Crusade
( Destroyermen - 2 )
Тейлор Андерсон
The 'gripping and riveting' (S.M. Stirling, author of The Scourge of God) Destroyermen saga continues.
Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, along with the men and women of the USS Walker, have chosen sides in a war not of their making. Swept from the World War II Pacific into an alternate world, they have allied with the Lemurians — a mammalian race threatened by the warlike reptilian Grik.
The Lemurians are vastly outnumbered and ignorant of warfare, and even the guns and technology of Walker cannot turn the tide of battle. Luckily they are not alone — Reddy finally finds Mahan, the other destroyer that passed through the rift. Together, the two American ships will teach the Lemurians to make a stand. Or so they think.
For the massive Japanese battleship Amagi, the very ship that Walker was fleeing from when the rift took them, has followed them through. And now the Amagi is in the hands of the Grik.
Taylor Anderson
Crusade
PROLOGUE
Tsalka, Imperial Regent-Consort and Sire of all India, lounged on his padded, saddlelike throne. The throne was raised upon a triangular platform in the center of a vast oval-shaped stone chamber. An arched ceiling left most of the chamber in shadow for much of the day, and flowering ivies transplanted from the dark jungle floor all. Only above the throne was there always sunlight. It beamed through a large, ingeniously mirrored opening in the center of the ceiling, and the warm, sensuous rays caressed and illuminated the regent with their favor.
Tsalka idly stroked a small, squirming miniature of himself as it chewed on his long finger-claw. Its sharp teeth were like little needles and its claws and flailing tail tickled his palm. A basket of its nest-mates wobbled near the throne. The tiny mewling growls of the occupants struggling with one another provided amusing distraction from thoughts of the disquieting interview he expected. Word had already reached him that a hunting-pack had been thwarted in some way and he awaited details. Details he might have to convey to the Celestial Mother herself. The first reports hinted that the pack had fallen prey and, deep down, a predatory quickening stirred.
He shouldn’t have cared less, on a personal level. He was of the Hij, the elevated, and the primordial impulses no longer held sway. He was one of the few who, through birth and achievement, were allowed to advance beyond the Uul, or warrior/worker stage of life. Not many did, and he had few peers. It was from the Hij alone that the Celestial Mother and her sisters took their consorts and provided a gentle stream of hatchlings that might one day gain the awareness to aspire to elevation themselves. Some became engineers and shipwrights. Others became generals, planners, navigators, or scribes. Still others oversaw the making of arms. Some few, like him, became administrators and viceroys of conquered lands. All were ancient by the standards of the Grik. Tsalka was close to forty and a few Hij even labored to the impossible age of sixty or more.
That was the blessing — to continue to exist and achieve a level of awareness the Uul could never fathom. It was necessary that some should do so, and the responsibility for guiding the Uul and shaping a world for them to enjoy was immense. That was also the curse. The Hij could no longer surrender themselves to the joy of the hunt and the ecstasy of battle. Theirs was the role of organizer — gamekeeper, if you will — and they paid for their elevation by stepping aside to let their charges have all the fun. Sometimes, the burden of the curse was heavy indeed.
The philosophy of the Grik was simple: the Great Hunt was the justification for all existence — to chase prey and devour it, ultimately across the world. One is either predator or prey. Only the predator survives and thrives and it must always hunt. Other predators may join the Great Hunt, but if they refuse, they are prey. Worthy Prey perhaps, but still prey. There are no old Grik, besides the Hij. When they slow down, they become prey and are killed by their young. And so it had ever been.
Because of the blessed abundance of prey upon the world, there had also been an exciting variety of predators. Some were merely animals, but others were quite cunning. Grik histoy. Wy Prey, are they not?»
Tsalka snorted noncommittally. «Perhaps, but I have never spoken to any prey — regardless how worthy it might be.»
