Matt wasn’t entirely sure if Adar was surrendering because he had to or if he really believed it best. He wasn’t certain either if his last statement was an apology or a chastisement. He nodded and grasped Adar’s hand. “It’s better this way,” he assured the priest. “The more we take to the fight, the fewer we will lose.” He turned to Keje. Shinya had stepped up beside the Lemurian.
“Thanks. How long before the rest of the forces can be prepared?” Shinya glanced at Keje and then responded. “An hour, perhaps two, I should think.”
Keje nodded. “About that. Not all are ashore, but I doubt we will need all. It will be . . . difficult fighting People instead of animals,” he admitted.
“Let’s put it this way,” Matt answered him grimly. “We saved them from the Grik and yet they threaten to obstruct our war against the common enemy. They’ve made hostages of their own people and attacked us by surprise—” He stopped and shook his head. “If they’ll defend that, then they are animals.”
Benjamin Mallory hummed to himself through clenched teeth as he struggled to keep the big plane flying in a northerly direction. He’d never flown a PBY in his life before he inherited this one, but for the most part, he had few complaints about its handling—at least from a straight and level perspective. It was no P-40E, or even a P-40B, but it didn’t usually take every ounce of his strength to keep it flying in a straight line. Except in a crosswind. As the day wore on and a stiff westerly breeze continued to blow, it was becoming more evident why it had such a big damn rudder. Of course, in some ways the big rudder was part of the problem. It came in real handy if he ever lost an engine—which he knew from personal experience—but it sure put up a hell of a fight in a crosswind. On the other hand, he thought philosophically, if you were born with a big rudder, at least you had a big rudder to make up for it.
“Damn, Tikker,” he muttered to his copilot above the droning motors overhead, “I wish your legs were longer. You could give me a hand with this.”
“I can give you a hand, boss. Just no feet,” Tikker said, looking dubiously down at the distant rudder pedals.
“Smart-ass.” Mallory grinned. “You could squirm down there and push ’em with your hands.” Tikker blinked at him.
“Your legs are longer than me, my eyes are longer than you. But I can’t see through the bottom of the plane. You want me to push pedals or look for ship?”
Ben laughed. He knew that Tikker, like most Lemurians, was extremely literal-minded. He also knew most of the little boogers possessed a highly developed sense of humor and a mischievous streak a mile wide. He didn’t know which was in play at the moment. Probably both. “That’s okay. I’ll go down there and you can fly.”
Ed Palmer crawled up between them. “Radio still checks out. But only as long as you don’t let the monkey fly . . . sir.”
Mallory laughed again. “I swear. You guys ought to trade jobs. I bet you could fly almost as good as Tikker and I know he could operate the radio and navigate better than you, Ed.”
Ed pushed his clipboard forward so Mallory could look at the charts.
“Where are we?”
“Well, we followed Java west for three hours and we’ve been flying north-northwest for two. That should put us about here,” he said, pointing to a spot just south of Pulau Belitung.
“Okay. That must be it up ahead. That big-assed island with the little white specky ones all around.”
Ed squinted through the windscreen. “Damn, you mean we are where I thought we are? With all this wind I figured we’d be east.”
“Naw, I fudged the headings you gave me.” Ben frowned. “Captain said to check these little islands real careful. He figures if the storm drove Revenge aground, that’s where she’ll be.”
“What a mess,” Ed murmured, looking first at the distant islands and then the chart. “No way she’d have squirmed through, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, well,” hedged Mallory uncomfortably, “maybe she did. Or maybe she’s fine and Rick’s still chasing lizards like he was Drake and they were Spaniards.”
“Who’s Drake?” Ed asked.
“Never mind. British guy.”
Tikker leaned forward and squinted until his eyes were tiny slits. “Let me see chart, please,” he said, and Ed handed it over. Tikker studied it carefully for a long time and squinted out the windscreen once more. “Very strange,” he said and shook his head. “Usually you charts are so good.”
“What? Why?”
“I see white islands where chart says should only be water.”
Mallory took off his sunglasses and squinted as well. “I don’t see anything.”
