Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  CHAPTER 1

  //////Late March, 1943

  An oppressive smoky haze from the epic battle and resultant, seemingly endless funeral pyres clung to the savaged city and the wide expanse of Baalkpan Bay. Almost three weeks after the Grik invaders churned themselves to offal against Baalkpan’s defenses, the smoke and sod-Aden smell of wet, burnt wood still lingered like a sad, ethereal shroud. Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the “Amer-i-caan” Clan, and Supreme Commander of all the combined Allied forces, surveyed the somber scene from Donaghey’s hastily repaired quarterdeck as the battered frigate tacked on light, humid, northerly airs toward the mouth of the bay. The water remained choked with the shattered remains of the Grik fleet, causing a real menace to navigation. Occasionally, Donaghey thumped and shivered when she struck some piece of floating wreckage and it clunked and shuddered down her side as she passed. It was the first time Matt had returned to the water since that terrible night when the Battle of Baalkpan achieved its cataclysmic peak. Much of the flashing intensity and grief he’d felt had slowly begun to ebb, but the brief interval and the dreary day conspired to reinforce his gloomy mood.

  By any objective measure, the battle had resulted in a momentous victory for the Allies, but it came at a terrible cost. The mighty Japanese battle cruiser Amagi had accompanied the Grik host, and her shells had shredded the remaining Lemurian ships in the bay and pounded the carefully prepared fortifications to matchsticks and heaps of earth. Lemurian losses had been horrifying, and both precious, aged American destroyers—survivors of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet that had been swept by a mysterious squall from one war (and world) smack into the middle of another—had ultimately been sunk in the battle. Mahan (DD-102) was a total loss, having virtually disintegrated herself by ramming the Japanese ship with a load of depth charges set to explode. That blow to Amagi had probably been mortal, in retrospect, but she’d still been under way and apparently on the verge of escape. She was finally destroyed by the combination of a lucky, forgotten mine, and the dogged determination of battered Walker (DD- 163) and her crew, who fought to their final shell despite their own damage and casualties.

  USS Walker was more fortunate than her sister. She’d managed to crawl back to the shipyard before succumbing to her grievous wounds, and even now, an effort was under way to refloat her. Amagi lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure protruding from the water as a constant, grim reminder of that terrible day and night.

  Matt himself commanded Donaghey for this brief sortie, and it was a slightly awkward situation. He was familiar with Donaghey’s historical design, but knew little about actually operating a square-rigged ship. Her assigned captain, Greg Garrett—Matt’s former gunnery officer—had become quite a sailor, but he was still recovering from serious wounds. Russ Chapelle, a former Mahan torpedoman, had learned quite a bit, however. He’d been the ship’s master gunner and was elevated to “salig maa-stir” (sailing master), or executive officer, after Donaghey’s own Lemurian exec was killed. Garrett would get his old ship back, or a newer one, when he recovered, but for now, Russ was creditably taking up the slack.

  Matt knew Garrett chafed at his inactivity, but his wounds were severe, and Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker insisted he heal completely before exerting himself. All Sandra’s patients were important to her, but Greg was human, and humans were an increasingly rare species. The titanic struggle—seemingly destined to encompass the entire locally known world—had already claimed many of the mere handful of humans actively engaged in aiding what was clearly the side of right. No one knew how many Japanese sailors the Grik had saved from Amagi, but even if the Grik hadn’t eaten them they were, of course, not friends.

  According to the charts they’d captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings, the Grik could replace their losses in a shockingly short time. They bred like rabbits and Courtney Bradford theorized that their young reached mature lethality within three to five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival—not to mention victory—they needed all the skills and experience of every last destroyerman. Their window of opportunity would be fleeting and there weren’t nearly enough hands and minds for all the work that lay ahead. Matt found it ironic that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who’d wound up here—men once considered the dregs of the Navy by some—were now the indispensable core of innovators: the trainers of the native force they’d need to see them through.

  Great work had already been accomplished. They’d begun an industrial revolution of sorts, transforming the nomadic, insular, isolationist Lemurians—people who still reminded many destroyermen of a cross between cats and monkeys—into seasoned professional soldiers and sailors—but those ranks of professionals had been cruelly thinned. Recruitment was constant and Captain Reddy had secured important alliances that would supply the raw material to rebuild their forces, but it would take time to train and equip them, and in spite of their great victory, the war had just begun. The combined human survivors of Walker, Mahan, and S-19 now numbered just over a hundred souls—constituting the known (friendly) human population of this new world—unless somehow, they could befriend the “visitors” who’d appeared that morning beyond the mouth of the bay.