Esshk replied with a hint of humor. «I beg to differ! Did you not just speak to Righ? Was he not made prey? Besides, what is the difference between Worthy Prey and our very pack-mates? One has joined the Hunt; one has not. That is all.»
Tsalka regarded the general with keen speculation. «You’re a philosopher, General Esshk. I have long thought it so. No wonder you’re so popular at court. But that is. a dangerous thought. I urge you to keep it to yourself.»
They were startled when the filthy, talking prey suddenly made a strangled cry and flailed madly against its restraints. In its weakened condition, it was quickly reduced to a sobbing, sagging shell; until then, it at least showed some courage. They realized it was the sight of the New Hunters that upset it.
«Well!» hissed Tsalka, pleased. «It must know the New Hunters after all! It reacted as prey to its natural enemy! Fascinating!» He paced to the edge of the balcony, clasping his hands behind his back, tail swishing speculatively. The Grik vessels looked tiny compared to the massive, dark gray ship the New Hunters called their home. It was nearly as large as one of the ridiculous Homes of the Tree Prey. Only this ship was iron, he was told, and bristled with huge, magic weapons. He wondered what its flag signified — the curious white flag with bloodred streaks radiating outward from the center.
«What do they call it?» asked the general.
«Hmm? Oh, the ship? I’m told it is called Amagi. whatever that means!» They both hissed amusement.
CHAPTER 1
The morning general quarters alarm woke Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, and he automatically reached for the little chain beside his sweat-soaked bunk and pulled it. The cramped stateroom was bathed in a harsh white light as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Awareness came quickly, not instantly. He always took a mome to get his bearings when he’d been having the Dream, and he’d been right in the middle of it. The same one. It came almost every night and he knew it at the time, almost consciously, but he could never remember it when he woke. He just knew he’d had it again. Even while he dreamed, his subconscious seemed to blot out each sequence of events as soon as they occurred so he was aware only of what was happening at that very moment and, of course, the crippling dread of. something he knew was yet to come. Sometimes, like now, if he was disturbed before the Dream reached its horrible, inevitable conclusion, he’d carry a sense of it with him for a while. But, as usual, details vanished as soon as he opened his eyes, like roaches when the lights came on. Even now, the last vestiges of. whatever the Dream was diminished like a wisp of smoke in a gale. All he really knew for sure was that the Squall was involved. The Squall that had somehow delivered them from destruction at the hands of the Japanese, but only by marooning them in this twisted, alternate. alien world. A world geographically little different from the one they knew, but utterly different in every other conceivable way.
For a while he sat there, struggling to classify the dark, lingering emotional perceptions and taking inventory of the things he knew. They were under way; he could feel the vibration of the warm, dank deck beneath his bare feet. The unusual strain he perceived in the fibers of the ship indicated the «prize» was still under tow. Th determination to help their friends resist the Grik beyond even their earlier determination to resist the Japanese. After all, the Japanese — hated as they were — didn’t eat those they conquered. With the discovery of a human skull on the Grik ship, a skull that could have come only from Mahan, the war against the Grik became an American war as much as a Le
murian one. That they were the only Americans around, besides those they hoped still survived aboard Mahan, was immaterial. Walker would lead the struggle. The weary iron ship and her tired iron crew would drag the Lemurians out of the Bronze Age and build an army and whatever else was needed to take the fight to the enemy. Some progress had already been made, but much more would be required before they were ready to begin the crusade Matt had in mind.
He dressed quickly and pushed aside the pea green curtain that separated his stateroom from the short passageway through «officers’ country» between the wardroom and the companionway to the deck above. As he strode to the ladder, he almost collided with Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker as she emerged from her quarters, headed for her battle station in the wardroom/surgery. They maneuvered around each other in the confined space, each aware of the electric response that proximity aroused between them. Sandra was short, barely coming to Matt’s chin, but even with her sandy brown hair wrapped in a somewhat disheveled bun and her own eyes still puffy with sleep, she was the prettiest woman Matt had ever seen. Not beautiful, but pretty in a wholesome, practical, heart-melting way.
