“You’re early,” Herring snapped quietly, closing the curtain but leaving a gap so he could see if anyone passed. He sat on the lower rack that Sandison had kindly insisted he take. “What if Mr. Sandison found you here?”
“I’d just tell him I was waiting for you. We’re old pals, remember?”
Herring grimaced. “That fiction only goes so far, Miles, and won’t hold up to as much scrutiny as it is beginning to draw. Nor,” he continued, “does it give you license to take so many liberties. We may have a common cause, you and I, but we are not ‘pals.’ Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear as can be, Commander,” Miles replied, falsely cheerful. “My ‘cause’ is survival, plain and simple. I don’t give a damn about this ship, or any of the deluded, monkey-lovin’ dopes aboard. And as for the monkeys . . .” He snorted. “I don’t even care about their stupid war, or even who wins it, except for how it affects my own precious life, see?” He shrugged languidly. “Your scheme seems to offer the best chance of preserving my life, in the long run, so I’m helping you. That’s as far as it goes for me too. I’m no hero, and as long as you bear that in mind, we’ll stay square.”
Herring’s lip curled in disgust. “My ‘scheme’ as you call it, remains a last resort. I was wrong about Captain Reddy, nearly as wrong as I was to take you into my confidence.”
Miles chuckled quietly. “No, you were right to trust me, Commander. I’m just as anxious to save the world as you are, so I’ll have a place to live. I don’t know why your little secret mission should be a ‘last resort’ all of a sudden, though. I haven’t seen any reason to change the plan.”
“The plan has changed because of Captain Reddy, you fool.”
Miles looked at him wonderingly. “You’ve got to be kidding. You really think he can pull it off!” Miles shook his head. “A handful of Asiatic sailors and a few boatloads of monkeys and throwback Brits and Krauts against who knows how many Lizards and Japs, and you think they might actually win?”
“They have been winning,” Herring stressed forcefully. “And after the action against the Grik battleships, when I saw Captain Reddy at work for the very first time, I won’t underestimate him again. He may not have as much strategic sense and polish as I would prefer, but there is no doubt his combat instincts are superb.” He paused. “And having met the other commanders he surrounds himself with, I do indeed think there is a chance he may succeed.” He sighed. “Despite your derogatory comments, even you must see by now that these people—all of them—are noble folk in a terrible war. They have not been through what we have, though,” he added darkly, “and they haven’t lived through the aftermath of defeat. I understand there is no living with defeat by the Grik, but I remain unsure they truly understand all that would mean, besides their own deaths. My ultimate task—and yours—is to prevent defeat under any circumstances, and I am prepared to do what I must. But as long as any chance for victory exists, I will keep my personal plan in reserve. The likely consequences of precipitating the crisis that would ensue are simply too great to embrace except as a last resort. Again, do I make myself clear?”
“Yeah,” Miles answered. “Clear as clear. But let me be clear: if things fall apart and you wait too long to pop your pills, you’ll be doing it by yourself.”
Herring nodded, accepting that. “So you went aboard Salissa?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Yeah. Got back half an hour ago.”
“And the cargo? It hasn’t been disturbed, I assume, or you would have mentioned it immediately, precluding the necessity for our previous, tedious conversation.”
“All secure and undisturbed. Nobody’s likely to shift a few heavy, copper drums labeled ‘Dietary Supplement for Grik Prisoners to be mixed one part in fifty with fish hash’ except to throw them over the side.” For the first time, Miles showed genuine respect for Herring.
“Any problems at all?”
“Just one,” Miles admitted. “You said our little ‘fiction’ won’t stand up forever, and you’re right. Some of the monkeys may be spying on us—I can’t tell—but one guy in particular is getting wise. That big chief gunner’s mate with one eye, the one who’s all chummy with Gunny Horn, has been snooping around. In case you haven’t noticed.”
Herring scratched his chin. “I’ve noticed. A remarkable fellow, actually, but he does have a habit of sticking his nose in things.”
“You, ah, think I ought to do something about him?” Miles asked, and Herring glared at him. “Absolutely not! The man is a valuable member of Captain Reddy’s team, and his motives, however questionable at times, are far more honorable than yours! Besides,” Herring added, “if you did try something against him, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he didn’t ‘do’ something about you.”
* * *
Three days later, after a brief morning squall pounded the sea to a glassy tranquility, USS Walker weighed anchor and sped out to sea. There’d be no more TBS traffic while First Fleet South advanced on its objective, so Walker exchanged signals with the sailing steam DDs patrolling west of the island. Sure that nothing had been seen in the vicinity, she raced back and signaled the rest of the fleet still assembling off the little harbor on the north end of Laa-Laanti. Ponderously, USNRS Salissa and her battle group proceeded on a course of two six zero, a pair of Nancys already lofting from the flight deck to scout even farther out to sea. Almost half of Safir Maraan’s II Corps was crammed aboard the mighty carrier. The other half was split among the massive self-propelled dry dock (SPD) USS Respite Island and the swarm of transports that had brought them here. SMS Amerika had been combat loaded with Chack’s Raider Brigade, and Respite Island had also taken aboard Winny Rominger and Irvin Laumer’s little “mosquito fleet” of torpedo boats, as well as the oddly float-equipped P-40E. Together, they joined the mob of auxiliaries that would advance within another cordon of DDs.
