Irvin glanced at her and she shrugged, her tail swishing uncomfortably. “If there were ten of us, I might try it the other way,” she explained, “but with only two, each less than a third its size . . .”
“It moving, Skipper,” came the shout from above. “It know we here! It coming this way!”
Lelaa shook her head and looked at Sheider. “Stand by your gizmo, Tex.” She gestured at the cluster of copper speaking tubes beside the wheel. “I will give the order.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.” With a nervous grin at Laumer, he disappeared below.
The giant was not on an attack run but seemed merely interested or curious, so their closing speed was not that great. Unfortunately, a mountain fish’s curiosity often included tasting what it was curious about. At six hundred yards, Lelaa strode to the speaking tube and repeated, “Stand by.” No one knew what the maximum range of the gizmo might be, but Riggs had figured it would become unpleasant at about five hundred yards. All they would get was one shot every several minutes. In a wind like this, it would take that long for the capacitor to recharge. If Lelaa had any hope of testing the device any closer, she’d have to try it at maximum range first. She started to say, “Fire,” but that seemed inappropriate.
“Light it up, Tex.”
For an instant, there was nothing. Then, with a jarring suddenness that surprised everyone, the whole skip began to tremble, accompanied by a dull bass rumble beneath their feet. The vibration was so intense, it blurred Irvin’s vision. After only a few seconds, the sensation passed.
“What’s it doing?” Lelaa shouted above.
“It pissed!” came the shout. “It swim in circle, go ape! Wait! It coming this way, fast! It pissed!”
“Ready the forward “Y” gun!” Lelaa commanded. The gun was already loaded and prepared in all respects, but Shipfitter Danny Porter tracked the oncoming target and shifted the weapon accordingly. The “Y” gun had no sights—it was an area weapon, after all—but Danny had a good eye and was a good judge of distance. He’d been striking for gunner’s mate, and his surface action station on the sub had been her four-inch fifty.
“Ready when you are, Skipper,” he announced tersely over the voice tube.
“Commence firing when you see fit,” Lelaa said. Her voice sounded calm, but tinny. “Try to drop the bomb right on its nose.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Danny waited, calculating the ship’s slight pitch and the range to the target. He’d been allowed only a couple of tests with the new weapon and was no expert by any means. Suddenly, he stepped back.
“Fire!”
Simms’s entire fo’c’sle was shrouded with white smoke and a loud, muffled whump! jarred the ship. The barrel-shaped bomb emerged from the smoke and tumbled upward into the sky. For a moment, it seemed to defy gravity as it hung there, wobbling, but growing smaller too. Then it began to fall. Everyone was tense, waiting for the plunge. It looked like Danny had missed, or worse, that the bomb might actually hit the back of the creature. Most supposed that if that happened, it might even die, but it would almost certainly lunge ahead and strike the ship before it did. A large concave splash erupted a hundred feet short of the monster, a little to its left. A pressure cap inside the bomb should detonate at about twenty feet. The sensitive nature of the detonator was always a concern when firing the damn things.
The sea spalled into shattered white marble, and almost immediately, a huge cloud of smoke and spray erupted in the charging fish’s path. They saw the beast then, beyond the cloud, practically rear itself out of the water. Another momentous splash followed the first, and they glimpsed massive flukes pounding the sea—away from them!
“It worked!” came Danny’s cry, all the way from the fo’c’sle. A huge cheer erupted, echoed by those on their consort astern. They hadn’t seen anything, but they must have guessed the second aspect of the AMF-DIC defense had been a success.
“Outstanding!” Irvin said, stepping to join Lelaa near the wheel. Lelaa was smiling toothily. “Please accept my congratulations! We’ve got to get a message out right away and let everybody know it works!” Irvin’s exuberance was tempered a few moments later when Tex appeared on the quarterdeck. His hair was singed and his shirt looked scorched. “What’s the matter?” Irvin asked warily, a sick sensation in his gut.
“Transmitter’s cooked. Kaput. All that juice was just too much for it. I told Clancy we needed a fuse! But nooo!” Tex shook his head disgustedly. “Damn Boston Mick! I’m gonna cool him off—to dirt temperature! —when we get home! One lousy fuse, but he says, ‘You know how hard it is to make them?’ Not as hard as it is to make a goddamn transmitter!”
