CHAPTER 11
Unconscious of any irony, newly minted Lieutenant Irvin Laumer stepped forward and extended his hand to Colonel Tamatsu Shinya. Without hesitation, the Japanese former naval officer took it and shook it briskly. The two had become friends, of a sort, during the long voyage, and there had existed certain bond between them. Both were men driven to succeed and prove themselves, although Irvin didn’t know what Shinya needed to prove. He was a loyal officer in Captain Reddy’s cadre of companions. (Irvin was well-read and often compared Reddy’s relationship with his officers and men to that of Alexander.) He admitted to himself that there might be just a touch of hero worship on his part that made the comparison more apt.
There was no doubt that there were two distinct groups within the Alliance: those who felt comfortable around Captain Reddy and didn’t hesitate to express their views to him, and those who were almost afraid to be around the “Great Man.” The former category was almost exclusively comprised of those who’d been with him from the start, regardless of race. Irvin still felt like he belonged in the second group. He’d had a tough ordeal—all the S-19s—had, but it wasn’t a patch to what Captain Reddy, Walker, Mahan, and all their crews and allies had been through. Laumer hadn’t even been at Baalkpan during the desperate fight. Shinya had. He’d been there from the start like all the others, and he’d certainly earned the companion role, yet he didn’t seem to realize it. If he did, he still seemed driven to continue earning it.
Maybe it was because he was a Jap. To this day, not all the Americans truly liked him. They universally respected him, but that wasn’t the same. He’d proven he’d stand even against his own people in this war, if it came down to it, but during one of their talks, he’d admitted to Irvin that it still hurt him, even now. He had no compassion for the Grik, but maybe he needed to keep proving to himself that he actually belonged among his new friends.
“I’ll miss you, sir, and our talks,” Laumer said.
“As will I,” Shinya replied. “I find myself speaking ’Cat so much, it is a pleasure to converse in a . . . human tongue.”
Irvin knew what had caused Shinya’s hesitation. He probably wished he could talk more with Okada, but he and the other Japanese officer didn’t really get along.
“Yes, sir,” Irvin answered. “And I really appreciate the ’Cat lessons, too. I’m still not too good at it.”
“You will do fine. Besides, most of your command has at least a smattering of English now.” Shinya chuckled. “I expect one day the two languages will intermingle!”
“That would sure be weird,” Irvin said, imagining the bizarre combination. He took a breath and looked around, nodding farewell to others he recognized. He was awaiting the arrival of Saan-Kakja so he could officially take his leave. As his eyes swept over the massive ship, he was still overcome by the monumental ingenuity that had built her.
The level on which he stood, the battlement, occupied a single deck of the massive central superstructure, and the balcony went all the way around it like a giant wraparound porch. Even as high as he was above the surface of the sea and the ship’s center of gravity, any sensation of motion was almost imperceptible. Unfortunately, the mammoth vessel’s forward motion was almost imperceptible as well, by the standards he was accustomed to. With all her wings set and drawing nicely in the brisk morning breeze, Placca-Mar, Saan-Kakja’s “Imperial yacht,” or whatever it was, was barely making five knots. She was just so damn slow. There was so much to do, and he was anxious to get on with his mission.
Throughout the weeks they’d been at sea since departing Baalkpan, they’d crept northeast through the home waters of the Makassar Strait and entered the Celebes Sea. Their average, excruciatingly slow speed of five to six knots had slowed even further while they picked their way through the tangled, hazardous islands off the northeast coat of Borneo before making their island-hugging journey through the Sulu Archipelago. This tedious, circuitous route allowed them to avoid the abyssal depths of the Celebes and Sulu seas—and the monstrous creatures that dwelt there. Among those they were trying to avoid was one so huge that it actually posed a rare but real threat to ships as large as Lemurian Homes.
Mountain fish they were called by some, or island fish by others. Whichever it was, it made no difference. The name wasn’t idle exaggeration. Irvin had seen one of the things before, when S-19 traversed nearby seas on her way to Cavite—only to discover the Cavite they remembered wasn’t there anymore. That was when his now dead skipper decided they needed a place to hole up before their fuel was gone. The resulting odyssey was what had eventually left the sub stranded on Talaud Island.
