CHAPTER 16
////// Baalkpan, Borno
July 20, 1944
Commander Alan Letts, acting High Chief of Baalkpan and temporary (thank God) chairman of the Grand Alliance, left Adar’s Great Hall with Lord Bolton Forester, the ambassador from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and Commander Saraan-Ghaani, ambassador for the Great South Isle, who’d just recently returned from the fighting at Madraas. With them were Commander Steve Riggs, the Allied Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances, and Henry Stokes, the assistant director of Strategic Intelligence. Tagging along, as usual, was Lieutenant Bachman, Forester’s aide. Together, they strode through the former Parade Ground that had become a growing cemetery, its manicured lawn and flowery hedges bordering pathways through the stone markers for the dead. Burial was not the Lemurian way, but a surprising number of ’Cats had chosen it so they could lie forever with their shipmates. Even so, there weren’t that many separate markers yet—largely because literally thousands of dead still remained where they fell, either cremated in the traditional way, or in temporary graves. One day the cemetery would be full, as Letts grimly recognized, but for now the greatest losses were symbolized by large bronze plaques with many hundreds, sometimes thousands of names engraved upon them. One, starting to turn slightly green now, represented the carrier Humfra-Dar. Others bore the names of those lost at Sin-a-pore, Raan-goon, and even Baalkpan itself. The newest, brightest marker was also the largest, with all the names they’d confirmed lost during the battles for Madraas. Beside it were smaller plaques, just as new, for the ships and crews destroyed there as well. Alan paused in front of one headed by the legend: S-19. Other plaques were dedicated to USS Mahan—again—and USS Santa Catalina. Though the last two ships had survived, many of their people hadn’t, and Alan personally knew a depressing number of them. It seemed this war would never end, and he didn’t know how much longer he could bear its toll in sadness.
“Jim Ellis should’ve had my job,” he said, finding his friend’s name on Santa Catalina’s plaque. “He was always good with people, and a natural leader too,” he murmured.
“Jim had a job he was damn good at,” Riggs reminded. “And given a choice between his and yours, even now, which one do you think he would’a picked?” Alan didn’t answer, but took a long breath and clasped his hands behind his back.
“I never had the pleasure of meeting your Commodore Ellis,” Ambassador Forester said softly, “so you may be right about his qualifications. There can be no doubt that he was a gifted naval officer if all I have heard is true. But it has been my experience that such talents do not necessarily translate well to diplomacy, and I sincerely doubt he could have done a better job of uniting that fractious . . . congregation back there,” he added, gesturing back at the Great Hall and the other delegates beginning to filter out.
“No way,” Riggs agreed confidently. “We ought’a be down at the ’Screw, hoisting a brew in celebration. Not moping around in a graveyard.”
Alan looked at him sharply; then his face relaxed. “Maybe so. I just needed to come here . . . and look these fellas in the eye. I like to think they would’ve wanted this.”
Adar had left Alan Letts with a daunting assignment: to serve as chairman during the ongoing negotiations aimed at transforming the Grand Alliance into a genuine national union. The obstacles had seemed insurmountable. Each Lemurian Home, whether on land or sea, had distinct laws, traditions, customs, and interests, and was accustomed to perfect autonomy. In the face of this dreadful, world-encompassing war, however, and the uncertain future that might lie beyond it, no Home, no matter how powerful, could hope to stand alone. Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la had been pulling the heaviest load from the start, but even they couldn’t succeed without the influx of troops and workers supplied by all the rest. Tremendous compromise was called for on all parts to create a kind of republic within which each Home had representation. Letts had advanced the Constitution of the United States as a model, and it was well received—once it was fully understood. The language of the preamble and certain portions of the Declaration of Independence were seized upon with great enthusiasm, with the substitution of “people” for “men” in all cases. It was fully understood by now that beings did not need to be human, or even Lemurian, to be considered “people.”
