River of Bones

by Taylor Anderson

  Russ frowned, then turned to Riggs. “Okay, what’re some of the ‘other things’ Savoie’s missing that helped Captain Reddy beat her?”

  Riggs assumed an expression that implied he’d hoped Russ had forgotten that train of thought for now. “Well, in addition to the level-crosslevel, Gravois apparently took or tossed the fire-control computer for the main battery.”

  “Oh, wow,” Monk groaned.

  Riggs held up a hand. “We’re working on that,” he assured hastily. “We already started building them based on Amagi’s computers for her 5.5″ secondaries. USS Gray has two, and they’re . . . a few of the things on her that actually work.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Russ asked, and Riggs looked pained.

  “One thing at a time, huh? Anyway, we never thought we’d need anything that big, so we parted out what was left of Amagi’s 10″ gun directors. They wouldn’t’ve worked for Savoie’s thirteen-and-a-halfs anyway. But when we did the new ones for Gray, we made ’em expandable, with provisions for add-ons, see?”

  “Add-ons?” Monk asked skeptically.

  “Yeah, like geared modules that’ll accept input for different-size projectiles. They’ll allow for weight, velocity, diameter—the works. We damn sure never expected thirteen-fives, but we’re working on it, and even sent a couple projectiles home so they can start making them.” He frowned. “That might take a while.”

  “So, basically, even when we get a crew worked up, Savoie’s stuck in local control,” Russ stated.

  “Just her main battery. There are directors for her secondaries. And we will get the other computer sorted out.”

  “How fast?”

  Riggs gulped. “A month. Maybe two. Three to get it here and installed, tops.”

  Russ ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. I’ll believe that when it happens. That just leaves two questions. At least until I can get aboard Savoie and see things for myself. First, why isn’t Fitzhugh Gray here already, and when can we expect her?”

  Riggs looked embarrassed. “I, uh . . .”

  “She’s a piece of junk,” Pete snapped.

  “I wouldn’t say thaat,” Rolak soothed, but glanced at Keje to continue.

  Keje blinked annoyance. “They haad to tow her back to Baalkpan during her sea triaals. There is word of some steering daamage,” he glanced at Riggs. “The ex-plaan-ations are vague, but clearly she did not deserve such a distinguished name!”

  “Crapped out on her trials, huh?” Monk murmured. “So I guess we don’t count on her.”

  “Not right away,” Keje agreed sourly. “What was your laast question”—he smiled—“for now?”

  Russ looked at him steadily. “Just this: When are we going back upriver to relieve the Third Marines on Santy Cat and Arracca?” He waved around. “When is this army going to move and kick hell out of the Grik?”

  “The troops are ready now,” Rolak said firmly. “We await only a few thousand more, already on their way from Baalkpan and Madraas.” He glanced at Pete. “And sufficient traans-sport, of course.”

  “You mean Tarakaan Island, stuck up at Zanzibar, with Walker in her repair bay?”

  Keje looked uncomfortable. “She is not essen-tiaal, but would make things faar easier. And we hope the Republic armies threatening the Grik from the south will further divert their attention.” He blinked a mild rebuke and his tail swished rapidly behind him. “But Waa-kur could possibly be the greatest source of delay, not only because we might need her to fight, but because we”—he waved around the anchorage— “maany, maany, people need her to just be there.”

  Russ scratched his beard again. “You know, that’s a little irrational—and maybe a little unfair, too. My God, Keje—Admiral—hasn’t she been there enough? She can’t perform miracles and she can’t last forever. One of these days she’ll be gone. I get that she’s a morale builder, but what kind of hit would morale take if she got blown to smithereens right in front of everybody?” Russ was heating up and knew it, but he couldn’t stop. “What if it was her instead of Geran-Eras that took that fish in the battle north of here? Would the whole damn war be lost?”

