Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  “There are greater dangers in deep water than a Strakka,” Keje reminded him darkly.

  “So you say,” Dowden wheezed. “Mountain fish and such. But that’s a creature. Captain, I thought Mr. Bradford said creatures were the only things different here, but he’s talking like storms like this are common in the Java Sea.”

  “Only at this time of year,” Keje reminded them. “And I have to admit, this was an unusually intense Strakka. Of course, it might have just seemed so since we are on such a small ship.” Matt grunted and Keje grinned. “No offense, Cap-i-taan, I assure you! Never have I been so exhilarated! It’s very like the gri-kakka hunt, in a small boat, but even more exciting and prolonged—at least when the lance strikes true. Gri-kakka die quite quickly then.” He peered at the captain with his large reddish-brown eyes. His tail twitched with mischief. “You must try it sometime.”

  The worst of the storm passed Baalkpan by as it roared down in a great semicircle of destruction from the South China Sea, across the Java Sea, and then pounded the Lesser Sunda Islands on its way toward Australia. Borneo had been struck a glancing blow, by comparison, but tornados, pounding rain, and lashing winds hadn’t left Baalkpan unscathed. Lieutenant Mallory had brought the Catalina in just before the whitecaps on the bay would have made it suicide to set the plane down and, together with hundreds of guards and volunteers and the help of the engines, they heaved the big plane out of the water and up a steep, muddy ramp that wasn’t yet complete. Once ashore, the plane had been lashed down securely. The PBY weathered the storm, but it had been a near thing. Now, all that remained of the storm in Baalkpan was an incessant deluge that drummed on the plane’s sloping wings and ran off the trailing edge in sheets. Ben Mallory, Alan Letts, and Perry Brister were gathered under the port wing with Pete Alden and Tony Scott. Together, they watched the Strakka slowly die.

  “I wish this would quit,” said the coxswain in a loud voice so he could be heard above the rumbling aluminum overhead. His fear of water didn’t encompass rain, but he was heartily sick of it nonetheless. Mallory nodded and glanced at the fuselage. Ed Palmer was in there, still trying to raise Walker. They’d heard nothing for two whole days and were beginning to worry. Both destroyers and Revenge had been in the path of the biggest storm they’d ever seen.

  “Yeah,” said Letts, whose thinking mirrored Mallory’s. “How’s the plane doing? Engines okay?” he asked.

  The pilot hesitated. “Sure,” he answered in a defensive tone. “The oil we’re getting isn’t quite up to spec, but we change it every time she flies. Other than that, she’s better now than when we got her.” He grinned and gestured at the rain. “Cleaner too.” He pointedly didn’t remind them that “when they got her,” the PBY was full of holes and half sunk on a beach.

  “Good,” Letts murmured, looking carefully at the aviator. He turned to Brister. Mahan’s former engineering officer had become the general engineer for all of Baalkpan. Captain Reddy and Pete Alden had designed the city’s fortifications with an eye toward successful historical port defenses. Alden added a few things based on local conditions. Also, with an infantryman’s eye, he’d stressed additions based on the possibility that the enemy might make a landward approach. In addition to his other duties—which now included direct supervision of the massive (by local standards) foundry—Lieutenant Brister was responsible for making the dream come true. The result might very well be the most formidable defensive works this world had ever known.

  Instead of the stone walls that Aryaal enjoyed, a huge defensive berm had been thrown up around the city, the approaches festooned with entanglements and sharpened stakes. Moving the vast amount of dirt had also created a wide, deep trench that had subsequently filled with water and become an impressive moat system. The jungle was pushed back at least five hundred yards on all sides, except where the ground sank into swamp. Some of the wood was stockpiled for later use—much of it was fine hardwood after all—and some was used to shore up the breastworks and put a roof over the heads of the defenders to protect them from plunging arrow fire.

  The pièce de résistance was the twenty-four heavy guns that pierced the berm at regular intervals through stout embrasures, mostly facing the harbor. These were carefully concealed. The thinking was that, since the harbor was their most heavily defended point, they didn’t want to scare the enemy away from it—now they’d had a taste of cannon. If the Grik ever did attack Baalkpan, the defenders wanted them to do it in the “same old way” because the waterfront was where they would smash the invaders’ teeth. Still more guns were situated in a heavily constructed and reinforced stockade named Fort Atkinson, overlooking the mouth of the bay.

