"I hope you're right," Keje grumbled. "It looked to me that all it did was turn their bowels to water."
Matt arched an eyebrow."You should've seen us when the Japs bombed Cavite."
Walker steadied on course and gradually increased speed. Spanky was fully aware of the state of their bunkers and there was no pell-mell acceleration. Matt glanced about, trying to find something to use as a gauge for wind direction and speed. He settled on one of the fishing feluccas that pelted by in the opposite direction. The small, beamy ship sailed admirably close to the wind. Keje saw him studying it.
"Yes. The enemy has a favorable wind with their . . . I think you call it `square rig'? It's much the same principle as our `wings,' and it serves best running with the wind on a quarter from behind, ah, quartering? Astern?"
He shook his head. "I learn your language good, I think, but some words don't work yet."
Matt grinned at him. "They work fine, as far as I can tell."
Keje bowed in thanks. "Still, I think you could catch him before he makes it into the strait." Matt glanced at Garrett, who cast a quick look at the Lemurian. Matt nodded.
"He's in easy range, Skipper," Garrett confirmed. The Grik ship was less than two miles away, gaining speed. But the course reversal had cost him. Keje grunted as if to say, "I thought so."
"Very well. Let's let him get some more water under his keel, though.
I don't want to sink him in the channel. Tell Spanky he can ease off the juice. Make him think he's keeping the distance." Matt smiled ruefully. "By the way, Mr. Garrett, my apologies. I have the deck. Please take your post on the fire-control platform. If there's another one, we might have some fancy shooting to do."
"Aye, aye, sir. Captain has the deck," he announced. After he was gone, Matt shook his head. Got excited, he chided himself. Not too good for the image of the stoic, all-knowing captain.
"What about me, sir?" asked Dowden. "You want me aft?"
"Not yet. This'll probably be as close to shooting fish in a barrel as we'll ever get. But I may have a chore for you. Helm," he said to Tolson, "keep us dead astern of the enemy, if you please. Adjust speed as needed."
"Dead astern and as needed, aye."
The Grik ship was leaning on her wide beam, the pyramid of white canvas contrasting sharply with the dark red hull and the blue, whitecapped waves. A long, foaming trail spread astern. "You can say what you like about those damn lizards," he said, "but they make pretty ships."
The mouth of the bay widened. Beyond the Grik, the open ocean of the Makassar Strait looked vast and empty. A few high clouds moved with deliberation across the otherwise clear blue sky. A touch of gray brooded over Celebes, but the local visibility was near perfect. Where was the other ship?
"Lookout reports a sail beyond the headland, bearing two two five," proclaimed the talker. Matt shifted his glass, but saw nothing because of the dense jungle that grew right down to the shoreline off the starboard bow. The lookout had a better vantage point, and the high masts of the Grik allowed them to see and signal at an even greater distance.
"Well, two for sure," Matt said speculatively. "Question now is whether the one we're chasing will turn to join her consort or continue on, leading us away. It might tell us a lot about them."
"Will it make a difference?" Keje asked anxiously.
"It shouldn't, in the short term." Matt was silent for a moment. "Say you had two or three fast ships and had just found the home of the Grik. They pursue. There's no way you can win a fight, but it's vitally important that someone get away with the information. What would you do?"
Theoretical speculation wasn't always a Lemurian strong point, Matt had noticed, but now Keje stared at the stern of the Grik ship while his mind sorted possibilities.
"I'd flee in a direction different than my consorts and hope they might chase me or one of the others. Perhaps one might escape. Much like the original Leaving. If the herd splinters, the hunters cannot get them all."
Matt nodded. "Or the hunters might get them all one at a time. But what else might you try? If it looked like none would escape?"
"I might fight them, to delay them. Or ask one of the others to do so."
"Yeah." He paced to the helmsman and glanced at the compass pelorus in front of the wheel. Then he returned and looked at the sky, gauging the wind again. The Grik ship was in the strait. They also saw the other enemy ship, crowding more sail and hugging the coastline, sailing southsouthwest. If the closer ship intended to follow, now was the time to turn.
