Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4 -

  EPILOGUE

  Teaser chapter

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,

  Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

  Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,

  New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,

  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October 2008

  Copyright © Taylor Anderson, 2008

  All rights reserved

  Photo of the author taken on the Battleship Texas (BB-35) State Historic Site—3527 Battleground Rd., La Porte, Texas 77571, with the permission of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Dept.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Anderson, Taylor.

  Crusade : Destroyermen, book II / Taylor Anderson. p. cm.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-64067-4

  1. World War, 1939-1945—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.N5475C’.6—c22 2008012553

  Set in Minion Regular

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-64067-4

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  AS ALWAYS, To MY DARLING DAUGHTER, REBECCA RUTH. I KNOW THE TIME MAY COME WHEN DADDY’S NOT YOUR HERO ANYMORE, BUT I’LL ENJOY IT WHILE I CAN. I KNOW YOU GET TIRED OF HEARING THE “HONOR SPEECH,” BUT IT’LL SERVE YOU WELL. IT HAS ME.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The list of “usual suspects” is too long to repeat, but their assistance, encouragement, and friendship are no less appreciated. They know who they are. I hesitate to call them a “team” of helpers, even though most of them know one another and each has done something to contribute to the completion of this novel, even if it was just moral support. Maybe a better analogy is a crack gun crew. Each member has a specific task, sometimes performed independently of the others, and when all is going well, their endeavors often resemble a virtual ballet. In that sense, I guess they are a “team,” because it requires all of them performing their tasks to perfection to send a single round downrange.

  To my previous list, or “crew,” I must add the following: Sheila Cox put my Web page together and never complained about all my stupid questions. My folks, Don and Jeanette Anderson, must be specifically recognized as my primary, initial proofreaders and sounding boards for crackpot ideas. My wife, Christine, continues to put up with my foolishness, and recognizes that I was Taylor long before she met me, and there’s nothing she can do about it now.

  Again, I want to recognize Ginjer Buchanan and all the people at Roc for their patience and support. Ginjer’s the best editor anybody could have.

  Finally, thanks again to Russell Galen. He’s the best agent there is, and a true friend. If this crew has a “Master Gunner,” he’s the guy.

  One last thing. I was not in the Asiatic Fleet. I’ve done my best to describe the situation, hardships, equipment, and conditions of operations it had to endure at the outbreak of WWll, but I’m sure I’ve made a bundle of mistakes. I want you to know those mistakes are all Jim’s fault. (Just kidding—they’re mine, of course, but I had to say that.) To all you Asiatic Fleet destroyermen out there, please accept in advance my most profound apologies for those mistakes, and I hope you’ll enjoy the story anyway. It is, after all, ultimately—and most respectfully—dedicated to you.

  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 gui
ding 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 history was a comforting series of slowly escalating, playful wars (or hunts) between them and other predators that refused to join them. Other predators—even other Grik—were by far the most satisfying prey. Over time, Worthy Prey became scarce and warfare among the frustrated Grik reached disastrous levels. In times such as those, non-Grik predators often became Worthy Prey whether they wanted to or not. Quite regrettable, of course, but family comes first.

  And so, ages ago, a very wise Celestial Mother established the tradition of the “Patient Hunt.” By this method, it took considerable time to hunt a species of Worthy Prey to extinction so the Grik wouldn’t wipe them out too fast and turn on themselves again. When population and instinctual pressures finally grew too extreme, the Grand Swarm was created. Warriors from every region of the empire mobilized to mount a final campaign to eradicate the target Worthy Prey at last. This not only expanded the empire, but often brought them in contact with new Worthy Prey and the cycle recommenced.

  For thousands of years, this custom worked extremely well. Wars still raged between the Celestial Mother’s various possessions, but they were usually friendly affairs, often arranged by the regent-consorts so their Uul could enjoy themselves. No such entertainment was currently under way, however. Within the last Uul generation or so, the “Prey That Got Away” had been rediscovered. The histories referred to them simply as “the Tree Prey,” because instead of fighting like Worthy Prey, they climbed trees to escape slaughter. They were cowards and not true predators, so they were viewed with the same derision as common grass-eating prey. They’d escaped, however, and that still ruffled Tsalka’s tail plumage with the shame of those, countless generations past, who’d let it happen.

  Now they were found—hiding again—across the bottomless sea. But instead of the stately dance of escalation, there was a mood of urgency to amass the Grand Swarm and finally finish this prey before it fled again. Tsalka was point for that effort. Ceylon was the gathering place for the preparing Swarm, and his task was monumental. Theoretically, his duty was primarily organization. The generals in their white ships would plan the hunt itself, but he was regent-consort and certain strategic decisions had been thrust upon him.

  A horn thrummed, echoing dully in the chamber. A tall, scarred, massively muscled Hij general approached from the gloom and sprawled upon the triangular platform at his feet. Tsalka heard the scrape of armor and clatter of weapons and, for an instant, his pulse quickened. Sometimes he wished he’d been a general. They could still sometimes play. But they couldn’t lose themselves in battle, and that took great discipline. He breathed. “Rise, General Esshk,” he said, hissing a pleasant greeting.

  Esshk stood and straightened his short cape. It was the bright red of the Celestial Mother’s own house. “The Giver of Life sends her greetings to you, Regent Tsalka, her favorite and most noble consort.”

