Jaava Sea
Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar honestly still couldn’t decide if his colossal ship’s new configuration made him ecstatic or morose. Certainly he had spells when one emotion or the other predominated. The unavoidable sight of his beloved Home from her new “bridge” constructed from the abbreviated “battlement” made him sad. Gone were Salissa’s three great pagodalike structures, the apartments of the wing clans. Gone as well were her towering tripod masts and vast “wings,” or sails. All that, almost her very identity, her soul, had been demolished in the great Battle of Baalkpan. Salissa Home, or Big Sal as his human friends called her, had been altered forever by that cataclysmic day and night. She was not dead, however, and difficult as it sometimes seemed, he still believed he sensed a soul within the pounding, vibrating body beneath his feet. Salissa now had only a small offset superstructure and four large, equally offset funnels, venting gray smoke from her eight oil-fired boilers where once the Body of Home clan and her vast polta gardens and fish-drying racks occupied her main deck. She looked like nothing Keje had ever seen before—squat, in a way, but longer somehow, even though he knew she wasn’t.
What Keje believed was still Salissa’s “soul” tasted of a different purpose now as well. She’d lost the benign, passive essence that once so mirrored the great Galla tree that had grown upward from her very keel to bask in the glory of the light let through the shutters of the Great Hall. In its place, her soul was now an avenging spirit, sustained by the pounding, steam-driven heart deep within her body. She was a thing of heat now, of passion, no longer content to move with the wind. Now she harbored an urgent anger, a drive to return to the fight and avenge her people who’d been taken from her by the Grik.
Keje considered his Home formidably enough armed, particularly if her planes were as effective as the destroyermen predicted. Dozens of the ungainly but oddly familiar “Nancys” she’d been rebuilt to accommodate were secured to her high, flat deck. Even more were stowed below, where they could be serviced and assembled and moved up to the main deck by means of ramps that dropped to accept them. Far below, in Salissa’s magazines, were bombs that would give teeth to the fragile-looking craft. The planes weren’t her only weapons. She now boasted a broadside armament of fifty 32-pounder smoothbores, twenty-five to a side, and they’d breeched and mounted a section of one of Amagi’s ten-inch naval rifles on a pivoting carriage forward, beneath the “flight deck.” They’d designed a muzzle-loading projectile for the gun with copper skirt and bearing bands, and the nearly two-hundred-pound bullet could reliably strike a target the size of a small felucca at a range of fifteen hundred tails. No “gyro” was required because the massive Home was so stable in most seas. All they needed was a good range, course, and speed estimate of the target. There were also a couple of longer-range guns aboard, fore and aft of the superstructure. These were five-and-a-half-inchers salvaged from the sunken Japanese battle cruiser. They could have installed more of Amagi’s guns, and they might still, but Matt, Spanky, and Brister had other plans for them.
That was some consolation. Salissa was back in the fight, one way or another, and though her splendor was gone, Keje had long recognized that form and function often possessed a beauty of their own. He couldn’t entirely suppress the elation he felt over the fact that his altered Home could now move in literally any direction he desired. Also, with her mighty engines throbbing at their maximum safe rpm’s, she could do so at the almost unimaginable speed of twelve knots! Before, his ship had been capable of achieving ten knots on occasion, when the sweeps were out, but the speed could be maintained only until his people were exhausted. Now Salissa could steam at “high” speed almost indefinitely. Her fuel bunkers were immense, easily large enough for her to replenish other ships. Combined with her two huge, relatively crude but extremely reliable reciprocating engines turning a single shaft, there was sufficient mechanical redundancy to make him confident that his ship could steam to any point in the known world. He’d often wondered why Walker was so utilitarian, so devoid of the decorations his people loved so much. Now he knew. Just as had now been done to his own precious Home, aesthetics had been sacrificed for capability.
Fortunately, Big Sal was still large enough for some amenities. The “battlement bridge,” which was quickly becoming simply “the bridgewings,” still sported decorative awnings to protect her officers from the sun and the occasional swirling soot. There were no cushions on the bridge, but there were stools for the watch to rest upon. Speaking tubes were clustered here and there, connecting the bridge with every part of the ship, from the “crow’s nest”—a dizzying hundred tails above the centrally located “pilothouse”—to the “ordnance strikers” stationed in the dark, gloomy magazines far below the waterline. Matt had told him that Salissa now most resembled a ship from his own world he’d called Lexington, and he insisted Salissa’s hull was probably much tougher and her aircraft nearly as capable as the ones Lex first sailed with. He’d shown Keje a picture of Lex in one of his books, and Keje had to agree the comparison was not without foundation.