Sandra and five other Navy nurses had come aboard as refugees before Walker, Mahan, and three other ships abandoned Surabaya with the Japanese on their heels after the disastrous Battle of the Java Sea. In the running fight that followed, the British cruiser Exeter and the destroyers HMS Encounter and USS Pope were sunk by the remorselessly pursuing enemy, leaving Walker and Mahan to face Amagi—and the Squall — alone. In the frenzied action with the battle cruiser, the two destroyers were mauled, but they’d put at least two torpedoes into Amagi and when they came through the Squall, she was gone. They hoped they’d sunk her. Also gone, however, were half of Mahan’s crew and a quarter of Walker’s — including one of the nurses, killed in action.
Three of the surviving nurses went aboard Mahan to care for her many wounded and so, like the ship, they were lost to them. Only Sandra Tucker and Karen Theimer remained — on a ship full of rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyermen. So far, there’d been few problems, other than a mysterious altercation between some of Matt’s junior officers over Nurse Theimer’s affections, but Matt and Sandra had both early recognd he had to restrain a powerful urge to embrace her. Instead, he merely smiled.
«Morning, Lieutenant.»
«Good morning, Captain,» she replied, her face darkening slightly.
As quick as that, the moment was past, but Matt had a springier step as he trotted up the companionway stairs to the exposed deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge above.
«Captain on the bridge!» cried Lieutenant Garrett, the tall gunnery officer. He had the deck.
«As you were. Status?»
«Reports are still coming in, but we’re under time.»
Matt nodded and went to his chair, bolted to the forward part of the starboard side of the pilothouse. Sitting, he stared out at the blackness of the lingering, moonless night.
«All stations report manned and ready,» announced the bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds. His voice cracked. The seaman was so young-looking that Matt suspected puberty was to blame. He glanced at his watch in the dim reddish light. 0422.
«Not the best time, Mr. Garrett, but not the worst by a long shot.»
«No, sir.» In spite of the fact the Japanese were no longer a threat, it had become clear that other threats were still very real. Because of that, Matt insisted they maintain all wartime procedures, including predawn battle stations. It was during that time when the sky began to gray but the sea remained black that ships were most vulnerable to submarines, because the ship was silhouetted but the sub’s periscope was invisible. Matt wasn’t afraid of submarines, but there were other, even more terrifying things in the sea and it was always best to be prepared. Besides, even as the men groused and complained, it was a comforting routine and a clear sign that discipline would be maintained, regardless of their circumstances.
Slowly, the gray light came and lookouts, mostly Lemurian «cadets» because of their keen eyesight, scanned the sea from each bridgewing and the iron bucket «crow’s nest» halfway up the tall, skinny mast behind the bridge. As time passed, there were no cries of alarm. Ahead, on the horizon, like a jagged line of stubborn night, rose the coast of Borneo — called «Borno» by the natives — and at their present pace they should raise Balikpapan — «Baalkpan» — by early afternoon. Astern, at the end of the tow-cable, the Grik ship they’d captured began to take shape. She was dismasted, but the red-painted hull still clearly reflected the shape of the long-ago-captured British East Indiaman she was patterned after. Bluff bow, elevated quarterdeck, three masts, and a bowsprit that had all gone by the board in the fighting. Just looking at her, Matt felt his skin crawl.