But the biggest hurdle had been allowing for proportional representation, because two congressional bodies were deemed superfluous by nearly everybody. A single representative council, such as had already existed, was considered sufficient. That meant that even if it was admitted as a “state,” no seagoing Home with three or four thousand people could possibly have the same say as Baalkpan, for example, the population of which had ballooned to nearly half a million. Even the various Homes were brought to understand how ridiculous that would be. As a consequence, a number of the great floating cities were scurrying to form alliances with like-minded sisters so they could collectively join the union as coequal states. This began a cascade of sparsely populated land Homes doing the same. That was confusing for everyone and caused considerable clan posturing, but it seemed to solve the problem—until the Great South Isle, called Australia by the human destroyermen, expressed a willingness to join.
Austraal, as the people there called their land, based on the “Terra Austraalis” bestowed on it by the Prophet Siska-Ta, boasted the largest homogenous population of Lemurians known, perhaps nearly two million. They lived in numerous cities, mainly in the North, which was densely wooded with a kind of tall pinelike tree on this world. Its people were famous seafarers with all the trees in the world to build fine ships, but with an island so large, they didn’t build the great seagoing Homes—at least not for themselves. Some were built there for other clans, but not very many. The thing was, like the Empire of the New Britain Isles, the Great South Isle, or Austraal, for all its size and population, had a single ruler and was essentially too big to join the union as a state—at least not based on the formula for proportional representation they’d worked so hard to solve. They’d come to a profound agreement, however. Austraal would join the union for the duration of the war, at least, so long as the prosecution of the war remained the primary agenda. Her people knew they were late to the fight and felt they had a lot to make up for. After the war, they’d “sort out the details,” to the extent of Austraal splitting itself into a number of smaller states, if necessary, but that could be decided later.
“I met Commodore Ellis a few times,” Saraan-Ghaani said quietly, absently smoothing the symmetrical pattern of white and brown fur on his arm that covered an old wound. “And I know he would be proud of what you have accomplished, Mr. Letts. I think he would be proud of us all.”
“I hope so,” Alan allowed. He cocked an eyebrow at Forester. “Even prouder if we could get the Empire to join.”
Bolton Forester grimaced. “I cannot say that will never happen. And I am encouraged by what I’ve seen. But you must understand that my country has experienced quite enough political upheaval for a time, and must digest that before we plunge into more. The Empire will remain staunchly allied to whatever nation emerges from your negotiations, but as a separate nation at present. I have no authority whatsoever to say more than that—but of that you may rest assured.”
“I have no doubt,” Alan stated. Left unstated was the obvious fact that the Empire needed the Grand Alliance—or whatever it would eventually call itself—for its war against the Dominion far more than the Alliance needed the Empire against the Grik. That could certainly change, but that was the way it was just then. “And I don’t really blame you,” Alan confessed. “Some might say all we’ve really managed is to glue a bunch of monsters together by their tails—and each one has a separate mind for every finger and toe.” He managed a grin. “I’ve got a feeling we’re going to find out what it would be like to hitch a hundred little critters like Petey to a plow. We’re not even as organized as the old Articles of Confederation!”
Only Riggs understood Alan’s historical reference, but all had “met” Petey at one time or another and rightly suspected he meant the new union was far from perfect. A lot of work remained.
“It’s a step, though,” Henry Stokes encouraged, then grinned at Saraan. “And I for one am glad to have more Aussies on our side, even if they all have tails!”
The idea of a beer seemed a good one, and they proceeded toward the Busted Screw. With all the new industry in Baalkpan, no part of the harbor front was visible from the Parade Ground anymore, but as they neared the open-sided café reserved primarily for Navy and Marine personnel, they entered the very heart of the massive naval-building establishment this part of the city had become. “My God, they’re almost finished!” Letts proclaimed, pointing at a pair of ships some distance away. For all the world, the two vessels, moored side by side beneath several tall cranes, looked exactly like USS Walker. That was understandable, since they were near-perfect copies of her, made largely of salvaged Japanese steel. There were a number of differences, mostly internal, but few of them showed.
“I told you,” Riggs said, glancing at Forester. “You’ve been spending too much time cooped up with all these puffed-up foreigners!” Alan rubbed his eyes and managed a grin. “I know. Karen says the same thing.” Karen Theimer Letts was Deputy Minister of Medicine. Second only to Sandra, she’d become de facto chief of her department and worked just as hard as her husband. Added to her burden was a young daughter named Allison Verdia whom neither of them could be with as much as they’d have liked. “And I know you told me,” Alan agreed, “but to see them . . .” He chuckled. “The first new four-stacker destroyers to enter service in twenty-odd years. It would seem like a step back if I didn’t know what it took to do it.”