"The question is," Matt continued, "would you have ever thought the Grik might do such a thing?"
Keje was flabbergasted by the thought. He found it difficult enough to believe they were running away at all. The idea of any strategic or selfsacrificing thought entering a Grik head was so foreign and horrifying that it left him momentarily speechless. And yet he'd been watching the wind. Unlike the destroyerman, who relied so much on his engines, Keje was always conscious of the wind. He didn't need a compass to tell him the Grik should have already turned.
"If they think information about Baalkpan is more important than their lives, it would imply a more sophisticated enemy than the `rear up and run at 'em' sort we thought we faced." Matt was watching the lizard ship as he spoke, and then he suddenly peered through the binoculars again. "Damn," he muttered as sails shivered and the enemy's hull changed aspect. "I sure hoped I was wrong. They can't get away, but they're not changing course to follow their friend—a heading that would give them more speed, by the way. Anyway"—he looked at Keje—"they want to fight. To `delay' us." He shook his head. "Not happy about that at all." To the talker: "Have Mr. Garrett commence firing. Helm? Let's go after the other one. We don't have the fuel to screw around."
The salvo buzzer screeched. While Walker described a leisurely turn to starboard, three rounds from the number two gun left the large, once beautiful ship a shattered, smoking wreck, sinking in their wake. A fourinch projectile isn't very large in the grand scheme of naval riflery, but high-explosive against a wooden hull is no contest. Two rounds should have been enough, but Silva was pointer and his crewmates had noticed he wasn't quite himself. Good-natured ribbing followed his first inexplicable miss, but the 'Cats on board were suitably impressed by the effect of the second and third shells. Now Walker loped after the other red ship . . . and Silva glared at Chack. A moment later he grinned.
Keje stood beside Matt, sitting in his sacred chair on the starboard side of the pilothouse. Far ahead, but slowly growing, was their next quarry.
Matt was impressed by its speed. There was a fine breeze and it must have been making close to thirteen knots. A short while before, they'd passed half-submerged casks and other objects and it was clear the Grik were lightening ship. He gauged the distance.
"Keje," he said, "I'd like to take that ship. They came snooping around to find out about us, and I want to return the favor. There's just too much about them we don't know, like where they come from, what they're doing and what they want. Do they really have a dozen ships in the Java Sea?
More? I'm sick of never knowing what my people have to face!" He paused.
"After we take out her masts, I'll have the machine guns and rifles kill as many as they can. Then we'll board. My question to you is do you think we can do it with a minimal . . . loss of life? My guess is they'll mass in the open, to receive us, and we'll be able to whittle them down considerably.
But I have to rely on your people to do the bulk of the fighting. I can't spare many men for the boarding party and still operate the ship.
Besides"—he gestured at the scota at Keje's side—"few of us are skilled in this type of fighting. Most who are were at the parade ground when we left." He took a deep breath and saw the gleam of anticipation in Keje's eyes. No one had boarded a Grik ship! The glory for Salissa would be beyond compare. The deed would be recorded in the very Scrolls!
Matt held up a hand. "I said I'd like to take it. One thing I've got to check first."
He got up, stepped to the aft bulkhead, and activated the engine room comm. "Engineering, this is the captain. Let me speak to Mr. McFarlane."
"Aye, aye, sir." A moment later the engineer's gruff voice said, "McFarlane here."
"Fuel, Spanky."
There was a momentary pause, then a sigh. "Captain, if we reduce speed, secure number three and turn back right now, we might make it in without a tow."
"What about the wood?"
There was silence on the other end.
"We can burn the wood, Spanky."
Lieutenant McFarlane responded resignedly. "Aye, sir, we can burn the wood, but then the boiler'll be down for however long it takes to clean out all the ash, and I can't answer for whether or not it'll screw anything up."
His voice was almost pleading. "Captain, by some miracle we've managed to keep three boilers operational. But there're no major repair parts in the entire frigging world."
