches were laid open, allowing the interior to dry. This routine cleared the ship of vermin and insects, and washed away the foul smell of gri-kakka oil that seeped from barrels and grew rancid in the bilge.

  The periodic “sinkings” were times for festivities and merriment, and contests in which younglings captured and tallied vermin that escaped to the upper decks. They never got rid of them entirely, and the little ratlike creatures were fruitful if nothing else, but for a long time afterward their numbers were diminished and Big Sal’s cavernous hold smelled fresh and clean. None of her previous soakings were accompanied by as much merriment and jubilation as this one, however, particularly when Walker appeared early that morning towing the dismasted hulk over the horizon.

  Big Sal’s forward wing still wasn’t erected, but otherwise she was good as new when the great sweeps propelled her through the obstacles and into the open water to rejoin her ally. Hundreds of People crowded the shrouds and lined the catwalk to welcome Walker with thunderous roars and cheers of greeting. The great guns were loaded and fired in salute as the destroyer bore down with her prize.

  Walker responded with repeated whoops from her horn. Destroyermen, Marines, and Lemurian cadets lined her rail, as did the prize crew on the captured ship. A makeshift flagstaff had been rigged atop her shattered mainmast, and an American flag streamed to leeward above the red and black pennant of the enemy.

  For the first time since he’d seen the curious cloth, the meaning of the destroyermen’s flag, and what it could represent, was driven home to Keje. He felt a surge of pride at the sight of it, even if it wasn’t a symbol of his own People. There was also a twinge of something close to envy, and he determined then and there that one day his own People must have a flag. They had symbols aplenty that represented their clans, on the tapestries that adorned their great halls, but nothing they could look to that represented all the People everywhere. In addition to his heady dreams of the day before, it was a legacy that he thought the great uniting prophet, Siska-Ta, would surely approve of. The Americans had their flag and so did the Grik. It was time the People had one.

  To cap the magical excitement of the moment, the great flying-boat descended out of the northeastern sky, thunderous motors adding to the joyful tumult of happy people. Keje watched as it skimmed low over the waves and made a proper landing for the first time, and the grace and power of the huge, flying metal contrivance took his breath away. It was a great day!

  Walker hove to, her people returning Big Sal’s cheers. The launch went over the side and a few moments later arrived in Salissa’s lee, crowded with passengers who immediately climbed the netting lowered for them. An honor guard of excited Marines met them when the party reached the main deck, and a twitter of bone whistles simulated bosun’s pipes.

  Captain Reddy saluted aft, as he’d always done, and again Keje wished there was something to salute. Regardless, he fervently returned the gesture Matt offered him and then enclosed him in a mighty embrace.

  “We were worried about you, my Brother,” he said.

  “We were worried about us too,” Matt replied. “I never doubted the outcome of your battle.”

  Keje barked a laugh. “So certain were you? I was not! Not until the great guns spoke! It was… glorious!”

  Matt couldn’t help but catch Keje’s infectious grin, but he asked a serious question. “Was the price very high?” Keje only smiled and allowed Jarrik-Fas to answer.

  “We had no losses, lord. None! We slew the enemy with contemptuous ease! Our warriors never even drew their blades!”

  “I’m grateful for that,” Matt said, his smile fading. “We sustained… serious losses, I’m sorry to say, but the Marines and cadets fought bravely and well.”

  Keje lowered his voice in condolence. “Of course you had losses. Yours was the more difficult task and the People who were slain will find honored places awaiting them in the presence of the Maker and their ancestors!”

  “Of course.”

  “Now!” said Keje, practically rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “What have you learned?”

  Matt forced a smile, and glancing at the throng encircling them, he lowered his voice. “We have much to discuss, Keje-Fris-Ar, and unless you want to destroy the celebration, we’d better do it alone.”
<
br />   “You were right to suggest privacy.” Keje sighed, shaking his head. “The world has fallen upon me.” He sat on his favorite stool beside his simple table in Salissa’s Great Hall. Upon that table lay a Grik chart. He was revolted that the vile thing was in physical contact with the dark, warm wood. Other stools were occupied by his personal advisors, as well as Captain Reddy, Lieutenant Tucker, Lieutenant Garrett, and Sergeant Alden.

  Adar hovered over the chart, sputtering with rage and indignation. “Blasphemy!” he hissed. “Unrepentant, black blasphemy! They desecrate the Heavens by their very existence! These… counterfeit… things must be burned! Destroyed! To think they take the gift of Knowledge of the Path of Stars and do… what they do with that knowledge! It is a violation! A rape! I-” Adar was incapable of further speech.

  Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Certainly you may destroy them, Adar,” he temporized, “but first let’s learn as much from them about the enemy as we can.”

  The Sky Priest looked sharply at him, and a terrible intensity burned in his eyes. “By all means, Cap-i-taan Reddy! Study them well! Do whatever you must to destroy the makers of this abomination and the doers of these evil deeds! When you have done, then I will burn these loathsome pages and I won’t rest until I’ve helped you bring that day to pass.”

  Keje sighed. “You will lose much sleep.” He looked at Matt, and his eyes almost pleaded for some reassurance that things weren’t as bad as they appeared. Matt couldn’t encourage him. “You say these three-pointed symbols represent their ships? Possibly hundreds more of their ships?”

  “We think so. Their strategy seems clear, at long last. It’s conquest, of course, but I always wondered why, if they were such a big deal, they were just trickling in.” He sighed. “Your ancestors were right. They’re scared of the water-at least the deep water.” He pointed at the Indian Ocean on the chart. There were none of the small islands depicted. Just a large, scary-looking fish.