“You push pedals, I look for ship,” Tikker said smugly and resumed his study of the horizon. Ed left them and went to the engineer’s compartment. One of the few things they’d discovered that still worked in the half-sunken plane when they found it was a thermos. It had been empty at the time, floating in the sandy brown water in the fuselage. Ed rescued it and had used it ever since. The initials “EP” were lightly scratched in the thick aluminum and he was struck by the coincidence since they were the same as his. He often wondered what had become of the original owner. He picked it up and poked his head into the waist gunner’s compartment to make sure the other two spotters weren’t goofing off. Then he carefully poured a cup of joe into a tin mug and eased his way forward against the jostling motion of the plane.
“Coffee,” he announced, slowly extending the cup into Mallory’s line of sight.
Ben shook his head. “Can’t right now. I need both hands. Thanks, though.” Ed only shrugged and took a gentle sip himself. Tikker looked at him and wrinkled his nose. Not very many Lemurians liked real coffee, much less the local brew. Like real coffee, it had a stimulating effect and that’s what they used it for: medicine. Not because they liked the taste. The big island was growing larger and many of the smaller ones were easy to distinguish now. Tikker suddenly remembered the binoculars around his neck. He thought they were the neatest things in the world—next to the airplane, of course—but much as he loved them, their technology was still so unfamiliar that he often forgot he had them on. Somewhat embarrassed, he raised them now and adjusted the objective knob. Then he stiffened, and it seemed to Ben every sable hair on his body stood on end.
“What? What do you see?” For a long moment, Tikker couldn’t speak. “What is it?” Ben demanded. His copilot’s body language had sent a chill of concern down his spine.
“It is not islands where they do not belong,” he finally managed. “It is sails. Grik sails.”
“Here, give me those,” Ben said, taking the binoculars from Tikker’s neck. He tried to hold the wheel and the glasses steady at the same time, but found it impossible. He glanced at Tikker, who seemed immobilized by shock. Now wasn’t the time for another flying lesson. He handed the binoculars over his shoulder to Ed, who put his cup down on the flight deck in front of him. It immediately began to vibrate violently, “walking” around and sloshing its contents. He raised the glasses to his eyes.
“God a’mighty,” he whispered. The entire horizon, from the islands of Pulau Belitung to the distant hint of a smudge that was western Borneo, was dotted with hundreds of dingy pyramid shapes. The water below was still a little foamy and the whitecaps had turned the normally warm, dark blue sea a kind of dirty turquoise, but the hint of red from the enemy hulls made them stand out quite clearly. “God a’mighty,” he repeated, a little louder this time and with an edge of panic in his voice.
The intercom crackled and an excited voice reached them from one of the observation blisters. “Ship! Ship! I see ship! Right below! Wake up, you in front! You not see ship?”
Revenge had been through hell. As soon as the size of the storm became apparent, Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar knew their only hope was to beat north as far as they could and gain as much sea room as possible before the seas grew too large to do anything but run before them. With grim satisfaction, they’d pounded the lone Grik ship wi
th a pair of broadsides as it drew near. Then, leaving the enemy trailing a shattered mainmast and at the mercy of the coming blow, Revenge went about. The wind drove out of the west-northwest at first, and the ship shouldered her way through the growing swells far into the Natuna Sea.
For that day and half the night she pounded north, farther than she’d ever been. Past Singapore, in fact, though the chance of anyone seeing her, or caring if they did, was slim. With only her staysails set, she heaved and corkscrewed into the South China Sea as the mounting waves threatened to drive her under with their irresistible force. There were islands in the area too, many islands, but the risk wasn’t as great as the almost solid wall that lay to the south. Seams opened and the chain pumps clanked and even the most hard-bitten Lemurian mariners were prostrated with fatigue and seasickness. Finally, when they’d managed as much northeasting as the storm would allow, they wore, and under a bare scrap of her fore-topsail, she ran before the mountainous quartering swell. Rick couldn’t believe the height of the sea. It seemed impossible in such shallow water. Occasionally, bits of strange coral and wriggling fish were left in the scuppers when the sea broke over the ship. He half expected her to strike bottom and break her back when in the trough of some of the waves.
