“Holy shit!” was all Tex had time to screech before it blew him off his feet with a concentrated burst of seawater. Instantly, the monster lunged at him.
“Well . . . fire, damn it!” Irvin yelled.
Danny opened up with his Thompson, spraying chunks off the beast in all directions. The black powder loads under his bullets created a fog bank of white smoke around him. The thing recoiled from the impacts and writhed in agony. The other riflemen had recovered somewhat from the sudden appearance and attack and were scrambling to shoot without hitting one another. Irvin stepped forward, firing his pistol. He’d never fired any of the new loads before and was surprised not only by the smoke, but by the significantly greater recoil and loud boom that came with every shot instead of the usual sharp bark. The hideous creature turned to face him and he steeled himself for another blast of water. This time, however, there was only a meager, bloody splurt, and as he emptied his magazine, the creature suddenly flopped on its back and began to spasm violently. Irvin ran to Tex and grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him farther from the dying beast. Tex seemed unconscious, and where his shirt had torn, Irvin could see a dark red impact point on his chest.
“Cease firing!” he shouted at the men and ’Cats who were still shooting at the creature. Any twitching movement was sufficient proof to them that more bullets were called for. “Get over here! Help me with this man!”
Irvin was feeling for a pulse when Tex suddenly groaned. “Oh, Jesus, that hurts.” He gasped.
“What does?”
“What do you think! It feels like that thing squirted a fourteen-inch shell at me!”
Irvin gently tore the rest of the shirt away. The red mark was already turning black. “Lie still! You may have some broken ribs! No wonder it was able to knock the ’Cat off the gangway! You’re lucky it didn’t stop your heart.”
“I think it did, for a minute.”
“Well . . . we don’t have a real doctor. Sid knows a thing or two. Should be able to tell if anything’s broken. You’ll be taking it easy for a while, anyway.” He motioned for some ’Cats to move Tex under the lean-to he’d been napping under. “Danny, form a detail to bury our man,” he said, referring to the half-eaten ’Cat. “And get that damn nasty thing’s corpse out of my sight!”
“Yes, sir,” Danny said. Only later did it occur to Irvin that the man had called him “sir.” He raised the 1911 Colt and looked at it. Filthy. The new rounds might work okay, but they sure dirtied up a gun. “Mr. Hardee, you and Spook gather up all the weapons that were fired and clean them thoroughly. Step on it, too. No telling when we’ll need them again.”
Irvin sighed and looked at the submarine while workers either resumed their tasks or performed the duties he’d just ordered. Somehow, he’d managed to last until no one was looking before the shakes overtook him. For a long moment, he just held his trembling hands tight against his sides, waiting for the spell to pass—hoping it was just a spell. He’d been wondering more and more whether he was ready for this. In the past, he’d always had someone to turn to, to turn things over to when it started getting rough. Now he was it. He had to come to grips with that. Ultimately, that was the real test Captain Reddy had given him, and in an even greater sense it was the test he’d set himself.
So far, in spite of everything, they’d made a lot of progress. S-19 hadn’t been badly damaged before it wound up here, just out of fuel. Time and the elements had treated her more harshly than the Japanese did. “Task Force S-19” had done good work and with any luck, they’d get her off eventually. The trouble was, did they have time? Would the island even let them go? One thing was almost certain: they’d lose more people before they were done. He hoped it would be worth it, and he hoped he wouldn’t lose his mind—or his nerve. He wished Lelaa were here!
Without noticing when it happened, he realized that his hands had stopped shaking. It was just a spell after all, he decided. This time. He looked at the lean-to, where Sid was inspecting Sheider. They were talking in low tones and he even heard a faint laugh. He shook his head and started back toward the sub.
Lelaa was mad as hell. She’d had Simms heaved to, just as the commander of the steamer had instructed. Her orders were not to fire on the Imperial ship for any reason, and while she understood the orders, she was still frustrated. Not that it would have done much good. The Imperial frigate was more than a match for her and both sides knew it. Still, this order to heave to only added insult to injury. Two feluccas, the ones she’d been dispatched to meet, had also loosed their sails.
