The boilers powered several contraptions—none exactly alike, since each was virtually a handmade prototype—that chuffed along amiably enough, their twin pistons moving methodically up and down. Gouts of steam added even more humidity to the air with every revolution, but at least it was honest steam—not the useless, invisible kind the sun cooked out of the ground. The end use of each machine was a series of shafts, or in one case, a piston-pitman combination. One was a small, prototype ship’s engine they were testing for durability. The others spun large generators in crudely cast casings that supplied ship-standard 120 DC electricity to various points.
More engines were under construction that would eventually supply electrical or mechanical power to the pumps that would drain the nearby basin. The mechanical pumps were of a remarkably sophisticated Lemurian design. The electric ones were, like everything else electrical, experimental models Riggs, Letts, Rodriguez, and Brister had conjured up. If Gilbert had any money and if anyone would accept it, he’d lay every dime that the electric pumps would croak the first time they tried them.
Tabby, the gray-furred ’Cat apprentice to the two original Mice, ran lightly up behind him and playfully tagged him on the shoulder, then scampered to where Isak was standing. Hands in his pockets, Gilbert sauntered over to join them. “How they doin’?” he asked, when he was near enough to be heard over the noise.
“Fair,” Isak replied skeptically. “Fair to middlin’. They ain’t turbines,” he accused no one in particular, “but they’re engines. Least we got a real job again.”
Gilbert nodded. They’d finally trained enough ’Cat roughnecks to take their places in the oilfields, both near Baalkpan and on Tarakan Island. The relief was palpable to them both. They hated the oilfields. Their time in the oilfields back home was what drove them into the Navy in the first place. They’d become firemen, and that was all they really wanted to do. Everyone called them the White Mice, because before the event that brought them here, they never went anywhere but the fireroom and they’d developed an unhealthy pallor as a result. They actually resembled rodents, too, with their narrow faces and thin, questing noses. Nobody ever liked them before, but now everyone treated them like heroes—which they were—Tabby included. First, they’d designed the rig that found oil when the ship was completely out. Then they’d managed to maintain enough steam pressure to get Walker to the shipyard after the fight. They were remarkably valuable men, but all their popularity hadn’t changed them much. Everyone liked them now, but they still didn’t like anybody, it seemed. Except for Tabby.
They’d originally treated the ’Cat like a pet, even though she’d proven herself in the fireroom. She’d even saved both of their lives at the end, by pulling them out of the escape trunk as the ship settled beneath them. Now she was one of them, another Mouse, even if she didn’t look anything like one.
“I think they swell,” Tabby said, referring to the engines in a passable copy of their lazy drawl.
“Yah, sure . . . for a myoo-zeeum. They’re a hunnerd years outta date.”
“Buildin’ a pair of ’em with three cylinders, triple-expansion jobs—ten times as big—for Big Sal, I hear,” Isak said.
Tabby’s eyes blinked amazement. “Be somethin’, to be chief of that.”
“You expectin’ a promotion?” Gilbert asked accusingly. “Hell, they’ve made gen’rals an’ ad’mrals outta ever’body else, why not you?”
“I never be aahd-mah-raal,” she retorted, angry enough to let her language and accent slip. She looked at the engine. “But chief be nice.” She turned on Gilbert. “But only if you two be chief-chiefs.”
The two men remained apologetically silent for a moment. It was their version of abject contrition. Finally, Isak spoke: “Bosun been to talk to you two?” he asked. Gilbert and Tabby both nodded. “One of us gots to go on the mission they’re cookin’ up, he says, since they’re takin’ the first new steam frigates.” He pointed at the engine. “They’ve got one like that, only bigger. That’s why we been testin’ it to failure.” He grunted. “Least this time they’re lettin’ us decide.” He looked at Tabby. “An’ this time she’s in the pool as deep as us. Metallurgy aside, Tabby prob’ly knows these jug jumpers better than us. Bosun’d have to find a three-sided coin to make up his mind.”
“You just said it,” Gilbert accused. “It don’t matter what we decide. They’ll keep her here just because o’ that!”
