«God works in mysterious ways, huh?» quoted Matt with a small smile of his own. «What an understatement.»
The crowd dispersed, many to attend to their military duties but most to continue preparations for the Lemurian service later that evening. Labor parties resumed tearing down the wooden warehouses that lined the wharf to use them for fuel for the pyres. Others swarmed over one of the Grik hulks that had been driven ashore during the battle and were quickly reducing it to its skeletal framework. The ghetto housing, such as it was, was left untouched. The allied commanders were unhappy about the necessity of destroying the warehouses — or any property at all — but since there was no suitable timber nearby, they had no choice. They needed all the wood they could find to send this unprecedented number of souls to the sky. At least the warehouses were mostly empty, their contents having been moved into the city when the Grik arrived.
«An. unusual ceremony,» remarked Keje to Adar and Rolak, referring to the Amer-i-caan funeral they’d just seen. Keje had arrived late and had been supported by his disapproving daughter. He was still dizzy from the blow on his head.
«Unusual,» Adar agreed thoughtfully. «Short, too. And very somber. Their grief was quite clear.»
«They see death more as an ending than we do, perhaps. As if they do not expect to meet their lost ones again,» Keje speculated.
«I think not,» countered Adar. «Cap-i-taan Reddy told me to hear his words and I might better understand their faith.» He shook his head. «I listened, but my understanding is no less uncertain. I think he was right, however, that we may only sail a different wind to the same destination. They certainly hope to meet again those who go before them, as do we, but perhaps they are less certain their God will find them here, so far from their home.»
«Even more reason not to hide their dead underground.»
Adar looked at his lifelong friend but shook his head at Keje’s obtuseness. «You know as well as any novice priest that the souls of those lost at sea will rise to the heavens as surely as those sent by the pyre. The smoke of the pyre is symbolic. The ashes of the dead that rise within it settle back to the land or sea, in time. No,» he continued, «their customs may seem bizarre, even distasteful. But the meanings behind them are not so different as they may at first appear. I will have to speak more with them about this, but I think we must consider: they are willing to fight and die with us despite a fear that if they do die, they will be utterly lost. I believe our service for the dead would be considerably more somber if that concern lin, I’ve no doubt the souls we free tonight will find their way, but I do grieve that there are so many. Their concerns are over, beyond those they may retain for us. I do not begrudge their contentment in the heavens. but we will regret their loss in the battles to come. Do not think I’ve forgotten my oath,» he said.
The three Lemurians lingered in silence a short while longer, watching as the mixed human and Lemurian burial party proceeded with their chore. Shovelfuls of soil disappeared into the rectangular holes with soft thumping sounds.
«It was surely a ceremony for warriors,» Rolak stated. «Except for the part when they are buried.»
The Lemurian «service» was just as alien to the human destroyermen who witnessed it as theirs had been to the Lemurians. Matt watched the initial ceremony accompanied by Jim, Sandra, and Courtney. Except for the firing party, whom Matt had ordered to remain as a show of honor and respect, most of the other members of the funeral party had returned to the ship. He’d ordered Gray to go, ostensibly to help coordinate repairs but mainly to get him off his feet. To his surprise, all the Lemurian destroyermen returned to the ship as well. All except Chack, who had remained behind along with the equally surprising Dennis Silva. Silva sent the phonograph back with Stites but stayed ashore talking quietly with Chack, waiting for the Lemurian funeral to get under way. Matt doubted they had ended their feud, but they appeared to be observing a truce for the evening, at least. Matt joined them briefly, out of curiosity.
«Chack?» he said.
«Sir?»
«Why did the other people. your people, go back to the ship? I thought I made it clear they were welcome to stay.»
Chack looked at him and then glanced out at the deepening gloom of the bay, beyond the pier, where the two ships lay. Nearby, and lower down, the dark silhouette of the PBY floated now as well. The Lemurian ceremony was about to take place on the west side of the point, nearest to Madura, where Mahan had been anchored almost since she arrived. A power cable had been rigged between the destroyers, and portable lights and lanterns glowed harshly on the decks, contrasting brightly against the dull glow in the western sky where the sun had slipped away.
