Added to the commotion of greeting was the presence of the royal family, hundreds of female yard workers, and many hundreds of people from the city itself, come to pay their respects. In the midst of it all, USS Walker (DD-163), swayed gently at her moorings, the sea lapping soothingly at her dented plates. Battered and bruised, she’d protected most of her people . . . most of them . . . and again that had been a major achievement. Her blower sighed contentedly and smoke wisped lazily from her aft funnel. Someone had finally begun painting her victims on the side of her port bridgewing, and the collection was as bizarre as it was lengthy. Everything from Japanese planes to Grik ships (nobody remembered how many of those she’d destroyed) to the now acceptably coined “Grik birds” were represented. And, of course, there was Amagi. Walker lay there at rest, beneath her battle flag and canton fluttering at the jack-staff above her bullnose, proud, confident, and far more than she would have ever been on the world where she was made.
Princess Rebecca was first to meet Matt when he descended to the dock, sprinting ahead of everyone else. She clasped him in an embrace that startled him but also melted his heart. At the same time, he was a little disconcerted by the strange, semiwinged . . . creature . . . drooped across her shoulders that looked skeptically up at him.
“Thank you,” Rebecca said, wetting his shirt with her tears, “for everything. You did come for us, as we knew you would, but then you not only saved my father, but my country as well. I’ll never forget it!”
“Forget it!” Petey screeched. “Goddamn!”
Sandra was next, but after only a quick embrace she and Matt were forced to focus on the endless stream of greetings and congratulations. Still, they remained glued together, side by side, the mere presence of the other after so long and so much renewing their souls. They shared a strange new tension, however, an almost-sickening, floating sense that regardless of their attachment, something . . . fundamental was about to change. Both knew they had much to discuss, officially and otherwise. From an official standpoint, Matt’s stormy expression when he saw the gathering of dark-skinned human females—in USN T-shirts, dungarees, and Dixie cups—arrayed behind a woman Sandra introduced simply as “Carpenter’s Mate, Steward Diania,” promised a lively debate, and Sandra had blithely ignored it. If ’Cat “girls” could serve in the Navy, so could the human variety as far as she was concerned. She knew she’d win that one, eventually. She had no idea how their “personal” discussion would go.
Happy greetings occurred all around, and ’Cats scampered excitedly on and off the old destroyer, dispensing with ceremony. But each one saluted her flag. Matt caught a familiar loud voice and saw Juan Marcos leaning on a crutch, his left pant leg pinned up. He was berating Tabasco and Earl Lanier in Tagalog, a language nobody except maybe the few Philippine Scouts who’d survived their hellish ordeal in Mizuki Maru understood. He was glad for Juan that there were other Filipinos now, but he was also very worried about that Japanese destroyer, still apparently on the loose. Mizuki Maru had finally steamed after her, but there’d been no word. And, of course, he’d heard about his cousin Orrin, still on New Ireland. He wasn’t flying again yet, but he was in charge of rooting out the last of the Grik birds. Fortunately, there’d never been many on the island. Their surprise appearance in the dark had been costly, but Orrin had developed tactics to lure them from their hiding places and destroy them. Matt smiled sadly. Thank God the kid was alive, but it had apparently been a bad war for the Reddy clan back home. Juan’s jabbering continued unabated. Poor Tabasco kind of slunk back, but suddenly, to Matt’s amazement, Earl Lanier stepped forward and picked Juan up off the deck and held him in a greasy, furry-armed, stinky embrace.
“I’m glad to see you too, you goddamn, crazy little Flip!” he rumbled.
Eventually, the horde dwindled. The Governor-Emperor was tiring, and he invited all the senior officers to join him at Government House and dine early. There they could debrief at greater leisure and in more comfort. Unexpectedly, many crew and Marines from Walker and other “Lemurian-American” ships flocked along. The officers’ gathering would be on the wide veranda of the residence, but no one had prohibited the growing party on the grounds surrounding it. Some Imperial officers and officials seemed shocked and dismayed by the familiar way the human and ’Cat Americans behaved around their officers, and several suggested they dine inside, away from the revelers. Princess Rebecca gave them a steely glare, and even the Governor-Emperor dismissed the notion as he and the other Allied leaders assembled around a long, narrow table on the broad porch.