  Rolak, urbane as usual, shocked Russ with a single word: “Possibly.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. I honestly doubt thaat would be the case, but one never knows. Thaat old, worn-out . . . glorious ship has been a large part of every major success we haave achieved. It’s impossible to caal-cu-late how her loss might affect the resolve of our forces. And if Cap-i-taan Reddy himself was lost, the impaact would be even more severe.” He looked at Keje. “But I differ with my brother Keje in one profound respect: if I had my way, Cap-i-taan Reddy would steam his ship baack to Baalkpan as soon as she is seaworthy and stay there until the waar is won.”

  “Paart of my heart says the same,” Keje agreed, “but it would never happen. Not even if Chairman Letts commaanded it.” He coughed. “So we use him—and Waa-kur—how we caan. I haave no illusion that Waa-kur is the equal of our greater ships. Certainly not your Saavoie, Cap-i-taan Chaa-pelle. But nothing else inspires our people as she does. Her worth in that regaard faar outweighs her meager tonnage or actual com-baat power.” He blinked meaningfully at Savoie. “And sometimes she does perform miracles, with the Maker’s help.” He straightened. “Fi-naally, though this may sound selfish, the rest of my heart waants Cap-i-taan Reddy here. He is our Commaander in Chief, after all. He haas already implied thaat he will not wait for Waa-kur to be made whole again and might even abaan-don her.”

  Keje shook his head. “I doubt thaat would be a well-liked choice among our troops, but if it comes to it, Cap-i-taan Reddy will leave his ship because, most of all, we need him.” He bowed to Pete. “Not because he will be in the forefront of the fight this time, I hope. Thaat will be for you, Gener-aal Alden, and you, Gener-aal Rolak. And Gener-aal Queen Safir Maraan. You will meet the Ancient Enemy on his home ground at long laast. But we need Cap-i-taan Reddy for his wisdom, and that most indefin-aable of things we Mi-Anakka rarely heeded before this waar began: his luck.” Keje smiled, blinking sadness. “My brother Adar saw it long ago. How else could Cap-i-taan Reddy haave survived so long, through so much, preserving our cause as he did so, if not for the will of the Maker of All Things? Is it even possible to imaa-gine otherwise? I caan’t.” He returned Russ Chappelle’s steady gaze. “Nor caan maany thousands of troops who must endure the fight to come. They need him there.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ////// USS Walker

  Allied-Occupied Zanzibar

  December 17, 1944

  “When I said ‘Never again are you throwing me off this ship,’ this isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Sandra said wryly, slipping through the open hatch and looking around Matt’s new stateroom. Matt was seated at a little desk/table, large enough for two or three to gather around, and he smiled up at her, setting a pile of paperwork aside. He did so with relief and often longed for the time when there wasn’t any paper, besides what Walker brought to this world, but there was no getting around it now. With help from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, the paper (and all the forms printed on it) coming out of Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la was thinner and finer all the time. The Impies had been making paper for almost two hundred years, and Doocy Meek often said the Republic of Real People was built on a foundation of the stuff. But paperwork was absolutely essential to the management of a global war, and Matt was glad he had Keje and his staff to handle most of it. His portion was focused primarily on strategy in the West, and accumulating the resources to carry that strategy out. He got constant updates on other theaters, including analysis from Henry Stokes, but that was as much a matter of form as a means of explaining why certain resources were or weren’t available.

  He knew he had it amazingly easy compared to Chairman Alan Letts, who not only had to focus much more broadly but also had to coordinate supply for the va
rious “pointy ends” in the face of a contentious, diverse, and increasingly selfish Union Assembly. As official CINCAF, Matt could’ve still interfered in operations anywhere he wanted, but he’d made it plain that he trusted those on the scene, and felt too removed to jostle their elbows. With his more comprehensive view, Alan Letts was increasingly the real Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces, and that’s exactly how Matt thought it should be, if the Union was to thrive.

  Still, comparatively light as his paperwork undoubtedly was, Matt was glad to see his wife, and happy for the diversion. “Me either,” he said, leaning back on his stool and gesturing around with mock modesty. “It is a little extravagant for my taste,” he added with heavy irony, “but it’ll have to do. Have a seat.” He waved grandly at a stool. Sandra rolled her eyes and carefully did so. The growing weight of her swelling belly was making her back hurt.

