“The fastest ships, the frigates, might get there in time,” Gerald observed. “Ships of the line are too slow.” He paused. “And they will evidently already be employed elsewhere. The questions are, do we have enough to send, and will they have the weight of metal required when they get there?”
“I mean to take Walker,” Matt announced. “We might even beat the dispatch sloop you sent. With Commodore Jenks along to talk to the locals, sound the alarm, rouse the colonial defenses, we can at least have them ready for what’s coming.” He looked measuringly at Lord High Admiral McClain. “That’ll leave you to command, or choose somebody to command, the biggest force of fast steamers you can wrangle together, including my ships here. They have to sail immediately, and for God’s sake, don’t forget my oilers!”
CHAPTER 4
Maa-ni-la Fil-pin Lands
“For the last time, I’m tellin’ you to take it back!” Dennis Silva practically roared. The raggedly clad, one-eyed, sun-bronzed giant loomed menacingly over a much shorter, but entirely unintimidated (brevet) Colonel Tamatsu Shinya. Shinya no longer wore his ruined Japanese Imperial Navy uniform, having traded it for the blue kilt, white leather armor, sandals, and bronze greaves of the Lemurian-Amer-i-caan Marines. The only real difference between his appearance and that of many others on the broad “parade ground” on what should have been the Bataan Peninsula, was that he still wore his old, Imperial Navy hat, and he had no fur—or tail. He also had the vertical red stripes of an officer on his kilt instead of horizontal NCO stripes around the bottom above the hem.
“And for the last time I’m telling you, Mr. Silva, that I will not . . . unless you force me to prefer charges of insubordination!”
“Then do it! I ain’t never seen me this insubordinate before!” Silva ranted.
“What on earth is going on here?” demanded Sandra Tucker, arriving with a small escort including the Grik-like, “ex”-Tagranesi, Lawrence, Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Lieutenant Irvin Laumer, and a small group of “graduated” Marines. Sandra had recovered considerably from her recent ordeal, as had the others, and her once-red, peeling skin was turning a dark tan. Her normally sandy brown hair still looked almost bleached blond, however. Irvin was much the same, but he’d cut his hair very short and shaved his beard. Lelaa and Lawrence looked the same as always, but they’d physically recovered from their adventure. All except Sandra (and Silva) used the brief pause in the argument to exchange salutes, even Lawrence. Trading salutes with the strange, furry/reptilian creature still seemed ridiculously odd.
Silva and Shinya were silenced by Sandra’s appearance, and she took a moment to gaze at the adjacent parade ground portion of the Advanced Training Center (ATC) established here, away from the city, where troops could perform large-scale maneuvers, as well as small-arms, artillery, and mortar practice without disturbing or hazarding the Maa-ni-la inhabitants. It was actually quite a scenic spot. The Maara-vella mountains loomed over the closest thing to a coastal plain she’d seen since Aryaal and Baali. Herds of paalkas grazed the grassy, rolling foothills in the distance, inured to the thousands of troops and their noisy weapons. Maa-ni-la Bay stretched broad and peaceful to the south beneath a warm, clea sky. The island fortress of Corregidor was a fortress here as well, even more imposing due to the lower sea level. The small, almost-quaint town of “Maara-vella” was the only settlement on the peninsula, and it often shook with the thunder of live-fire exercises and mock battles, but the town had no cause for complaint. It had more or less evolved to support the training facility, as well as the harbor defenses. Sandra liked it. Baalkpan was too enclosed by the surrounding jungle; she preferred open spaces. She always felt lighter of heart when she visited there.
Belatedly, she noticed the staring Lemurian faces; Marine officers and Maa-ni-los in their black and gold kilts. “Silva,” she said with a sigh, “what have you done now?”
“I ain’t done nothin’ this time—honest! It’s what this damn, jumped-up Jap’s tryin’ to do to me!” he almost whined.
“Mr. Silva!” Shinya warned, his tone angry.
Somewhat shocked, Sandra realized she believed Dennis. He’d done many . . . questionable things during their acquaintance, but he’d never really lied about it. She honestly doubted he’d ever lie to her. After some of the stunts he’d pulled—and told her about—she couldn’t imagine why he would. Few imagined atrocities could compare to his very real, common-knowledge deeds. She looked at Shinya. “What have you done to him?”
