Valuable as Shinya was, many of Matt’s destroyermen still hated his guts simply because he was a “Jap.” Matt respected him and trusted his honor, but even he couldn’t put Pearl Harbor—and everything that had happened since—completely out of his mind. Chief Gray openly loathed him, despite saving his life in the recent battle. Tony Scott told him something he hadn’t even known about the Bosun: his son had been on the Oklahoma when she capsized and sank to Pearl Harbor’s muddy bottom.
“Where’s Pete?” asked the captain, referring to the Marine.
“He’ll be along,” Shinya replied. Even as he spoke, Alden and Chief Gray arrived on the bridge. Matt noticed that Alden’s limp was now totally gone and even the Bosun was in better shape. He was close to sixty, but the once chubby man wasn’t even breathing hard after the stairs. After Ensign Bernard Sandison, the torpedo officer, and Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, the engineering officer, arrived, the entire group Matt had summoned for this little conference was present. Ahead, through the windows, Borno grew ever larger and more distinct as the clock on the bulkhead neared 0930. Baalkpan fishing boats began to gather around them, and Matt permitted a single celebratory toot from Walker’s whistle. Regardless of the news they bore, he didn’t want too somber a homecoming. The people of Baalkpan would need a little happiness to balance the dread to come. Sheets flew on a few of the nimble fore-and-aft-rigged feluccas, and they surged ahead in a turmoil of spray taking the news of their arrival to the city. He motioned to the starboard bridgewing, and the others joined him there. Without further pleasantries, he began.
“When we make port, things are going to be a lot different and they’re going to change really fast. We’ve been trying to ease these people out of the Bronze Age, and despite a lot of bitching and bickering we’ve made a lot of progress. Not enough. I’ve already spoken to Keje and Adar about this, as well as a few of you.” His gaze lingered on Sandra. “When we dock at Baalkpan we all have to be on the same page with the same message: we’re in a crummy spot, but we’re going to win, and this is how we’re going to do it.” He smiled a little awkwardly. “I’ll go into ‘how’ a little more in a minute. As for now, I’m not through giving out promotions. I’ll have to run a few of these by Nakja-Mur, since they’ll impact his people more than anyone’s, but he’s in over his head.” Matt snorted ironically. No one felt that way more than he. “And he trusts us. The first thing we’re going to have to do when we get back is call for another ‘great gathering.’ Way bigger than the last one. Try to get folks to come from everywhere. Right now, there’s no real chain of command, so we’ll have to get that sorted out. However it shakes out, I expect we’ll be somewhere near the top. That means everybody’s jobs are going to get bigger and harder.” He looked at Pete. “Right now, the Marines are yours. We got that straight with Nakja-Mur from the start. That’s close to a thousand well-trained troops,” he said with a grimace, “with a fair sprinkling of seriously hard-core veterans. Some of them will get broken up again, to form a cadre of NCOs and even officers, because as soon as we get back, you’ll continue to work to build the biggest, most modern army we can field without firearms. I’ll talk to Letts about supplying some field artillery at least, but otherwise, keep training them like you already were. It’s within my power, I think, to award you the brevet rank of captain under the circumstances.”
Pete Alden gulped. “Sir, I’m just a sergeant. I ain’t no officer!”
“You are now. Hell, I’d make you a general, but then you’d outrank me!”
“You could make yourself an admiral, Captain,” Bradford suggested, but Matt shook his head.
“It’s not right,” he said softly. “I might take full captain because I bet all Walker’s officers would have jumped a grade or two if we’d made it to Perth, and that’ll leave me a little room to raise some guys up that deserve it. For example, as of right now, there are no more ensigns aboard this ship. All are now jay-gees. The jay-gees are full lieutenants.”
He grinned at Dowden and Sandison. “That includes you two. Start looking for guys, human or ’Cat, that we can make ensigns out of.” He looked back at Alden. “Who do you want as your second?” There was really only one choice, but Matt wouldn’t force the Marine to make it.
