“Okay. Actually, the only ‘unusual’ stuff we found is the wireless shack, aft, I told you about already, and . . . well, I think I found the captain’s cabin. Pretty sure there was a Jap in there, judging by the bed and a few personal items. Bastard must’ve left in a hurry.”
“So your survey’s complete?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And your recommendation?”
Spanky spread his hands. “I don’t really know. I’m tryin’ to keep an open mind. The engine’s junk, like I said, and so’s the main armament. You probably noticed all those empty slots where guns used to be? I bet they burst, and that makes ’em as dangerous to the crews servin’ ’em as to the enemy. Frankly, I gotta recommend we break her up for the iron.” He paused before continuing. “That said, the hull’s sound. Just because I can’t think of anything to use it for right off doesn’t mean our ’Cat engineers can’t. One of ’em even suggested we make a kind of ‘attack carrier’ out of her, sorta like Big Sal acted like during First Madras. Protect her against long-range fire, maybe plate the flight deck, and put some of our new four-inch-fifties on her, as they come out of Baalkpan. They might even add some of the heavier rifled guns they’re working on—though I don’t think they’ve settled on muzzle-loaders or bag guns. Muzzle-loaders are easier to make, but you can load the bag guns from the breech, behind protection. Either way, make something like that out of both prizes, reengine ’em, and convert ’em to burn oil. That might be pretty slick.”
Matt nodded, smiling. “Okay, that’s what we’ll do: give the ’Cat engineers their head. They know what they’re doing, and they’ve earned the chance. God knows they’re coming up with new angles on old ideas faster than we are nowadays.”
“With respect, Skipper, for you and them, part of that might be because there’s a lot fewer of us left to experiment on stuff.”
“Could be, Spanky,” Matt answered sadly, his smile vanishing, “and liable to be fewer after this next push. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Matt was still in a dark mood when they emerged on the gangway, back in the clean air and bright sunshine. When he turned to salute the colors again, however, he paused and pointed at the Jap-Grik flag. “Have somebody run up there and tear that damn rag down!” he told the Lemurian still stationed there.
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!”
They finally reached the gangway to board USNRS Salissa (CV-1). The vessel had once been a great seagoing “Home” for thousands, with high pagoda-like apartments within three tall tripod masts supporting huge sails, or “wings.” Salissa, or “Big Sal” as the first American destroyermen dubbed her, had been rebuilt into the first aircraft carrier on this world after her near destruction by the Japanese Imperial battle cruiser Amagi during the Battle of Baalkpan Bay. Ironically, sunken Amagi’s steel had gone into creating the thousand-foot ship’s power plant, as well as much of her other machinery. Amagi continued contributing a great deal to the cause of defeating her former Grik/Japanese masters. Other carriers had since been converted or purpose built; two more were under repair in this very harbor. But Salissa was the first, and her people had been the first that Walker’s ever met on this world. Matt, Sandra, and Spanky were going aboard now to confer with all the commanders or their representatives on this front, but most especially their dear friends “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa’s High Chief, and Adar, who, though now High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, had once merely been Salissa’s High Sky Priest.
“Good morning, Captain Reddy, Commander Reddy, Commander McFarlane,” came a Brooklyn-accented voice behind them. They turned before mounting the gangway.
“Pam!” Sandra greeted the other woman happily. Pam Cross was Walker’s surgeon, but she’d been ashore in a makeshift hospital ever since the battle—as had Sandra. But there’d been so many wounded, several hospitals had been established, and the two women hadn’t seen much of each other.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Cross,” Matt said with a smile, returning her salute. “Glad you could get away.” The conference was more than just a meeting of commanders. Matt wanted as many department heads as possible from the various ships, particularly those slated for the mission, to attend as well.
“At least we’re not the only ones late!” Sandra giggled.
“Well, yah, maybe you are.” Pam grinned. “I been waitin’ down here for ya, smokin’ these PIG-cigs.” She grimaced and flicked one of the smoldering things into the dirty water alongside. “PIG” was an acronym for the Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co. It was named after the ’Cat and two very strange men who’d perfected a secret process for removing the vile, waxy coating that prevented Lemurian tobacco from being smoked. Considering the terrible, ammonia-tinged taste and smell of the cigarettes Pepper produced (he was in charge of manufacture), the nickname was probably permanent. “Nasty, yucky things,” Pam muttered. “I ain’t sure if you ought’a give those guys a medal for makin’ ’Cat tobacco smokable, er throw ’em in irons! Anyway, I figured I’d just wait here. The big huddle won’t start without you guys.” She looked beyond them. “You all by yourselves? Where’s the ‘Captain’s Guard’?”
