Sandra didn’t know why Matt was the last to arrive—he had the fastest ship, after all—but when the side party piped him aboard, he was wearing whites, and her heart soared at the sight of him. He hadn’t been aboard since they left Laa-Laanti, and she’d missed him terribly. Commander Herring was with him, which made sense, she supposed. He was their Chief of Strategic Intelligence, after all. He still kind of gave her the creeps, though. Last aboard was Chief Gray—with his captain, as always. Sandra hoped he and her young stewardess, Diania, might find time to spend together. She knew they’d grown crazy about each other, but Gray still wouldn’t make his move because of the vast age difference. She shook her head. She’d keep working on that.
Without hesitation, or care for what anyone thought, she stepped forward and embraced her husband. He stiffened in surprise, but then wrapped her tightly in his arms. Mischievously, Sandra stood on tiptoe and planted a healthy kiss on his lips. Lemurians might not be able to manage wolf whistles, but a hearty cheer rose above the noise on the hangar deck.
“That’s . . . nicer than I expected,” Matt whispered in her ear. “Sometimes lately . . . I wonder if you’re mad at me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered back. “Just a lot going on—and a lot on my mind.” She shook her head, smiling, when he raised a questioning brow. “Not now,” she mouthed, stepping back.
“Peese com dis waay,” a ’Cat said, gesturing. “De ahd-mi-raal, chaar-man, an’ ever’body else is waitin’.”
* * *
Warm greetings were exchanged when Matt and his companions entered the expansive meeting room adjacent to Keje’s offices and quarters. A ’Cat steward maneuvered him and Sandra to seats beside Keje and Adar, and Herring and Gray were ushered to others. Diania stood behind Matt and his wife, ready to serve them or fill their mugs, but she flashed a smile at Chief Gray as he sat. In a flustered response, he managed to strike the table with his chest when he shifted his chair forward, rattling everything on it. Keje gently knocked on the table several times with his knuckles until he had the silence he needed, then spoke to Greg Garrett, seated a short distance away.
“Cap-i-taan Garrett. I’m sure you have already heard a great deal of what has transpired since we parted company. The encounter with the strange submarine being the only incident of note, we shall return to it after you share your report. Only then may we speculate further about it.”
“There is plenty to speculate about already, Admiral,” Herring stated, drawing frowns.
“Indeed. But Cap-i-taan Garrett’s report may add context.” He looked at Greg. “Please proceed.”
Garrett recounted what happened at Mauritius, and told them that the circumstances at Reunion Isle were essentially the same.
“So there’s no way you can imagine us using either place as a staging area?” Matt prompted.
“None, sir. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t see how anything that can’t fly could live on either island.”
“Perhaps nothing does,” Courtney Bradford exclaimed absently, peering into his already-empty mug. The steward behind him blinked helplessly until Matt caught his eye and held up a single finger. One more for now. He wanted Courtney sharp.
“And you never found any sign of Sineaa?” Matt asked.
“No, sir.” Garrett glanced down at the table. “I guess we have to assume she foundered in the storm.”
“Or was captured—or grounded on enemy shores,” Becher Lange interrupted. He’d been unused to the free-flowing way his new allies discussed things, but he appreciated how valuable an unfettered exchange of ideas might be and had quickly embraced the practice. Kapitan Melhausen was less approving, but he was unwell again, so Lange—and now Choon—would represent the Republic once more.
“She wasn’t captured, sir,” Garrett insisted to the bearded German. “I’ll vouch for that.” He saw several grim nods. “No skipper or crew of an American Navy ship on this world would ever let their ship be taken by the Grik,” he added with certainty. “And as I said, there was absolutely no enemy traffic between the islands and our objective. Even if they did catch Sineaa, or found her aground, you’d think they’d come snooping.” He looked around the table. “And if there were any survivors at all . . .” He cleared his throat. “The Grik brass understands written English, at least, and we all know how . . . remorseless the enemy can be. People, any people can take only so much. If they had Sineaa or any of her survivors, they would’ve learned about us and come looking.”
“So you think, whatever happened to your consort, the Grik remain ignorant of our approach?” Adar demanded intently.
Greg hesitated only an instant before nodding. “Yes, Mr. Chairman, I do.”
