The existence of the ship and her cargo was an incredible stroke of luck, however, maybe even a war winner if they could salvage any of the planes. Jim thought it likely. The manifest totaled twenty-eight aircraft. Curtiss P-40Es! If they saved only half of them, they’d have more than the Philippines had after the first few days of the war. The reason it was horrifying was that Matt wanted those planes now and he had no way of getting them. Isak Rueben had said that the ship’s engines were probably okay, but the fireroom was a shambles. She was also “kind of sunk,” according to the report, so there’d be no salvaging her on a shoestring. An ecstatic Ben Mallory quickly fired back a suggestion from Baalkpan that they immediately launch an expedition to recover the planes. If they could hack an airstrip out of the jungle alongside the ship and somehow power her cargo cranes, they could simply assemble the planes and fly them out.
Matt knew there’d be nothing “simple” about it. The project would require a small army and there’d be no way to keep that secret. They’d also need a higher-grade fuel than the PBY had required and they’d have to cut airstrips everywhere they went to accommodate the planes. He’d been impressed by Jim’s initial reaction to remain tight-lipped about the find, but realistically, it probably didn’t matter. There was no risk of the Grik or even the Japanese infiltrating their ranks, and if they had spies on the island, they were just as likely to find the ship on their own. If the current Allied offensive was successful, they’d soon have the Grik pushed back almost to Ceylon, making long forays by enemy vessels into the Allied rear even more unlikely. Right now, every ship in Matt’s squadron was essential where it was. They’d bottled up the approaches to Singapore and captured or destroyed a few ships—mostly leaving. His assault was essentially awaiting only Ellis and Dowden, and the extra weight of metal her broadside might add to the fight. He’d recommend to Adar that they send a small garrison to Tjilatjap and maybe at least begin recovery and stabilization efforts. That made good sense. But right now, his own plate was heaping full.
“A hell of a thing,” Garrett commented, reading over his shoulder. “If we’d had those planes in the Philippines, we might still be there.”
Matt grunted. “We had a hell of a lot more than that to start with and it didn’t matter much. I don’t know. MacArthur might have been some kind of Army genius, but he understood even less about his own Air Corps than he did about naval operations.” He frowned. “I kind of wish we had him with us now, though. How’s Pete’s attack plan coming?”
“Pretty good, I think.” Garrett looked at Matt. “Pete’s done a swell job. I wouldn’t be pining for that Army prima donna if I were you.”
Matt laughed. “Not ‘pining,’ but I do wish I had someone else to bounce Pete’s plans off of.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Skipper. You’ve done fine onshore.” Garrett looked thoughtful. “Besides, you have Rolak and Queen Maraan. Unlike our sea folk friends, they’ve been fighting on land all their lives. Pete and Safir did a good job chopping up that Grik force on Madura . . . I mean, B’mbaado.”
“They sure did,” Matt reflected. He took a breath. “Jim should be here in three days. Four at the outside—if the weather holds. Don’t forget, this is the stormy time of year!” He chuckled grimly. Protection from the terrible “Strakkas” that struck the region was another reason they needed Singapore in their hands. “We’ll pass the word via wireless or couriers for all ships to assemble just west of Bintan Island at that time. We’ll have a final conference before we kick off the show.”
“You want to invite Jenks?”
Matt nodded. “He’s seen why we fight now and I think he’s more sympathetic than ever before. He’ll want to see how we fight. I think I’ll give him a chance to get in closer this time, if he likes.”
Captain Jim Ellis was piped aboard Donaghey and received a warm welcome. Dowden had made a quick passage, mostly under sail with the stout winds of some distant storm. He was a little surprised to be openly congratulated for his find—he still hadn’t told his crew what he’d seen—and only his wireless operator and exec knew what the flurry of transmissions, prodded mostly by Ben Mallory, were about.
“Doesn’t matter, Jim,” Matt told him. “Adar has already sent a small force to secure the area. He wouldn’t let Mallory go; he’s still training pilots for the Nancys and he’s fit to bust! But if we’re successful, he’ll have plenty of time to go play with his new toys.”
