“We make alliance with the Aryaalans by destroying the Grik forces there,” he continued with grim resolve. “Then we’ll throw them out of Singapore. Once we’ve done that, we fortify. We build fast, dedicated warships that can blow the hell out of anything the Grik send against us and, in time, we’ll kick their asses all the way back to where they came from!” There were enthusiastic shouts of support this time.
“And we’ll do that only because we have secure internal lines—an area where the enemy dares not tread. The Malay Barrier will be our defensive wall—but we have to secure it. Java—Aryaal is an essential part of that.” He looked out upon them and could see they wanted to believe. “This time we fight! And this time let their survivors frighten their children with tales of the fierce creatures that threw them out of paradise!”
Nakja-Mur strode onto the stage, holding his hands high to stifle the cheers and shouts and stomping feet. “I propose that Cap-i-taan Reddy, U-Amaki Ay Walker, be named War Leader of All the Clans for the duration of the campaign he described!” Matt was stunned with surprise in the face of the roar of acclamation that ensued. He looked at Nakja-Mur with an expression of betrayed . . . gratitude. He’d had no inkling that the High Chief of Baalkpan intended to make such a proposal. But it would certainly simplify things. The Lemurian grinned back at him.
“Aahd-mah-raal!” he said smugly.
The “Allied Expeditionary Force” crept slowly southward under a pale blue, cloudless August sky. Matt doubted the weather would last, however, because Keje had told them they were entering a “stormy” time of year. So far, he’d noticed a few differences between the weather “here” and “back home” and he imagined they had to do with the infinite ecological differences he was slowly growing accustomed to. These ranged from the understandable, such as undredged river fans that created unexpected shallows, to ash-belching volcanic islands that weren’t even supposed to be there. Whatever had caused the life on this earth to take such a divergent evolutionary track was still hard at work doing the same with the planet. Therefore, he really had no idea what Keje meant by “stormy.” By Matt’s reckoning, they should be well into the wet monsoon season by now, when it could be expected to rain all day most days instead of just for a short time. But, for the last couple of weeks it had been drier than he’d have thought.
He reminded himself that “stormy” could mean anything to Keje. He hadn’t been impressed by the tempest that raged during their most recent battle when they’d used a “grounded” Big Sal for bait. Several times he’d grumped that the plan would fail because no Grik would believe the storm was strong enough to drive Salissa onto the rocks. Of course, riding out a storm on Big Sal was probably exactly like doing so on one of the big new fleet carriers Matt had seen. Walker wasn’t so fortunate. She rolled horribly and she was a very wet ship. Any storm seemed severe to those aboard her. The only consolation was that the colossal typhoons spawned in the deeper waters to the east shouldn’t be much threat in the relatively shallow Java Sea. He’d never endured a typhoon, but he knew they could make the sometimes large hurricanes that occasionally struck his native Texas coast seem like a spring shower by comparison.
Today there was no storm, by anyone’s definition. The sea was placid and the visibility infinite. To the east was the Gulf of Mandar, site of their most recent fight, and to the west he could barely see the tiny dark smudge of the Laurot Islands. The Kangean Islands still lay about a hundred and fifty miles to the south. They were far beyond the usual range of the fishing fleets and it still felt poignantly strange not to see the distant smoke of some wandering freighter or tanker plodding along in an everyday, workmanlike . . . reassuring way. The only ships they had reason to expect now were those of the enemy.
He stood on the signal bridge next to the fire-control platform and felt the firm, cooling breeze of Walker’s twenty knots on his face. Beside him stood Greg Garrett, respectfully but companionably silent. Together they viewed the vast panorama of the “task force” arrayed to starboard. Walker was steaming a zigzag course several miles in advance of the fleet, screening against enemy ships that might detect their advance. Five miles ahead of Walker, the ex-Grik ship, Revenge, tacked lazily in the light airs, serving as Walker’s advance picket. She was refitted to look just as she had for her former owners, and no Grik would flee from her. She would immediately signal Walker if she spotted anything in their path. If she somehow came to grips with the enemy before the four-stacker came to her aid, Revenge was well prepared to defend herself.