A large percentage of the population of Laa-Laanti lined the shore to watch the mighty fleet sail westward, leaving only a handful of ships and support personnel behind. Doubtless they wondered if they’d ever see them again. Tales of the dreaded Grik that drove all Mi-Anakka from their ancestral home had survived here, as everywhere. And if the Grik had become creatures of myth and legend, their existence was never doubted, and the dread they inspired had likely only grown with time. Always there had lurked, through countless generations, the primal understanding that the Grik were out there, somewhere, and the peaceful utopia of Laa-Laanti might not escape their notice forever. Lawrence had shown them roughly what the Grik really looked like, and friendly as he was, most had been too terrified to approach him. They couldn’t reconcile the notion that he meant them no harm. That was probably for the best, in retrospect. There was no sense in confusing the natives further with ideas that not all “Grik” were bloodthirsty monsters. They understood enough to realize, however, that their little island represented a great turning point in the sea of history for all creatures everywhere. The world had found them at last, and despite Adar’s best intentions, their lives would never be the same. And if the great fleet of strange ships and folk that had stayed among them for a time didn’t succeed in destroying the Grik forever, it was only a matter of time before the Grik, in turn, came to Laa-Laanti.
CHAPTER 13
////// TFG-2
Mauritius Island
July 16, 1944
Fortunately for USS Donaghey and her crew, the sailing DD finally managed to scud into a somewhat protected anchorage of sorts, on the southeast coast of the island under her jib and forecourse. In that place of relative shelter, she escaped the height of the storm that had lashed the sea for the better part of a week. Since she was still pitching madly at her moorings, her crew spent nearly another entire week in utter misery, but no one was lost and the stout, veteran ship suffered amazingly little damage. Now the weather had turned at last, and the day dawned breezy but blue, and the clearing water of the small p
rotected bay was flattening nicely.
Captain Greg Garrett, who had been staring out to sea as the new day defined it, was currently fighting a superstitious chill that threatened to give him the shakes. Beyond the mouth of the little bay was an almost solid line of breakers where the more tumultuous waves still crashed against some kind of reef. He had no idea how they’d missed hitting it themselves in the stormy gloom, and he knew if they had, his ship, and likely everyone aboard, wouldn’t have survived. He managed a slight smile. Donaghey’s always been a lucky ship, he thought. Pounded in battle, nearly sunk, and even beached and fought over before, she’s always come back, repaired, and better than ever. He knew her survival was a testament to her design, inspired by an early American shipwright named Humphries, and the innovative craftsmanship of the Lemurians who’d built her. And of course her dedicated crews, he added forcefully.
Turning, he stepped to the port side of the quarterdeck and joined Lieutenant Saama-Kera at the rail. His exec was glassing the shore through a tarnished telescope. “Anything yet?” he asked a little anxiously.
Sammy shook his head. “Mornin’, Skipper. No, not yet. Buncha small colorful birds. Maybe lizardbirds; I can’t tell from here. They’re not flyin’ much yet, but the trees is full of ’em. Maybe they still dryin’ their wings? That’s it, though.” The ’Cat hesitated. “I see well why folks’d stay sheltered during the storm, but if they was anybody here, sure they’d come out to gawk at us by now.”
“You’d think,” Garrett agreed. He’d expected to see some kind of people or creatures—most likely Grik—gathering with the dawn on the brilliant white beach to stare, even though they’d seen no other boats at all, or any evidence of a village. But apparently, Donaghey was utterly alone in what appeared to be a pretty agreeable little natural harbor. Of course, that scary reef might have something to do with that, he considered. Still, it was unnerving. Miyata had told them the Grik avoided the open sea beyond Madagascar, and there was ample evidence of that. But Greg never believed Mauritius, nestled so close to the Ancestral Home of his Lemurian friends, and the supposed seat of the Grik Empire, could’ve really remained undiscovered through the ages. “Huh,” he grunted, turning to gaze up at the masts where the lookouts were posted. “Any sign of Sineaa?”
“No, sir,” Sammy replied, flicking his tail in concern. “Not since we lost sight of her the night before we made it here.”
Greg nodded, sure Sammy would’ve reported any sighting of Sineaa first thing, but he’d had to ask.
“We could always, you know, try to contact her. At least with the TBS,” Sammy suggested, but Greg shook his head. “You know we can’t do that. No matter what Miyata said, we have to assume the Grik might hear us. He was away from them a long time, remember, and even if Kurokawa never gave them radio back then, he might have since. Even the TBS is too chancy.” Greg couldn’t risk any communications until the time was right.
“Yes, sir,” Sammy agreed, blinking frustration.