“Maybe we oughta go ahead an’ tell ’em we’re sorta related after all,” Isak murmured. “Tell ’em we can’t bear to be apart.” He snickered at his own remark. He and Gilbert had never let on that they were half brothers. There was a certain resemblance often remarked upon, but usually in a mocking fashion. Besides, their last names were different. They’d never told anyone, because not only did they have different fathers, but their mother never married either man. In a sense, they figured that made them each kind of a bastard and a half. Things like that didn’t seem to matter as much to them as they once had, but they still saw no need to brand it on their foreheads. “Hell, if it comes to it, I’ll go,” Isak said. “Kinda got the wanderlust flung on me the last time they busted us up.”
“You didn’t do any wanderin’,” Gilbert accused. “You just stayed on that damn island while me and Tabby went a-wanderin’.”
Isak nodded. “Yep. That’s what I mean.”
“Well,” said Gilbert, clearly relieved, “just don’t get ate.”
With a look around the noisy ordnance shop to make sure no one was paying any particular attention, Dennis Silva clamped the brand-new musket barrel in the mill vise. The barrel was made of relatively mild steel plate, about three-eighths of an inch thick, taken from Amagi’s superstructure. Dennis figured they could ultimately salvage enough of the stuff from Amagi alone to make millions of barrels, if they wanted. The plate had been cut and forged around a mandrel, reamed to its final interior diameter, and turned to its finished contour. Finally, it was threaded and breeched. It was a simple process really, with the equipment they had, but it had just been perfected, and only a few of the barrels were complete. Dennis figured the odds were about even that Bernie would have a spasm when he noticed one missing.
So far, the Captain and “Sonny” Campeti hadn’t insisted that Dennis return to his duties full-time—they must have understood he had issues to sort out: some physical, a few domestic. He doubted their forbearance would last much longer. He was malingering, in a sense, and even he was beginning to feel bad about that. There was a lot he could be doing, after all. Should be doing. But he was a blowtorch. He’d go full-blast while there was fuel in the tanks, but when they were empty, they were empty. He’d needed this time to refuel, not only physically, but mentally—to put the “old” Dennis Silva back together. The time was just about right, and if the truth were known, he was actually starting to get a little antsy to return to duty. Besides, he had some ideas.
Carefully focusing his one good eye on the neatly scribed lines he’d drawn on the breech end, he cranked the table up and powered the mill. The cutter spun up and he turned a valve that started misting it with the oily coolant Spanky had devised. Slowly, he turned the crank in front of him. The cutter went through the breech like butter and he turned the other crank on the right side of the table and pulled the cutter back through the breech, widening the gap. Half a dozen more passes gave him the rectangular opening he wanted in the top of the barrel’s breech.
“Oops,” he mumbled happily, “I guess this barrel’s ruined!”
He brushed the chips away and replaced the cutter with another that would leave a rounded, dovetail shape. He measured the depth, traversed the table, and made a single pass at the front of his rectangular cut. Changing the cutter again, to one with a slight taper, he made a final cut at the breech. Looking closely to make sure he’d hit all his lines, he switched off the machine and removed the barrel from the vise.
“God damn you, Silva, what the hell are you up to now?” came an incredulous
bellow. A lesser mortal might have at least flinched just a bit despite the almost plaintive note to the shout.
“Goofin’ off,” Dennis replied mildly. “Cool your breech, Mr. Sandison. Ol’ Silva’s just keepin’ hisself ‘occupied,’ like you said.”
For an instant, Bernie was speechless. “Cool my breech? You just hacked a hole in the breech of one of my new musket barrels and you tell me that?” He looked almost wildly around. “Where’s Campeti? If you won’t listen to me, maybe he can control you! In fact, I want him to hang you!”
“Why’s ever’body always want to hang me?” Silva asked, as if genuinely curious. “Calm down, Bernie, you’ll hurt yourself. You ’cumulated a extra hole or two in the big fight yourself, if I recall. If you start leakin’, Lieutenant Tucker’s gonna get sore, and she’ll have the skipper down on you. He’ll make you take a rest, and you’ll be countin’ waves in the bay at the Screw while Campeti runs this joint. Besides, just ’cause I’m goofin’ off don’t mean I’d dee-stroy a perfectly good musket barrel without a pretty good reason.”