“You’re not going to give him a squadron, or wing, or whatever?” Jim asked.
“Hell, no! He’s taught some guys and ’Cats to fly, but he’s the only man we’ve got who’s ever actually had real pilot training. He majored in aeronautical engineering at West Point, too. Even flew with Colonel Doolittle a few times. How do you think he got the Nancys up so fast?”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t brag on it. I didn’t know it either until he started pitching for the Nancys in the first place. In hindsight, we never should’ve let him risk his neck so much in that old PBY Catalina.”
“But then we’d all be dead.”
Matt nodded philosophically. “True. As a matter of fact, if we still had the damn thing, I’d tell him to take it up and scout Singapore for us.”
“What do we know?”
“Not much. C’mon, let’s adjourn to the wardroom. Juan’ll fix you something cool to drink while the rest of the captains and commanders arrive.”
Dennis Silva was hunting, as usual, during his free time. Besides being a pleasant diversion for him, it was an increasingly important chore. With so many foreign troops, artisans, and laborers in Baalkpan, the city needed more fresh meat than ever before, and the depleted fishing fleet was stretched to the limit. The ubiquitous polta fruit supplied a wide variety of nutrients the ’Cats, and apparently humans, needed, and other fruits and some vegetables were used as well, but both species needed plenty of animal protein. That left Silva with all the justification he needed to “go a-huntin’ ” regularly.
He did sometimes find himself craving some of the strangest things, though—stuff he’d always hated. Like beets. The killing grounds around Baalkpan had been planted with many different varieties of tuber and there was a root that tasted a little like beets that he sort of liked. It was odd. He’d always shunned vegetables as superfluous, useless things that took up space on his plate where more meat could have been. Now, some days, he figured he’d kill for a tomato—or a mess of black-eyed peas. Regardless, hunting was necessary. It got him out of the “house,” away from the women, and let him kill things on a regular basis.
Pam and Risa were swell, but they had a tendency to coddle him. That could get old, despite the benefits. Technically, he was still sort of convalescing, but he felt as good as he figured he ever would. He was up to full speed working in the factory for Campeti or fooling around with Bernie’s projects, but when he had any spare time at all, he headed for the jungle with the Hunter.
The Hunter was a scrawny, almost ancient Lemurian with a silver-streaked pelt and several missing teeth. He was barely taller than Rebecca, but like most ’Cats, he was incredibly strong. His weapon of choice was a massive crossbow that probably weighed as much as he did, and he carried it with a nonchalant ease Silva could only envy. He had guts too. Silva remembered when “Moe” (he called the Hunter Moe, since if the old ’Cat ever had a real name, he didn’t remember it) had used himself to bait the super lizard that got Tony Scott so Silva could avenge his friend. They’d finally managed to kill the thing, but it was a close call and one of the reasons Dennis had built his massive Super Lizard Gun. So far, he hadn’t found any super lizards to test it on. It killed the absolute, literal hell out of the big, dangerous rhino-pigs he and Moe pursued for their succulent meat, but rhino-pigs weren’t much of a challenge for the thing. He’d taken to waiting for the creatures to bunch up so he could see how many the gun would kill with a single shot. So far, the record was four.
Enjoyable as any day in the
woods was, Dennis and Moe rather doubted they’d get much chance to test the big gun’s potential on this trip. In addition to the usual bearers they brought to deal with their kills, Courtney Bradford, Lawrence, and Abel Cook had tagged along. Lawrence’s fieldcraft wasn’t bad. His species were natural predators, and the little guy had an almost childlike desire to please. He also really liked Silva, even though the big man had shot him once. The fact that his adored Rebecca liked him and considered Silva a demented big brother was probably sufficient explanation. Lawrence wasn’t the problem. Courtney Bradford and his young protégé, Abel Cook, still had a lot to learn.