“It’s a big step forward here,” Riggs confirmed, “and now the yards have some practice, we’ll have four-stack cruisers, and even genuine ‘gold platers’ next! Just had to draw ’em up. Spanky poked around some Farraguts once. Might’ve even served on one for all I know. I was on the Dewey before I went Asiatic. Anyway, Spanky left designs for some fifteen hundred tonners that look pretty slick. Someday we’ll build ’em. We already had plans for those.” He pointed at the familiar ships.
“They look swell,” Alan said, scratching his chin. “And it seems you told me they’ll be ready for sea trials soon?”
“A month yet. Maybe more. Lots of little tweaks to make. The ’Cats are awful proud of ’em.”
“They have every right to be. Pass the word that I want the sea trials as comprehensive as possible. Their shakedown cruises’ll be into the war zone.” They paused under a corner of the roof of the Busted Screw, and Pepper, the Lemurian proprietor in Earl Lanier’s absence, blinked questioningly at them from behind the bar.
“Beers,” Steve Riggs shouted over the lunch-hour rush, and steered them to a table a buxom ex-pat Imperial girl was clearing away. They sat.
“What else have I been missing during my diplomatic sequestration?” Alan asked wryly.
“Well, we’re still trying to figure out what’s wrong with the torpedo-guidance mechanism. You know, after what happened to Mahan,” Stokes supplied.
“Sure. Anything yet?”
Riggs shook his head. “Not on this end. Bernie had some ideas, but he can’t do much but tinker with what we send him where he is. And now, of course, we can’t talk to him at all.”
“Can’t we figure it out without him?”
“We can keep trying, but Bernie’s ‘the guy.’ And far as we’ve come, this ain’t the Newport Torpedo Station in Rhode Island.”
“That might be a good thing, considering the crap torpedoes they sent us before the war,” Alan interjected bitterly.
“Maybe,” Riggs agreed. “I bet they’re better now. Doesn’t matter. We’re doing what we can.”
Alan sighed. “I know.”
Pepper himself negotiated the crowd with a tray of mugs. “Here’s beer!” he called loudly. That was all he ever served during normal “duty hours.” The stronger “seep,” made from the ubiquitous and widely useful polta fruit, was served only at night. “You wanna eat?” Pepper demanded. “I got good steaks, fresh. Rhino pig an’ pleezy-sore both.”
Alan looked at Ambassador Bolton and smiled. “How about rhino pig and pleezy-sore both?” he repeated, glancing at Riggs. “Like you said, we do what we can. And I can’t do another damn thing until I eat something substantial.”
CHAPTER 17
////// First Fleet South
July 21, 1944
USS Walker loped across a smooth sea at eighteen knots, cruising ahead of the fleet to inspect a target the patrolling Nancys had spotted nearly an hour ago. It hadn’t been reported immediately since the pilots and observers thought it was just a young mountain fish, too small to be very harmful. The sonar of the approaching fleet would doubtless drive it away. But Captain Reddy still couldn’t get Gunny Horn’s periscope out of his mind and decided to investigate when the word trickled down via Morse lamp from Big Sal.
Dennis Silva didn’t know or care why the blower wound up and the stern crouched down, sending a convex slice of water curling back from the sharp, straight bow. Nobody had sounded general quarters, so it made no difference to him why Walker suddenly outpaced the rest of the fleet. It was an unusually pretty day, if just as humid as ever, and he’d already spent most of it drilling the gun’s crews to a limb-numbing proficiency. Now he had other things on his bored mind, things he couldn’t ignore as long as the gnawing itch in the crack of his ass tormented him so. Folding his favorite “whittlin’ knife,” he tucked the little ship model he’d been shaping for two days under his arm. “Howdy, Earl,” he called as he passed the galley beneath the amidships gun platform. “What kinda sea serpent you got for supper this evenin’? I hope it ain’t got any suckers this time. I can’t abide eatin’ critters with suckers all over ’em!” Earl ranted something in reply, but Silva didn’t stop to listen. It wasn’t expected that he should, anyway. Further aft, he strolled, past the port and starboard torpedo mounts, the searchlight tower and the 25-mm gun tubs on either side of the catapult with its Nancy floatplane perched atop it. “Whatcha doin’, Jeek?” he called, spying the Lemurian crew chief’s tail poking out of the plane’s cockpit. Jeek’s head replaced his tail.