Striding across the wide bridgewing, Keje reached his own favorite stool. The rest of the stools were ornately carved, but not his. His was old and creaky and somewhat battered, but he and it had been through a lot together. The faded wood was even liberally stained with his own blood. He wasn’t about to abandon it—and woe was he whom Keje ever caught sitting on it! There’d been several occasions now, enough that he suspected his new officers had begun a tradition of hazing their juniors as they rose, when “newies” had been told they had to “start out” on the ugliest stool, only to have the “aahd-mah-raal” descend upon the unlucky candidate like a roiling Strakka. Instead of being angry with his officers, he played along, pleased that they too seemed to recognize the need for many new “traditions” in this new Navy to replace some of those they’d lost.
Settling upon the protesting stool, Keje leaned on the rail before him and watched the labor far below on the forward “flight deck.”
“Aadh-mah-raal,” said Captain Atlaan-Fas, “we have received a wireless message from Lieutenant Mark Leedom, Tikker’s executive officer. He will arrive within two hours with our new medical officer, Nurse Lieutenant Kaathy McCoy. Captain Tikker has been working his flight crews very hard and begs you to allow him to fly a sortie to meet Lieutenant Leedom’s plane.”
“Outstanding,” Keje replied. “I assume that if Nurse McCoy is joining us, Nurse Theimer’s—I mean, Letts’s—youngling must be thriving.” He shook his head. “Most curious that human females change their names when they mate.”
“Not terribly curious,” Atlaan objected. “Our younglings often follow the names of their fathers.” He grinned. “It is certainly not the most significant difference between our peoples!”
Keje huffed a laugh. “No concerns for the mother?”
“Surely not, or Nurse McCoy would not be joining us.”
All Allied transmissions the evening before had been virtually dedicated to the happy news that “Allison Verdia Letts” had been born into this world at last. Congratulations were returned from the far reaches of the world, from Commodore Ellis in the Western Ocean to a late-night message from Captain Reddy in the Eastern Sea, relayed through Manila. Chairman Adar had proclaimed that this day, October 3 by the American calendar, would henceforth be “Allison Verdia Day,” in honor of the first human youngling born among the Lemurian people. May there be many more.
“Very well,” Keje replied. “It is time we tested the new launching system, at any rate. Captain Tikker may take a single flight of planes. We will have plenty of time to recover the aircraft before dark.” Keje grinned, and glanced port and starboard at the two new steam frigates pacing his Home. One was USS Kas-Ra-Ar, named for his lost cousin and the first frigate of that name destroyed during the Battle of Baalkpan. The other was USS Scott. Everyone believed that a frigate was a far better monument to the heroism of Walker’s lost coxswain than a motor launch. “You may al
so grant his request to ‘play’ with our escorts when he returns!”
“Aye, aye, Aahd-mah-raal.”
Captain Jis-Tikkar, or “Tikker” to his friends, glanced to his right, over his shoulder, to make sure the rest of the ships of “B” flight were still where they were supposed to be. He was mildly amazed to see that they were. Somehow, in the twisted way of things that seemed to have become the norm, he was Salissa’s “Commander of Flight Operations,” or “COFO,” in general, and commander of Salissa’s air wing of, eventually, forty planes, in particular. Officially, the wing was the “1st Naval Air Wing,” composed of the “1st and 2nd Naval Pursuit Squadrons,” and the “1st, 2nd, and 3rd Naval Bomb Squadrons.” Evidently, the officious, confusing, multiple names of the elements under his command were the result of a compromise between Major Ben Mallory and the Navy types that predominated. If it didn’t make much sense to him yet, he presumed that it would eventually, when other “wings” were operational.