There was a rumble of conversation before Keje wrapped the table again. “Unless, of course, the sub-maa-reen that sank Naga and Respite Island was somehow in league with them,” he added darkly, looking at Adar and voicing all their concerns. “We cannot discount that possibility.”
Adar stiffened on his stool. “Nor can we let mere speculation deter us from our mission,” he said forcefully.
Matt felt a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. He knew Keje was as keen to strike the Grik as anyone, but in the face of Adar’s expanding ambitions, Keje had become the voice of caution. For the first time since he’d known the two Lemurians, he sensed tension between them. He couldn’t let that spread, and it was high time he stressed his own views once more. Reluctantly, he cleared his throat. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “you’re the head of state—of whatever state Alan Letts has put together in our absence.” There were a few murmurs. Right on the heels of the encounter with the mystery sub, even while Respite Island was slipping beneath the sea, they’d picked up a transmission about the formation of the new “union” back in Baalkpan. Under the circumstances, the momentous achievement hadn’t been received as joyfully as it would otherwise have been. Matt continued. “But Keje commands First Fleet South, and it’s his duty to look out for it.” Matt’s brow arched. “And in his capacity, he answers to me, Mr. Chairman, not you. Last I checked, I’m still High Chief of the Navy clan, and Supreme Commander of all Allied Forces. You tell us what you want to do and we figure out how—or whether we can.” He nodded at Keje. “Speculation is an important first step in that.” He shrugged, looking at Kon Choon and then Commander Herring. “Hell, without proper recon or intelligence, sometimes speculation is all we can do.” He looked back at Adar. “But as long as I’m Supreme Commander, it’s my duty to decide if we proceed with the mission, and if, even through speculation, we determine there’s a high likelihood it’s been compromised, I’ll say it’s time to think up something else.” He shrugged. “If you don’t like that, you can replace me in the top slot, but the Navy’s my ‘state,’ and you can’t replace me as its High Chief.”
Adar blinked at him, but then lowered his eyes. “Of course. Please forgive me. Sometimes I find myself . . . overly enthusiastic for our cause.”
Matt studied Adar and examined other faces around the table. ’Cats were so hard to read! He thought he’d properly redressed the decision-making process, and hoped that was all it would take. He feared that if he went further, hounding the various commanders for commitments to “follow the rules,” he’d wind up insulting and alienating them, in addition to undermining Adar at a very bad time. He was walking a narrow tightrope, and wasn’t sure what more he could do. He managed a conciliatory smile. “I don’t think so, Mr. Chairman,” he denied, “but we do need to get things straight.” He leaned back in his chair. “All that said, I don’t personally believe the sub was acting with the Grik. Think about it. If Gunny Horn really saw its periscope off Madras, and I guess he must have after all, it tailed us all the way from there to the point it attacked us. If it was working for the Grik, why wait? Why not strike where we were. It had more targets too, all at anchor. Hell, it could’ve got Big Sal, Arracca, Baalkpan Bay—who knows
how bad it could’ve hurt us there. We sure weren’t looking for it. Instead, it waited until our only possible destination was Madagascar. Why?”
That brought another round of discussion, but Courtney knocked on the table this time, with a flourish, peering about with his caterpillar eyebrows arched. He waited for silence, then looked at Matt. “The device you described on the vessel’s conning tower—do you know what it was? I do.”
Matt arched his own eyebrows in response.
“In short, it is an emblem I remember as having represented a faction of what essentially evolved into French fascists, known to have collaborated with the Nazis quite enthusiastically.” He shook his head, eyes still wide. “Though this is the first I’ve ever heard of the symbol being displayed on any enemy ship or vehicle.”
“Mr. Campeti was right,” Chief Gray growled. “They were French Nazzys after all!”
“For all intents and purposes,” Courtney agreed.
“Maybe,” Matt said thoughtfully, but frowned.
Gray grunted. “Well, if it really was a boat fulla French Nazzys, maybe it did just shoot at us because of our flag.”
“But again, why wait so long if that’s the case?” Courtney pressed. “As Captain Reddy said, there were far more ships at Madras flying the same flag.”