“You okay, Tex?”
The smaller, dark-haired man shrugged. “Swell. A little scorched.” He looked at his shirt. “I threw the switch, but the transmitter was already on fire, so I stifled it with my shirt. Nearly choked myself to death getting it off. Did you know this was the last shirt I had that was made in the U.S. of A.?”
“I’m sorry, Tex. We’ll get you another one.”
“I want that bastard Clancy’s, if he has one left!”
“What about the receiver?” Lelaa inquired. It was a question Irvin should have asked, but Tex was one of his friends. An old shipmate. One of the few left alive.
“I’ll get in there as soon as the smoke clears, Skipper. I expect it’s fine. It’s just a glorified crystal set. Doesn’t really even need power. If we didn’t short the batteries, we’ll still have juice, anyway. If we did short ’em out, once we get to Talaud and set up the steam generator, we’ll have more juice than we need. For anything.”
“Can you build a new transmitter?” Irvin asked.
“Could be. It ain’t hard, and I’ve got what’s left of Riggs’s design to work from.”
Lelaa looked at Irvin. “I command this ship, but you command the expedition. What are your views? Should we press on, even without two-way communications? This was a hazardous mission to begin with. . . .”
“We press on,” Irvin almost interrupted her. “Captain Reddy knows how hazardous it is, and he knew there was a chance we’d find ourselves out of touch. We’ll press on,” he repeated, “and accomplish our mission. Tex will make a new transmitter. Even if he can’t, we have a job to do. A lot of people are counting on us and I won’t let them down.”
Lelaa smiled. “As I suspected . . . but I had to ask!” She turned to the ’Cat at the helm. “Steady as you go. Our course remains one five zero.”
“One fi’ zero, ayy!”
CHAPTER 12
Walker was about to float again. All Baalkpan had turned out to watch the momentous event, it seemed, and no one really cared anymore if the strangers in the bay knew about it or not. It was a time of miracles. So incredibly devastated by the battle that had once raged here, Baalkpan had become a center of industry, connected with most of the known world by wireless communication! People had built aircraft and flown them over this very bay! Aryaal was retaken and Grik prisoners were on their way here! In the amazing dry dock, weeks of scraping, welding and riveting, heating and rolling Japanese steel into new plates, and a final, thick coat of red paint had resulted in this collective achievement. Even if anyone had desired to keep Walker’s rebirth a secret, it wouldn’t have been possible. There was no question Imperial spies were present. In fact, knowing they would be, Letts had counseled Adar to invite the Imperial personnel. Their leaders might feel a little foolish learning the ship they’d been so concerned about had been underwater all this time, but the majority of the Imperial sailors who’d come to watch at least acted as excited as everyone else.
Water coursed into the dry dock and swirled muddily around the fresh red paint and wooden braces. Slowly, the polished bronze screws dipped beneath the torrent and constant shouts of encouragement came from men and ’Cats on the old destroyer’s deck as they relayed reports from below that all was dry inside. There was a shudder, and the ship eased ever so slightly from the cradle that had held her
upright since the water was drained from the basin. Cheers reverberated off the many new buildings when the support beams were heaved from the flood. Line handlers were careful to keep the ship positioned where she was, lest she bump against beams or pilings that were not yet free. Within an hour, all the beams had been withdrawn, and once again Walker floated free and easy, supported by her own sleek hull. The pandemonium the sight inspired was difficult to credit, and even more difficult for those who hadn’t been there for the battle to understand. Tears erupted from hardened warriors from many clans, and many a Marine was misty-eyed as well.