It was Shinya’s turn to project a defensive expression. Sandra Tucker was a tiny thing, but her authority, moral and official, had few limits. Not only was she Minister of Medicine for the entire Alliance, and few veteran soldiers hadn’t been treated or saved by her hands, or those she taught at one time or another, but she enjoyed the profound friendship of Saan-Kakja, High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands. In addition, she had—and deserved—the daughterlike worship of Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald; only heir to the Empire of the New Britain Isles. She was also, incidentally and famously, the fiancée of Captain Matthew Reddy.
“Against my better judgment,” Shinya explained, sourly, “I informed this ridiculous oaf he’s out of uniform—still—and someone about to be decorated and promoted should set an example.”
“See?” Silva demanded. “He said it again! ‘Promoted’!”
“What’s the matter with that?” Lelaa asked, blinking confusion.
“What’s the matter with that?” Silva mocked. “He’s tryin’ to make me a officer! A—a loo-tenant!” He smoldered. “I can’t be a officer! Hell, I might as well drown myself.”
Lieutenant Laumer’s face reddened. “And what’s wrong with being an officer?” he asked darkly. He was also to be promoted to full lieutenant from a jg, a move he much appreciated. In his defense, he really didn’t know Silva well at all.
“Well . . . nothin’—for a officer,” Dennis tried to explain. “They squirt up the ladder all the time. They start out officers—born to it, you might say, with no offense meant—and that’s what they do. But I ain’t a officer; never have been, and never wanna be. I don’t know how! I swear, I’ll screw it up so fast, it’ll make your heads spin smooth off!”
Sandra nodded. “I think I get it,” she said. “Mr. Silva, you must apologize to Colonel Shinya this instant! I don’t believe he’s the one who . . . inflicted this honor upon you; the confirmation came from Acting Chief of Staff Steve Riggs. I guess he thought your recent . . . accomplishments desrved recognition and reward. I doubt he expected you to react so negatively, though. Spanky’s a ‘mustang,’ after all. So is Mr. Chapelle now, as well as Campeti. It’s not as if you’d be a freak.”
“Yeah, but . . . Spanky’s a different sort!” Dennis insisted. “An’ he ‘jumped up’ before the war. Ask the Bosun how he’d feel to get bars pinned on! You think he’d consider it a promotion?” He shook his head. “With gobs of respect, I’m good at killin’ things and blowin’ stuff up. If I was a officer, they’d wind up puttin’ me in charge of somethin’ I got no more business bein’ in charge of than a fried chicken’s ass!” He blinked. “Um, ’scuse me, ma’am . . . but it’s a fact!” Silva’s expression changed; it became dark—and something else. He looked hard at Sandra. “Miss . . . Minister, Lieutenant . . . whatever you want me to call you, you know me. You know what . . . I’ve done . . . an’ what I’d do again in the same situations. Give me a squad of Marines; a handful o’ mugs with guns, and that’s fine. Make me chief over a division; I can handle that.” He paused, then continued quietly. “But don’t ever put me in charge of more fellas than I can ever get to know before I wind up gettin’ ’em killed.”
It hit Sandra then. The mighty, monolithic, irrepressible—arguably psychotic and inarguably depraved—Dennis Silva was afraid. He feared no man or beast on this entire messed-up world, but he did fear himself and his own shortcomings. He’d become an incredibly valuable and resourceful man, but not because he was necessarily “good.” A number of t
imes in fact, as he’d alluded, he’d done some very bad things no “proper” officer could have condoned, much less done, but they’d been the right thing to do, regardless. More than once, he’d saved Sandra’s life, and Rebecca’s and Lelaa’s, and no telling how many others—maybe the whole Alliance—by naturally and ruthlessly doing what had to be done without hesitating to consider the morality. In Sandra’s opinion, that made him a dangerous but indispensable asset. He was right, she suddenly realized. He had no business being an officer, and regardless of his excuses, it wasn’t because he couldn’t lead—Sandra knew he could. He might be sincere about his fear of being responsible for more than a handful of men or ’Cats, but in reality, he simply couldn’t be an officer, and all that implied—morally and behaviorally—and still be Dennis Silva.
Sandra looked at Shinya. “You know, let’s give him this one for now.” She lowered her voice. “For a number of reasons.” She spoke up again. “Captain Reddy’s considering creating a ‘bosun of the Navy’ post for Chief Gray. Maybe we need something similar, within that hierarchy, for gunner’s mates who reach Silva’s lofty status. Bernie Sandison gushes about Silva’s work in the Ordnance shops back home, and the Lord knows we need gunnery instructors, here and in Baalkpan!”