“Perhaps it was because, if not necessarily in league with our enemies, whoever was aboard that vessel had some reason to desire that this fleet draw no nearer to them,” Inquisitor Choon speculated. Everyone looked at him, considering the implications.
“Hmm. A most amusing theory,” Courtney murmured. By the expressions and blinking around the table, Matt didn’t think anyone else thought it was funny. “And I do suspect Inquisitor Choon has the right of it,” Courtney decided. “But that leaves the motive still in question. Why stop us from approaching the Grik capital, while remaining aloof from the Grik?”
“Because, whoever it was, they didn’t necessarily want to help the Grik—as much as they wanted to prevent us from decisively hurting them,” Herring proposed, rubbing his cheek.
“Very good, Commander Herring! Precisely,” Courtney agreed enthusiastically. “Someone out there, besides the sodding Doms of course, seems to think they have something to gain as long as we and the Grik keep tearing away at each other.”
“But we killed ’em,” Gray said. “So that’s an end to them!”
“I would not be so sure,” Choon murmured, his eyes blinking rapidly in contemplation. “Behavior such as has been proposed implies considerable understanding of the conflict underway. Understanding that must have taken time to achieve.” He lowered his ears in apology. “I know little of military matters,” he demurred. “I am no general or legate, after all. But even I cannot escape the conclusion that such a vessel and its crew should not have been willing to follow your fleet so far, expending valuable fuel and ultimately munitions—not to mention the final, fatal risk it undertook—unless it had some expectation of replenishment. Lingering animosity from a lost world does not strike me as sufficient reason to do those things. There is more here than meets the eye, and I suspect more ‘French Naazzys,’ or whatever they are, must be out there somewhere.”
There was dead silence for a moment as they pondered that.
“So what do we do now?” Gray asked, his frustration evident.
Matt looked around, examining each face. Finally, he squeezed Sandra’s hand beneath the table and looked at Adar’s expectant, pleading blinking.
“We proceed with the plan,” he said at last. “Carefully,” he stressed. “And unless these new guys have a fleet of subs, which I can’t imagine, we’ve eliminated them from the equation. At least for now. We might as well do what we set out to do. If there are more enemies waiting for us out there, all the more reason to settle up with the ones we know about. Especially if that’s what they least want us to do.”
CHAPTER 19
////// Allied Expeditionary Force
Indiaa
July 24, 1944
General Pete Alden slapped the tent flap aside and bowled into his HQ like a rampaging bull. He stopped just inside, blinking his gummy eyes. He’d been up all night and had stretched out at dawn—maybe twenty minutes before—to have a short nap. Perfect timing, as usual, he thought glumly. Comm-’Cats and staff personnel scattered when he stepped, frowning, toward the big table in the center of the tent where General Muln Rolak sat with “General” Orochi Niwa. Niwa still looked terrible, but the Japanese confidant of Halik, the Grik general, was clearly, finally on the mend. Man and Lemurian both stood, joined by Hij Geerki, who’d been crouching by Rolak’s side.
“What the hell’s going on?” Pete demanded, addressing Rolak. He could hardly look at Niwa. The Japanese former special naval landing force lieutenant was perfectly willing to tell them whatever they wanted to know about their enemy, and he’d supplied a lot of information. He was a lot like Geerki in that respect. He almost seemed to consider himself Rolak’s “property” now. But Pete couldn’t get over the man’s making no bones about his friendship with Halik—a Grik!—and that whole notion gave Pete the heebie-jeebies.
“It would seem that Col-nol Daal-i-bor Svec and his disobedient Legionnaires have managed to provoke a real battle this time,” Rolak replied, urbane as always.
“I did tell you,” Niwa said, almost apologetically. “General Halik is no fool. He was bound to find a pattern to their raiding sooner or later. He has done so, and prepared a reception for your multispecies Czechs.” He shook his head. “I would have thought that you should have convinced yourselves by now that he is no ordinary Grik, and done more to restrain Colonel Svec.”
Pete glanced at Niwa impatiently. “Sure, we know that. That was why we sent Svec in where we did. Just didn’t expect Halik to bite so quick.” Niwa blinked at him in surprise, and Pete looked at his watch.