Their mission had been to avoid contact, to observe from a distance and report, but the wind had died away and the steamer came to them. Helpless now, all they could do was what they were told. The enemy (she could think of it as nothing else) steamer closed the distance until she saw a form raise a speaking trumpet.
“I am impressed by your people’s persistence,” an amplified but distorted voice called, “but this is becoming ridiculous. I can’t have you hounding us all the way to our destination! This is the last time I will suffer any interference! The next Allied vessel that crosses my path will be destroyed.”
Lelaa quickly motioned for a speaking trumpet as well. Raising it to her lips, she caught herself wishing Irvin were there. She knew her English was better than good, but he’d always just seemed to have a way about him. “Excuse me, please,” she called back. “We have neither the desire nor the ability to interfere with your progress. It is you who closed the distance with us. Our mission is merely to ensure that the hostages are safe and well. This is no more than I understand you invited us to do!”
“That is all? You don’t mean to menace us with your mighty fleet?” mocked the voice.
Lelaa’s tail swished with rage, but she managed a civil reply. “That is all, I assure you.”
The man across the water didn’t speak for a while, as if he were considering something. Finally he raised the trumpet again. “Since, as I said, this is the last time I will be bothered by you or your Alliance, I will allow you to come across and interview my guests. Come aboard alone. If I see any weapons, you will be fired upon!”
Lelaa lowered her trumpet, stunned. “Hoist out a boat,” she said.
Clambering up the side of the Imperial frigate, Lelaa was not met by the sort of side party she’d grown to expect. Instead, a pair of armed men essentially took her into custody and escorted her to a small gathering by the rail. She’d never actually met Princess Rebecca, but she recognized her on sight. She bowed. “Greetings, Your Highness,” she said in her most respectful tone. “I trust you and your companions are well?”
“Look. The monkey talks!” muttered a large, dangerous-looking man in the group.
“There, there, Mr. Truelove! Let’s attempt to be civil!” admonished another, probably Billingsly, Lelaa decided.
“Well enough,” the girl replied. “For now.” She seared the one who must be Billingsly with a glare. “But one takes these things day by day.”
Lelaa addressed Billingsly. “And what of the other hostages? She says they are well, but where are they? Have you any idea how important they are to us?”
Billingsly smiled. “Honestly, at first I did not. I expected my resolve to be tested and I’d be forced to, um, release a few of them over the side, as it were. Imagine my surprise when that did not occur! We quickly learned the truth of the matter. We knew who the Roman witch was, but good gracious! You cannot imagine how amazed we were to discover one of our guests, the noble Minister Sandra Tucker, is practically affianced to your Supreme Commander!” He chuckled. “Honestly, I confess to a professional lapse. I never had any idea, yet the young princess let it slip as if it were common knowledge!”
Rebecca loosed a glare of perfect hatred at Billingsly.
“I’ll wager your Captain Reddy was a tad upset? I understand you have some means of rapid communication, so I expect he has been informed.”
“He knows,” Lelaa admitted, “and I submit that you cannot im
agine the wrath you have brought down upon yourself!”
“Oh, splendid!”
Lelaa was confused. “In any event, if any of the hostages have been mistreated . . .”
“Not a hair on their heads! They are confined, of course—no end to mischief in a couple of them—but their wounds are healing nicely and they thrive in their accommodations. It is a bit cramped, and I’m afraid privacy is at a premium, but no one would say they’ve been mistreated!” A strange expression crossed Billingsly’s face. Unlike most Lemurians Lelaa was good with human face moving, but this was . . . different. “Nor will you be, so long as you behave.”
“What . . . what do you mean?”
Truelove laughed and Billingsly’s lips quirked into something like a smile. “Why, you will be joining them, of course.” He turned to a darker-skinned man with a graying mustache. “Is that ridiculous ship still there? I believe I gave them fair warning that I did not wish to be pestered again! Open fire!”
“What! Wait!” cried Lelaa, struggling against the two guards who’d suddenly seized her arms. “You said ‘the next time,’ damn you!”