The wind and sea whittled her down. Masts and spars and shredded canvas were plucked away bit by bit and the exhausted crew fought like demons to keep the water out. The entire mizzenmast went, along with the maintop, when she was pooped by a mountain of water and several of the crew were lost. The rest of the mainmast, the foretop, and most of the bowsprit were lost the following day when a bolt of lightning struck the ship like a bomb. With only a scrap of the fore course and a single staysail, Revenge battled on.
It was in part a testimony, perhaps, to the skill of her hated builders and to the ancient design they’d used. Mostly, however, it was the skill and strength of her officers and crew and their unflagging will to survive and fight that allowed Revenge to live to see morning and a calming sea. Just in time. By the end of the final day of the storm’s lessening wrath, Pulau Belitung was looming to the south. They dropped both anchors with plenty of scope in the Gaspar Strait, waiting tensely until the ship drug to a stop in the heavy current but lighter swells. There the ship pitched at the end of her cables, waterlogged and shattered, throughout the night and the following day. The crew worked on, repairing what they could with the booming sound of breakers all around.
Rick had worked as tirelessly as any and a close bond was forged between him and the crew. Kas was instrumental, as always, and there was no doubt that if it hadn’t been for him, all would have been lost. But it was the symbolism of their Amer-i-caan captain sharing their fate as well as their glory that raised the crew’s spirits. Up to that point, Rick had been a popular figure aboard, friendly and competent and raring for a fight. But until then, their greatest challenge had been the Battle of B’mbaado Bay. A great battle and a fine adventure, but Revenge had suffered little. Then, throughout their short, successful cruise, Revenge had everything her way and their quick, one-sided battles with the Grik had been more play than anything else.
During the storm, however, they’d all suffered deeply. But they’d done it together, as a Home. Captain, crew, and the now strangely less hated ship had worked and fought solely for the common good. None could have survived alone without the others. In spite of everything, Revenge was no longer just a ship representing Baalkpan. She’d become a Home. Battered and leaky and in need of much repair, but a real Home nonetheless. And there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Rick Tolson was her High Chief.
That morning, patched and caulked as much as possible, Revenge cut her cables and ran down the Gaspar Strait and back into the Java Sea, southeast under as much canvas as she could cram on her reinforced lower foremast. Rick and Kas believed—weather permitting—that they’d limp back into Aryaal in a week or so. Together, they were leaning on the quarterdeck rail, taking turns with Rick’s binoculars and studying the nearby islands. The lower, smaller ones had been scoured clean by the storm. Fallen trees and other debris drawn away by the retreating surge floated everywhere, and lizard birds swooped and capered, snatching up dead fish. Rick watched a skuggik, or something similar, standing stoically on a dead tree as it drifted out to sea.
“Hell of a storm,” he said.
Kas nodded companionably. “I’ve seen worse, but rarely.” The Lemurian grinned and blinked. “And never on anything this small.” He pointed at the stranded creature. “Perhaps he knows how we feel.”
“I wonder if any of the feluccas made it.”
Kas’s grin quickly faded. “I fear not. They were never designed to ride the Strakka. They are not designed for much at all beyond coastal fishing. We shouldn’t have brought them.”
“They were a big help. Until we have a larger navy, we may have to use them again.” Rick shrugged. “It’s war.”
Kas looked at him. “I’ve noticed you Amer-i-caans use that phrase a lot to explain much. You’re a war-fighting race. Mine—at least the ones that live upon the sea—is not. Do you find it helps to use the war as an excuse for everything bad that happens?”
Rick returned his stare. “Yeah, I guess so. You like to think that war isn’t forever and if it weren’t for the war things would be better . . .” He shrugged again. “Besides, it’s mostly true—or I hope it is.” He shook his head and grinned. “Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m having a blast!” Kas looked around them at the devastation and blinked exasperation. Rick chuckled. “Well . . . as Captain Reddy would say”—he screwed his brows into a fair imitation of one of Matt’s wry expressions—“ ‘It’s been a tough couple of days!’ ” They both laughed at the understatement.