“I’s strappin’ the ’stensions back on them rudder pedals,” he grumped. “Commaander Hee-ring was playin’ around in here this mornin’, pertendin’ he knowed how to fly. I had to take the ’Cat ’stensions off, so now I’m puttin’ ’em back. Only real pilots we got on this trip is ’Cats.”
“Can he fly?” Silva asked.
“How I know?” Jeek demanded. “Looked like he pertendin’ to me.”
“Huh.” Silva wiggled his fingers at him. “Well, do carry on. The Skipper might wanna ee-mergency launch the damn thing any second, an’ you’d be stuck flyin’ it yerself. Can you fly, Jeek?”
“Hell no! Ain’t my job. They as good stick you in here as me!”
Silva chuckled. “Oh, I bet I could fly it fine,” he replied. “Gettin’ it back to you in one piece would be the trick.” Jeek blinked stunned curiosity at him as Silva ducked under the wing and proceeded toward the aft deckhouse.
Scuttlebutt had it that this wasn’t the first reference Silva ever made to having once controlled an aircraft of some sort in some fashion, and like most of the rumors that followed Silva throughout the various fleets, nobody knew how much truth there was to any of them. Jeek didn’t know Silva all that well, but he knew plenty of people who did. Unlike most, he knew there was at least some truth to all the rumors. He shook his head and returned to his task.
Through the forward hatch, Dennis found Bernie Sandison instructing some ’Cats on the lathe in the torpedo workshop, but the man hardly noticed him pass. The dryers in the ship’s laundry were rumbling sympathetically with the screws and shafts below as T-shirts and kilts r
olled and tumbled inside. Passing through another hatch, Silva entered the aft crew’s head and was reminded of one of the numerous changes wrought aboard by the inclusion of female crewfolk. A partition had been placed in the center of the compartment that separated the portside of the crapper from the starboard to create some meager privacy for those doing their business there. Silva dutifully entered the starboard stall that males were supposed to use, pulled down his breeches, and plopped down on one of the double-plank seats spanning the down-angled trough beneath. Water flowed through the trough from starboard to port, washing waste from beneath each seat, and eventually out the side of the ship. It was a primitive arrangement, but novel to the ’Cats of Baalkpan who considered it the height of convenience.
A similar system had served the entire city of Maa-ni-la for a very long time, running through most homes and beneath an arched covering in the open, until it too emptied into the sea—or Maa-ni-la Bay in that case. That was pretty slick, Silva thought. ’Cats in Baalkpan used ordinary outhouses like those he’d always known before he joined the Navy, but instead of toilet paper, or even a Monkey Wards catalog, they used a bunch of stupid leaves. Silva’s expression darkened. Apparently, the old rivalry between the engineering (snipe) divisions, and the deck (ape) divisions had finally been revived full force aboard USS Walker, and he, as well as a number of other above-deck types, had been tricked repeatedly into using some particularly inappropriate leaves for a very delicate task. A large percentage of Walker’s snipes were female now, but female or not, no snipes had been afflicted with the ailment. Silva knew, since Pam had confided to him how strange it was that only the deck apes had complained of discomfort. That was all the proof Silva needed, and the time had come to exact his revenge.
A striped ’Cat, from the second, aft deck division, was watching him apprehensively, several seats over. Silva took a chaw and smiled benignly. “This used to be my crapper, you know,” he said conversationally. “The whole thing. All mine.” The ’Cat quickly finished his business and scampered out the aft hatch, leaving Silva by himself in the starboard stall. All he had to do now was wait. Sure enough, within minutes, a virtual herd of females crowded into the portside stall. He’d timed his attack for the end of the watch for that very reason since it was then, he’d observed, that Tabby’s female snipes dashed to the water butts and then went straight, en masse, to the aft head. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it right—making sure it was the engineering division that he victimized.
Deadly Shores Page 23