  Originally reserved as a commodore’s stateroom, spanning the width of the deck, like the wardroom below on most four-stacker destroyers, Matt’s new quarters were located in the forward part of the bridge structure, directly under the pilothouse. Never used for its original purpose on Walker, the stateroom had been segmented by bulkheads to provide additional space for the bulkier comm gear, filled with lockers for spare parts for the same, and generally shrunk to less than half its original size. The remaining space had been used for general storage ever since. But Matt’s emergency cabin above, forming the rear bulkhead of the pilothouse, had also served as a charthouse and sound room. With bulkier equipment now there as well, even the tiny space reserved for his little bunk had vanished.

  As a compromise to his duty—and his wife—Matt had moved into the roughly 10-foot-by-12-foot remnant of the stateroom. The problem was, it had only a fraction of the floor space that implied, since it was cut in half by the triangular shape of the forward bridge structure behind the number-one gun. He instructed the shipfitters to install the desk, a small sink, a mirror, and a few lockers for his clothes and effects. Finally, he had them bolt rings to the bulkheads to sway a hammock in the tiny space that remained.

  Matt was still smiling at Sandra, glad she’d recovered enough to engage in a little humorous vexation. She certainty looked better, beginning to regain some weight and heal her complexion from the ravages of exposure. She might not yet have the radiant glow that women in her condition often exhibited, but she had assured him that both she and the baby were fine. “What?” he asked. “My old stateroom’s not good enough for you?”

  Sandra frowned. “It’s not that, and you know it.” Then she managed a small smile of her own. “I’d hoped when you conceded to my demand that we stay together, we’d . . . you know, actually get to stay together. I wasn’t expecting this end run. You’re a lot sneakier than you look.”

  Matt shrugged. “This is the best I can do,” he said seriously. “From a practical standpoint, my old quarters keep you close to the wardroom” (that was Sandra’s battle station, doubling as a surgery. The large, green-topped table under a hanging light was her operating table). “And this keeps me one ladder away from the bridge.”

  “But they both keep us apart,” Sandra grumped.

  Matt had begun twiddling his Baalkpan-made lead pencil. Now he set it down. “I agreed to rescind the prohibition against ‘mates’ serving on the same ship. With the realities we face, that was probably stupid from the start. But we don’t have room for separate staterooms for every married couple in the fleet, so the prohibition against, ah, ‘conjugal relations’ aboard ship has to stand. Again, like before, if everybody can’t do it, neither can we. We have to set the example.” He raised an eyebrow. “Besides, Chairman Letts pushed legislation through the Union assembly that all pregnant females be taken off combat status and, preferably, sent home. I used my pull as CINCAF and High Chief of the American Navy Clan to keep you here as essential to the war effort—but I felt like a heel, and it’s the best I can do.”

  Sandra sighed. “I know, and you’re right. I just wish, for a little while, we could have a real married life. Especially after . . .” She shook her head. Matt scooted his stool closer and held her gently. “Sure,” he said. “And we will someday. We knew this was going to be tough from the start,” he added, remembering how they’d hidden their feelings so long during the “dame famine,” refusing to give in when, for all they knew, there were a grand total of two, then only half a dozen, human females on this entire world. That was long over now, but they still couldn’t just do what they wanted. Not only was it their duty to set an example, but hopefully, the American Navy Clan would last a long time after they were gone. Both were conscious of the precedents they set and the traditions that would be established, based on them.

  Sandra leaned back and looked around. “Okay,” she said, “but you really need to liven this dump up.” She grinned. “Get some pictures. Maybe some drapes over those two portholes.”

  Matt laughed. “All I want is a picture of you—and our kid, when it comes. Alan says we’ll be able to do that soon, but right now all the cameras and the film they can make are being used for recon.”

  Sandra smiled wistfully. “‘He,’ not ‘it.’” She patted her stomach. “Adar said this is your son.”

  Matt was taken aback. “When? How could he have known?”