“We sent Chief Gray ahead, and the rest of the fellas have plenty to do. No need for them to waste time watching us.” Matt chuckled.
“So Silva ain’t back yet?”
Matt and Sandra both knew Dennis Silva, a powerful, dangerous, and at least moderately depraved chief gunner’s mate, and Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross still had a “thing,” even if they’d tried to hide it.
“Back?” Matt asked, realizing Silva probably would’ve tagged along with them as one of their more dedicated guards if he wasn’t off doing something else.
Pam waved a hand. “Oh, never mind. What’s it to me? I’ll be happy to escort you aboard, now you’re here.”
Big Sal’s spacious admiral’s quarters doubled as a conference room, and it was packed when the four of them entered to applause. Matt’s face heated. He was uncomfortable with that kind of attention, and despite all that had gone before, the level it had reached from here to Maa-ni-la was kind of new. He consoled himself with the rationalization that the recent victory remained cause for celebration and they hadn’t all been together like this since. Besides, he wasn’t necessarily the focus of the praise, as much as he represented—almost personified—his ship, her people, and all they’d accomplished together. That was traditional and normal, and therefore a little more acceptable to him. Furthermore, since Walker’s participation in the most recent battle had been somewhat limited, he suspected the greater share of enthusiasm reflected the popularity of the mission they were about to undertake. Pam peeled off, and Matt, Sandra, and Spanky nodded and smiled as they moved through the crowd toward the large central table.
Keje was standing, grinning hugely. He wore his Navy white tunic and kilt without his armor for once, and his dark, rust-colored fur contrasted starkly with the fabric. Beside him, taller and much thinner than his lifelong friend, stood Chairman Adar. As always, he was dressed in what had long been irreverently referred to as his “Sky Priest suit,” consisting of a hooded robe, dark purple with embroidered stars flecked across the shoulders. The metallic eyes set in the gray fur covering his face looked tired but pleased and excited. Other faces Matt knew well beamed back at him from around the table. Pete Alden, former Marine sergeant aboard the doomed USS Houston, and now general of the Allied armies and Marines, nodded with a smile on his haggard face. He and Matt had spoken often in the last few days. Beside him was General Queen Protector Safir Maraan of B’mbaado, commanding what remained of II Corps. Matt hadn’t seen her since the battle, but he knew she’d been lightly wounded. She didn’t show it, resplendent as always in a new silver-washed cuirass and black cape and kilt that accentuated her shape, deep ebony fur, and bright silver eyes that blinked happily at him from her exotic face. Matt knew she’d been info
rmed that this meeting would confirm that she and her Corps would participate in what had originally been proposed as a strong raid, but was now shaping into something a little more ambitious. Perhaps just as important to her, she’d finally join her long-absent love, Chack-Sab-At, now preparing for their arrival at the island of Diego Garcia.
Next to her, his hand protectively on her shoulder, was General Lord Muln Rolak of Aryaal. Enemies before the Great War, they’d grown as close as father and daughter. Matt looked carefully and saw that Rolak’s old, battle-scarred face did not look pleased. He suddenly reflected that Lemurians really were a lot more expressive than he’d originally thought. Their tails, ears, and patterns of blinking conveyed a wealth of body language, but after more than two years among them, he’d learned to spot very subtle facial expressions as well. Rolak, always urbane and stoic, was better at hiding even those small motions than most, but he’d doubtless heard that his I Corps wouldn’t be making the trip. At least not at first.
Elsewhere around the table were other familiar faces. One of them was Colonel Ben Mallory, currently commanding the 3rd Pursuit Squadron, but still in charge of all Army and Navy air. The pride of the 3rd remained a dwindling number of P-40E Warhawks, salvaged from a Chill-chaap swamp. Matt noted that he seemed to be brooding about something. Beside him was Commander Jis-Tikkar, or “Tikker,” COFO of Big Sal’s 1st Naval Air Wing. With them was Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom, a hot pilot who’d once been a torpedoman, but who’d stay behind to command Pete’s combined Army and Navy air. His expression was a lot like Ben’s, and Matt suspected he knew the source of Colonel Mallory’s displeasure.