She sailed under the command of Ensign—now Lieutenant—Rick Tolson, who’d been a yachtsman before he joined the Navy and had even worked on a steel-hulled topsail schooner for a year. He was the closest thing they had to a true sailor, and he had Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin, as sailing master and second in command. Kas had been hesitant about accepting the title “sailing master” since that’s what the great tail-less prophet who had taught Siska-Ta had been called; “Sa-lig Maa-stir.” When it was explained to him (and many others) that “sailing master” was a position, not a name, he finally accepted the post with reverence and more pride than if he’d been given command. Matt thought that was appropriate and he suspected they’d helped form the foundation of a proud and unique naval tradition. He just hoped they hadn’t set the stage for a blood feud between sailing masters and Sky Priests, since their duties were quite similar. More to the point, however, from a defensive standpoint, Rick’s ship was equipped with twenty brand-new shiny bronze guns. They were twelve-pounders, much like the ones they’d made for the Marine landing force, except for the carriages and the bore diameter. Right now the guns crouched, hidden and secure, behind gun port doors that had been cut in the side of the ship. Any Grik that tangled with Revenge would be in for a dramatic surprise.
Matt gazed at her in the distance with a strange mix of pleasure and pride, tempered with an underlying sense of revulsion. Her classic lines appealed to the historian in him and her sailing qualities inspired respect—and, of course, he was proud they’d taken her—but he couldn’t forget what he’d seen aboard her and what she represented. Nakja-Mur had christened her Revenge and everyone considered that an appropriate name. Baalkpan’s High Chief had been given the honor of naming her for the simple reason that she was the property of the Baalkpan People. There was no precedent for prize ownership among the People, and it was generally assumed that she belonged to Walker and Big Sal, even though a large number of Baalkpan warriors had assisted in her capture. Keje and Matt quickly decided among themselves to present the prize to Nakja-Mur as a gift. That action served a variety of purposes. First, it allowed for a much quicker refit, since Baalkpan had far greater resources to devote to the project. (This was mainly just an excuse—Nakja-Mur had long since ceased to stint on anything they asked of him that pertained to the war effort.) There was also the touchy religious angle, which they rightly figured the Baalkpan High Chief could smooth out more easily—with his own people anyway—than either of them could.
Mainly, though, Matt and Keje wanted Baalkpan to have a real piece of the naval war. Most of the landing force were Baalkpans, and most of their supplies came from there. Baalkpan truly was the “arsenal” of the alliance. Despite that, there was no great floating presence that represented Baalkpan in the order of battle, and the way such things were reckoned by their quintessentially seagoing race, the greater share of honor fell to those whose very homes went in harm’s way. Revenge more than satisfied that requirement of honor, since the plan called for her, the physical representative of Baalkpan, to be first in battle and perhaps even the key to the campaign’s success.
Matt turned to stare back at the bulk of the fleet. Five of the “flat-top”-sized Homes lumbered slowly in their wake, screened by forty of the largest feluccas in Baalkpan’s fishing fleet. Somehow, they’d managed to arm them all to some degree. The feluccas each carried at least one of the huge crossbow-type weapons that had usually been associated with the main armaments of
Homes. In fact, most had come from the Homes. A few of the feluccas even carried small swivel guns that Letts thought to cast as antipersonnel weapons. The Homes—Big Sal, Humfra-Dar, Aracca, Nerracca, and sulky Fristar—were now each armed with ten of the larger guns like Big Sal had used to such effect off Celebes. Matt still couldn’t believe Letts had pulled that off. He was proud of the former supply officer, who’d become the greatest logistics asset on the planet.
He smiled wryly at the argument Letts put up when he was told he’d worked himself out of a job and was too essential to the war effort to go on the expedition. He, along with a disconsolate Sergeant Alden, would command the Baalkpan defenses at Nakja-Mur’s side and continue the good work. Together they would supervise the construction of fortifications and gun emplacements for the shore batteries and mortars that the foundry had turned to once the ships were armed.