Matt's shoulders slumped and he nodded at the intercom as if Spanky was standing before him. "Very well. Prepare to secure number three." He turned to the expectant faces in the pilothouse, then glanced out the windows at the Grik ship little more than a mile ahead. "Damn." He saw disappointment on Keje's face, in spite of the feline lack of expression.
"We'll get another chance. It's time we learned something about your `Ancient Enemy.' We must!" He strode back to his chair and looked at the ship ahead.
"Sink it."
It was dusk when they crept back into the bay. The fuel bunkers were entirely empty and the steam pressure had dropped to the point that maneuvering alongside the dock was out of the question. They dropped anchor close to where they had when they first arrived, and Matt wearily rubbed his eyes. None of the locals came out to see what was happening in the strait in case they needed assistance, and he'd been afraid they'd have to burn the wood anyway. The PBY was floating in its usual spot by the pier and he wondered how much longer it would have been before Lieutenant Mallory squandered some of the precious fuel they'd topped it off with to come and look for them. He saw several figures standing on the wing in the gloom, staring at them even now.
"We'll start ferrying Keje's people ashore immediately," he said. "We'll warp the ship over in the morning."
"Do not be discouraged!" Keje admonished him. He'd gotten over his own disappointment and was now almost giddy with their easy success.
"You've won a great victory, and for my own sake, I'm glad Salissa was with you!"
"He's right," said Sandra. She'd been with them on the bridge ever since it became clear that there'd be no battle casualties. She gestured at the city, the lights even now beginning to burn. The dock was again lined with a chaotic throng, only this time instead of panic there was jubilation.
"Those people saw their enemy for the first time today, many of them, and now they know that enemy isn't invincible. It'll mean a lot."
"It would have meant more if we could've gotten some information, and we still don't know about that third ship." In the last moments before Walker destroyed it, the Grik hoisted the same signal the first one had.
Nothing was seen by the lookout, so even if there had been another Grik nearby, it probably wasn't close enough to see the flags. Still . . .
"As you told me earlier," Keje reminded Matt, "there will be another time."
Matt turned to Bernie Sandison. "You have the watch. I'll escort Captain Keje ashore, or to his ship, if he pleases." He shifted his gaze to Sandra. "Would you care to accompany us, Lieutenant?"
Sandra smiled. "Of course, Captain. Just let me change." She took a step away from him and held her arms out. She was still dressed in the surgical smock she'd put on when the ship went to quarters.
"I don't think—" he began, but Keje put his clawed hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, she should. And so should you, my friend." Keje looked at him appraisingly. "Wear your fine sword and your finest hat. You . . ." He grinned. "We have just won a great victory! We must look the part!"
Isak Reuben and Gilbert Yager sat on the huge wooden cleat the Catalina was tied to and smoked. They were indifferent to the bustle as well as the repeated calls by Lieutenant Mallory out on the plane to put out their cigarettes. Occasionally, a reveling Lemurian coughed in surprise as it passed through the blue cloud surrounding them. The Mice paid no heed.
Finally, Mallory squatted near the wingtip of the flying boat, almost at eye level and just a few yards away. He decided to try reason.
"Look, fellas," he said, almost shouting over the throng, "if you don't give a damn about yourselves, think of the plane. Nobody smokes around airplanes!"
Another boatload of Big Sal's warriors arrived on the dock to be received with cheering calls and stamping feet. Isak took another puff and looked at him. "Don't care about your damn plane, Army Man," he said.
"All it did was sit there and . . . float, while our home was out there by itself!"
"Typical," snorted Gilbert.
Mallory was in no mood to be harsh with the men—especially now.
He did wonder where they'd gotten all the smokes, though. For the last hour, all they'd done was sit there and chain-smoke the damn things.
Must've been Alden. The big Marine always had cigarettes. Some said when he came aboard in Surabaya, his duffel was stuffed with them. He must have loaded them down. And no wonder. Both the men were covered from head to foot with thick, sticky crude. It was matted in their hair and saturated their clothes. All that showed through the slimy black ooze was the whites of their eyes and, of course, the cherries on the ends of their cigarettes. He tried a different approach.