Billingsly turned to her. “When you had the insolence, the gall to raise your speaking trumpet and answer back at me . . . at me! You who are not only a lesser species, but a female!” Billingsly barked an incredulous laugh. “That was the next time. Captain Rajendra, I gave you an order!”
The dark-skinned man replied, clearly forcing his voice to remain calm. “Commander Billingsly, firing on that ship would be an act of willful murder. They are completely unprepared. . . . Their guns are not even run out!”
“Then that should make destroying them all the easier. Destroy one of the other little ships as well; I don’t care which, but you may allow one to escape.”
“But, Commander!”
Still facing away, Billingsly spoke very clearly. “Destroy those ships, Captain Rajendra, or place yourself under arrest. Which will it be?”
“Simms!” Lelaa shrieked at the top of her lungs, hoping someone on the nearby ship might hear. “Hard over! Run!” Truelove backhanded her to the deck.
“Captain Rajendra?” Billingsly prodded.
Rajendra’s expression seemed almost desperate as he looked at those around him. This was beyond anything, beyond even the questionable seizure of the princess. This entire episode had been engineered to paint the Navy with the same guilt the Company wore. He could not be part of it! But what of the princess? He feared for her and her friends, and he knew the Company had an unwholesome agenda regarding her. If he was relieved, he would be unable to help her. His eyes sought hers and he saw . . . pleading. She would think him a monster and might not trust him when she absolutely had to. And yet, the ships were doomed. If he refused the order, another would carry it out. Presently, he at least retained command of his ship’s movements, if not her actions. He had to preserve that!
“Commence firing,” he whispered, barely audible, eyes locked on the princess, pleading for understanding.
“What was that, Captain? I’m a bit hard of hearing today.”
“Commence firing, God damn you!” Rajendra bellowed, not caring if Billingsly knew he was shouting at him and not the crew.
CHAPTER 22
Matt stood on Walker’s port bridge wing and, for just a while, allowed himself to feel the pure joy of the moment. At long last, his ship was alive again. He felt her sinews coiling for the rush in the vibration of the newly painted rail beneath his hands. Her hasty, impatient breath was in the blower behind the pilothouse. Her muscles were the men and ’Cats who scrambled on the fo’c’sle, a little awkwardly and out of practice perhaps, to single up her lines. Her heart was her own and always had been, but as he stood there, he almost felt her mind merge with his once more, becoming a willing tool for his purpose. Oh, if only Sandra were there, it would be the perfect moment. A measure of her old vitality restored, the ship fairly strained against the bonds that clutched her to the land. She was ready for the long voyage ahead, come what may. Together they’d get Sandra back: the old destroyer and her captain.
“Take in the stern lines,” Matt commanded, and he waited while the task was performed. “Left full rudder,” he called to Kutas, the scarred helmsman. “Port ahead one-third.” The dingy water alongside the dock boiled up through the propeller guard and thunderous cheers reverberated from the crowd gathered to see. Matt scanned the crowd for faces as Walker’s stern crept away. They were the ones who’d done this, the people of this city he’d grown to love. Partly they’d done it because this ship was their protector, the almost holy talisman that saved them from the Grik. They owed it to her; they needed her still—but the quality of the work they’d done and the inhuman hours that work had required bespoke a labor of love. Matt nodded his thanks to all of them, not only for what they had done for his ship, but for what he knew they’d done for him.
Some of the faces he saw were less jubilant than others. Adar appeared thoughtful, but he waved encouragingly. Judging by his posture, Keje was downright morose. He’d badly wanted to come, but Big Sal would soon join the fleet at Singapore. He couldn’t be in two places at once. Besides, his daughter Selass was sailing as Walker’s medical officer. They’d become quite close again and he would miss her. Letts looked anxious. He’d complained that he never got to go anywhere, but as Matt had once told him, he’d worked himself out of a job. He had a bigger job now and a very pregnant wife. Riggs looked stoic. Ed Palmer could do his job on the ship, but he couldn’t take over ashore. Perry Brister made an obscene gesture at somebody aft and Matt chuckled, spotting Spanky McFarlane waving cheerily from where the number one torpedo mount used to be. Spanky had left Brister in charge of his division in Baalkpan because there was no way Walker was steaming off without him.