There were more, all of them men and ’Cats Matt knew well. Just “regular guys” who’d become heroes, leaders of a generation from two worlds—or was it more? he absently asked himself—caught up in an unimaginably bitter war for survival. He loved most of them like family. They were his family, he realized, and far too many were gone forever. Finally, he nodded at Commander Simon Herring, their “new” director of strategic intelligence. Herring remained inscrutable to Matt. He’d started as an insufferable martinet, opposed to the raid as originally conceived, but now, apparently, one of Matt’s biggest strategic supporters. He shook his head and looked around. Where’s Courtney? He should be here, and a lot of us are waiting to hear his theories about, well, a lot of recent revelations. He frowned.
Courtney Bradford was an Australian petroleum engineer, rescued from Java during the Old War. More important, he was a naturalist and the Allied Minister of Science. He was an extremely valuable and engaging man, but if he had a fault, it was his unruly “stream of consciousness” thought process. Chief Gray, Walker’s “Super Bosun,” once referred to Bradford’s mind as a “BB in a vacuum cleaner,” and it wasn’t a bad metaphor. Matt had a few ideas about the discoveries Chack and Captain Garrett had made, based on his historical background, but Courtney had been hinting a lot lately about the “how” of it all. Matt sighed. Most likely, he’s on his hands and knees, following some bug around the jungle, and has completely forgotten about this meeting. As a matter of fact, that’s probably where Silva is too. Protecting him. But Silva at least should’ve been keeping track of time!
Adar sat, and so did everyone, quickly quieting as the conference began. “My friends, my people,” Adar said, then added, “Gentlemen and ladies,” for the benefit and chagrin of some of the Imperials present. Even Matt felt that jab. All Lemurians fought, male and female, indiscriminately. Many former Imperial women, once virtual slaves, were fighting now as well. Soon, the Empire of the New Britain Isles would have an integrated navy, at least. It was necessary, and only made sense—particularly as far as the ’Cats were concerned. To them, a female not allowed to do whatever a male could do was not as free as the male. It was that simple. “We are here to announce the final dispositions for what I hope might prove a decisive campaign against the hated Grik!” Adar continued. “Much has been decided already, including the straa-ti-gee and objective.” He glanced at Herring. “Doubtless, many of you have guessed those dispositions already, but I must stress the need for secrecy. Not only is it sadly possible the Doms, who can infiltrate our ranks quite easily, might make use of what they learn, but we are now in almost daily contact with the Grik across”—he blinked concern at Alden—“across the cease-fire line that separates our forces from theirs in Indiaa. I do not expect the . . . truce . . . to hold for long, but in the meantime, we must guard our words!”
Alden and Rolak nodded. They’d learned a lot about the Grik from their brief talks with General Halik, and even more from “General” Niwa, Halik’s Japanese friend now in their care. But Halik was sharp. He might’ve learned just as much from them.
“Ultimately, it is most important that Halik not know we shift any focus from him. He will only see our strength here grow, and must not suspect we divert any to another front.” He blinked compassion at Rolak. “This is one reason you and General Alden must remain. He knows you both, and he could miss you from the talks if you leave. But he has not met our dear Queen Protector Safir Maraan. Besides, when we do strike Halik again, we will need you here,” he finished brusquely. He understood why Alden agreed to a cease-fire, but the very thought of an accommodation with the Grik struck him as perverse. He wanted Alden and Rolak to resume the offensive as quickly as possible. Adar looked at Matt. “And, of course, we are not taking a great deal of our strength on this mission in any event. Cap-i-taan Reddy?”