Finally, after torturous weeks, Meksnaak, Saan-Kakja’s Sky Priest, placed them off the western peninsula of Mindanao. Irvin had to take his word. They’d apparently missed the Sibutu Passage in the dark, but finally they’d reached a point where he and his little squadron could part company with the high chief of the Manilos and all the Fil-pin Lands. Despite the frustration goading him to get on with it, he had to admit the ship and the world around it were certainly a beautiful sight. They were on a tack that took them almost directly into the morning sun, and Irvin shielded his eyes against the glare. Lush, unnamed islands speckled the sea directly to starboard, and a larger shore loomed on the horizon. Mindanao, he presumed. Zamboanga. The water was an almost painfully brilliant blue, and was still touched by the golden glory of the new day. It was going to be a hot one, as usual, and eventually the bright, clear sky would give way to rain clouds. Even now, far to the south, a purple squall swept an empty patch of sea.
He hadn’t seen the squall that brought the destroyermen and his submariners here. S-19 had been submerged at the time. He had only conflicting descriptions from the destroyermen as to what it looked like. Mostly, they’d said it had been green. He wondered sometimes what he would do if he ever saw one like it. Would he sail into it, hoping it would take him home? Or would he do everything in his power to stay the hell out of its way? He hoped the choice would never come. At least, not until he fulfilled his mission. Somehow, right then, making Captain Reddy proud of him was more important than ever getting home.
He shook his head and looked at his own ship, USS Simms. The former Grik Indiaman had been razed like many others and named for Andy Simms, who’d died at the Battle of Aryaal. She was now a United States corvette. She mounted twenty guns and with her once bloodred hull painted black, with a broad white band down her length highlighting the closed, black-painted gunports, she looked nothing at all like her former self. In spite of who originally made her, Simms was a heartwarming sight, loping almost playfully along under close-reefed topsails so she wouldn’t shoot ahead of her lumbering charge.
She was Irvin’s only warship; the other vessel keeping close company had been repainted, rerigged, and repaired, but her lines hadn’t been altered. She was a transport, after all. A freighter. It was still a heady sight. He’d gone from an inexperienced kid, glad to have a subordinate take over when things got tough, to a commodore, for all intents and purposes. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he was ready. This should be Flynn’s job, he thought. Flynn was the one who’d brought them through. But Flynn wouldn’t—apparently couldn’t—do it. That left Irvin, and one way or another he’d accomplish his mission—if it was possible for anyone to—or die trying. He still believed this was a test of sorts and, for an instant, wondered if Captain Reddy understood the depth of Irvin’s commitment to prove himself. He doubted it. Irvin didn’t fully understand it yet himself. Besides, the captain had literally ordered him to be careful. Irvin appreciated that and he would be careful . . . but he would succeed, regardless.
“Well, Lieutenant Laumer,” Shinya observed, “despite your . . . impatience . . . to leave us, you have one final nicety to perform. Saan-Kakja is here to bid you farewell!”
“Yeah, I’m a little anxious,” Laumer admitted. “Is it really that obvious?” Shinya only chuckled.
Saan-Kakja approached, attended by Meksnaak
and a trio of other functionaries. As always, Irvin was struck by her presence. She was so small, and much younger even than he was, yet she was beautiful. Not in a “girl” kind of way—at least, not a human girl—but like an exotically colored female tiger would be beautiful. Stunning, magnificent, but also a little “cute,” in the fashion one might describe a young, predatory cat. Her eyes were something else too, unlike any he’d seen among all the ’Cats he’d met. Safir Maraan was just as beautiful in her own lethal way, but Saan-Kakja still inspired him with a strange sense of protectiveness as well.
“Lieutenant Laumer,” she said, her English much improved, “my priests that chart our path tell me we have reached that point where you will leave us. I shall miss your company when we dine, and I shall miss the company and protection of your noble ships and crews.”
