“Rifled muskets?” Bekiaa asked, confused.
“I know of these!” Saraan interjected. “They load like the muskets the Marines already have, but they are far more accurate. They spin the bullets like the”—he looked apologetically at Keje—“ ‘Holy’ ’03 Springfields and Kraags the first Amer-i-caans brought!”
Keje grinned. “Do not be concerned. I will not denounce you as a heretic,” he said. “I wouldn’t, anyway; our Alliance is full of them now. And besides, Gen-er-aal Aal-den has convinced me that those first Springfields and Kraags could at least commune with the Maker, since their bullets must be divinely guided!”
“Oh-threes are holy . . . to me,” Pete grumped, fingering the sling of the one he always carried. The weapon was somewhat battered now, but no one doubted it was clean—and capable of miracles in his hands.
“How many for a company?” Saraan asked, almost greedily.
“At least a hundred,” Flynn said, glancing at Keje, “But maybe you fall in the same category as those other distinguished naval officers?”
Keje grunted. “Certainly. Commander Saraan-Gaani is a valuable naval resource . . . but he’s also known and trusted by these people here.” He glanced around at the curious faces that had gathered around them. “He has proven himself, according to Cap-i-taan Cha-pelle, and if he desires it, he may command this ‘Dee’ company you wish to form.”
“Of course I desire it!” Saraan said. “Particularly if Cap-i-taan Bekiaa should second me!”
“It’s settled then,” Alden said, with the air of someone who’d solved a nagging problem. “If you can rake up the volunteers,” he added, noticing the crowd around them growing even more as word began to spread. There’d be some who’d had enough, he knew, but Saraan would likely have more trouble keeping the number down than raking it up. He looked at Bekiaa. “The First Amalgamated isn’t a Marine regiment,” he said, “but you and yours’ll still be Marines regardless, if you want in.”
“I do,” she replied, with a glance at Saraan, “as long as I’m still a Marine, and I keep my uniform.”
Flynn laughed. “The Amalgamated wears many ‘uniforms.’ ” He looked at Alden. “I personally prefer the name ‘Flynn’s Rangers,’ as a matter of fact, but that doesn’t matter either. All that does is that you can shoot!” He paused. “And sing. Sometimes we sing.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Get your volunteers,” he told Saraan, “and report to Colonel Flynn by evening. Things are poppin’, and we don’t have time to screw around. I’m sure Flynn’ll be happy to instruct you on the new weapons. Those you can’t take will still have the choice of joining the fleet here or going back to Andaman with Mr. Garrett.”
USS Donaghey
All her guns had been removed, and there were occasi moments of semibuoyancy as Donaghey waited for the tide to reach its peak. Her upper hull was a shambles after the beating she’d taken, but her bottom was still remarkably tight despite working on the beach for the better part of a week. Further testimony to the skill, ingenuity, and planning that built her in the first place. There was no doubt she’d float if they got her off, but they’d likely get only one chance. The “stormy” time of year kept a different schedule in the Western Ocean, and it was doubtful she’d survive until the next time the tide ran this high.
“Commodore” Jim Ellis was aboard to coordinate the effort and discuss the signals they’d make. He’d also delivered some unwelcome news.
“Damn,” Garrett said. “I wanted to stay.”
“I know,” said Jim, “and I understand how you feel. The trouble is, frankly, you’re too good at what you do. You and Russ both. Face it; you’re heroes back home, naval heroes. You’re the best frigate skippers we have.” He grinned. “‘DD’ skippers. And you had to learn the hard way, without power. Honestly, if I had it my way, I’d send you both to Baalkpan to teach, so consider yourselves lucky.” He looked at Garrett, leaning on the shattered capstan. There was a lot going on around the capstan on the deck below, where the heavy hawser was being secured. Offshore, Dowden and Tassat would try to bring Donaghey’s bow around and pull her off by the nose. The rudder had been unshipped to prevent damage to it or the sternpost. There, on the upper deck, however, the crew knew a “stay away” meeting when they saw it, and they had relative privacy.