  Matt didn’t know if their visitors could or would help them, but as much as they needed more friends, they certainly didn’t want more enemies. According to Chief Gray, the last meeting between Allied forces and the ships lingering in the strait had been . . . strained. That was one reason Matt wanted Donaghey for this meeting. She was the only “home-built” U.S. Navy ship yet made seaworthy again and, scarred as she was, she was the only ship available that should be a match for one of the visitors’ powerful steam frigates. Of Donaghey’s two sisters, they’d try to salvage Kas-Ra-Ar’s guns, but the ship was gone forever. Tolson had also very nearly sunk. She’d require much more yard time before she was ready for sea. Several of the massive aircraft carrier-size, seagoing Lemurian Homes had returned after the battle, but impressive as they were, they were too slow to join the delegation. That didn’t mean Donaghey was approaching the mouth of the bay alone.

  Nearly two dozen “prize” ships were taken in serviceable condition after the battle. It would have seemed a great accomplishment, and it was—that they’d been alive to take them. Nevertheless, they’d been the only repairable ships of almost three hundred similar ones—virtual copies of the venerable British East Indiamen their lines were stolen from two centuries before—that had attacked Baalkpan packed with as many as one hundred and fifty thousand Grik warriors. No one would ever know for certain how many there’d actually been. Some of the terrifying, semireptilian Grik had escaped at the end, and many thousands died in the sprawling land battle that had surrounded the city. Far more met their fate in the sea, and the water of the bay had churned for days as the voracious flasher fish fed upon the dead.

  Four of those ships now sailed with Donaghey, quickly armed with a few cannons each, their once red hulls repainted black with a white stripe between their gunports, according to Matt’s new Navy regulations. They’d been cleaned as well as possible and their crews were glad to have them, but they’d never forget who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners would taint the ships forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed.

  Matt leaned on the windward taffrail, still gouged and splintered from battle, and focused his intense green eyes on the squadron of strange ships anchored outside the bay—just beyond the reach of the grim-faced gunners serving the heavy cannon of Fort Atkinson. They did look formidable. All were warships, with three masts and sleek-looking hulls. Large half-moon boxes for their paddle wheels and tall, smoke-streaming funnels marred their pleasing lines, but lent a determined, businesslike aspect to their appearance. Matt was impressed by their sophistication. The Empire hadn’t quite caught up with the “modern world” the destroyermen had lost, but, in some ways at least, it h
ad advanced to within a generation or two.

  The banners streaming above Fort Atkinson caught his attention momentarily: the Stainless Banner of the Trees, Rolak’s Aryaalan flag, the gold pennant the Sularans had adopted for their own—and the Stars and Stripes, of course,fluttered from separate poles above the reinforced fortification. The sight of that last flag, and the fact that it still flew after all they’d been through, couldn’t help but stir his soul.

  Among the sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships or “Homes” were like nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed co-equal status as “High Chiefs” among their peers. Before the war, those Homes often had clan devices or representative colors, but they hadn’t used flags. As “chief” of Walker, regardless of her comparative tiny size, Captain Reddy had been afforded the same status as High Chief of the American Clan. With the coming of the war and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. An alliance started to take shape that included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had been the first leader by default, since his “nation” hosted the other chiefs and, for a time, was the seat of all industry. The city on the southern coast of Borno was also where the first truly decisive engagement had been fought. With Nakja-Mur’s death, the leadership of Baalkpan fell to Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa , or Big Sal, as the Americans called her. She’d been the first seagoing Home of the Lemurian People to make contact with the Americans.

  Amazingly, considering the disparate cultures, a true alliance began to form. Not one merely of expedience, but one designed to unite all willing Lemurians. Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa’s High Chief, had been the first Lemurian to understand the significance and unifying power of flags. He’d directed the creation of the Banner of the Trees, and an infant political union began to take shape.

  The stainless Banner of the Trees was composed of a circle of golden tree symbols, one for each Allied Home, surrounding a simple blue star representing the Americans. The star was in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that the Americans had been the organizing force, the glue holding everything together during those early, terrible times. Also, unlike the trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than a city-state, personified by a single ship or place. The precedent for that had been set when it became apparent that Captain Reddy was High Chief over both Walker and Mahan, something difficult for the ’Cats to understand at first, but clearly true. Matt was also acclaimed commander of the first Allied Expeditionary Force and later, all Allied forces. Thus it didn’t seem wrong that even though Mahan was on the bottom of the sea and Walker might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag.

  Besides, the United States Navy wasn’t dead.

  Just as Matt once gave Nakja-Mur a ship he’d captured early in the war so Baalkpan might be represented at sea, so had the bulk of the prizes taken after the Battle of Baalkpan been given, without reservation, to the United States Navy—a navy represented only by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy and his surviving crews. Every Lemurian who joined that crew became a member of the United States Navy and swore to defend a vaguely understood “constitution” against all enemies. Captain Reddy had insisted on that. Therefore, wherever they came from, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a Navy man and a member of the Amer-i-caan Clan for as long as they kept that oath and followed the Americans’ strict rules.