  Again thanks to Alden, the landward approaches hadn’t been neglected. One hundred crude mortars were interspersed among the defensive positions. Little more than heavy bronze tubes, they could hurl a ten-pound copper bomb as far as the extended tree line. A little farther if you were brave enough to put a dollop more powder beneath it. The poor fragmentation characteristics of copper had been improved by casting the things with deep lines that ran all around and up and down the spheres—just like a pineapple grenade. When all was said and done, there wasn’t so much as a copper cup or brass earring in Nakja-Mur’s entire city, or anywhere they could quickly trade with. But what they had, hopefully, was a slaughterhouse for the Grik.

  “How have the defenses held up in the rain?” Letts asked.

  Brister snorted. “A little rain won’t hurt anything. Pack it all down a bit, is all. I may not be a combat engineer by trade, but when I put something together, it stays put together.”

  Letts grinned and looked at Ben. “All right. As soon as this lets up and you think it’s safe, I want you back in the air. See if you can find our people.”

  “There’s an awful lot of water out there,” Mallory replied thoughtfully.

  “True, but as the storm winds down, Mahan should head here and Walker ought to head back for Surabaya. I figure they were both carried a good ways east-southeast, so throw a horseshoe in your search. You can refuel at Tangalar,” he said, referring to a small outpost they’d established for that purpose on the southern point of Celebes. “That is, if it hasn’t been washed away. Then head for Surabaya.”

  “What about Revenge?”

  Alan grimaced. “If she was northeast of Bangka, like you said, she could be anywhere by now, with just wind power.” He shook his head. “If she didn’t sink, or wind up scattered all over some beach, she might be in the middle of the Java Sea by now.”

  “If they’re out there, I’ll find ’em,” Mallory promised.

  Letts turned to Tony Scott. “If the rain slacks off later today, take the launch and check out the refinery. Make sure it came through the storm okay. Take some help. All we had out there was a couple of caretakers. If anything cracked, fix it if you can or come get Mr. Brister. Take a look at the wellhead while you’re at it. It was shut down during the storm, but the Mice’ll have a fit if a tree fell on that mechanical dinosaur of theirs.”

  Tony kept a straight face, but gulped at the thought of the boat trip. “Aye, sir,” he said. He knew it was a necessary trip, but he sure didn’t want to go.

  Tony Scott was no coward—everyone was well aware of that. At the height of the Battle of the Stones, when they captured Revenge, he’d proven his courage beyond question by jumping in the sea to rescue Lieutenant Tucker. This was the ultimate proof, because he had become profoundly terrified of the water—and all the creatures that lurked there. Anyone who might have scoffed at his newfound fear was silent after that. But nothing changed. There was no revival of his old spirit, no catharsis. No feeling of being back on the horse. He was no longer worried that he might have become a coward in general, but he was still afraid of the water.

  It was morning before the rain paused long enough for Scott and his half dozen ’Cat roughnecks to embark on their inspection jaunt upriver. It took a while to bail out the boat, and while they worked they watched those on sh
ore maneuvering the heavy Catalina down to the water. Tony shuddered as a group of line handlers actually waded out up to their waists. He knew, philosophically, that they were relatively safe. There were fewer flashies in the bay than in open water. There were fewer still in the shallows, and after a storm there’d be almost none inshore. Still . . . The launch’s motor started on the first try and for a while he concentrated on performing the tasks that once had made him happy. As the boat nosed away from the dock, the PBY floated clear and Tony waved his ever-present Thompson gun at the army pilot as the man climbed on top of the wing to supervise the final preparations. Mallory waved back.