“Okay.” Garrett sighed. “At least I’ll keep Donaghey—if we get her loose.” He didn’t want to jinx them. “But what about Russ?”
“Yeah, what about me? I can fight. Why can’t I stay? There’s no extra ships just lying around for me, that’s for sure.”
“There would be if it was up to me,” Jim said cryptically. “There’re a few out here I’d like to send to the school I wish you could teach.” He sighed. “Politics,” he spat. “I guess it was inevitable with the Alliance growing so, but I kind of miss the way it was around here at first.”
“What, with us in charge of everything?” Greg chuckled.
“Well . . . yeah. Some of these skippers took the Navy oath and all, but I guarantee they got commands because Adar leaned on Keje because he needed to keep important people happy.”
“Adar knows the stakes as well as anyone,” Russ said, considering. “He wouldn’t make Keje take anybody who was flat unfit—or has he?”
Jim shook his head. “No. They’re decent seamen . . . sea-’Cats. Just kind of puffed up about not much. You remember the type.”
“Sure.”
“So what about me?” Russ asked.
“As of right now, you’re going back to Baalkpan, but to complete and work up a new frigate and get your butt back in the war as fast as you can.”
“Where? Here, or in the east?”
“I can’t tell you that. Wherever you’re needed most when the time comes, I guess.”
Chapelle mulled that over. “Huh. Weird.” He shook his head. “I’d love to go east and help the Skipper against those screwy Spics. . . .” His face brightened. “And there’s the women, of course! Givenmy choice, though, I guess I’d rather keep killin’ Grik.”
Jim Ellis shrugged. “It doesn’t much matter. Wherever we go, whatever we do in this goofed-up world, somebody or something always needs killing. In that sense, I guess it’s not so different from the world we came from. Courtney Bradford would probably come up with something profound, but I guess what it all boils down to is the white hats and black hats in the Westerns.” He tugged on the brim of his battered tan cover. “This one may not be white, but our guys’ Dixie cups are, and you know? Maybe that’s all they need to think about.”
“That is profound,” Garrett said. He still wore his white cover; his other was lost, but the white one had turned a blotchy tan. First, it had been stained with coffee—the result of a nutty order at a nutty time. Time itself had done the rest. “I wonder if some genius figured out, a long time ago, that officers and chiefs—maybe particularly chiefs—need to remember that sometimes things aren’t all black or white.”
“Tell it to Captain Reddy. He knows it like nobody I ever saw, but he’s also figured out there’s no way to sort out all the different shades anymore, even if there really ever was, which I doubt.” Jim shook his head. “It was easy against the Japs. They sneaked up and bombed Pearl Harbor; then they came after us. Easy. They were the bad guys and we were the good guys. Same here. The Grik want to eat all of us. In my humble opinion, that’s bad. Folks can stay out of the fight, but if they do, they’d better stay the hell out of the way.” He looked at Russ. “I don’t blame you for wanting to stay out here. Sure, there’s broads starting to make it to Baalkpan, but the situation in the east is a mess. Lots of different colors to worry about and the Skipper hates that.” He paused. “I guess you did catch that a new Jap ’can came through, before Clancy bought it and you lost your comm?”
There were nods.
“I guess if it’s any consolation, it looks like we’re winning the war back home. We bombed Tokyo, smashed a bunch of their carriers at Midway, retook some place called Gua
dalcanal. Stopped their butts cold and started rolling them up. The guys that told us didn’t know much more, but that’s swell. It’s a hell of a lot better than it was when we left. But here? In the east?” He removed his hat and scratched his greasy scalp. “We’ve got Japs chasing Japs, we’re helping Brits fight Brits, and”—he looked at Chapelle—“some kind of goofy Spaniard Indians. Hell, there’s even a tribe of Grik on our side! No, I don’t blame you for wanting to stay out here at all.”
The ship juddered beneath his feet, and Garrett held his watch to the lantern light. “I guess we’d better get started, Commodore,” he said. “We’ve got about two hours. Just let us know when you’re about to hit the gas.” He glanced out at the lanterns on Dowden and Tassat. Other ships were beyond them, he knew, darkened in case the enemy chose to interrupt them. “We’ll hold on for the first jolt, but I may have to have the guys run back and forth to rock her.”