The bearers hung back, letting Dennis and Moe do all the hunting, but Bradford and Cook stayed right up with them. It irked Silva a little, but he figured Abel needed to do more “man stuff” and Bradford was, well, Bradford. He didn’t come along often. He was a busy, much-sought-after man. He could be a pain in the ass in the field, making too much noise or chasing after a lizard, but Dennis enjoyed it when he was around. Courtney was a hoot, and too much seriousness was hard on Dennis Silva. He missed the conversation Courtney provided, no matter how bizarre.
“What’s that?” Silva whispered as a small, striped reptile that looked like a fat ribbon snake with legs scampered across their path. They were hunting the pipeline cut where they’d killed the super lizard, and the earth was thick and mushy beneath their feet. Moe murmured something unpronounceable and shrugged. Probably not something fit to eat then, Silva decided. Certainly not worth the abuse of a shot. He wondered what Courtney Bradford would have done if he’d seen it. Chase after it on all fours, most likely. At the moment, Courtney was absorbed by retelling the legendary Super Lizard Safari to Abel.
Moe held up a hand and they all froze. He’d sensed something. Motioning them down to the moldy turf, he beckoned them to follow on their bellies. Slowly scooching along almost soundlessly in the damp, rotting material, they moved ahead. Courtney’s tale had ceased. Maybe he was starting to get it after all. Moe eased a little farther ahead of them, stopped again, then turned to look back, grinning.
“Rhino-pigs, many,” he hissed. “Come up. We have wind so they not smell, but they hear good. Be quiet!”
Even slower, Silva crept forward. Lawrence practically flowed beside him, silent as death. Bradford and Abel brought up the rear. They began to hear the heavy thud of hooves and an incessant, contented grunting. Silva reached Moe’s position and peered over a little mound that might once have been a tree.
“Quite a swarm,” he acknowledged. “They’re just rootin’ along. Don’t seem too worried. I guess you were right. It takes a while for another super lizard to move in on an old one’s territory.”
“Too far?” Moe asked.
Dennis calculated the range. It was only about a hundred yards to the pack of animals, but he wanted to get as many as he could with a single shot. That was part of the game as well as his stated “field test” rationale.
“Nah. It oughta do. If anything, we might be too close. Speed don’t always mean penetration, an’ it ain’t like I can reduce my charge.” Carefully, he eased the big gun forward.
Rhino-pigs looked much like their cousins back home. Sort of like giant razorbacks with bigger tusks and an odd-looking horn on the top of their heads. At first glance, Dennis hadn’t really thought the horn would be good for much, but once he’d seen one take off like a hot torpedo, he’d realized that the forward-hooking horn would be bad news for a taller predator’s exposed underbelly. The tusks would slash a man as wickedly as their Alabama brethren. Of course, at six hundred to a thousand pounds, they could just stomp you into paste, too.
“How exciting!” murmured Bradford, joining them at last. “Which one will you take?” Abel said nothing, but he was clearly fascinated.
Dennis eased the gun farther forward until the butt plate rested against his shoulder. He really wasn’t looking forward to firing the thing from a prone position. He reached forward and adjusted the rear sight’s elevation. As powerful as the weapon was, it had a markedly high trajectory and he’d sighted it in for fifty-yard intervals. When raised, the rear sight stood about four inches high, and the range markers were considerably farther apart the higher they went.
“I’ll take ’em as they come,” he announced. He was trying a new bullet today. It was essentially the same lead slug he’d used before, but it was capped and cored with a pointed bronze “penetrator.” The penetrator made the bullet a little longer, to keep the same weight, and he wasn’t entirely sure it would be as stable in flight. He settled in on the stock and peered through the sights. A mighty boar was shoveling great snoutfuls of turf aside as it searched for insects and roots. The clacking, gnashing sounds of tusks were constant.
“You go for big bull . . . boar . . .” Moe said. “I tell when most are best.”
“Sure.”
“Why not shoot now?” Abel asked. “There are half a dozen behind him.”
“Gotta line up their vitals, not just their bodies,” Silva answered absently. He checked his priming powder and thumbed the hammer to full cock. Settling back in, he caressed the trigger, waiting for the word.