“That’s somethin’ else!” Silva interjected. “I got orders back to Baalkpan to slave away, cookin’ up shi . . . stuff in Bernie’s shops! Hell, I can’t do that!”
“Mr. Silva!” said Shinya. “I’ve heard quite enough of what you will or won’t, can or can’t do! You’ll follow orders for a change, beginning with your apology to me, and all those present here!”
“Well, I’m sorry, Colonel, damn it, but I can’t keep Riggs, way off in Baalkpan, from givin’ boneheaded orders! The Skipper’s in the east, and Walker’s in the east.” He nodded at Sandra. “Miss Minister Tucker and the Munchkin princess is goin’ east to the Empire. My standin’ orders from the Skipperself are to watch out for ’em, and that’s what I’m gonna do. You don’t think, after all this time pertectin’ ’em from Imperial traitors, rampagin’ sea monsters, and natural catastrophes, the Skipper’d want me to just quit, do ya? ‘So long, ladies. Run along back into the mercy-less unknown! My pertectin’ days are done!’” He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “No, sir. You may be a colonel now, an’ Riggs may think he’s somethin’, but Captain Reddy is my boss!”
Sandra and Lelaa both chuckled, and Laumer shared a look of consternation with Shinya. The two had become friends, and he sympathized with the former Japanese officer.
“Now I’m sorry, Colonel Shinya!” Sandra apologized, “But the lug’s right. At least he used to be.” She gestured at her companions. “In fact, one reason we came out here was to find Mr. Silva and relieve him of his responsibility to the princess—and thank him again for saving all our lives.” She looked at Dennis. “I’m sorry Mr. Silva, but your new orders stand, confirmed by your ‘boss,’ Captain Reddy. Princess Rebecca— and I—will have more than sufficient protection on our voyage to the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and they really do need you in Baalkpan. You’re to continue your excellent work in the experimental ordnance division with Bernie Sandison and await further orders. I’m sure it won’t be long before you have another combat assignment, probably with First Fleet.”
Silva’s jaw dropped, leaving him wearing an uncharacteristically stunned expression. “But . . .”
Sandra smiled sympathetically. “You should know that the princess objected to this order. For some misguided reason, the child’s quite taken with you. That may have something to do with your having saved her so many times. Frankly, believe it or not, I’m not in complete agreement with it either, but we’ll be perfectly safe aboard the new, purpose-built carrier, Maaka-Kakja, and there won’t be anything she or her battle group can’t handle that you’d have to protect us from. You’d be bored out of your mind.”
“Thank you, Minister Tucker,” Shinya said, bowing rather stiffly and casting a triumphant glare at Silva. “Certainly your new escort will behave more . . . responsibly.”
“I’m sure,” said Sandra, dryly. She turned back to Silva. “Now, I may be other things too, but I’m still a naval officer, and I’m giving you an order you’d better obey!” She wrinkled her nose. “While your attire may strike you as fashionable, you’re no longer on ‘convalescent leave,’ and it’s time for you to rejoin the Navy! You’ll march directly from this place, down to the Navy Yard supply depot—without passing the compound housing the female immigrants from Respite Island! Nurse Pam Cross does not need to hear about shenanigans of that sort. She’s angry enough you’ve been gone so long, pretending to be dead.”
“She don’t own me,” Silva said sulkily. “Besides, even if she did, what’s the harm in lookin’? There’s been few enough female critters—ladies—to oogle. . . .”
“You’ll draw an entire new duffel,” Sandra continued steadfastly. “Hopefully, they can fit you. I don’t know if the Maa-ni-los have ever tried to outfit anyone of your proportions before.”
“Yes’m,” Silva said, apparently conquered at last. His woeful expression was already beginning to fade, however. In its place, his customary, lopsided, somewhat unnerving grin began to reappear. He scratched his faded, crusty eye patch. “You reckon they can replace this thing?”
“I’m sure they will, once they see it, if they have to make one on the spot!” Sandra said, growing a little concerned about the grin, and Silva’s sudden surrender. “Now go!”
Silva saluted sharply, and when all present returned the gesture, he did an about-face, and began striding toward the ferry that would take him across the bay.
“What a horrible man,” Lelaa said fondly, watching him go. “I’ve heard . . . rumors, that Nurse Paam Cross is not the only female who awaits him back home.”