“I’ll let you know,” Jim promised. “We will get her off.”
“Don’t say that!” Garrett grinned. “Just go out there and break both your legs, blow the main steam line, and run aground yourself!”
“My, you’re getting superstitious!” Jim laughed.
“Can’t help it,” Greg said.
CHAPTER 12
USS Walker December 30, 1943
The sky was almost black in the west, and the clouds above were dark, high, and huge. In the east, the horizon around the rising sun was clear and golden. Long, choppy swells rolled in from the northwest, hitting the old destroyer on the port bow. The downdraft of the storm’s leading edge sent cold, shattered spray against the windows of the pilothouse and the port side of the chart house. Walker was pitching and rolling in a corkscrew motion guaranteed to achieve vomit from all but her most seasoned crew. The cold, damp wind added to the misery. Few Lemurians other than “far rangers” or those from the Great South Island had ever experienced temperatures much below the seventies at night, and now, with the wind and humidity, along with a weak but genuine cold front, it felt like the fifties. ’Cats all over the ship were wearing Lemurian-made copies of “peacoats” that few had ever expected to need, and even the humans, so accustomed to the constant heat, were wearing peacoats and jackets off-loaded before the Battle of Baalkpan. The old wool smelled musty, and even Matt’s leather jacket had him sneezing occasionally at the mildew.
Courtney was happy as a clam, standing on the starboard bridgewing with Jenks, bouncing up and down to keep his binoculars steady as he cheerfully described a flight of perhaps a dozen giant lizard birds, or “dragons” stooping and whirling on something far to the east. Jenks was fascinated too, but mainly because the beasts had never been seen this far north, and so far out at sea. Obviously, they were dogging something in or on the water; perhaps some wandering school of fish?
“They must be out of Guadalupe Island,” Harvey Jenks speculated. “Dragons are somewhat migratory and often cooperate with one another, as you see,” he said.
“Maybe,” said Matt. Guadalupe was their “waypoint.” They meant to turn north after sighting it on the chance the suspected Dom fleet would use it for the same purpose as it worked north along the coast. Jenks said the island might provide a decent anchorage, depending on the wind, and if the Doms were waiting anywhere for things to “automatically happen,” it was as good a place as any. Putting a dogleg in their trip with their fuel so limited had been a difficult decision, but they needed to know what they were facing. They had six days until the cryptic date of January 5, plenty of time to reach their destination, with a few days to spare, but it was imperative they have something concrete to present to the authorities at the colonial port of Saint Francis—better remembered by the human destroyermen as San Francisco.
That’s going to be a . . . weird landfall, Matt reflected. Jenks’s description of the place didn’t sound very familiar, and that made sense with the lower sea level. They certainly wouldn’t pass under the Golden Gate Bridge. Still, it would be their first contact with what should have been their continental home, their own country. It would probably be even more painful than their arrival in the “New Britain Isles.” Besides, it was cold. Sure, it was winter here, but the weather was more like Seattle. Jenks said the “North Coast” was under ice for much of the year, and pack ice could be a problem as far south as where Matt showed him Astoria to be on their own charts. A genuine ice sheet wasn’t possible because of the tumultuous sea, but it wasn’t right at all.
“I wish we could throw Reynolds and his plane over the side to fly over there and have a look; see if that’s Guadalupe and if there’re any Dom ships there,” Matt said, looking at the sea. “Tangerous. The trouble is, if we get too close and the enemy is there, they might see us before we see them, with their higher masts and lookouts.”
“Not necessarily, Skipper,” said the Bosun, who’d been watching the darkness in the west. He gestured toward it. “We’ll have that as a backdrop, liable to blend right in. And we have better lookouts than they do.”
“Hmm.” Matt strode aft, starboard of the chart house, and stared up at the funnels. “Minnie,” he said, addressing the diminutive talker, “get Tabby on the horn and tell her number three is making too much smoke.” He looked around the pilothouse. “Might as well have a look.”