Bernie paused and took a breath. Silva was right. He was a maniac, but when it came to implements of destruction, if he wasn’t actually a genius, he was at least a prodigy of some monstrous sort. He still had his “personal” BAR, and was one of the few people allowed to run around with such a profligate weapon and a full battle pack of precious ammunition. His new favorite weapon however, that he carried just about everywhere he went, was of an entirely different sort. Bernie glanced at the thing where it leaned near Silva’s workstation with the bag of necessary equipment it required.
It had begun life as an antiaircraft gun aboard shattered Amagi, a Type 96, twenty-five millimeter. The breech had been damaged in the battle and the flash hider shot away, so Silva “appropriated” it during one of their early trips to the wreck to salvage anything that remained above water. He told Sandison what he was doing, and the still painfully wounded (like nearly everyone) torpedo officer and Minister of Ordnance gave his blessing to the project. For most of his life, before joining the Navy, Silva had just been on the loose. For a time however, he’d worked for an old-school gunsmith near Athens, Tennessee. In that part of the country, even in the mid-thirties, many guns they worked on were old-fashioned muzzle loaders, even flintlocks. His time there was probably what made him strike for the ordnance division in the Navy. In any event, he’d learned a lot about “old-timey” guns, so Sandison gave him the flintlock from the shortened musket O’Casey had when they rescued him.
Silva turned the Type 96 barrel down as light as he thought was wise on one of the lathes, breeched it, and fitted it to a crude stock. Then he made a hollow-base .100-caliber bullet mold like a Civil War Minié ball, so the bullet would expand and take the gain-twist rifling. He still worked on it now and then, dolling it up, but what he had was a massive weapon, weighing almost thirty pounds, with a five-foot barrel. It was amazingly accurate with its quarter-pound bullet, but the recoil was so horrifyingly abusive, nobody but Silva had ever even fired it. Probably no human but Silva could fire it more than once without serious injury. He called it his Super Lizard Gun, and was anxious to test it on one of the allosaurus-like brutes. He never wanted to go up against one of those incredibly tough monsters with a .30-06 again.
“So,” Bernie said resignedly, “show me why you shouldn’t hang. And this had better be something useful!”
“Sure.” Silva held up the barrel he’d altered. “Alden wants muskets, and that’s fine. That’s what we can do right now, so that’s how we go. What you’re making—we’re making—is basically an old muzzle-loading Springfield. You settled on cap instead of flint because they’re simpler and we can make the caps. Good call. Might want to make a few flintlocks for scouts, explorers, or such in case they wind up out of touch for a while—they can find flint if they run out of caps—but that’s beside the point. You’re also startin’ out with smoothbores because we haven’t built a rifling machine yet, and with the way Griks fight, a good dose of buck ‘n’ ball is just the ticket. Again, fine. The main thing right now is to get guns with bayonets in the hands o’ the troops. Eventually, we can take the same guns and rifle ’em, use Minié balls just like ol’ Doom Whomper over there. Everything’s great, and we move the ’Cats from fightin’ like they did in Roman times to the 1860s.
“But the skipper wants breechloaders, and that got me thinking. Everybody seems to figure that means, all of a sudden, we hafta jump from the old Springfields to the kind of Springfields we brought with us, our ’oh-threes. That’d be swell, but it’s a lot bigger jump than folks would think, and it’s bigger than we hafta make.”
“It is?”
“Yeah. The Army—our old Army—had the same problem once. After the . . . War Between the States, they had millions of muzzleloadin’ Springfields, see? Thing is, everybody was startin’ to go to center-fire breechloaders. Even f . . . likkin’ Spain. Whaddaya do? This fella named Ersky Allin—er somethin’ like that—had sorta the same job as you. Anyway, he figured a way to make center-fire breechloaders outta all them muskets, and it was a cinch!” Silva brandished the barrel again, then fished around on a bench covered with strange-looking objects he’d been working on. He picked something up. “He, this Allin fella, cut the top outta the breech, like I just done, and screwed and soldered this here hinge-lookin’ thing to the front of the gap.” Silva held the object in place. “The thing on the other side of the hinge is the breechblock—we can cast ’em a lot easier than I milled this one out!—and the firin’ pin angles from the rear side to the front center!” He held the pieces together and the breechblock dropped into place with a clack!