Alden glanced almost reluctantly at Shinya. “You’re the guy, if you want it,” he said. “I got no reservations, but some of the fellas might. ’Course, you’ll be commanding ’Cats for the most part and they don’t give a hoot you’re a Jap. But there’s a few guys you might want to hold off giving orders to.”
Shinya bowed. “I am honored to accept. There should be few occasions for me to command any American personnel. If the need arises and I cannot find you, I will try to be conscious of their”—he smiled—“sensitivity.” Matt coughed.
“Fine. You’ll stay a lieutenant, under Alden. Let’s see, for chain-of-command purposes, since Marine captain equals general”—he grinned, much to Pete’s discomfort—“first lieutenant means colonel, second is major . . . hell, that won’t work!”
“As I was saying,” Bradford insisted. “You could still be admiral and make things a lot simpler. No one back home would ever know or care!” Matt gave him a hard stare.
“Why don’t I just declare myself king? What’s the difference? Where does it stop?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what we’ll do, but we’ll figure something out.” He looked at Sandra. “You’ve made great strides, not only learning Lemurian medicine, which certainly has its virtues, but in teaching them our methods as well. I think both have complemented the other.” That was certainly true. The Lemurians had an antibacterial, analgesic paste made, like many other things Sandra had discovered, from the fermented polta fruit that grew wild in the region and was cultivated aboard the massive seagoing Homes. A less arduous and more refined fermentation of the polta also produced the popular intoxicating beverage known as seep.
The ’Cats had learned from Sandra too. Being generally unwarlike, they’d never dealt with anything like the casualties they’d suffered during their recent battles, and her instructions in battlefield medical techniques had been invaluable. She’d already begun forming a hospital corps in Baalkpan. “I want you to keep up the good work, but be ready to really expand your operation. Concentrate on teaching teachers.” Sandra nodded grimly. She knew what Captain Reddy planned. It scared her to death, but it seemed the only option.
“That leaves you, Mr. Bradford. Eventually, I want another well site.
We’ll have to sort out where, but right now all our eggs are in one basket. What if there’s an accident or some other stoppage at the site we have? What if, God forbid, the enemy overruns it? I want one that’s essentially in a reserve position, building a reserve of fuel. Any ideas?”
Bradford looked thoughtful. “Again, let me consult my charts. I’ll come up with some likely areas and you can tell me which is best for your strategic needs. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Spanky snorted a laugh. “The Mice are gonna hate that!” The others chuckled in agreement.
No single word or phrase was adequate to describe the Mice. “Strange” came closest, but was still almost too specific. By their appearance, Isak Rueben and Gilbert Yager might have been brothers. Both were intense, wiry little men with narrow faces and sharp, pointed noses that contributed much to the rodentlike impression they made. They were irascible, unfriendly and annoying to just about everyone they came in contact with. They never socialized and had always shunned the ship’s baseball team. They were quintessential “snipes”—firemen, to be precise—but they took it much further than that. Given a choice, they would never leave the sweltering heat of their beloved firerooms and the boilers they worshipped there. They were painfully insular and apparently just as unimaginative, but Spanky had recently learned there was more to them than met the eye.
Normally, their skins were pasty with a belowdecks pallor they worked very hard to maintain, but now their exposed skin still bore the angry red-
brown tans they’d accumulated while operating the first oil rig outside of Baalkpan. A rig they designed based on a type they were intimately, if ruefully, familiar with from their years in the oil fields before they escaped that hated life and joined the Navy. Now they were back at it and not happy at all.
Matt looked back toward Borno. He thought he could just make out the mouth of Baalkpan Bay. “We’re all going to have to do things we hate, I’m afraid, before this is over.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a hell of a homecoming,” he added nervously.
As the day wore on and the crew went about their duties, Walker towed her prize ever closer to Baalkpan. The nearer they got, the more traders and fishing boats paced her advance. Opening the bay, the old destroyer steamed toward her customary berth near the shipyard and the fitting-out pier. They had been gone less than two weeks, most of that time laying their trap for the Grik scouts they engaged. The battle itself took only a day, and the return voyage took three. The people had known the outcome, however, since the very day after the fight. The radio in the precious PBY was working now, and there had been constant reports. Then the big seaplane had flown out with passengers to examine the prize. Some, like Bradford, stayed with the returning ships, but those who returned on the plane were strangely tight-lipped. No matter. The dismasted hulk trailing in Walker’s wake was sufficient proof to the populace that the expedition had been a success.