His own lofty new status was gratifying, he supposed, but it still struck him as astounding. Granted, he’d become a good pilot and had learned he actually had a gift for teaching. He was also the most “experienced” Lemurian aviator in the entire world. But it hadn’t been that long ago when Ben Mallory had actually forbidden him to touch the controls of the battered PBY Catalina they’d finally lost in the Battle of Baalkpan. Well, he’d improved. Everyone had. This first draft of “Naval Aviators” from the growing “Army and Navy Air Corps Training Center” outside of Baalkpan was composed of raw but competent pilots. Tikker was proud of them, proud of the role he’d had in training them.
Calling the group of four aircraft he now led “ ‘B’ flight, 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron” didn’t make any sense at all, however, and Tikker wasn’t sure it ever would. He and Ben both hoped it would, eventually, but at present, each of his “Nancy” flying-boats was identical, regardless of its designation. Of course, even if some planes were ultimately specially designed to chase something down and shoot it out of the sky, as far as they knew, there was nothing else in the world’s skies for them to “pursue.” Yet. Tikker and Ben both worried that that wouldn’t always be the situation, and Ben, at least, wanted some kind of organizational structure already in place. Just in case.
Tikker was a “believer,” but he shrugged mentally. Right now he didn’t really care. He was flying, and that’s all that mattered. The “improved” Nancys, or “PB-1Bs” as Mallory preferred to call them, were showing themselves to be pretty good little airplanes. They were easy to build and maintain and the ridiculously simple power plant was reliable and powerful enough for anything they would ever need a Nancy to do. They weren’t fast (by Ben’s standards), but they were maneuverable—while being forgiving at the same time—something Ben always said was hard to achieve. Tikker had the flying bug in a big way, and if they could only invent a seat that was comfortable for a ’Cat with a tail, he would have no complaints about the planes at all.
He was also pleased that he could report that the new hydraulic catapult worked even better than anyone expected. The fundamental mechanism was simple—if leaky and extremely messy—but the means of launching aircraft without landing gear had required unexpected imagination. They’d settled on a wooden “cradle truck” that accelerated forward, supporting the fuselage of a Nancy until it reached the end of the flight deck. At that point, the truck slammed to a stop and tripped a release hook. Tikker had to admit, it scared him half to death when the machine literally flung his plane into the air in front of the ship. The acceleration was extreme, and he was amazed it didn’t break any of the planes. The contraption might need a little adjusting to take some of that initial jolt out of it, but it beat lowering the planes over the side one at a time with the big crane and then having them take off in possibly dangerous seas. They still had to land on the water, but they could then simply motor into one of the huge bays that opened in Big Sal’s sides, from which she’d once launched her gri-kakka boats. If they ever launched every plane on the ship, that wouldn’t work, but they could still hoist out the extras with the crane.
He glanced again to make sure his flight was keeping up, then spoke into the voice tube beside and a little behind his head.
“Hey, Cisco,” he called to his copilot/engineer/observer in the aft cockpit. Cisco’s real name was Siska-Kor, but like nearly everyone in the Naval Air Corps, she had a nickname now. “We’re going to gain some altitude. Send that we’ll climb to five thousand and maintain formation.”
“It will be cold up there,” came the tinny, windy reply.
“Not that cold,” Tikker assured her. He realized they were going to have to get some proper flight suits for the air crews. Right now they wore little more than the regulation Navy kilt and T-shirt, with goggles for the primary pilots. They needed goggles for everyone, but the glass industry in Baalkpan was having fits and starts and they were still using salvaged glass from Amagi. Cisco was right, though—it would be chilly. He’d never really known what cold was until he flew. He wasn’t even sure what the Nancy’s “service ceiling” was, since he’d always been too cold to reach it.
“Besides, Lieutenant Leedom is a ‘hotshot.’ A natural. Strange for a sub-maa-reener, I guess, but he’s liable to try to intercept us, and I bet he and Nurse McCoy are wearing warmer clothes!”
Slowly, the flight climbed. All the planes bobbled a little in the unruly air, but the formation held together. Tikker scanned ahead, below, above, and even behind, but the early-afternoon sun was too bright to stare in that direction for long. The west coast of Borno lay before them, but the blue-green shore would make it difficult for them to pick out Mark Leedom’s blue-painted Nancy. “No signal yet?” Tikker asked unnecessarily.
“From Leedom’s plane? No, sir,” Cisco replied.