“I ain’t pulled the breech plug out and milled the slot that locks the thing closed, but again, it’s a simple alteration. You cut a barrel, put this on, then grind the hammer to where it hits the firin’ pin square. All else you gotta add is a easy little extractor!”
Bernie’s eyes were huge. “Silva, you are a freak-show genius!”
“Nah. Maybe Ersky Allin was, though.”
Bernard Sandison looked at Dennis. “How did you do this? I mean, how did you know about this?”
Silva shrugged. “I had a couple over the years. First rifles I ever owned. Sometimes huntin’ was the only way a fella could stay fed, what with the Depression, and you could buy one surplus at just about any hardware store, or order one from Monkey Wards or Bannerman’s for a few bucks.”
Bernie shook his head. His childhood and Silva’s had been . . . different. “What did they shoot? And how . . . ?”
“That’s another neat thing. You’re forgin’ these barrels on a five-eighths mandrel. Once you ream ’em out smooth, they’re about sixty-two-caliber or so. You go ahead and build yer riflin’ machine and rifle forty-five- or fifty-caliber liners to solder in the old barrels and then chamber ’em! Simple as pie. The first Allin guns they put liners in were fifty-seventy. When they started building rifles like this from the ground up instead of convertin’ ’em, they made receivers for ’em an’ did ’em in forty-five-seventy. That’s a forty-five- or fifty-caliber bullet on seventy grains of powder. Black powder, just like we have now. Both had a pretty high trajectory, but they’d stomp a buffalo to the ground. Probably a lot better for critters around here than a thirty-aught-six. Big and slow gives you big holes and deep penetration. Small and fast gives you small holes, and maybe not so deep penetration. If you’re too close, light bullets, even copper jacketed, just blow up on impact and never hit anything vital.”
Oddly, Bernie noticed that when Silva was talking ballistics, he didn’t sound as much like a hick, but he’d already begun tuning him out. Silva had just solved one of the biggest problems he’d expected to face over the next year or so. It had bothered him for a number of reasons. He’d felt a little like everything they did before they came up with “real” weapons was sort of a wasted effort. Silva’s scheme might not give them truly modern weapons, but they were leaps and bounds beyond anything they were l
ikely to face. But what about cartridges?
“These fifty-seventies and forty-five-seventies, what were they shaped like? The shells?”
“Straight, rimmed case,” said Silva, grinning. He knew what Bernie was thinking. One of the problems they faced with making new shells for the Springfields and Krags they already had, not to mention the machine guns, was the semi-rimless bottleneck shape. “Even if you haven’t solved the problem of drawing cases—which I figure you will—you can turn these shells on a lathe if you have to.”
Bernie beamed. “I swear, Silva! Why didn’t you just tell me you wanted a musket barrel? I’m going to see you get a raise out of this . . . or a promotion, or something! Take the rest of the day off. You’re still technically on leave anyway. Go hunting or have a beer! Kill something; you’ll feel better!”
“Raise won’t do me any good, an’ I don’t want no promotion. All I answer to is you, Campeti, and the skipper anyway. You can call ’em ‘Allin-Silva’ conversions, if you want, though.”
“You bet! Do whatever you want! I have to talk to the skipper!” With that, Bernie rushed away with the still-dripping barrel and trapdoor arrangement in his hand. Silva watched him go. “Whatever I want, huh?” Silva said, eyebrow raised.
CHAPTER 4
Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya, formerly of the Japanese Imperial Navy, and currently brevet colonel and second in command of all Allied infantry forces, unbuckled the belt that held his modified Navy cutlass and pistol. Handing it to the ’Cat Marine sentry at the base of the comfortable dwelling, he climbed rope ladder to the “ground” floor—roughly twenty feet above his head. It was inconvenient, but virtually all Baalkpan dwellings were built on pilings like this so their inhabitants could sleep secure from possible predators. He reflected that the practice was as much tradition now as anything else, since the city never really slept—even before the war—and over the centuries, dangerous animals had slowly learned to avoid the city carved out of the dense wilderness around it. Now there were fortified berms and breastworks, constant lookouts, and vigilant warriors as well. He wondered as he climbed the ladder if the inconvenient tradition would long survive. At the top, he struck the hatch, or trapdoor, above his head and, raising it, entered.
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