  Nothing like those rules, or “regulations” as they were called, had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. The People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, but otherwise, they did as they pleased. No Lemurian leader ever imagined many of their people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. The thing was, though the rules were strict, the protections against abuse of power inherent in those rules were equally strict. To their surprise, far more volunteered for the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee” than for the planned Combined Navy of the Alliance, to be composed of the rest of the prizes and new construction.

  Certainly, prestige was a factor, but results were convincing as well. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals who watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like, and it soon became clear the Combined Navy was a nonstarter. For better or worse, the entire Navy—minus the Homes, of course—became Matt’s clan, and above every United States ship flew the Stars and Stripes.

  That morning, nosing through the last of the debris in the mouth of the bay, everyone crewing Donaghey and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled—and proud—as well.

  Raising his binoculars, he focused them on the strange ships they’d sortied to meet. Their guns weren’t run out and they were at a distinct disadvantage while anchored, but the men he saw upon their decks appeared tensely vigilant.

  “It will be Captain Jenks, I shouldn’t wonder,” came a small voice. It sounded almost embarrassed.

  Captain Reddy glanced at the tiny form beside him. Large jade eyes regarded him with something akin to trepidation, and long, carefully groomed golden locks framed her elflike face. Gone was the tattered waif they’d rescued from Talaud Island, south of Mindanao, with a handful of other civilians and a few S-boat submariners. In her place was this well-dressed, almost regal . . . child . . . possessed of a near adult maturity and resolve. Despite her size and age, her bearing—and presence—made it easy to believe Rebecca Anne McDonald was, well, a princess of sorts. As it turned out, she was the daughter of the governor-emperor of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and that explained quite a lot that had mystified them before: such as why an entire squadron of warships would search so long and hard for her in a region they hadn’t visited in over two hundred years.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Matt echoed as amiably as possible, despite his mood and the uncertain situation. The girl had been convinced that Jenks and his squadron would come to their aid. For them to arrive now, so soon after the battle they had to have known was brewing, and behave so . . . distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. “Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he . . . met . . . at Tarakan.”

  “Yep,” Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray replied neutrally. “Biggest one’s Achilles. If Jenks ever named the others, I don’t remember. There were four of ’em, though.”

  Gray was a gruff, powerful man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station but had since trimmed down and muscled back up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on the activity and adventures they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d also appointed himself Matt’s senior armsman and commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty—knowing the man they’d sworn to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like Juan Marcos, the little Filipino who’d appointed himself captain’s steward, their job had just . . . evolved. Unlike Juan’s rank, the Captain’s Guard had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Keje had even proposed that they make their oath to Adar, who, as chairman or prime minister or whatever he was of the Alliance, was technically the only chief to whom Matt answered. Maybe by his command, they could use the Captain’s Guard to keep their Supreme Commander out of harm’s way.

  Gray refused. He said he’d keep the job he’d already given himself, but he’d sworn an oath when he entered the Navy. That was good enough. Now that his job was official though, he could choose the very best from two battle-hardened and increasingly elite forces: the 1st and 2nd Marines. With the exception of four human destroyermen, the rest of the Captain’s Guard were Lemurian Marines.

  “What type of signals do your people use?” Matt asked Sean O’Casey who’d joined them by the rail. The powerful, one-arme
d, dark-skinned man with flowing mustaches had been the girl’s companion and protector when the equally lost crew of the U.S. submarine

  S-19 had taken them from an open boat. The old S-boat had been dragged to this world the same way Walker was: through the mysterious Squall. Out of fuel and with nowhere to go, the sub ultimately wound up on a Talaud Island beach. All the sub’s passengers were safe—twenty children of diplomats and industrialists, evacuated from Surabaya with four nannies and a nun to care for them—but half its crew had perished in the year before their rescue.

  He, and ultimately the girl, had become fonts of information about the Empire, represented by the visiting ships, although both still hedged when asked its exact location. It had been ingrained in them that only secrecy kept their homeland safe, and a lifetime of indoctrination to that effect was hard to overcome. The destroyermen and their allies had learned much about the political situation there, however, and what they knew might prove problematic. O’Casey had actually been evading its authorities because of his participation in a rebellion of sorts, not against the legitimate rulers, but against the Company—the Honorable New Britain Company—that increasingly subverted them.

  “Flags, guns, lights, rockets . . . much as ye, it seems, but the meanings are doubtless different.”

  “What signal for a truce, a parlay?”

  “A white flag.”

  “Some things never change, I suppose. Very well.” Matt addressed Chapelle. “Have a white flag run up. The crew will remain at General Quarters.”

  The ships slowly approached the intruder’s squadron until they were close enough to lower one of the surviving motor launches. Matt recognized it as the Scott—named for his lost coxswain—as he climbed down into it. Scott had been a true hero, but after the Squall, he’d become terrified of the water—understandable, considering the horrible creatures that dwelt in it here—but he’d been killed on land, by a “super lizard.” It had been a terrible, ironic loss.