Well, that was good, Tikker guessed. If Leedom had engine trouble, Nurse McCoy would have sent something. She didn’t know the code, but she’d been instructed to transmit a single long blast if they ran into trouble. Tikker hated the idea that anyone might ever be forced down in the unexplored jungles of Borno. The thought frightened him even more than the prospect of setting down on rough seas. “So. Wherever they are, they’re still airborne.”
“That would figure.”
“Then they’re either still ahead of us—” Tikker abruptly had to grab the stick more firmly and fight for control against a surge of sudden turbulence as a blue and white shape flashed down in front of him. For just an instant he was frightened and confused, but he already knew what had happened. “Or above and behind us!” he grated bitterly. Looking around, he saw that his flight’s formation had disintegrated like a flock of akka birds. When he looked down, he recognized what could only be Leedom’s Nancy pulling out of its steep dive and beginning to rise once more. “Send for the flight to reform on me,” he said irritably. “Now that we’ve ‘found’ Lieutenant Leedom, we’ll return to the task force and begin our other exercise.” He shook his head and allowed a grin to sweep away his annoyance. “I guess Lieutenant Leedom fancies himself a ‘pursuit’ pilot, even if all he has to pursue are his friends. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Captain Tikker, Ensign Cisco, Lieutenant Leedom, and Nurse Lieutenant McCoy appeared, as ordered, at the door to the admiral’s quarters directly below the bridge. Marine Captain Risa-Sab-At awaited them in the passageway, grinning hugely. Without a word, she knocked on the door and ushered them inside. The “admiral’s quarters” were Keje’s personal staterooms, and served the same purpose now as his larger Great Hall had once done. Many of the same intricate tapestries that had survived decorated these walls, and if the space wasn’t as expansive as before, there was still plenty of room for quite a large gathering, and the furnishings were far more decorative than any human carrier had probably ever boasted. Keje stood as they entered, along with Atlaan-Fas, Salissa’s nominal captain, and Atlaan’s executive officer, Lieutenant Newman. They were indoors, so no one saluted, but there was an unspoken exchang
e of respect.
“Welcome aboard, Lieuten-aant McCoy!” Keje said. “I have missed you. The youngling is well?”
“Very well,” Kathy replied.
“Excellent! I wish I could see it!”
Newman grinned. “Human babies aren’t nearly as cute as ’Cat babies,” he said. “They always look a little like grub-worms.”
“Nonsense!” Kathy protested. “Allison is utterly precious!”
“I’m certain of it,” Keje declared. “Please be seated, all of you.” The stools in the stateroom were all quite ornate, even Keje’s. His favorite stool having been taken permanently to the bridge, he considered it pointless to try to “replace” it here. “Nurse McCoy,” he began when all were comfortable, “I presume you are now prepared to begin your duties as chief medical officer? Excellent. I apologize for the uncomfortable necessity of flying you out to join us.”
“No apology necessary.” She glanced at Leedom. “It was quite exhilarating.”
“Yes. Well, I’d like to hear about that before we’re finished.” Keje turned to Tikker. “It would seem Mr. Leedom surprised your flight quite badly.”
“Indeed,” Tikker replied, “and that lends further credence to what Major Maallory has been saying. He has always wanted the Air Corps, Naval and otherwise, to be prepared for pursuit activities. Right now, we’re not. We’re not armed for it in any way, and we haven’t practiced pursuit tactics to any real extent. Mr. Leedom graphically demonstrated how devastating that unpreparedness might someday prove.”
“But the Grik, and even the Imperials, don’t have any airplanes!” Atlaan protested. “Practicing against threats that do not exist is dangerous and possibly wasteful of pilots and machines.”
“The Imperials don’t have airplanes yet,” Tikker conceded. “Now that they know they are possible, I bet they will someday. They are not my immediate concern, however. We have no idea what the Grik may have by now. We know they have one airplane, the observation plane that bombed Baalkpan. We know from Commander Okada that it was damaged, but we haven’t recovered it at Aryaal or Sing-aa-pore. They have taken it with them, somewhere. Even if they aren’t copying it as we speak, all they have to do is fix it, and it can sweep every plane we have from the sky. It is faster and, unlike our own planes, armed.” Tikker glanced at Leedom. “I now believe we must be prepared to meet it someday, if nothing else.”
Rising Tides Page 10