It’s the Lemurian way, Matt recalled with a small smile, remembering the times he’d made landfall among the People. He took his indicated seat to Gerald’s right at the head of the table, with Sandra at his side, and noticed that Ruth McDonald sat with her husband. He’d never seen that before. He wondered if their influences were beginning to take root and whether they’d ultimately be appreciated or resented. Right now, the expanded Alliance was on solid ground.
There was no ceremony, no speech, no “official” greeting, and Matt was thankful. He was surprised, but suspected Sean O’Casey (Bates) had probably advised against it, knowing him and his people the best. The Governor-Emperor began the “proceedings” simply, by leaning forward and saying something to Courtney Bradford. The Australian cupped his hand behind his ear, and the Bosun abruptly stood, facing the crowd.
“Pipe down, you bunch’a’ goons!” he bellowed. “The brass is tryin’ to decide whether to give you medals or throw you all in the brig!”
Sean Bates rose as well. “There’ll be fine, great barrels o’ beer available soon on the north porch. Do enjoy it there, fer the time bein’, ta the extent allowed by yer officers! This is a celebration, an’ there’ll be music an’ dancin’ at dusk, but we must have a wee chat before then.” Amid cheers, the vast majority of the partyers made their way to the other es) f Government House, and Bates nodded at Gray with a grin. “Now I’m His Majesty’s Factor, er ‘chief o’ staff,’ I reckon, I’ve learned ta reward wi’ beer, rather than berate wi’ roars!”
“That might work ashore . . .” Gray muttered as the two sat down, eliciting laughter.
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Courtney said. “What was your question?”
“What did you think of the fauna in the colonies?” Gerald repeated more loudly.
“I had little opportunity to explore, I’m afraid, with all the bothersome battles. I did see a few fascinating specimens after the sea fight ended and we joined the shore action.” He paused, and his wild brows fairly bounced with excitement. “One beast we saw was simply titanic, but the locals paid it little heed!” He sipped tea, cooled by ice brought from Walker. “Of course, by then, it was more a general chase. Commodore Jenks and Mr. Gray”—he nodded at the Bosun—“had already won the fight.”
“Those locals are damn good shots, and even Silva’d appreciate their humongous rifles!” Gray said with actual admiration. “We never saw any o’ their ‘Grik birds’—they must’ve all been after you, Skipper—an’ Chack’s probably right about ’em not havin’ enough sense to use in a pitched land fight. Anyway, once the Doms found out their fleet was beat, they retreated south faster than our artillery could keep up. They left most of theirs, but we needed our guns because they still had us outnumbered pretty bad.” He took a gulp of tea himself. “We didn’t take many prisoners,” he added. “Mostly wounded they left behind. I’m told if they try to walk all the way back to the Dominion, most won’t make it, though.”
“True enough,” Gerald agreed soberly. “I once visited the borderlands, back when Harvey Jenks and I were both ‘squeakers’ aboard the old Zeus,” he reminisced. “The country they must cross is quite dreadful, full of terrifying beasts.” He looked at Captain Reddy and smiled crookedly. “But since my attempt at preliminary pleasantries has been so successfully redirected, we may as well get down to it. Tell me, what do you think about the situation concerning Governor Dodd and Lord Admiral
McClain?”
Matt considered. “The admiral’s no traitor; he simply disagreed with our strategy. He made no secret of his belief the Doms would strike at the Enchanted Isles. The problem is, he understood our strategy and knew what was expected of him. His tardiness cost us more casualties than we would’ve taken with the force we expected, and nearly cost us the battle. All here had already agreed what the consequences of that would have been. Jenks was right to relieve him in your name.”
Gerald nodded. “Indeed. Of course. A sad necessity.”
“On the other hand, it looks like Governor Dodd did turn. He was ‘missing’ throughout the crisis, gone ‘camping’ or ‘hunting,’ I’m told. A search was unsuccessful and revealed no evidence his party fell prey to predators. The militia there—damn fine scouts—don’t think he went anywhere near where he said he’d be, but went south toward the Dom landings instead. The consensus is he retreated with the beaten enemy.”