«They grieve, Cap-i-taan,» he said. «But they are Navy men, yes? They are destroyermen.»
Matt nodded. «Yes. They are.»
«Walker is their Home. You are High Chief for Walker. You are High Chief of all the Amer-i-caan Navy here, so Mahan is their Home too. Both Homes need us now, more than the dead, and so they want to work.» He paused. «I am here because I do not know what you want me to do.»
Matt was taken aback. «What do you mean, Chack?»
«When I came to Walker, Keje-Fris-Ar was my High Chief. Big Sal was my Home. When I joined the Amer-i-caan Navy, I thought Walker was my Home. I was Bosun’s Mate,» he added proudly. Then he sighed. «Lieutenant Shinya tells me now that I am to be Chief of the Second Marines. What does that mean? I have become a good warrior,» he said matter-of-factly, «which is something I never expected, and I. am good at it. But is Walker no longer my Home? Do I not have a home?»
Matt was perplexed for a moment; then realization dawned. «No! I mean, yes, Walker is certainly your Home, Chack, and you’re still a bosun’s mate! Good grief, I’m sorry ift size="3"ious enough not to think of them at all. That was a tough difference to bridge and he knew major religious wars had been fought throughout human history over less profound differences. Matt had to admit that the sea folk’s religion was probably closer to what he’d been brought up with — profoundly different, of course, but still closer than Rolak’s or Queen Maraan’s. Although, he admitted wryly to himself, he could understand the attraction of the land folk religion to its adherents. At least to the males.
He looked at Sandra and saw the torchlight reflecting off her gold-tinged, sandy hair and fresh-scrubbed face. Her nurse’s uniform was immaculate and exotically feminine compared to the dungarees she wore day to day. He couldn’t help it, but a deep sadness, unrelated to the day’s events, swept over him and he looked away so fast that his throbbing shoulder made him wince.
She looked ey would have us believe that everything, even the delay in speaking to us after the battle, was caused by confusion while they hunted the murderous conspirators.»
Matt shook his head. «Sounds awfully Byzantine to me — or Soviet.»
Courtney Bradford laughed out loud. «I don’t believe we need look to Uncle Joe Stalin for examples of a dirty and complicated rise to power. Our own shared English history is replete enough with those, Captain.»
Matt smiled. «I’m Irish American, with a fair measure of Scot. O’Roddy — Reddy — you know.»
«Hmm.»
They were aboard Walker, in the wardroom again, and it was full as usual. They were engaged in an informal discussion of the situation, but nearly every faction was represented, except the Aryaalans, so whatever they decided would have the effect of policy. Nearly two weeks had passed since they blew down the north gate of the city, and in that time Matt had spent precious little time on his ship. He was glad to be home. Revenge had sailed with a small squadron of feluccas to scout the enemy and Mallory flew every other day, either probing north toward Singapore or carrying news and people between Aryaal and Baalkpan. So far there was no sign that the Grik intended to renew their offensive. The ragtag remnants of their fleet had gone to ground at Singapore, but no other forces had joined them there. Given everyone’s reluctance — the Grik included — to cross the menacingly deep
water of the Indian Ocean, it seemed unlikely the enemy would use any other avenue of approach.
Sergeant Alden came to help Shinya integrate the B’mbaadan forces into the AEF. His envy of the Japanese officer regarding his role in the battle had been palpable. He managed to contain it, however, and the burgeoning friendship between the tough Marine and the former enemy lieutenant wasn’t in danger. Alden was gone again, but the news from «home» was welcome, and good for the most part. The Baalkpan defenses were strengthening every day and the cottage arms industry was beginning to flourish. Matt knew Walker missed all the people they’d left in Baalkpan, Letts most of all, but he was glad the fair-skinned supply officer was there. Letts, Alden, and Brister, together with Karen Theimer, had been working miracles. Besides, with the dame famine still under way, keeping Letts’s and Theimer’s affair out of the local eye was certainly prudent — even now that they had two more nurses for the guys to ogle. It was one less latch on the pressure cooker. Some tension still existed regarding Silva and Risa’s apparently ongoing trans-species relationship and there was little doubt now that they had one. But it now seemed more platonic than anything and few really took it seriously anymore. They were clearly great friends, and ever since captain’s mast they hadn’t been as blatant about «it» anymore either, whatever «it» was. Both were popular characters — not to mention dangerous — and as long as they maintained a semblance of dignity their «friendship» was ignored beyond the mild humor it inspired. Mostly. Occasionally there were still words.