“That’s right, Mr. Chairman. We’ll take more than originally planned so we’ll be ready if a big opportunity pops, but with more troops coming in here all the time, the departure of Second Corps shouldn’t make a difference.” Matt didn’t point out that II Corps had been decimated, and it too would be composed largely of replacements and new recruits, but he saw Safir’s predatory grin when he confirmed she was going. He smiled at her. “I understand you want to take cavalry. I agree that’s a good idea; the Grik don’t seem to like it at all, and it gives us an edge when it comes to recon, rapid deployment, and screening troop movements. But I’m still not sure how that’s going to work. We’re talking about a long voyage. How will we keep ‘meanies’ from going nuts and trying to eat our crews?”
There was laughter. Me-naaks, or “meanies,” were cavalry mounts indigenous to the Fil-pin Lands, and looked like long-legged crocodiles with an armored case protecting their abdomens. They were notoriously ill-tempered, and usually wore muzzles to keep them from biting even their riders in combat.
Safir smiled back at him. “It required a long voyage to get them here,” she reminded, “and I’m told that they will remain quite happy aboard ship as long as they are well fed.” She glanced at a Lemurian standing behind her. “And besides, I have grown to value Major Saachic’s services—and valor.” By all accounts, Saachic had become one hell of a “cav-’Cat,” but Matt figured he would’ve blushed at the praise if he could.
“What am I supposed to use for cav?” Pete protested. Matt looked down the table at a large, wildly bearded man named Dalibor Svec, and raised his eyebrows. Svec styled himself a colonel in what he called the “Brotherhood of Volunteers,” and even though his “brotherhood” was primarily composed of a previously unknown continental tribe of Lemurians, some of his people were obviously—somehow—aging veterans of what Matt remembered as the Czech Legion. From previous conversations, Matt had learned that Svec’s Czechs and Slovaks had been involved in that bizarre odyssey at the end of the Great War (back home) when sixty-odd thousand of his comrades, fighting with the Russians, had been stranded on the Eastern Front when the Bolsheviks made a separate peace with Germany. His people were promised safe conduct out of their positions, but when Trotsky tried to arrest them and take their arms, they rebelled. The “Legion” had been spread out up and down the Trans-Siberian Railroad by that time, and fought a series of bitter battles against the Bolsheviks to consolidate their forces at Vladivostok. Matt knew what happened ne
xt, but Svec and his two hundred or so riflemen never did. It was during that time they’d somehow wound up on this different earth.
Matt was fascinated by Svec’s story of how his people survived, joining forces with Lemurians who’d once inhabited northern India—driven there, and then still farther by the encroaching Grik they didn’t dare confront—and he was anxious to hear more. He was particularly interested to learn why they wound up where they did and, well, how. Svec’s people were the first they’d ever encountered who didn’t come to this world by sea. Irritation flashed. That was another reason he’d wanted Courtney here! The Australian had heard of the legionnaires, but hadn’t talked to them yet. Matt focused back on Svec. Infantryman or not, he and all his people, human and Lemurian, had become outstanding cavalry, riding beasts every bit as frightening-looking as me-naaks, even if they weren’t carnivores. They’d been poorly armed with crude flintlocks for the most part, built in their primitive, nomadic villages, but they also had a few old Moisen Nagants. They retained ancient knowledge of the region, as well as a tradition of surveillance. They even attacked isolated groups of Grik when the opportunity arose to do so without leaving witnesses, so they knew the country very well. They’d just “shown up” at the climax of the battle for Alden’s Perimeter, after apparently watching for some time, waiting to see if the Allies truly had a chance against their hereditary enemy. Convinced now that they did, they were anxious to get on with it, and were just as frustrated as Adar by Pete’s cease-fire.
“What’s your current strength, Colonel Svec?” Matt asked.
“A full brigade,” Svec said proudly in heavily accented English. It was good that he spoke it, since his Lemurians and Matt’s could barely understand one another. “Two regiments as you count such things. More are coming now.”
“Good. You’ve been under Saachic’s command since you arrived, but can you do without him?” What Matt meant was, “Will you cooperate without him watching over you?” Svec smiled. “My volunteers will behave,” he assured, “now that we know the fight is not over, just postponed. We understand well the need to gather one’s strength!” He gestured around. “And we know you do not really make peace with the Gaarik.” His expression darkened. “Our friends have made peace with our enemies before, and at first, we thought that was the case again. Now we know it is not, we will cooperate fully with General Alden, and eagerly await the day we can kill the Gaarik and drive him from this land at last!”
Deadly Shores Page 4