Sandra snorted. “You mean Chack’s sister, Risa-Sab-At?” She shook her head. “There’s no question she and Silva—and Pam!—are great friends. Beyond that, I refuse to speculate. Besides, Risa’s with First Fleet, and too busy to pine away over anyone, I suspect. And she’s not the ‘pining’ sort.” She turned back to Shinya. “Again, Colonel, I’m sorry. Sorry for my rudeness, and sorry you had to deal with Silva. He heard about the ‘promotion’ after the morning wireless traffic—I don’t know how. Scuttlebutt, I suppose. Anyway, he just . . . panicked, I guess. Somehow, he got the idea you recommended him.”
“Well . . .” Shinya hesitated. “I suppose I did. Mr. Silva and I have rarely seen eye to eye in the past, but he’s a magnificent warrior. I thought, particularly after his recent exploits on your behalf, that we need such warriors in leadership positions.” He gestured at the parade ground. The officers had long since stopped gawking, and the NCOs had never allowed the enlisted troops to start. “We have new weapons, new tactics, and new troops who’ve not been tested.” He shrugged. “I’d hoped to persuade him to take a company of Marines.”
“You do him great honor, Colonel Shinya,” Sandra said seriously, “and though I suppose he deserves it, take my word; Dennis Silva should never become an officer. It would ruin him.” She took a long breath. “It might ruin all of us, in the end.” She paused, staring back over the throng of troops, ignoring Shinya’s curious expression. “With that issue settled, I’ll turn to the other thing I came to see you about. You have orders as well—of a sort. Captain Reddy specifically asked me to deliver them, and get your honest appraisal.”
“Of course.”
“As you know, we have a whole new war on our hands. We can’t let up on the Grik, but we must help Captain Reddy and our new Imperial allies. I’ll be departing aboard Maaka-Kakja, and there’ll be plenty of green sailors aboard.” She smiled at Lelaa. “For example, Lelaa will command, and she’s never even conned a steamship! Her aircrews have only just learned to fly, and she’ll be working up her wing en route. My question to you is, in your honest opinion, how many troops can we send with her, and are you free to lead them?”
Shinya con
centrated. “Most of my best troops are still involved in search and rescue activities, in response to the effects of the tsunami. Even if I could send them now, ‘best’ is a relative term.” He waved at a regiment of Maa-ni-los rapidly moving from a column into line. “Their drill is good, their execution almost flawless, but only a very few of the NCOs have ever seen action; some were volunteers at Baalkpan, you’ll recall. You asked my honest appraisal, and I must say I hesitate to send any of these troops to Captain Reddy. He’s grown accustomed to leading veteran soldiers.” He paused. “Regardless. He wants Marines, I understand, but their amphibious training is not yet complete. Perhaps two of the Fil-pin regiments might be up to the task. Of course,” he added wistfully, “much as I’d like to, I lead them.” He hesitated. “Honestly, I’d prefer that we had time to draw some force from General Alden, then plug these regiments into his larger force as originally planned.”
“Colonel Shinya, Matt currently has less than thirty effective Marines. More may still recover from wounds, but he needs troops—our troops—rather badly right now. He said the Imperial Marines fight well, but our tactics are superior—the tactics you’re teaching here. For Chack, or even Matt to have a real say regarding Imperial land tactics, he must have a credible force. Even if the Imperials are inclined to listen to Chack—and Matt thinks they are—he needs more than thirty instructors!” She paused. “Tell me, Colonel: are these troops more or less as well trained as those who met and defeated the Grik at Baalkpan?”
“More. Much more—with one glaring exception.”
“Yes. Combat experience. But how many had that at Baalkpan? A quarter? A third at most?” She shook her head. “How much combat experience did you have the first time you went into combat? Look, I get it. These are your troops, and for all practical purposes, this is your army. You formed it, trained it like a child, and you love it, don’t you?” Shinya didn’t respond, but Sandra knew she was right. “You’ve done a good job. You’ve set the wheels in motion and established a sound regimen here.” She gestured back at the parade ground. “These ’Cats, these Lemurians, don’t really much need us anymore, you know. Sure, we showed them the way, but as far as the basics are concerned, there’s not much left to teach them. They’re building and flying airplanes, operating steamships, building muskets, and sending Morse! Now that the various industries are starting to hit their stride, they’re even improving on designs we’ve given them.” She took a breath. “They’re also fighting their own battles now.” Her voice softened. “Colonel . . . Tamatsu . . . most of these troops will soon be going west, to First Fleet and General Alden. He’ll take good care of them—and they don’t need you anymore. Training will continue here just as well without you. You’ve said yourself that things around here pretty much run themselves. Captain Reddy—Matt—does need you, and so will the troops you need to lead east to his assistance!”
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