In some ways, she looked like a different ship. Her guns and torpedo tubes had been removed, as had the big blower, refrigerator, and the tall searchlight tower. A temporary wooden deck was laid over the openings left from the complete removal of her shattered aft deckhouse. The short mainmast aft remained, defiantly flying the Stars and Stripes, but the tall foremast had not yet been reinstalled. The bridge was vacant and the fire-control platform was bare. Everything that could be removed and reconditioned ashore had long since been taken off, and she floated considerably higher in the water than anyone had ever seen her. Still, she floated. All her parts, possessions, and weapons would be returned to her, as would, ultimately, her crew. For now, she floated almost empty of the things that made her what she was; there was no roar of blowers, no machinery noises; she still slumbered, still resting from her grievous wounds, but she was no longer dead. She’d risen from the grave and it was only a matter of time before she’d awake once again.
“Look! Oh, look!” cried Sandra, tears streaking her face.
Beside her, Princess Rebecca hopped up and down, clapping her hands. “Oh, Lady Sandra! Is she not the most beautiful sight?”
Lawrence didn’t understand his friend’s attachment to the ship. It was but a thing. He was thrilled that it would again become the weapon it had once been, and that made him happy. He was also glad his friends were happy—for whatever reason. He hopped lightly and clapped too, imitating Rebecca’s gestures. Dennis Silva stood beside him, fists clenched at his sides, a sheen over his one good eye. Suddenly, he raised a hand and blew his nose in his fingers. Absently, he started to wipe them on Lawrence’s plumage.
“Mr. Silva!” Rebecca scolded, suddenly eyeing Dennis.
“A little snot won’t hurt him! Runt’s gettin’ all frizzed out. Prob’ly oughta’ comb a little grease in his hair.” Under the princess’s continued stare, Silva sighed and wiped his fingers on his T-shirt.
Unexpectedly, Lawrence had begun growing a crest on top of his head that Silva compared to a cock roadrunner’s. Among the Grik, the only real “crests” of any kind they’d seen had been on dead Hij. Since it was now known the Hij were almost universally older than their Uul warriors, Bradford had ecstatically proclaimed “their boy” must be nearing adulthood, different species or not.
Letts, Adar, and Spanky moved through the throng to join them.
“A hell of a thing,” Spanky said, his own eyes a little bright. “I never would’ve thought it.”
“I had no doubts,” proclaimed Adar. “Once you were over the shock of losing her and had a plan, I knew, sooner or later, Walker would float again. You Amer-i-caans are amazingly ingenious.”
“Couldn’t have done any of it without your equally amazingly ingenious folk,” Alan Letts reminded him.
“Where’s Karen?” Sandra asked. “She should be here!”
“She’s not feeling too well,” Alan said, a little self-consciously. “She’s no bigger than you, and with her being somewhere around seven months along . . .”
Sandra laughed. “She’s big as a house! I know. Don’t worry; she’s fine. But she is a little big.” Her eyes twinkled. “I still say it’s twins!”
Alan pretended horror. “Don’t say that anymore!”
Over the tumult, they heard a rising drone and looked at the sky. Not to be outdone, the Air Corps was putting in an appearance. Three planes, or ships, as Mallory demanded they be called for some reason, wobbled overhead in a semblance of a formation. He’d finally won approval for his force to be called the Air Corps, even if most of its pilots were naval aviators. His insistence on the seemingly contradictory term confused everyone. Ben would be at the controls of one, Tikker another, and young Reynolds the third. The Air Corps had eight planes now, and with the implementation of Ben’s improvements they’d been declared perfected as far as the fundamental design would allow. Within weeks, there’d be two dozen airplanes and they’d face the distinct problem of having more planes than competent pilots.
Sandra hugged herself. It was all finally starting to come together. After all their hard work and sacrifice, she was beginning to feel, well, optimistic. The war had really just started, but with all the new naval construction under way, the professional army they’d begun, the allies they had working along the same lines toward the same goals—they had airplanes, for goodness’ sake!—and now with the resurrection of Walker . . .
“Mr. Chairman,” she addressed Adar, “we must transmit the news to Captain Reddy at once! He’ll be so pleased!”
“It has already been done, my dear, with careful observation to details! I expect he is watching the proceedings with us, through the eye of his mind, at this very moment.” He grinned and blinked amusement. “I took the liberty of sending your warmest love as well.”
Sandra blinked back more tears and hugged the tall Sky Priest.