"But, fellas. This is a Navy plane!"
The next time the launch maneuvered to the pier it unloaded to a renewed crescendo of acclaim, which reached a furious peak when Matt, Sandra, and Keje climbed onto the dock. The triumphant crowd immediately mobbed them. Nobody really knew yet what had happened in the strait, but Walker was back and the enemy was gone. For now, that was enough. Sergeant Alden forced his way through the press and spoke briefly in the captain's ear. Matt stood at least a head taller than most of those around, and he looked about for a moment, his gaze finally settling on the Mice. Isak sucked down a last lungful of smoke.
"Crap. I bet he makes us put 'em out." Both men stood, leaving sticky blotches of tar on the cleat where they'd been. The captain was moving toward them. Finally, he stopped a few yards away, as if afraid to come any closer with his high-collar white uniform on. The contrast between them couldn't have been more profound. A strange, instinctual awareness blossomed in the back of Isak's mind, and his right hand moved upward in an unfamiliar, half-forgotten fashion, gluing his index finger to his forehead.
"We found oil, Skipper, if you please. Not an hour after you left this morning. Right where that Aussie said it'd be." He paused suddenly, at a loss. He didn't think he had ever spoken to an officer before he'd been spoken to. The smile that spread across the captain's face emboldened him, however. "Good thing you weren't there, sir. 'Specially dressed like that."
Gilbert nodded in solemn agreement. "Can we come home now?"
The din of celebration ashore had died down to some degree. Earl Lanier didn't know whether that meant the party was winding down or just moving farther away. He shrugged and wiped sweat from his eyebrows with his furry forearm. The small galley situated beneath the amidships gun platform was his private domain, but sometimes he wondered about the old saying that it was better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. Next to the boiler rooms, the galley was the hottest place on the ship. He might rule there, but he also served, and so as far as he was concerned, it was just hell without any perks at all. Groaning a little, because his stomach always made it inconvenient to stoop, he peered at the loaves baking in the big oven that traversed the aft bulkhead. They were ready. The smell of the bread made with what passed among the locals for flour was strange but not unpleasant, and the taste hinted of pumpkin. The crew complained, of course. Anything different was always the subject of
complaint—which struck him as particularly ridiculous under the present circumstances.
Lanier didn't care. As long as it made bread, of a sort, that filled the bellies of the men as they filed by, he was content. They'd have complained if it didn't taste weird. It was their duty to complain, he supposed, and it didn't bother him anymore. He knew they'd complain more if there wasn't anything to eat.
He opened the oven and removed the loaves and set them aside to cool. Then he went to his big copper cauldron and lifted the lid. A rush of wet steam flooded the galley and he grimaced. Inside the cauldron roiled a stew made from one of the local land creatures. He didn't know what it was, but it looked like a turkey with a tail. A short, stubby tail, to be sure, but a tail by any definition. It also didn't smell anything like a turkey. He plunged a ladle into the stew and stirred. Dark, unrecognizable chunks of meat pursued one another in the vortex. He raised the ladle to his lips, blew, and sampled the broth. His eyes went wide. "They won't complain about that," he muttered. "They won't even say a word. They'll just hang me."
He wiped his greasy hands on his apron and opened the spice cupboard. Not much left, he lamented. Plenty of salt, some curry, but almost no black pepper. Better save that, he judged. He pulled out a large tray heaped with little dried peppers he'd acquired in Java before the Squall and looked at them speculatively. He'd never tried one, but Juan said they were hot as hell. He picked one out and sniffed. Nothing. He touched it with the tip of his tongue. There was a little tingling sensation, but that was all. He grunted.
"What the hell?"
He grabbed a double handful of the peppers and pitched them in the stew. "Sure can't make it worse," he said to himself. He also shoveled in another cup of salt. "Fellas need salt," he muttered piously. "They sweat it out fast enough."
He stirred the cauldron's contents and replaced the lid with a metallic clunk. Then he wiped his hands on his apron again and checked the heat.
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