Rick’s face turned thoughtful. “I am having a blast,” he repeated. “I have a command of my own and despite her questionable pedigree, she’s one of the most powerful warships afloat. When she’s in one piece she’s fast, well built—thank God!—and weatherly.” Glancing past Kas at one of the many work gangs diligently at their labors, he added, “And she’s got the best damn crew any ship like her ever had in this messed-up world. A destroyerman couldn’t ask for much more.” He paused. “Engines would be nice, but then she wouldn’t need her sails and that’s part of her charm.”
He became serious again. “But that’s not what you asked.” He sighed. “Yeah, the war’s to blame. Those fishermen on the feluccas, they wouldn’t have been here if not for the war. They’d have been catching flashies and feeding their families instead of fighting for their lives in a storm they couldn’t beat. That’s the war’s fault, not ours. And before you think that if we weren’t fighting the war there wouldn’t be one, try to remember why we fight. It’s fight or die and that’s not much of a choice. You might die if you fight, but you will die if you don’t. If you look at it like that, the War isn’t an excuse but a blessing. A chance for survival.” Rick grew silent and thoughtful for a moment.
“You know, now that I think about it, it is different here. What I said before is all a bunch of crap. We can shake our heads and say, ‘It’s war,’ because it’s easy and it’s what my people are used to. At home, it might even be true sometimes. The war we left behind might’ve been different, but who’s to say? The Nazis and the Japs were very bad, but most of the time it’s not that black and white. Here? It’s the lizards. Period. They’re the ones to blame. ‘The War’ is what we’re doing to stop the lizards and when you think of it like that, it makes a good explanation.” Rick yawned hugely and then smiled at his friend.
“I’m tired, and I may not be making a lot of sense, but whatever else I said, I guess what I mean is, if we lost the feluccas, they didn’t die for nothing. They were helping fight the War, and in maybe this one and only instance, war is good.”
Kas grinned again. “Before the storm came, you certainly seemed to be enjoying it.”
Rick grinned back at him. “Well, when something needs doing, it always helps to be good at doing it, and we
were so, so good—”
Kas suddenly tilted his head as if listening intently. Rick heard it too. Within minutes, the entire crew of Revenge was jumping up and down and pointing gleefully at the sky as the small dark shape of the PBY grew larger and began a rapid spiraling descent. Soon it was skipping tentatively across the tops of the choppy waves until it splashed to a rather abrupt halt some distance ahead of the ship.
Ordinarily, Revenge would heave to and lower a boat. They were going to have to think of something else this time, since all the ship’s boats had been either lost or badly damaged. This must’ve become apparent to the flying boat’s crew, because as Revenge drew near, a small rubber raft appeared in the water under the plane’s left wing. Almost as soon as it did, however, it began to deflate.
“Damn flashies,” Rick muttered, realizing the fish must have torn the raft apart. “I wonder what now?”
Eventually a man and a Lemurian appeared out of the top of the pilot’s compartment and climbed up onto the wing. Slowly, they made their way to the end and crouched there waiting above the float.
“Dangerous,” Kas observed.
Rick nodded and called to the helmsman. “Easy there! Don’t so much as scratch that plane. Captain Reddy would never forgive us!”
Slowly, Revenge wallowed up to the plane. When she was just a few feet off the wingtip, Tikker leaped lightly across. Ed Palmer followed close behind, but with less self-assurance. Waiting hands grabbed him and kept him from falling backward into the water, and his face was drained of color as he stuck out his hand to Rick.
“Man, are you ever a sight for sore eyes!” Rick said happily as he grasped it. Ed returned the greeting with a small, sickly smile of his own, but he seemed distracted. He was looking around at the ship. In spite of the herculean effort to clean her up, her massive damage was still evident. Her deck stood empty of almost anything but her smiling crew. The jagged stumps of her fallen masts jutted forlornly from the quarterdeck and the waist.
Crusade Page 29