Irvin blushed. Saan-Kakja’s ship hadn’t needed their protection. Hers was probably the most powerful ship left afloat in the world. She’d armed it with cannon before she ever left for Baalkpan, and between the guns Baalkpan lavished on her and the guns constantly arriving from Manila, Placca-Mar now mounted sixty of the big thirty-two pounders, and had a couple of the new fifty pounders as well. It would take something like Amagi to tangle with her now. “It has, ah, been my honor, Your Excellency. I’ll miss you too.” He blushed even deeper.
“Mr. Shinya says you will not be entirely on your own,” she said with a concerned series of flashing eyelids, “but the transmitter you carry is not as strong . . . as powerful as the one Mr. Riggs has supplied to me. You will be able to receive transmissions, sometimes all the way from Baalkpan, but may not be able to transmit that far yourself. Rest assured, we will hear you and will routinely retransmit any message you send. If mischief of any kind should befall your mission or yourself, do not hesitate to call for help. My brother is High Chief of Paga-Daan, and will receive a communication device similar to yours. He will come to your aid immediately. It will, in fact, be his ships that supply you, if your mission is lengthy.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. On all counts.”
Saan-Kakja offered her hand, and for an instant, Irvin didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. He settled for gently grasping the tiny thing in his own.
“Now, Ir-vin,” Saan-Kakja scolded, squeezing firmly with her fingers, “you cannot break me that easily!”
“Of course not, Your . . . my lady.”
Saan-Kakja grinned and, with an awkward bow, Irvin stepped away. He shook hands with Shinya again and climbed over the bulwark to descend the rope ladder to the waiting launch below.
“Hell,” he muttered to himself, cheeks still hot. “She’s not just beautiful; she’s downright mesmerizing. Even in kind of a ‘girl’ way!”
Simms and her consort hauled away to the east, through the Basilan Strait and across the Moro Gulf. Meksnaak had suggested the gulf might be one of their most hazardous passages until they crossed to Talaud, but they met no danger there. A few large gri-kakka surfaced and blew, and some possibly related denizens with short, serpentine necks watched the ships periodically with large, somber eyes, but other than that, all they saw were the myriad seabirds, flying reptiles, and what looked like a cross between the two. Nothing unusual. The birds capered and swooped among the masts, occasionally even snapping at the top men, but the only real harm they caused was the reeking, fishy slurry they dropped and smeared all over the ships. Otherwise, the weather remained fine, the skies no more temperamental than usual, and the sea in no way stirred itself against them.
Irvin wasn’t much of a practical sailor yet, and he relied heavily on Simms’s actual captain, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan. She reminded him a lot of Silva’s supposed Lemurian sweetheart, Risa-Sab-At, with her brindled fur and quick wit. Unlike Risa, however, Lelaa wasn’t a born warrior, and she hadn’t even seen action yet. Before getting Simms, she’d commanded one of the Navy feluccas. She was a born sailor, though, and Irvin was learning a lot from her. She’d translated her skill with the fore-and-aft rigged feluccas to the primarily square rig of Simms with astonishing ease. She was a good, patient teacher and well liked by her crew. She lacked any of Saan-Kakja’s cuteness factor, but she was young and still handsome in an experienced, practical way. Irvin had every confidence in her, and the two of them had become fast friends.
They tried to keep the Mindanao coast in sight as they worked east-southeast over the next few days. There were islands everywhere, and Lelaa was constantly worried about wind direction, something Irvin, a submariner, had never much considered. Truth be known, he was always more worried about how much water was under the keel and what sort of creatures might be in it. Lelaa was worried too; that was why they hugged the coast—a most unnatural act in a sailing ship. The depths here were unknown, however, and everyone was a little tense as they cruised the edge of the Celebes Sea.
“I like coffee,” Lelaa said, staring into her cup with a surprised, wide-eyed blink. She and Irvin were on Simms’s quarterdeck enjoying another pleasant morning. “Everyone says it is vile and they don’t know how you Amer-i-caans can drink it all the time, but I find it heightens my awareness . . . and I have even come to enjoy the taste. Does that make me strange . . . or even more Amer-i-caan?”