“I thought I knew Dodd,” Gerald lamented, shaking his head. He looked at Chack and Blair. “It seems sure we still have high-placed traitors here as well, who passed nearly our entire plan to the enemy. They must be discovered!” His gaze returned to Matt. “And though Dodd was always a ‘Company man,’ I never believed him capable of treason. Clearly, we still have our hands full on the home front.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Aye,” Bates agreed. “Jenks’ll have his hands full in the east as well, sortin’ out the colonies an’ tryin’ ta take the fight ta the Doms. They’ll go fer the Enchanted Isles now for sure.”
“Most likely,” Matt agreed. “At least he should have the ships to stop them now, with what we left him. Frankly, the Dom ‘ships of the line’ are almost useless. Good thing for us they started this war with last generation’s Navy! I guess that’s all they thought they’d need. The transports are fairly new, built for this war, but their fighting ships are twenty or thirty years old. They’re still dangerous as hell if you get close to one, but with enough steamers, you shouldn’t have to. Sooner or later they’re going to put engines in them and that’ll change, but for now? We captured a couple, once they were helpless. Dom sailors and regulars aren’t all crazy, at least. I recommended Jenks put some of their heavy guns on the steam transports we took. He’s ‘CINCEAST’ now by the way, if you’ve no objection, Your Majesty.”
“None whatsoever. He’s earned it. He’ll need troops, however.”
Matt looked down the table at Tamatsu Shinya and Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan. “Troops and air cover. What do you think, General Shinya? Admiral Lelaa?” He’d received the reports of their activities several days out. Lelaa blinked rapidly and would have blushed if she could, Matt was sure.
“Maaka-Kakja and her battle group will go where they’re needed, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” Lelaa said.
“Shinya?”
“May I have Chack?” Shinya asked.
“Well, no, you can’t,” Matt said, his brows furrowing. “He’s going home with me and Walker.” He glanced at Sandra, then looked at Gerald. “My ship needs a refit like she can’t get out here—yet. Besides, things are heating up in the west, and while the Dom Navy might be on its heels for now, we haven’t heard a peep from the Grik Navy in a while. They build fast, Your Majesty!”
“You can say that again, Skipper!” Spanky muttered, several places down. Tabby sat beside him—in a real uniform, thank God—and as an officer, it was appropriate she be present. None of Walker’s destroyermen doubted why she’d chosen to sit next to Spanky, however. “About the refit, I mean,” he added. “And things are heating up. I almost popped my cork when we got word about the zeppelins! I mean, well . . . shit!”
Matt nodded grimly. What Spanky didn’t elaborate on was the rest of their reaction when they “got the word.” The Ceylon operation was a success, but they’d had it almost easy out here compared to First Fleet. Humfra-Dar, Tolson, Revenge, Geran-Eras, Pruit Barry, Clancy, Jamie Miller—not to mention the thousands of soldiers, sailors, and Marines the campaign cost—and there was that “new” Grik general Rolak’s pet Grik had learned about, questioning the survivors at Colombo. . . . Walker needed to go home for a lot of reasons.
“I mean to escort Salaama-Na as far as an island we call ‘Wake,’” he said. “I can’t remember what your charts call it. We need another comm relay. After that, I may have another short stop to make, but ultimately”—he looked fondly at Chack—“Colonel-Bosun’s Mate Chack-Sab-At deserves to go home—and on to fight the Grik. I’m . . . sure he’s been sorely missed.”
Matt didn’t notice, but Sandra saw Selass sink down slightly in her seat. She pursed her lips, sad for her friend and her hopeless love. She cut her eyes at Matt. “And what’s this ‘short stop’?” she asked, suspecting he meant to visit the Great South Island “on the way” home. It was a trip Courtney had long been pressing. There were many potential allies there—and just as many wonders for Mr. Bradford to explore. Or maybe he wanted to chase that Japanese destroyer.
“Just a minute,” Matt asked her, looking at Shinya. “Do you mean you won’t take the job if Chack’s not with you?”
Shinya blinked. “What? Oh! Of course I’ll take the job! I thought that went without saying! I just wanted Chack along, that’s all.” He paused. “I should take as many Imperial troops as possible, of course, and I’d like to recruit some of these ‘colonial scouts.’ I do think it’s time a few Imperial troops went west, however,” he prompted. “Our Lemurian allies have given much on this front.”