“Now, ain’t that the damnedest thing?” Spanky asked. They all turned to look where he stared. Sister Audry, surrounded by a few dozen ’Cats, was standing near the pier mumbling something none of them could understand. Adar caught a word or two, but over the hubbub, any meaning was lost. The nun finished speaking and brought the fingertips of her right hand to her forehead, down to her stomach, then to her left and right shoulders. The Lemurians with her copied the gesture.
“Say,” said Silva, “does this mean our good sister’s a ’Catechist?”
“You idiot,” Spanky groaned, “you don’t even know what that means!”
“Do so!”
“Yeah, he does,” Letts confirmed. “And pun aside, he may be right.” He looked at Adar. “Mr. Chairman, we’ve been promising each other a lot of ‘talks’ lately. Maybe we’d better have one this evening.” He glanced around. “Lieutenant Tucker, please join us. Better invite Courtney too, or he’ll pout. Spanky, you’re Catholic. . . .”
“Sorta.”
“I’d like you and Princess Rebecca to attend as well. Princess, you’ve stated several times that there are others of perhaps . . . similar faith to that of Sister Audry. I think it’s time we sort that out, at least. I’ll go invite the young nun to our little meeting.”
Other eyes watched the proceedings discreetly, through eyelids narrowed with concern.
“I had heard rumors, but I could hardly credit them. Didn’t dare to hope,” Billingsly muttered to the man beside him. Linus Truelove was Billingsly’s most trusted agent and a talented analyst as well. He doubled as Ajax’s third lieutenant, hiding his skills beneath a competent but unimaginative, almost oafish facade. His “cover” was easy to maintain. He was a large man, bigger even than the one-eyed protector who often escorted the princess, and even though he pretended drunkenness on occasion, he never drank enough to cloud his quick, devious mind—another advantage he had over the man called Silva, who appeared just as oafish as Truelove pretended to be.
“The enemy grows more capable by the day, and our window of opportunity may close before we are ready.”
“We will be ready soon enough,” Truelove assured him. “Curtailing our obvious activities has lulled them, I think. Even the guards at their industrial section are not as alert as they were.” He grinned wickedly. “I think they are beginning to trust us, or at least they no longer have as great a care.”
“Possibly. Regardless, when we move it must be as quick and silent as possible. They must not know what has happened for a good many hours and
they must not be allowed to interfere once they discover the truth.”
“You did not mention ‘bloodless’ as an imperative. ‘Quick and silent’ is almost never bloodless,” Truelove observed.
“Quick and silent remains the priority.”
“Bloodless,” repeated Truelove, eyeing Silva. “I doubt that would be possible, regardless. That one, I think, hides behind much the same mask as I. I doubt he will accede ‘bloodlessly.’ Besides, he is the first I have seen among these barbarians whom I might enjoy testing myself against. He has a reputation.”
“Put it out of your mind!” Billingsly snapped. “Perhaps he does, but your ‘reputation’ must remain secret!”
When the water level inside the basin equalized with the bay, the great gates opened and Walker was towed slowly, gently clear of the dry dock. Even as she was tying up to the old fitting-out pier, the dry dock’s next inhabitant was being positioned to enter. Keje-Fris-Ar paced nervously back and forth on the strangely abbreviated battlement that remained offset, above the rebuilt deck of his Home.
“This is madness!” he remarked, eyeing the angle of approach. “The dry dock is too small!”
“It is not too small, Father,” assured Selass, Keje’s daughter. She strode each step right beside him and placed her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Really, you should not exert yourself so. Your wound . . .”
“My little wound is well healed, thank you,” he said gruffly, but then looked fondly at his child. He and Selass had been estranged far too long. First, her choice of a mate had upset him—and then the self-centered fool had the effrontery to die a hero’s death! Even before that occurred, she’d developed a hopeless infatuation for Chack-Sab-At, whom she’d first driven away, right into the arms of Safir Maraan! He’d despaired that she might ever become a sensible creature. Perhaps her friendship with Sandra Tucker had helped. She’d even grown civil to Chack’s sister, Risa, who commanded Salissa’s Marine contingent. Whatever the cause, ever since the Great Battle, she’d been devoted to him and he admitted he was glad their rift had mended.
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