Irvin laughed, then took a small sip from his own scalding cup of “monkey joe.” “Well, you’ve been in the American Navy for some time now, and everybody back home would swear the Navy couldn’t function without coffee. I don’t think we could’ve ever won a war without it.”
“You have told me of the great battles in your . . . our Navy’s past. Is that how they won? We drink coffee and our enemies do not?”
Irvin laughed again. “Maybe. If the only difference in a fight is that one side is wide-awake and alert, it might tip the balance. There are other variables, though, that coffee alone can’t make up for. Crummy torpedoes, being outnumbered ten to one.” His smile faded. “In the war we came from, we drank a lot of coffee, but it wasn’t making much difference.”
Lelaa took another sip. “I bet it would have, eventually. Maybe in that lost world, it already has.”
Irvin grunted.
The alarm bell at the masthead sounded insistently and everyone’s gaze turned upward.
“Island fish! Island fish! Three points off starboard bow! Two t’ousand yards! It just came up!”
“Clear for action!” Lelaa shouted, gulping the rest of her coffee and passing the cup to Midshipman Hardee. Hardee had been one of the kids on S-19 and had volunteered to return to her. Now sixteen, he was also the oldest boy who’d been aboard her. “Pass the word for Sparks to wind up his gear!”
“Aye-aye, Captain!” Hardee replied, clutching the cup in both hands. He raced away. “Tex” Sheider, also known as “Sparks,” like every communications officer on any Navy ship, scrambled up the companionway from below. He was a small, skinny guy, as many submariners were, and had never seemed to fit his other nickname: Tex. Of course, that didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that he was from Texas. There’d once been another Tex on S-19, but he’d suffocated in the battery compartment.
“Captain,” Hardee addressed Lelaa. “Sir,” he said to Irvin. “I heard the alarm. The guys are winding up the gizmo now.” He looked ahead, trying to see the huge fish. A gray-black hump was just visible from deck now. “I sure hope this works,” he added nervously.
The Anti-Mountain Fish Destruction Countermeasures, or AMF-DIC, after the British version of sonar—with a couple of extra letters thrown in—were a collection of mostly untried procedures it was hoped would scare the humongous, ship-eating beasts away. All had an acoustic pressure element, which they’d learned through experience might be effective. The first line of defense was literally a giant speaker activated by the ship’s communication equipment. A wind-powered generator charged a primitive battery in the “wireless shack” that, when switched through a high-amplitude capacitor, allowed them to boost the output through the simple transmitter Riggs had given them. In this case, instead of
routing the jolt of electricity to an antenna, it sent it to a crude speaker mounted firmly to the hull. The result briefly turned the entire ship into a resonance chamber meant to frighten the creatures away.
The second defense, one they knew could work when properly applied, was a device most of the destroyermen had been familiar with even though Walker and Mahan had never been equipped with them. It was a form of “Y” gun that used one of the old muzzle-loading mortars they’d employed in the defense of Baalkpan. A weighted barrel of gunpowder rested upon a rack positioned at the muzzle of the mortar, which allowed them to blast the depth charge into the path of an oncoming mountain fish. They knew the monsters didn’t like depth charges at all, and they believed the “Y” gun would work fine—if it didn’t blow up the ship.
They had a final defense that Jenks had told them the Imperial Navy used at close quarters: an indiscriminate, simultaneous broadside of every gun on the ship. The resulting concussion seemed to disorient the beasts, and although it made them very angry, only rarely did they manage to destroy a ship with their enraged convulsions.
“Stand ready to activate your gizmo, Tex,” Irvin instructed. Lelaa nodded. “But wait for the word. I know we want to test it, but if that thing leaves us alone, we’ll leave it alone. Right now it’s just kind of wallowing there, catching some rays.”
“Yeah, but it’s right in front of us. What if it won’t move? Do we go around it, or blast it?”
Lelaa looked at the sky and the set of the sails. “We blast it,” she decided. “If we go around, we will lose speed, and I want us to be as fast as we can be if we are forced to use the gizmo.” She raised her voice. “Signal our consort to lay aft and follow in our wake. Maybe it won’t sense us both. No point in making it feel threatened by our numbers.”
Distant Thunders Page 23