The cannons had been an extraordinary achievement, but they had taken time, as had the other preparations necessary to mount the campaign. Two agonizing months had passed—had it been only six months since they passed through the Squall?—and Mallory’s weekly reconnaissance flights showed that Aryaal still held, although the noose was tightening. He had also gotten a better idea of the forces involved. Thirty Grik ships, representing who knew how many thousands of invaders, were squeezing Aryaal now. A battle had been under way every time Ben flew.
Against that, the Allied Expeditionary Force carried six thousand warriors and Marines. That constituted almost half of Baalkpan’s entire defensive force, male and female. Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to that. Instead of crying and waving good-bye from the pier, Lemurian females hitched up their sword belts and joined their “men” with their spear or crossbow on their shoulders. He had no doubt about their ability; he’d seen them fight. But it was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d seen since he got here. He felt a rueful twinge. Sandra enthusiastically supported the idea of female warriors, once she got used to the concept, and it wasn’t like she herself had exactly been sheltered from the dangers they all faced. But in her case, it wasn’t as though that’s the way things were supposed to be . . . He rubbed his chin and gave an exasperated sigh. It just didn’t seem right. In any event, given the combination of artillery and disciplined tactics, he felt confident they could raise the siege and break through to the relief of the defenders. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.
Garrett raised his hands and pressed the earphones more tightly to his head. He listened for a moment and then turned to Matt. “Lookout has the Catalina in sight, Skipper.” Matt nodded calmly enough, but inside, he felt a supreme relaxation of tension. He hated it every time the plane flew out of sight for two reasons. First, it always carried a crew of bright, talented, and irreplaceable people whose chances of survival were poor at best if the plane was ever forced down. Also, dilapidated as it was, the PBY was the only airplane in this world, and it represented the greatest intelligence-gathering asset he had. It was an asset only if he used it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The radio usually worked—and that helped a little—although it was strange to talk in the clear without fear of the enemy listening in! But radio or not, he couldn’t shake his near-obsessive desire to preserve not just the crew but the plane itself. Important as this campaign was, he knew it was just a single campaign. Maybe it was a reflection of his still-smoldering bitterness over the lack of air cover for the Asiatic Fleet that reminded him you could take nothing for granted. But he couldn’t throw off the premonition that if they used up the Catalina now, the day would come when they would really wish they hadn’t.
In the meantime, he contented himself with a surge of relief over its safe return from this scout, at least, and he looked forward to hearing what Ben Mallory had seen. “Very well,” he said. “Ask Lieutenant Dowden to close Big Sal and signal the fleet for all captains to repair aboard her for a conference. Please inform Captain Keje, with my respects; we’ll come alongside as soon as they’ve hoisted the plane aboard. Ask him to rig hoses as well. I want to keep the bunkers topped off.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Garrett replied and spoke into his mouthpiece.
Matt watched the PBY grow larger as it neared, its thundering engines loud and reassuringly smooth. Mallory waggled his wings as he roared by the destroyer and began a wide, banking descent that brought him down alongside Big Sal. Matt dropped down the ladder to the wooden strakes below and stepped into the pilothouse.
“Captain on the bridge!”
“As you were,” replied Matt and smiled as the ship heeled into a tight turn toward the fleet. Juan, the diminutive but supremely dignified Filipino officer’s steward, had just arrived with the midwatch coffee, and he was desperately attempting to stabilize the serving tray so the coffee wouldn’t slide off onto the deck.
“Juan, Mr. Dowden and I will be crossing over to Big Sal at eighteen hundred. Would you present my compliments to Mr. Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker and ask them to accompany us?”
Juan finally got control of the carafe with an exasperated sigh as Walker steadied on her new heading. “Of course, Cap-tan Reddy. Might I recommend formal dress?”