  Tsalka bowed, acknowledging the compliment. He didn’t let it go to his head, though. Esshk probably said that to all the regents. Esshk was arguably the greatest living general. A nest-mate of the current Celestial Mother and probably royal consort as well, he had her ear and favor. He would command the Grand Swarm when it sailed and was subordinate only to the regents and the Celestial Mother herself. Tsalka didn’t want Esshk to see him as a fool. “She is ever in my thoughts,” he declared piously. “How was your journey?”

  “Tedious, sire. Three ships were destroyed by the great monsters in the sea, but that is of little consequence. I brought many more. Still more will arrive when they are completed. You will victual them?”

  “Of course.”

  Esshk paused and spoke again, in a different tone. “I saw . . . interesting things and heard tales from the Hij at the dock.”

  There it was. Esshk always came straight to the point. Tsalka sighed. “Indeed. There has been interesting news, and some also troubling.

  Where would you have me begin?”

  “With the troubling, I think.”

  Tsalka’s gaze drifted past the general and focused on another shape being escorted from the gloom. His expression hardened. “Very well, General Esshk. How convenient. The ‘trouble’ has arrived. Step forward, Ship Commander Righ. I would hear your words.” Righ crept miserably closer. He’d been divested of his colors and armor and was entirely naked. He approached with his head down, tail between his legs, but did not abase himself before the regent, since such displays of respect were appropriate only from one worthy of it.

  “My Uul fell prey. I couldn’t stop them.”

  Tsalka bristled. “Of course you could! That’s what the Hij are for—to protect and guide the Uul in their charge!”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  Tsalka hissed menacingly but waved one of his long-fingered hands. “Nevertheless, it’s done. Your crew will be destroyed—such a waste! What will you use for an excuse?”

  Righ told of an attack by a six-ship hunting-pack upon a lone ship of the Tree Prey. All went well until a strange vessel appeared, moving magically fast. By no means he had seen, at an impossible distance, it destroyed the hunters on their own ships as well as those fighting the Tree Prey. His ship was severely damaged. In the face of this horror, all fell prey. All. Righ’s crew fled without orders and knocked him senseless to the deck. When he recovered, it was night and they’d escaped. Only darkness saved them.

  His crew was ruined, however, and could barely function. With no choice, he set course for Ceylon so at least he might report. On the way, he encountered the large hunting-pack that Tsalka had dispatched to raid the place called Java. He expected to be destroyed as prey but instead, after exchanging chart information, he learned that they too saw the terrible ship and fought it! Unlike Righ’s, their ships did not fall prey but many were destroyed.

  “What was the result of this fight?” Esshk demanded and Righ looked at him dejectedly.

  “Victory, of course. They still lived and prey was taken. The strange ship fled, but under such a pall of smoke that it must have burned to the waterline. When the smoke cleared, the ship was gone. The prey they took was strange, without tails or fur or geydt. They offered and I ate.”

  “How did it taste?” Tsalka asked, genuinely curious.

  “Bland, but tender, sire.”

  “Interesting. I should like to try one.”

  “You may, sire. The commander of the hunting-pack sent one with me to bring you as a gift. It’s alive and fresh. All others were eaten and their skulls sent with the scouts so they might know them if they encounter more.”

  The infant in Tsalka’s lap bit down on one of his fingers again—hard—and he suddenly remembered it was there. He popped it in his mouth and chewed distractedly. Its struggles tickled the roof of his mouth. He swallowed. “Very well, Righ.” Tsalka sighed, still deep in thought. “Every hatchling knows defeat is no excuse to fall prey, and a good commander would never have allowed it. Conversely, you’ve done much to atone. Therefore, if you’re certain you’ve withheld nothing, you have my permission to destroy yourself after you send
this new prey to me.”

  “Thank you, sire.” Righ breathed a sigh of relief. It could have been much, much worse. “Thank you!”

  Tsalka waved his hand and Righ was dismissed. He cast an uneasy glance at Esshk. “A most unpleasant business,” he observed.

  The general hissed agreement. “I wonder about this strange ship and the tail-less creatures that drive it. Were they defending the Tree Prey? Perhaps they saw us as poachers?” He flicked his tail. “No matter. They were defeated, if Righ spoke truth. I see no reason to delay the Swarm. If anything, we might move forward more quickly. If there are more of these tail-less prey, numbers would seem the answer to their threat.”

  “I agree. I was going to suggest that very thing.” Tsalka had a sudden insight. “Perhaps the New Hunters might offer suggestions. They may know of them.”

  Esshk bowed. “We must certainly ask. That brings us to the ‘interesting, ’ does it not? The docks are abuzz—and I can certainly see why! Is it true they’ve joined the Great Hunt?”

  “It is! And long has it been since that occurred!” Tsalka paused. “I ordered they be spared on my authority. If the Celestial Mother disagrees, I will, of course, destroy them.”

  “Do they hunt well?”

  Tsalka snorted. “Very well indeed! As customary, three assaults were annihilated before the offer of joining was made. Only one ship of twenty returned. That is one reason I am glad you arrived with more! But come! Let us walk in the sun! We may view the New Hunters even as we discuss them.” Tsalka rose and swept toward the hall adjoining the chamber. Through a vaulted passage they strolled, chatting amiably, until they reached a high balcony overlooking the vast bay below. It was an awesome spectacle. Hundreds of red-hulled ships dotted the purple water and in the midst of it all was something . . . stupendous.