One «relationship» Matt thoroughly approved of seemed to be flourishing as well. He looked at Queen Maraan with a puzzled expression. «Queen Protector, I just realized you spoke to us in English.»
«Yes,» she confirmed with a toothy grin and a series of blinks that indicated pleasure. «I spoke. Did well?»
«You sure did,» Jim Ellis confirmed.
«We take this. Sin-Po-Ar. war end?» asked the Orphan Queen.
Matt sadly shook his head. «No, Queen Protector. It won’t even be the beginning of the end,» he said, quoting Churchill. «But it’ll be the end of the beginning.»
«My God!» exclaimed Bradford. «I wonder what dear Winston would think to hear his words used in this context?»
«I bet he’d find it appropriate,» Matt responded thoughtfully. «And pretty familiar too — except I don’t really believe the Krauts eat their prisoners.»
«Ready to go!» announced Spanky over the intercom at the auxiliary conn on top of the aft deckhouse. His voice was more gruff than usual with repressed tension as he watched the slack go out of the cables that trailed past the propeller guards. A vicious squall had marched across the bay late that morning, threatening to delay the operation. It passed quickly enough, however, leaving the sky bright and clear and the water almost dead calm. Now the only thing marring the otherwise perfect Java day was the customary oppressive heat and humidity — and, of course, the critical nature of the task at hand. Walker and Mahan had maneuvered into the middle, deepest part of the bay. Now they were poised stern to stern with lines trailing down to Walker’s port side shaft support and across to Mahan, where they were carefully secured to the propeller they planned to pluck. The low angle was necessary so they would pull the screw straight off, without putting an upward bind on the shafts — not only so the screw would come off easier, but to avoid warping either of the shafts themselves. They needed the deep water so when the propeller came off, it wouldn’t plunge down and damage itself on the bottom of the bay. The «practice run» had been a success. That was when they used a reverse arrangement to pull Walker’s useless propeller the day before.
Spanky spared an unusual sympathetic glance at Dean Laney, who stood beside the starboard depth-charge rack, shivering, in shock most likely. He was black and blue with bruises, and Silva, just as uncharacteristically, had draped him in a blanket as soon as he came out of the suit. They’d hoped to use a welded-steel cage to lower the machinist into the sea, but there was one problem they just couldn’t solve. It had to be tight enough to keep out the smaller flashies, but still let Laney work through it to secure the cables and remove the huge nuts that held the screw in place. Ultimately, they resorted to the ancient technique of passing one of Big Sal’s coarse, heavy sails under the hull of the ship and securing it tightly wherever it came in contact. This created a flashy-free pocket for Laney to work. Captain Reddy told them sailing ships had often used the same strategy in shark-infested waters to make repairs, or just to have a place to swim or bathe in safety. It worked like a charm — until the swarming predators figured out something was inside the pocket.
It may have been noise or movement, but even though they sensed nothing edible, they began bumping aggressively against the bulging canvas with their hard, bony heads. Often, of necessity, Laney was right behind it and they very nearly beat him to death. Somehow he managed to finish the job in spite of the pain and terror. Spanky cringed to think what would have happened if any of the blows had broken the skin. Even through his suit, enough blood would have entered the water to drnt size="3»>«Hey.!»
«You idiot snipe! You tryin’ to jinx us? I guess the Skipper knows what he’s doin’! Here, gimme that blanket back!» A short Lemurian ordnance striker named Pak-Ras-Ar, hence of course, Pack Rat, stood behind the pair and Silva threw the blanket at him. «Here, Pack Rat. You have it. I ain’t sleepin’ under no damn snipe-sweaty blanket!»
Pack Rat held the blanket at arm’s length and wrinkled his nose. «Smells mostly like Silva sweat to me,» he said.
«Goddamn little hairball.»