The fight when they took her was bad enough: the darkness, the shooting, the screams, and the blood. He vividly remembered the resistance he felt when he thrust his Academy sword into the throat of a ravening Grik. The exultation and the terror. Exultation that he’d stabbed it before it could rip him to shreds with its terrible teeth and claws; terror that he had only the ridiculous sword to prevent it from doing so. The first Grik he killed on the ship had been disarmed, but certainly not without weapons. They were like nothing he’d ever seen. Fuzzy, bipedal. lizards, with short tails and humanlike arms. But their teeth! They had the jaws of nightmare and claws much like a grizzly’s. So even though it lost its axe, he was lucky to surook h»1em»>«May we come on the bridge?» came a hesitant voice from behind him. Matt turned and saw Courtney Bradford standing on the ladder with Sandra. Bradford seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed «naturalist» wouldn’t have even asked. Maybe Sandra made him, Matt thought. He expected he might have seemed as though he was concentrating on something — which he was — but he was actually glad of the distraction. Bradford hadn’t been there for the fighting, but he’d arrived on the PBY flying boat the following day. Since then, he’d spent most of his time inspecting the prize. That was enough to sober anyone.
Theoretically, no one was really in charge of Courtney Bradford. Since the Australian engineer was a civilian, his status was somewhat vague and had been allowed to remain that way because he worked well without constraint. Before the Japanese attacked, he’d been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps that showed practically every major oil deposit Shell had ever found in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the same oil existed on this earth as the other, but after the success of their first well — exactly where Courtney told them to drill — they were all believers now.
«Of course. Good morning.»
«Good morning to you, I’m sure,» Bradford replied, stepping on the bridge. Sandra just smiled at him. Matt gestured through the windows at the landmass ahead, becoming more distinct.
«Almost home,» he said, with only a trace of irony.
«Indeed,» agreed Bradford, removing his battered straw hat and massaging his sweaty scalp. It was still early morning, but almost eighty degrees. Matt had noticed, however, that Courtney usually did that when he was upset or concerned. «I’ve been studying that map you gave me. The one that was apparently drawn by the Grik captain himself, not the navigational charts with all their incomprehensible references.» Matt nodded. Even though the Grik charts were disconcertingly easy for him to read, since much was, horrifyingly, written in English, Matt knew which map Courtney meant. It was just a drawing, really, that basically depicted the «Known World» as far as the Grik were concerned. It showed rough approximations of enemy cities and concentrations, and it also showed much of what the enemy knew of this part of the world — the part that should be the Dutch East Indies. It was much like what one would expect of a map showing «this we hold; th
is we want.» The farther east it went, the vaguer it became, but Java, Sumatra, and Singapore were depressingly detailed and accurate. There were also tree symbols that represented known cities of the People, and many of those had been smeared with a blot that looked like blood, symbolizing, they believed, that a battle had been fought there. Currently, there was no tree symbol at Baalkpan, but there were two others that didn’t have smears beside them. One was near Perth, Australia, and the other was at Surabaya, or «Aryaal,» as the locals there called it. The map also depicted a massive force growing near Ceylon and Singapore too, which was believed to be their most forward and tenuous outpost.
«Captain, since only Perth and Surabaya appear on the enemy map, we can only assume the next blow will fall on one or both of those places. I’d bank on Surabaya myself. I’m no strategist, but it seems to me, judging by the dispositions on the map, the Grik are planning a major of’s Mate Chack was escorting one of the ‘prisoners’ we rescued from the Grik. larder.» Everyone, even Matt, flinched at the memory of that. The creatures had been emaciated and, for the most part, wildly insane. «One of the prisoners was known to him, and delivering him aboard Big Sal was a highly personal act and one that, had I known he was doing it, I certainly would have approved.» He looked at Chack. «The accused pleads guilty, but under extenuating circumstances that include not only family but foreign relations.» Matt had to smile at Gray’s imaginative defense, but his own memory of the event was not amusing. The prisoner Chack escorted was none other than Saak-Fas, the mate of Keje-Fris-Ar’s daughter, Selass. He’d disappeared in battle with the Grik many months before and was considered lost. In the meantime, Selass had developed a desperate love for Chack and had expected him to answer her proposal to mate, after the battle. The scene when he returned her mad, barely living mate to her, a mate she’d never really loved, was heartrending.
Crusade d-2 Page 1