Greg smiled. “But we’ll have our Nancy brought up out of the hold and assembled, if you please. Our pilots have been bored out of their furry skins the entire voyage. We’ll send a few Marines ashore in the motor whaleboat to have a look at the beach, but I want an aerial scout of the island before anybody goes out of sight of the ship. The pilots can look for Sineaa too.”
“You want they should go on to scout Reunion Island? Maybe Sineaa wound up there.”
Greg considered it, then shook his head. “If our old charts are even close to right, and there’s no guarantee—these islands are volcanic after all—Reunion’s nearly a hundred miles west-southwest. The plane’s got the range, but that’s just too damn far right now. Remember, that’s a hundred miles closer to Madagascar too, where we know there’s a helluva lot of Grik.” He waved around. “We got here by accident, and apparently by luck. I’d rather have sneaked up and had a look from a distance first. That’s what we’ll do at Reunion.”
“But if Sineaa is there . . . ,” Sammy began.
“She’s already done for if she ran into Grik,” Greg stated grimly. “Risking a plane, or running over there hell for leather won’t change that.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Sammy agreed reluctantly, closing his telescope. “I’ll see to the Naan-cee immediately.”
A brand-new PB-1-B “Nancy” flying boat, its blue and white paint and distinctive darker blue, white star, and red dot roundels not yet faded by the sun or stained by the sea, was hoisted from the hold in three pieces. Great care was taken not to puncture the stiff, bowstring-tight fabric covering the rigid, laminated bamboo frames. Nancys were amazingly strong and light, but it didn’t take much to poke a hole in one. The broad wing came up first and was carefully secured to the starboard bulwark. Next came the crated engine, to be bolted to the wing once it was attached to the top of the fuselage by numerous complex supports. The fuselage itself, which looked like a narrow cigarette boat with an airplane tail attached, appeared last. Greg watched with satisfaction as the two pilots and crew chief commanded and organized the assembly operation like they’d done it a dozen times. They had, in a way. Neither pilot, straight from training at Kaufman Field in Baalkpan, were veterans, but they’d been well-trained and they’d drilled their detail for this operation almost daily when the weather permitted. In less than an hour, the plane was fully assembled, lowered to the water alongside the ship, fueled, and the engine run up. Garrett knew Nancys were designed with this capability in mind, but he’d never seen it performed. He wondered if they could take the thing apart and strike it back down in the hold nearly as fast.
“I want to go on the scout,” Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At told him while the pilots were preparing to go over the side. It hadn’t been a request, and Greg stiffened, surprised by her tone. The pilots heard her and paused, blinking at Greg. “You have enough spare parts aboard to assemble another plane, so it makes no sense to send both pilots on this flight,” Bekiaa explained. Her tone was still determined, but she laid her ears back in apology. “I am a better choice to go as an observer,” she added.
“The commander of my Marine contingent is more expendable than another pilot, you mean?” Greg said, raising an eyebrow. “How do you figure that?”
“I can be replaced,” she said simply. “Lieuten-aant Ra-Saan is an experienced officer, and a capable successor to me. I have already instructed him to take the squad of Maa-rines to the beach. Your only other pilot cannot be replaced. At least in the foreseeable future. Besides, I doubt you will find a more experienced observer of terrain aboard—particularly with my . . . intimate familiarity with the kind of threats that may lurk within landscapes that seem benign to less, aah, educated eyes.”
“Hmm. And of course you’re implying you’d also be better at protecting the plane itself from a threat, I suppose.”
Bekiaa shrugged and actually grinned. “Any such implication should be unnecessary to you, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett.”
Greg nodded. She was right. “Okay, but be careful. You’ll have a Blitzer Bug and the usual loadout of hand-dropped bombs, just in case, but don’t forget: this is a scout, not a combat mission!”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan. But you of all people know how quickly a mere scout can turn into combat!”
Greg frowned, but had to agree.
“But which of us will go?” asked one of the pilots, blinking open discontent.
“You will, Ensign Kaar-Raan!” Bekiaa glanced at Greg. “If the cap-i-taan has no preference.”
Garrett shook his head, still looking at Bekiaa. “Nope. Just remember what I said, Captain. Just now, and some time ago. You can’t be replaced as easily as you think either!”
Lieutenant Ra-Saan and his detail descended the port side of the ship to the motor whaleboat, conned by a Navy ’Cat coxswain, while Kaar and Bekiaa scampered over to starboard. They boarded the plane one at a time. Too much weight on the wing might sink the float and overtur
n the craft. Kaar dropped in the primary pilot seat, a little cockpit forward of the wing. Bekiaa went to the aft cockpit, located disconcertingly close behind where the pusher prop would spin. Before she could sit, she had to wait for Kaar to yell “Con-taact!” and then manually prop the engine herself. She’d never done that, but she’d seen it often enough that she did a creditable job. The motor blatted up, and she sat behind the little windscreen, pulling the goggles she found on the seat over her head. With a final salute, and looking kind of like a bug with the oversize goggles over her eyes, she shouted into the speaking tube beside her. Kaar advanced the throttle, and the little plane wallowed away from the ship, picking up speed.
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