As always, Matt was struck by the sight of the large, strange, but exotically beautiful city of Baalkpan. The unusual architecture of the multistoried buildings was strikingly similar to the pagoda-like structures that rose within the tripod masts of the great floating Homes. Some reached quite respectable heights and were highly decorated and painted with bright colors. Some were simple, one-story affairs, but all were elevated twenty or more feet above the ground by multitudes of stout pilings. Chack once told him that was done in order to protect against high water and “bad land lizards.” It was also tradition, which Matt supposed was as good a reason as any. He’d never seen any creatures ashore that could threaten anyone twenty feet above the ground, but he was assured they did exist. He believed it. There was certainly plenty of bizarre fauna in this terrible, twisted world.
Among the pilings, under the massive structures, was what some would call the “real” Baalkpan. It was there, beneath the buildings themselves or colorful awnings stretched between them, that the city’s lifeblood pulsed. It was a giant, chaotic bazaar that rivaled anything Matt had seen in China, or heard of anywhere else. Little organization was evident, beyond an apparent effort to congregate the various products or services in strands, or vaguely defined ranks. From experience, Matt knew there was no law or edict that required this; it was just practicality. This way, shoppers always knew where they had to go to find what they wanted. Along the waterfront, fishmongers hawked the daily catch with an incomprehensible staccato chatter. Beyond were food vendors, and the savory smells of Lemurian cooking wafted toward them, competing with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. Still farther inland were the textile makers—weavers, cloth merchants, and clothiers. Closer to the center of the city, near the massive Galla tree and Great Hall of Nakja-Mur, one was more likely to find finer things, like ornamental clothing, exquisitely wrought jewelry, and even fine blades. The foul-smelling commerce in gri-kakka oil took place beyond the shipyard, as far from the center of Baalkpan as possible. The rendered oil was sweet, but only after separation from the often rancid tallow.
Matt took all this in: the vibrant, throbbing vitality of a city and people who’d never known threats other than natural ones. They had tails and fur, and if Bradford was right, they were actually descended from giant Madagascar lemurs, even if they looked more like a cross between cats and monkeys—with a little human thrown in, he reminded himself. But regardless, they were people. Many happily rushed down to the waterfront to cheer Walker and her crew and gape at the captured hulk of their dreaded enemy. Soon the dock was jammed with wildly celebrating multitudes, making it difficult for the line handlers to tie off. Walker remained singled up. Immediately, curious townsfolk tried to storm aboard the Grik ship, but Matt had foreseen this. Fifty hard-eyed “Marines” lined the ship’s bulwarks and stood ready to repel them. Matt turned to look back at the mouth of the bay. Keje and his much slower Big Sal weren’t even visible yet.
At least Nakja-Mur and Naga were aware of the situation, and a hundred guards, led by Lieutenant Alan Letts, arrived from the parade ground in front of the Great Hall. They immediately set up a protective cordon in front of not just the prize but Walker as well. The celebrating people didn’t seem to mind. Good. If they’d managed to get aboard the Grik ship and have a look around, things might have turned ugly really fast. At the very least, they might have burned it—and he couldn’t have that.
He noticed with slight reassurance that some effort had been made to begin fortifying the city since he left. A low earthen breastworks had been started here and there, and trees had been felled a short distance beyond it to make a killing ground. Inadequate as it was, at least it was something, but the People of Baalkpan were about to learn how pathetic their efforts to date truly were.
“The prize is secure and there seems a sufficient guard around it,” reported Dowden from the auxiliary conn atop the aft deckhouse. The bridge talker repeated the message to the captain.