Gazing farther aft, the incongruity of an airplane lashed carefully to the deck behind the searchlight tower struck Matt again. Besides never having seen such a thing on a four stacker before, the Nancy just looked so strange and fragile. He knew it would be great having it along—if it didn’t fall apart. Mallory had assured him the “ships” were tougher than they looked. Matt hoped the same was true for poor Reynolds. The young aviator seemed somewhat lost and all alone standing near the plane.
“Rudder amidships,” Matt called. “Take in the bowline.” A few moments later, he added, “All astern, one-third.” The old ship groaned a bit as the turbines’ gears reversed their thrust, but she did seem . . . tighter than he remembered. As they backed away, the crowd cheered again and Matt kept looking for faces as they grew smaller. Bernie was there, waving happily with the others. He liked his job ashore. Laney was some distance away from him, sitting on a stanchion, probably wondering if he was happy or sad. He caught sight of Pam Cross and Risa standing side by side. Whatever . . . relationship . . . they shared with Silva, they were worried about the big ape, and his heart went out to them. The final face he recognized was that of one of the Mice—Gilbert Yeager—standing all alone with his hands in his pockets. Tabby knew Walker’s systems as well as anyone now, and she’d won the toss. Matt was secretly amazed Gilbert hadn’t just sneaked aboard anyway. He’d done it before. Still, he was probably the most forlorn figure Walker was leaving behind.
“All stop. Right full rudder, all ahead two-thirds!” Matt commanded. The old ship’s stern crouched down and water churned. Almost immediately, she began a looping turn to starboard. “Honk the horn, if you please,” Matt said, and with a shriek of her whistle that drowned any further cheers, Walker sprinted for the mouth of the bay.
“Feels good, huh, Skipper,” said the Bosun as he and Chack appeared on the bridge. Back aboard his Home, Chack had immediately reverted to his role as bosun’s mate. He would have other duties too: his company of Marines would augment the crew, but it also had to drill with the new muskets they’d been issued. Bernie had insisted Walker get the first batch.
“Feels good,” Matt confirmed. “We’ll let things shake down a little; then we’ll start run
ning a few drills.”
“Gonna be a comedy at first,” Gray warned.
“I know. Say, where’s Mr. Bradford? I figured he’d be on deck to enjoy the send-off.”
“Oh, he’s below, still stowing junk he says you said he could bring along, for experiments an’ such.”
Matt laughed. “He hit me with a list and swore he’d stick to it, but I guess I don’t really care what he brought as long as it stays out of the way.” He shook his head, watching as they left the feluccas and fishing boats in their wake. “God, it feels good to be moving again!”
“In case you didn’t notice, we were moving along pretty well on Achilles in that Strakka!” Chack said dryly.
“Mmm. That was quite the thrill ride, but we were being pushed. It’s nice to move that fast on our own!”
They talked amiably until they passed below Fort Atkinson and the report of a gun interrupted their conversation. Then another.
“A salute,” Gray said. The guns kept firing. As the number mounted, Matt turned to Gray, who was staring expressionlessly ahead. When they finally stopped at nineteen, Matt’s tone was ominous.
“Nineteen guns? You told them to do that! Are you out of your mind? That’s nuts . . . and think of the wasted powder!”
Gray looked at Matt. “Yeah, Adar asked and I told him. And it ain’t nuts! The Secretary of the Navy gets that many, and if you ain’t at least that, what are you? You’d better dip the flag or you’ll disappoint the boys an’ girls in the fort.”
Walker turned north-northeast after clearing the point batteries and islands beyond. Sprinting at the glorious speed of twenty-six knots, she reached the refinery island of Tarakan at dawn the next morning. The growth was beginning to reestablish itself after the vicious but comparatively small battle once fought there, and the ensuing great fire that had ravaged the place. To Matt, it still seemed a little odd to see the Stars and Stripes flying over an island where not a single human currently dwelt. All the workers there were ’Cats—Navy ’Cats, and thus Americans—still. . . . Walker topped off her bunkers and sped on.
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