On the deckhouse, Dowden took off his hat and ran shaking fingers through his greasy hair. The captain’s expression was like stone as he calculated the angle. How could he be so calm? What he didn’t see was Matt’s left hand shaking at his side and the typhoon of acid roiling in his stomach. His right hand was on the wheel, the only thing that kept it still.
«Signal to Mahan: Hold on.» Matt waited a moment while the message was passed. A high, fluffy cloud passed overhead, dulling the glare of the sun on the water and he looked quickly forward to check the angle of his ship once more.
«Starboard ahead full,» he said quietly.
Black smoke chuffed skyward from the aft stacks and Walker’s stern crouched down. Vibration quickly built as the old destroyer leaped from the block.
«She’s comin’ up!» Silva bellowed unnecessarily as the cables raced from the depths once more. Fifty, sixty, seventy yards — the distance quickly grew. There was a hundred yards of cable. Suddenly there came a tremendous, wrenching groan and it felt as if Walker had slammed into a wall of rock. Crewmen were thrown to the deck and the bow heaved to port, nearly spinning the wheel out of the captain’s hand. Then, as quick as that, Walker lunged free and resumed her dash away from Mahan.
«All stop!» Matt cried.
Dowden passed the word and then ran to the rail. Below him, Silva and Laney were trying to heave on the line that trailed over the side. «Do we have it?» he shouted down.
«Aye, sir! And it’s heavy enough! I hope we didn’t yank Mahan’s shaft and turbine too!» A cheer built as men and ’Cats picked themselves up and word quickly spread forward.
Dowden pounded the rail in triumph. «Quit fooling around with that line, men. You’ll never lift it without a winch!»
«Ain’t tryin’ to lift it, sir, just want to feel if it hits bottom. We got three hundred feet of line and three hundred twenty feet of water — we think.»
Dowden’s face grew troubled. «Well. let us know.»
Walker’s momentum bled off until she coasted to a stop about a quarter mile from her anchored sister. At rest, she had a slight list to port, caused by the weight of the screw. Silva was the last to let go of the cable. «Swingin’ free and easy, Mr. Dowden,» he announced.
Spanky sighed with relief and turned to relay the report from the engine room. «Seals are fine, Skipper. No more water coming in than usual.»
«Mahan reports the s
ame,» Riggs said from behind them as he watched Mahan’s signal light with a pair of binoculars. He lowered them to his chest. «Thank God.»
Matt nodded, keeping his hand on the wheel so it wouldn’t betray him. «Thank Him indeed,» he said. «Good work, Mr. McFarlane. Pass the word to all hands: Well done.» He grinned because of one selfish, perverted, racist bastard.
A lot was up to the girl. They’d allowed Pam a few minutes to assemble a bag and without even a glance at Franklen she rushed to the young victim and began a quick, softly murmured examination. As she and Risa began to ask quiet questions, the grim-faced men turned to the prisoner. Chack crouched beside him in the sand, resting his chin on his cutlass guard, staring at him from inches away, his inscrutable eyes somehow radiating malice.
«Pull his gag,» Gray instructed. He looked at Chack. «If he does anything but quietly answer questions, kill him.» He peered hard into Franklen’s eyes. «You got that? You answer questions and keep a civil tongue, you might just survive this night.»
In spite of himself, Franklen snorted and blood bubbled from his shattered nose. The Bosun shrugged and nodded at Donaghey, who yanked out the nasty, bloody rag.
Franklen coughed and spat for several minutes before his spasm subsided enough that he might be understood. Finally he spoke.
«You gonna kill me any-ay, Chee. You ne’er ’iked me.» Black blood and wrecked lips made him almost unintelligible.
«Not so. I thought you were funny as hell. When you’re made-up, you’re not near as ugly. You can act and talk as much like Al Jolson as anybody I ever seen, and you can tell the funny stories like he can. You just wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Hell, a lot of the coolies and Filipino guys got treated like crap for days after one of your shows. Not to mention the mess attendants.» He snorted. «Besides, I got news for you: you can’t whistle and you can’t sing. and your big Hollywood role model — who loaned you the only popularity you ever had — is a Jew!»
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