Matt thought for a moment, then nodded, a grin stretching his face. “By all means, Juan. As formal as we can manage, at any rate. We must set an example.” He glanced around at the quizzical expressions. “We are the flagship, after all!”
Lieutenant—now Lieutenant Commander—“Spanky” McFarlane stood in the aft fireroom with his hands on his skinny hips and his eyes closed. He was feeling the ship and her machinery around him. The Mice watched expressionlessly, but two of the new “monkey-cat” snipes stared at him with reverential awe, as if they were in the very presence of some diminutive but all-knowing God. He nodded with reserved satisfaction at what he sensed. The limited rehabilitation they’d managed to perform on Walker’s engineering plant had done wonders, sure enough. One of his biggest worries, gasket material for the ship’s many leaky seals, seams, and steam lines had been laid to rest. A very satisfactory replacement had been found. They’d also replaced corroded fittings with newly cast brass ones, and all the working boilers had been rebricked. He worried about what they’d do when really serious stuff began to fail and their spares were exhausted—things like bearings, springs, etc.—but for now he figured his engines and boilers were in better shape than they’d been in years.
He opened his eyes and caught the big-eyed stares of the new “firemen” before they averted their gaze. He chuckled to himself. Damn, but he liked those little guys! With so many of the destroyer’s under-strength American crew assigned to such a wide range of projects and responsibilities—from the oil program and the rapid industrialization of Baalkpan to serving as gunnery officers aboard the Homes of the fleet—almost half of Walker’s complement was made up of Lemurian recruits. All of whom were duly sworn into the United States Navy. Of course, they had no real idea what the United States was, but their oaths were real enough. They sure weren’t like the coolies on the China Station. Walker was their Home now, and every one of them felt fortunate to be serving aboard the most amazing vessel in the world. Where McFarlane might see tired iron and dilapidated equipment, they saw only wonders, and they did their work with a zeal and enthusiasm that no engineering officer of a four-stacker had probably ever seen. Those that became snipes certainly suffered, though, confined below in the hellish temperatures with their furry coats. None ever complained, but God, how they shed!
Spanky had figured few of them could take it in the fireroom, even aside from the heat. Lemurians were accustomed to open spaces and freedom of movement, even on their ships. Accordingly, he thought those who’d be willing to toil in the steamy confines below Walker’s decks would be few, but he’d been wrong. Ultimately, he turned many away. They loved working with the machinery, and no matter how hot it got, the elite few he accepted never grumbled.
They often followed him, surreptitiously, staring with blank fascination at a gauge he’d tapped
with a finger or a pipe he’d felt with his palm, trying to divine what magical significance the act had held. He found it difficult not to laugh out loud at some of their antics of childlike wonder, but he always contained himself and maintained an expression of stern forbearance. Partly because he liked them, but also because he needed them. They were quick learners and cheerful workers, and even if it felt really weird being the object of semi-deification, he wasn’t about to discourage them.
Even the Mice had gained a following, despite their irascible mannerisms. One of the young monkey-cats, a soot-gray female who’d worked at the well site, had followed them into the fireroom. Her name was Tab-At. They had, of course, immediately dubbed her “Tabby” in spite of the obvious fact she was female. Whether it was ignorance on their part or a conscious effort to block her full, rounded breasts from their consciousness was unknown. She followed them around like a devoted pet—which was pretty much how they treated her. Spanky suspected there was more to it than that, at least from her perspective. Chack told him his cousin—for that’s what she was—admired their competence and interpreted their inscrutable manner as guarded wisdom. He shrugged mentally. Maybe they were wise; they were good at their jobs, but he was afraid all she’d learn from them was how to be a pain in the ass.
He admitted his suspicion in that regard was mostly due to his prejudice against any female in his fireroom. Chack’s cousin or not (all Lemurians seemed to be related in some way, so what difference that made he hadn’t figured out), she was still a she, and he wasn’t happy about it at all. She worked as hard as any of the monkey-cat snipes, and her size and agility probably made her the best burner batter out of the entire native draft, but there was no getting around the fact that she was, well, a she.
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