  “He said he could . . . hear his voice, there at the end.” She shook her head as her eyes began to fill. Matt held her again until they were interrupted by a Lemurian messenger rapping lightly on the bulkhead.

  “Yes?” Matt said.

  “Co-maan-der Spaanky aasks you come.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He looked at his wife.

  “I’m fine,” she assured.

  “Okay. We’ll talk about this more. You want to come?”

  “No.” She smiled. “I’ve got to liven up my new quarters.” She shook her head. “Actually, I want to go to Tara’s sickbay and do my rounds.”

  “Take Diania.”

  Sandra snorted. “Like I could go anywhere without her! She’s worried about Gunny Horn, and that just makes her more protective of me than she was before. She’s so sweet, but I’m starting to feel smothered.”

  “That’s fine by me. Even with her hand messed up, she’s as dangerous as one of Chack’s Raiders. I like having her to watch over you.” Matt stood and walked to the hatch. “Same problem?” he asked the messenger.

  “Ay, sur.”

  “Okay.” He looked back at Sandra. “See you later,” he said, and stepped out onto the deck between the bridge structure and the amidships deckhouse. Following the ’Cat, he rumbled down the companionways to the forward berthing space under the wardroom and moved forward between the folded racks. All the damage had been repaired in here, but in the passageway beyond, flanked by shredded compartments for galley stores, sparks arced and lit the gloom. It was here that a single 13.5″ shell had blown through both sides of the ship—sideways—and pretty much wrecked frames 23, 24, and 25. The problem was, not only had those frames and the surrounding plates been repaired before, but the weight of the number-one 4″-50 was almost directly above, and Spanky was deeply concerned about the structural integrity of the ship.

  “Hey, Spanky,” Matt said, coming up behind the shorter, reddish-haired man, standing in his signature pose with his hands on his hips. “What’ve you got?”

  “Afternoon, Skipper.” Spanky pointed. “This isn’t going to be as easy as I figgered—not that I ever really figgered that in the first place,” he said. The compartments on each side of the passageway had been torched out, exposing the twisted frames. Those that protruded from the starboard side of the ship had already been cut away before a simple patch was applied. Now that the ship was in Tarakaan Island’s repair bay, the patches had been removed from both sides. Workers could be seen, standing on scaffolds, outside the ship.

  “You need more time,” Matt guessed.

  “Hell yes, I need more
time!” Spanky almost exploded. Chief Jeek looked back from where he was supervising a cut, suspecting the outburst was aimed at him and his repair crew. Seeing the captain, he returned to his work.

  “You know people are dying right now—friends of ours,” Matt began.

  Spanky turned to him, face redder than the hair and whiskers around it. “Don’t you think I know that . . . sir?” He waved his hands in frustration. “We’ve done the impossible often enough to make it seem routine, but goddamn miracles—if you’ll pardon the expression—take a little goddamn longer!” He nodded back at the twisted frames to port. “We can’t just keep slappin’ tape on her and expect her to fight. We have to do this right—and there just ain’t no way to do it right anymore! These frames are gone, completely shot out. And we can’t just straighten what’s left and rivet in replacements this time.” His voice cooled. He’d been venting, and even if Captain Reddy was willing to take it, he didn’t deserve it. “I’m sorry, Skipper, but we gotta go deeper.” He stamped the warped deck plates under his feet. “Pull this up and tie in lower. Higher too, up in the chief’s quarters.”

  “Welding won’t cut it?” That had been their first hope.

  “No, sir. The ’Cats back in Baalkpan’ve worked their own miracles, coming up with good electrodes and learning to make good enough welds to build a whole damn ship, I bet. But Walker’s got too many different kinds of steel in her. Always did, for that matter, and it’s even worse now. The same method won’t work on her. The welds’ll be too brittle, or won’t stick.” He passed his hand over his face. “I’m not a great welder and don’t like welded ships—you know that. Too many stories about problems before the war. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t weld this mess up if I could. I just don’t think it’ll hold.” He paused and nodded at Jeek. “The ’Cats have the only solution I see.”