“Don’t be offended, General Niwa,” Rolak said soothingly. “I know you are trustworthy, but Gener-aal Aalden still harbors resentments from another war. He is not quite ready to unburden himself as freely around you as perhaps he should.” It was more than that, of course, and even Rolak didn’t trust Niwa as far as he could throw him when it came to planning actual operations against his friend. Whatever warped sense of duty had formed in Niwa’s heart was such a confusing thing that Rolak wasn’t entirely sure the man even remained sane, but he tried to foster the impression that he accepted Niwa at least as much as Geerki. Pete gazed at the map on the table and then stepped to the larger one painted directly on the wall of the tent.
“Have you alerted Sixth Corps?” he demanded.
“Of course. And Gener-aal Taa-leen moves my First Corps as we speak.”
“Svec’s movements are a deliberate deception? A trap?” Niwa asked as realization dawned. “You lied to General Halik about being unable to control him!” He shook his head. “The Grik are terrible creatures, but they do not lie—and you are breaking the truce!”
Pete’s eyes bulged with fury when he turned on Niwa. “You listen to me! Don’t you dare compare anything we do to those monsters out there! We didn’t start this war, and we don’t run around slaughterin’ and eating everybody we run into, including our own. You need to snap out of whatever spell they’ve laid on you and shake back out into being a man! I know you’re a Jap, and Japs are weird, but I’ve learned they’re not all crazy either. Look at General Shinya! He’s my friend not only because we fight on the same side, but because we’re fighting on the right side.” He took a breath. “I know you admire this Halik lizard, and maybe he’s a peach compared to the rest, but that’s also what makes him more dangerous to real people like us . . . and you! You’ve helped us because deep inside you know it’s right—I hope—but you ain’t a Grik, see? You just ain’t!”
Pete turned to the map. “Svec’s raids have always been part of the plan to keep your buddy off balance, keep him jumping and guessing. Base
d on what you’ve told us about Halik, and our own observations, we figured he’d get serious about slamming Svec sooner or later, especially if he thought we didn’t care if he did. In doing so, he’s left a gap, a big one, right in front of our very favorite pass that Svec never raided through, and we’re about to jump right in it.” Pete rubbed his face, cooling down. “And as for breaking the truce, and ‘Grik don’t lie,’ what a load of crap! Halik lies at least as good as I do, and our air’s confirmed he’s been getting ready to hammer us. There never has been any trust! Good Lord, what a thought! This is war! All we’re doing is getting on with the fight that got called off, on our terms, before Halik does it first.” He cocked his head and looked at Niwa. “So, are you finally ready to shake off the scales, or feathers—whatever—and get on the team? The team with people? Or are you going to keep wallowing in the notion that they’re just as good as us, only different? Who knows what we—or maybe Halik—might make of the Grik after we kill most of ’em, but right now killin’ ’em is all we got.” Pete sighed. “My question is, are you ready for that? We could use your help figuring out what Halik’ll do next. And who knows? That might be the only way not to kill the bastard!”
Niwa sat silent, staring at Pete for what seemed a long time, and there was no way to know what thoughts clashed behind his dark, solemn eyes. Finally, he nodded. “I am ready,” he said quietly. “And I will do what I can. I do know General Halik better than anyone, I suppose. But I must suggest you do your best not to kill him. You can’t ever kill all the Grik in the world. You have not seen . . .” He shook his head. “In any event, someday you will need to speak to one again. Better that it should be one that has a grasp of reason.”
* * *
General Halik snatched his breastplate off and checked himself for a wound. He was far enough from the fighting that he doubted he’d been deliberately targeted, and suspected the projectile that struck him must be a stray—but he could no longer be certain of that. There was only the slightest graze, but when he looked at the breastplate, he was stunned to see the terrible hole, low on the side, where it rode just above his hip. He slung the bronze object away. “Of what use is armor against such weapons?” he snarled. Nearly all the enemy he faced here now were armed with the curious breechloaders his friend Niwa once showed him, and Niwa had rightly foretold how dangerous they would be. The enemy had always possessed better weapons, but Grik numbers made up for that. Halik had grown to dislike such equations in a most un-Grik-like fashion, but had no choice but to embrace them. Now, for the first time, he was beginning to wonder if it would be enough.
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