Very shortly afterward, the lookout sighted land to the east, what looked like a peak rising from the sea. The threatening storm had dissipated somewhat, becoming more benign as one front surrendered to another, but the entire sky was gray. Walker approached the landfall at fifteen knots, and soon the peak of what had to be Mount Augusta, maybe five thousand feet high, sprawled out on the horizon into a rugged island about fifteen miles long, north to south. Careful scrutiny revealed no Dominion ships along its western coast, and Jenks suggested they pass to the north and see what might lie in what he called the “northeast anchorage.”
The dragons Courtney watched earlier had disappeared, but similar shapes fluttered around the highest volcanic peak. Another peak brooded to the south, not quite as high, but shrouded by steamy clouds. It was probably active, Matt surmised. By early afternoon, they’d passed the sharp, northeast point and had an unobstructed view of the anchorage beyond. Almost at the same instant the lookout reported—his view as obscured by the point as theirs until now—those on the bridge caught their first sight of a forest of masts.
“My God, there they are!” Matt muttered. So much for sneaking in for a look. The first Dom ship, clearly distinguished by the red flag with the gold cross whipping at her stern, was only five thousand yards away. Beyond it lay more ships than they’d seen gathered since the Battle of Baalkpan; maybe a hundred. Most, particularly those anchored closest to the scant shoreline at the base of the high cliffs, were probably transports. Through his Bausch & Lomb’s, thousands of white dots—tents—were scattered in orderly clumps across the exposed slopes of the mountain. Apparently, they’d been here a while. The vessels encompassing the inner transports had to be warships, however, and all those would have guns. “Sound general quarters! Stand by for surface action, starboard!” he said loudly. The laryngitic duck of the general alarm squalled, and there was a short bustle in the pilothouse as men and ’Cats exchanged their hats for helmets.
“What will we do?” Courtney asked.
“You’re going to assume your battle station in the wardroom,” Matt said. “Without Selass here, all we have is a pharmacist’s mate. You’re our surgeon now, remember?”
“W-why, yes,” Bradford stammered unenthusiastically, “and I shall do my duty . . . but what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to stay out of range and hit ’em as hard as we can. They’re at anchor, and we’ll never have a better opportunity. See all those tents ashore? Those represent who knows how many troops. We sink their transports, and the invasion of the colonies is off.”
“Attack . . . without warning?” Courtney gasped.
“Damn straight,” the Bosun growled. “What do you think they’re
here to do?re h
“Still . . .”
“Go below, Courtney,” Matt said with an edge. Bradford vanished in a huff, but when he was gone, Jenks leaned toward Matt and whispered, “Actually, though I hate to say it, he has a point.”
Matt goggled at him. “What?”
“We’re at war with the Dominion, no question, but those people over there, aboard those ships, don’t know it yet.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Gray demanded, equally shocked. “You want to run up a white flag, steam over there and tell ’em we’re at war? They’ll thrash us! Our only advantage is speed and range. We’ve got ’em served up on a platter, and you want to give that up? Did you forget how they started this war? They murdered women and children! Civilians!”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Jenks said bitterly, “but are we to start a war with them the same way?”
“It’s already started!” Matt almost shouted in frustration.
Jenks pointed at the ships, still serene at anchor in the island’s lee. Surely they’d seen them by now, but as yet, there was no visible reaction. “Not for them!”
Matt removed his hat and raked his hair back. “Talker,” he snapped. “What does the lookout see?”
“Ahh, confusion aboard enemy ships,” Minnie reported, and Matt slapped his leg with his hat.
“Mr. Kutas, come right thirty degrees. Slow to one-third. Stand by for flank. Pack Rat? Hoist the battle flag, if you please.”
“Right thirty, aye,” Kutas replied, and repeated the order to the helmsman. Staas-Fin (Finny) confirmed he’d rung the engine room and was ready to signal the increase. “Tabasco” scrambled up the ladder aft with Matt’s pistol and sword belt. He snatched the battered hat from his captain and handed over a helmet. Matt put it on but gestured for his steward to keep the belt for now.
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