“Very well. Cast off the towline. Hoist a signal for Nakja-Mur. Tell him we’re going upriver to the fueling pier. We’ll fill our bunkers and I’ll make a full report tonight, when Keje and Big Sal arrive.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” replied Riggs. He went to supervise as one of the signalman strikers ran up the appropriate bunting. Matt still had the conn, and he directed the watch to use the engines and rudder to move them away from the pier once more. The rudder hard over, the port engine pushed the stern away from the dock. Then, after the special sea and anchor detail released the final forward line, Walker slowly backed clear. Matt looked at the crowd on the dock and smiled.
“Might as well give them a show,” he said. With a quick glance to make sure they were clear, he continued, “Right standard rudder, all ahead full!” Walker gave a shuddering groan that seemed almost like a sigh of relief that she was no longer burdened with the deadweight of the prize, and her stern crouched down and churned a mighty, muddy froth above the fantail. Even over the rising roar of the blower, Matt heard the excited cries of the crowd’s appreciation. Quickly, still on three boilers, the aged thoroughbred accelerated into a wide turn that took her deeper into the bay and, ultimately, upriver to the fueling pier. We need another one of those down here, Matt thought. He looked at Mr. Riggs. “Honk the horn!” he said with a grin.
The crowd still milling near the red-hulled ship cheered louder as a cloud of steam and a deep, resonant shriek jetted from the whistle and the amazing iron ship raced upstream, raising a feather halfway up her number, smoke streaming from three of her four funnels.
“Let ’em have a good time for a while,” Matt said, his voice turning grim.
“Aryaalans!” snorted Nakja-Mur later that evening, standing on Walker ’s bridge where she was again tied to the Baalkpan docks. He hadn’t waited for Matt to report. As soon as Walker returned from fueling, he and the just-arrived Keje tromped up the gangway. “You ask me to risk everything for those unfriendly land-bound . . . heretics?” Matt and Keje had been describing the details of the battle and the capture of the enemy vessel. The account turned to the discovery of the enemy charts, or “Evil Scrolls of Death,” as Sky Priest Adar insisted they be called. That led to their theory of an impending Grik attack on the people of Surabaya: “Aryaalans,” as they called themselves. Chack was present to interpret, but so far, between Keje, Nakja-Mur’s rapid advancement in English, and Matt’s slowly growing proficiency in Lemurian, he hadn’t been needed.
Matt sighed. “With respect, my lord, it’s essential we go to their aid if they’re attacked.”
“But why? Let them fend for themselves, as do we. They were invited to the last gathering and they chose—as always—not to dampen themselves with the company of sea folk!”
Matt was tempted to point out that Nakja-Mur was, however sensible, the very definition of a landsman. But to be fair, the People of Baalkpan were every bit as sea-oriented as the people of Old Nantucket ever were. They built and repaired ships and they dealt in the products of the sea’s capricious bounty. Their livelihood was entirely centered around maritime toil and commerce. Whereas the Surabayans were . . .
“Just what the hell is it about them you don’t like?” Matt asked in frustration.
“They . . . they are heretics!” Nakja-Mur proclaimed.
“Why?”
Nakja-Mur shifted uncomfortably and paced out on the port bridgewing. Matt and Keje followed him there, and Larry Dowden joined them. There was a reduced watch on the bridge since they weren’t under way, but a torpedoman had been tinkering with the director connections. Matt motioned for him to leave them and the man quickly gathered his tools and departed.
“Why?” Matt asked again.
“Perhaps you should ask Adar.”
“I can’t. He and Bradford ran off to study together as soon as we rigged the gangway. Who knows where. Besides, I have to ask you because you’re the one whose opinion really matters, in the long run, and we have decisions to make . . . you have decisions to make. I know, traditionally all ‘High Chiefs’ are equals here, but surely you know that in reality you’re a little more ‘equal’ than the others? You have the largest force and Baalkpan’s the most populous city this side of Manila—and it’s on your industry we all depend.”
Nakja-Mur grunted, but his tone wasn’t unfriendly. “I have heard it said you’re the most ‘equal’ among us, because of this ship.” He patted the rail under his hand.
Crusade Page 4