  A decent guy, Scott thought to himself as he spun the wheel and pointed the bow toward the distant river mouth. Sure wouldn’t want his job. Flying around in that beat-up plane over miles of empty ocean. Nothing but water below, packed with millions and millions of voracious . . . He shook his head to keep from shuddering again. The captain had left him here as a mercy, and maybe even as thanks for saving his dame—although that probably didn’t figure too consciously in the skipper’s mind. He’s giving me a rest so I don’t lose my nerve completely, Scott decided. He knows all it might take is one more trip across that deep, dark sea to send me absolutely ape. It would wreck him. Even if he came back to his senses, it wouldn’t matter. Everyone would know. Tony Scott, coxswain, was helplessly afraid of the water. The pity would be worse than jeers. He’d blow his brains out. Thank God he could still handle the bay.

  Behind him he heard the clattering roar of engines as the PBY thundered across the bay and took to the sky. He looked over his shoulder as a fleeting ray of sunshine flickered on the rising plane. All that water, he thought. It was bad enough in the bay, where few of the monsters were present, but . . . out there, where the plane was headed and most of Tony’s pals might even now be slipping down into the dreadful embrace of the sea, so far from land. The safe, dry land.

  He fought the current upriver and dodged the dead trees and other debris that had washed down from the distant mountains. Crocodiles floated by, disoriented or dead, and he knew the river must’ve been something at the peak of the deluge. It was still out of its banks. The damp world had begun to reawaken, however, evidenced by the flocks of lizard birds that rose amid raucous cries and riotous colors to greet them as they churned upstream. Finally, after another hour of enduring the buckshot of bird shit that peppered them constantly from above, the fueling pier came into view around the bend.

  The willing hands of the caretakers caught the rope, and Tony gratefully leaped up to the dock and onto the shore. His relief at feeling the motionless earth beneath his feet was palpable, and his mood brightened immediately despite another round of drizzle. “Everything all right?” he asked the first Lemurian caretaker/guardsman that joined him.

  “No pro-bleemo,” mimicked the ’Cat, proud of his English.

  “Anything come apart?” Tony asked the other one, who he knew could speak much better.

  “Don’t think so. Everything fine here. Won’t know for sure until the pump is back on.”

  “Okay,” Tony said. “I’ll go check it out. In the meantime, why don’t you fellas try to get the fires lit? God knows it’ll be a week before any local boats can make it up that river and bring the rest of the crew. I’ll have to ferry ’em up in the launch.” The idea of spending the better part of the next two days on the water didn’t appeal to him, but at least for now he could bask in the safety of the shore. He stuck his hands in his pockets and, whistling, followed the pipeline cut into the jungle.

  He didn’t whistle for long. The ground was mucky and the grade was steep. Soon he was gasping, trying to suck a few molecules of oxygen past the moisture that hung in the air. There was absolute silence except for his breathing, and the humidity deadened the sound of that almost before it reached his ears. Halfway to the wellhead, he stopped, huffing, and contemplated sitting on one of the wet, mushy tree trunks that had been moved to the side of the cut.

  “Out of shape,” he scolded himself, still in a good mood in spite of his exertion. He began unbuttoning his trousers as he stepped to the side of the trail to relieve himself.

  Over the sound of his rasping breath he thought he heard something. Something else . . . breathing. He peered into the misty jungle. There, directly before him amid the tangled tree trunks, two trunks didn’t quite match the others. His eyes went wide and his hand flew to his shoulder for the sling of the Thompson—which at that moment lay behind the control station in the launch, ready to protect him from the horrors in the water.

  “Shit,” he whispered as the gaping jaws descended upon him.

  Ben Mallory had coaxed the reluctant aircraft up to three thousand feet, all the while listening intently to the engines. So far, so good. The steady, throbbing drone of the Pratt & Whitney R-1830-92 Twin Wasps seemed healthy enough. Contrary to Lieutenant Letts’s suspicions, Mallory really thought the engines were fine. Of course, it was hard to tell over the excessive rattling and violent vibrations the rest of the aircraft made. Everything except the engines on the hard-used plane was falling apart. He tried his best to take it easy on the old gal, but metal fatigue was beginning to take its toll. Sooner or later, good engines or not, the battered flying boat would fold up like a paper kite and fall out of the sky and the only airplane in the entire world would be no more. He shrugged mentally. When it happened, it happened. Until it did, he would fly.