Gerald nodded gravely. “Your point is well taken, General. Our ‘Army’ is growing quickly, but it’s still small. Do you think a regiment would suffice for now?”
“Yeah, under the circumstances,” Matt said. “Our friends know you’re stretched. A regiment now, with a promise of more, would be sufficient and appreciated. Our losses in Ceylon have been heavy.”
“Have you anyone in mind to command this force, Colonel Chack?” the Governor-Emperor asked.
“Ah, yes, sir. Majors Blair and Jindal.”
Gerald laughed, looking at the two men in question. “Blast it, you can’t have them both! I’ve just relieved half the officer corps of the entire Imperial Marines! Useless bureaucrats! Hmm. Major Blair’s already faced these Grik of yours, but Major Jindal could use the experience, and perhaps your tutelage? I shall consider it.”
“What ‘little trip’ ? ” Sandra insisted again.
Matt took a deep breath and looked at her. He’d been hoping for a better, private time, but those were likely to be rare in the few days he planned to tarry in Scapa Flow. He rubbed his forehead and glanced around the table at the people there, all friends, most practically family in a sense. “Well, I thought a little vacation might be in order, just a few days. I know this place called Respite Island. Good people, beautiful weather, lots of secluded places you can actually swim . . .”
“What kind of vacation, Captain Reddy?” Sandra sternly pressed, and Matt looked around again, almost helplessly this time. He saw the grinning faces and knew he was blushing. He was in hell. “Oh, well . . . I don’t know. The . . . honeymoon kind, I guess,” he finally mumbled.
Sandra was struck speechless. Not as much by the implication of what he’d said, but by seeing Captain Matthew Reddy, honored hero, fearless warrior, afflicted with the timidity of a schoolboy. “Taking something for granted, aren’t you?” she finally managed, and immediately cursed herself. What kind of dope am I?
“No, he ain’t, Miss Lieutenant-Minister Tucker, with all due respect!” boomed a voice nearby. She spun in her seat and saw Dennis Silva leaning on one of the porch columns, a mug of beer in one hand, the bent barrel of the Doom Whomper in the other. It was all he’d managed to salvage of his precious weapon from the shattered remains of the wheelwright’s shop, and he’d moped around with the thing ever sice, waving it like a bloody shirt or using it to menace Dom prisoners. Now he was back to form. Lawrence peered out from behind him, crest rising in a kind of cringe. The am
used tension around the table broke and erupted into laughter.
“Not about you, anyway,” Silva added. “There’s one small book-keepin’ chore to settle first, though. Since I ain’t yet been ree-leeved o’ watchin out for you an’ the Munchkin princess”—he glared at the child—“who says I’m stuck pertectin’ her for life—dooty permittin’. I’m still sorta yer guardians, so to speak. The way I figger it, Skipper’s either gotta let me off the hook or ask my blessin’!”
“Ask my blessin’!” Petey demanded insistently, and Gray had had enough.
“Silva! Ain’t you got any decency or respect? Even a sliver? You’re the most outrageous, immoral, degenerate . . . !”
“Don’t forget ‘debauched’!” Courtney added gleefully.
“Yeah, that too. And . . . other stuff! Can’t you even let the Skipper and his dame have a tender, private moment without stickin’ yourself in it, damn you?”
Silva gestured around, grinning. “Ain’t exactly private, Bosun, and I don’t think he wanted it to be, deep down. He thinks he needs our permission to be happy, you big rotten-hearted toad!”
Gray blinked and looked at Matt, who sat staring into Sandra’s eyes.
Finally, Matt looked around one last time and stood in the sudden, total silence. “You’re right, Silva,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “You’re right,” he repeated more normally. “Even now, I think my crew deserves a say. Partly because if I marry her, it’s not as if she can accompany us on extended cruises anymore, and her fine advice and counsel have been invaluable in the past.” He looked down at Sandra. “That’s what bugs me most, I think. As this war drags on, I’ll probably have even less time with you if we . . .” He stopped, seeing her feelings reflected in her damp eyes. “Chief Gunner’s Mate Silva,” he enunciated clearly. “Request permission to marry Lieutenant Sandra Tucker!”
Firestorm Page 48