The wait seemed interminable. A couple of times, Moe tensed, and it seemed like he was about to give the signal, but then he relaxed slightly. Through it all, Silva was as still as stone except for the tiny adjustments he made to his aim, following the vitals of the big boar. Sweat dripped unnoticed down his face and soaked the black patch covering his left eye.
“Now,” said Moe, without any warning at all. Almost before the word was fully uttered, Silva squeezed the trigger. The flint leaped forward, scraping a shower of yellow-hot sparks from the frizzen and kicking it open to expose the priming powder. A jet of flame and white smoke erupted in front of Silva’s face, and with a horrendous cracking roar, the main charge vomited the quarter pound missile from the barrel—and heaved Silva’s shoulder a foot backward. There was a nightmarish shrieking squeal that reverberated in the cut, and through the smoke they saw the big boar perform an almost vertical leaping lunge. He collapsed in the turf, back feet kicking spastically. There was pandemonium among the rest of the herd. Two other dark shapes lay where they’d fallen; another was performing writhing cartwheels. The rest were thundering in all directions like small locomotives gone amok. One large beast came directly at them, and Moe let fly with his massive crossbow, driving a shaft through the charging creature’s snout and probably straight into its brain. It collapsed in a heap perhaps a dozen yards short of their position. That fast, all the surviving rhino-pigs were gone, vanishing into the dense growth on either side of the cut.
Silva was standing, already pouring another charge of powder down the massive gun. “Whoo-ee!” he said excitedly. “Good stick, Moe! I figgered I was gonna hafta poke that last one off us with my rifle muzzle!” He shook his head and slapped the holstered 1911 Colt at his side. “Never would’ve even got my pistol out!”
Lawrence scampered forward with nothing but a short spear. With a peculiar cry, he plunged it into the one still-thrashing pig.
Dennis nodded toward him, smiling. “Junior’s growin’ up,” he said, almost wistfully. “Come on, fellas. Let’s see how many we got besides ol’ Moe’s there!”
Having heard the shot, the bearers were already approaching. They knew whenever Silva fired his big gun, there’d be work to do.
Abel stared at Moe’s rhino-pig as they passed it. “Will they clean the beasts here?” he asked.
“Sure. No sense waggin’ their guts back. Makes ’em lighter.”
“I’d like to watch.” He looked at Silva. “Not that I’m finished watching you, sir! You are every bit as fascinating as any entrails, I’m sure!”
Silva blinked. “Yeah, well, thanks.” With his rifle fully loaded and at the ready, Silva marched forward to view the carnage he’d created. “Four for sure.” He beamed. “Big sumbitches line up, little sumbitches bunch up!” He held out the Doom Whomper. “What a gun!”
&nbs
p; “Two ’lood trails!” Lawrence announced. His voice was a little shaky, but he seemed excited. He was spattered with the blood of the pig he’d finished. Dennis sobered.
“Rats. We’ll hafta go after ’em, and they’re dangerous enough when they ain’t hurt and sore at you. Mr. Bradford, why don’t you and young Abel here stay and study these boogers while the bearers cut ’em up. Me and Moe”—he glanced at the “lizard”—“and Larry’ll track these other ones.”
They quickly found the first rhino-pig. It hadn’t gone far and had probably bled out within moments of being hit. Silva wasn’t sure which one it was in the lineup, but the entry and exit wounds were quite large and about the same size, so he figured it was toward the back. Moe trilled a call to the bearers and, returning to the cut, the three trackers commenced following the final blood trail. This one put them a little on edge, and they’d saved it for last for a reason. Moe said the color of the blood indicated a liver hit. A fatal wound certainly, but not necessarily immediately fatal. The more time they gave the beast to die in peace, the less likely it would be to kill one of them when they found it.
They advanced carefully. Rhino-pigs were notorious for playing dead when wounded. Sometimes, their last act was to charge a tracker, taking revenge with its final breath. Moe always said never to approach a “dead” rhino-pig lying on his belly. One that was really dead couldn’t lie like that; it would always lie on its side. If it was on its belly, it was poised to strike.
Distant Thunders Page 31