  He spared a quick glance at his “copilot.” The young sable-furred ’Cat on his right was peering through a pair of precious binoculars through the open side window at the ocean below. His name was Jis-Tikkar, but he seemed to like “Tikker” just fine. He’d been a good companion on the long flights between Baalkpan and Surabaya and he was still fully enraptured by the wonder of flying high above the world at a measly 110 miles an hour—oh, how Ben missed the glorious P-40E! Whatever Ben called him, Tikker wasn’t quite ready to assume all the duties of his position. For one thing, he could barely see over the instrument panel.

  On a couple of occasions, Mallory had allowed him to take the controls for a little “straight and level,” but it would be a while before he did it again. The second time the little devil had his hands on the oval-shaped wheel, he’d nearly put the big plane through a barrel roll. It was all very exciting and the flying lessons abruptly ceased. For now, the “copilot’s” duties had reverted to observation and keeping Ben awake on the long flights with his irrepressible humor.

  The rest of the flight crew consisted of Ed Palmer, and two more farsighted Lemurians in the observation blisters. Ed sat in the compartment directly behind the flight deck, still trying to raise Walker when he wasn’t keeping track of their navigation. The young signalman had been studying under Bob Flowers to raise his grade before the lieutenant was killed. In his short time aboard Mahan he had, for all intents and purposes, been the navigation officer. He wasn’t a pro yet, but he was a quick study. As long as there were landmarks he could identify, he hadn’t led them astray—and they were forbidden to fly at night. Besides, they’d made the trip often enough now that the Makassar Strait was pretty familiar. Ben liked having someone to bounce his reckoning off of, though.

  They broke out of the dreary overcast at last and the sky ahead was bright and clear. The trailing edge of the storm was still visible far to the east beyond Celebes, and a few petulant squalls marched about at random. Below them, evidence of the storm was still apparent from the lingering whitecaps. Three hours of flying had them in the general vicinity where they’d captured Revenge, and nearing the way point where they would either turn southeast and prepare to set down and refuel or head due south on the next dogleg that would complete the bottom of their horseshoe search.

  Ben glanced at the fuel gauges. More than enough. The flying boat had a theoretical range of over twenty-eight hundred miles, and the search pattern Letts had suggested would consume less than half of that. Mallory intended to cover more area than the plan called for, but there’d
still be ample fuel. He decided to forgo a visit to their remote gas station on Celebes. Every time the plane touched down there provided potential for an accident, particularly on the still-rough sea. Besides, there were no pumps at the station and they would spend half the day hoisting and pouring the two-gallon jugs. He much preferred idling up alongside Big Sal and letting the fuel run down into the plane.

  He called Palmer forward. “We’re going to zigzag south across the Flores Sea on hundred-mile legs, west-east, west-east. But I want to check out those islands north of Sumbawa. Keep track of our turns so we don’t miss the damn things. I’d rather catch them headed east so we can cross them twice. There must be a hundred of them.”

  “Most of those islands aren’t much account,” Palmer replied.

  “No, but if somebody got driven east by the storm there’s a good chance they might’ve wound up on one of them,” Ben reasoned grimly.

  As it turned out, they didn’t have to go that far. Shortly after they made their first eastward turn, Tikker spotted a lonely wake below them. Ben immediately began a spiraling descent.

  “Mahan, sure enough!” Tikker said excitedly. “Only three smoke-stacks, see?”

  Mallory grunted when he banked the plane far enough to see for himself. “Unless the storm knocked one off Walker,” he agreed doubtfully. “But mainly, she’s headed north, toward Baalkpan. Walker would be headed west. Yeah, that’s Mahan, all right. There’s her number. Looks even worse than the last time I saw her, but she’s under way.”

  “We’re not going to set down, are we?” Ed asked nervously from between the two seats.

  “No way. Look at those swells! Let’s signal them with the navigation lights.”

  The sun was setting beyond Java’s distant volcanic peaks when Walker steamed through the Pulau Sapudi and returned to Aryaal/B’mbaado Bay. The naked tripods of the battle line Homes were silhouetted against the evening sky and the lights of the city. Safe and sound, right where they’d left them. Captain Reddy was dozing in his chair and Keje had gone to the wardroom for a sandwich.