Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  Whatever Ben called him, Tikker wasn't ready to be a copilot yet. For one thing, he could barely see over the instrument panel. Mallory allowed him to take the controls for a little "straight-and-level" before they flew into the storm, but it would be a while before he did it again. As soon as the little devil got his hands on the oval-shaped wheel, he'd nearly put the big plane into a barrel roll. It was all very exciting, and the flying lessons abruptly ceased. Tikker's duties reverted to observation, and keeping Ben awake with his irreverent humor. Currently, the humor was absent as the

  'Cat concentrated on the business at hand.

  The rest of the flight crew consisted of Ed Palmer and two farsighted Lemurians in the observation blisters. Ed sat directly behind the flight deck, checking in with Walker and keeping track of their navigation. He wasn't a pro yet, but he was a quick study. In his short time aboard Mahan he had, for all intents and purposes, been the navigation officer, since Monroe couldn't plot his way out of a paper sack. As long as there were landmarks he could identify, he wouldn't lead them astray—and they were forbidden to fly at night.

  "There is the felucca!" Tikker said.

  Ben banked slightly and craned his neck. Far below, a dark shape slashed through the heavy sea. The Baalkpan feluccas were fore-and-aft rigged and surprisingly nimble, but heavy weather was rough on them.

  "He's headed southeast! He must have run into something!" Ben banked again and dropped the nose, peering through the windscreen. The wipers flailed as fast as they could, but they only smeared the water.

  "There!" said Tikker, straining his eyes through the binoculars. He looked at Ben. "The third Grik ship! It is chasing the felucca!" Through the wipers, he caught brief glimpses of a distorted red-hulled shape.

  "Should we get closer?" Ed asked behind him. "I'd just as soon not get closer. Besides, they'll hear us."

  "Not a chance, with all the sea noise down there and the rain," Ben replied. "All the same . . ." He began turning south. "Get on the horn . . ."

  "Wait!" said Tikker urgently. "There is another . . . ! And another! Two more Grik are in company with the first!"

  "Shit!" said Palmer. "Any more?" For a long moment they stared.

  "Nooo," Ben decided at last. The three ships were clustered close together, and no others were in sight. "No, I think that's all."

  "That's enough!" Palmer cursed and headed for the radio. He picked up the mike. "You still there, Clance? Tell the Skipper we've got three hostiles inbound!" Palmer transmitted in the clear. Who else was going to listen?

  "Roger," came Radioman Clancy's terse reply through the static.

  "What's the weather like up there?"

  "Moderating," admitted Palmer. "It's gone from an eggbeater to a martini shaker. Adar was right. Those Sky Priests are way better than our weather weenies were!"

  "I'll say," agreed Clancy. "Lots more to those guys than reading maps and wearing silly suits. Wait one." A moment later Clancy's voice crackled in Palmer's ear again. "Skipper says to double-double-check the enemy numbers, then get the hell out."

  "But Ben . . . I mean, Lieutenant Mallory, thought we might fly cover.

  You know, shoot somebody up if you need us."

  "Negative. Captain says to get your big blue butt back to Baalkpan! It's our show now. You've done what we needed you to. Hell, you can't even set down!"

  "Wilco," Ed grumbled. He clipped the mike and lurched back to the flight deck.

  "What's the scoop?" Ben demanded.

  "We double-double-check, then beat feet for Baalkpan. Damn, we won't even know how it goes!"

  "Yeah, there're a few more guests than expected. It'll make things more difficult, but not three times as difficult—I hope."

  "Well . . . what are we gonna do?"

  Ben looked at him. "We're going to follow orders, sailor. But he didn't say we couldn't come back in the morning!"

  The storm had finally begun to subside. It had indeed been a real blow, more violent than even Adar anticipated. The wind still blew at thirty knots or more, and the whitecaps of the heavy sea disintegrated into foamy spray. Keje stood on the sandy, desolate beach and stared bleakly at his beloved Home. Salissa lay at an unnatural angle, decidedly low in the water, a few hundred yards offshore. She now rested, exposed for all to see, on the bottom of the gently shoaling sand of what Matt called the Gulf of Mandar. How they'd ever managed to get her there, through the maze of huge rocks and mountainous seas, he could barely remember. All he recalled at the moment, in his exhausted, sodden state, was that the effort had been chi-kaash—hell.

  All around him, people erected shelters amid piles of vulnerable supplies and others tended smoky cook-fires for knots of soaked, bedraggled people who'd paused from their labors to warm themselves. As far as he could see, the beach was inhabited by the debris and pitiful, helpless survivors of a traumatic calamity. Some stood as he did, staring out to sea, and some just milled about. Others waded back and forth through the surf, bearing bundles on their shoulders from one of the feluccas driven onto the beach. Another felucca still stood offshore, beating impotently back and forth, unable to risk the rocks and surf to come to their aid.

  Behind him, the tufted fronds of the trees beat and cracked with the wind, and the tall, skinny trunks leaned forlornly against the gray afternoon sky. Keje looked back out to sea, straining his eyes against the stinging spray. Walker was nowhere in sight.

  Even over the thunderous surf, he heard Adar's shout behind him.

  "They've seen something! They're running!"

  Keje wiped his eyes and peered through the binoculars Bradford had given him. Sure enough, the distant felucca was piling on more sail and slanting rapidly northeast with a grace and speed he envied. Farther away, another was racing down to meet it. The feluccas could sail much closer to the wind than Big Sal. Closer than the Grik. Signals snapped to the tops of their masts, and he focused carefully on them. Keje grunted. "I must return to Salissa," he shouted back at his friend. He'd done all he could ashore.

  It was a miserable trip in the barge, damp crew folk straining at oars against the marching waves, but soon they were alongside Salissa, sheltered in her lee. Keje scurried up a rope and hands pulled him aboard. He glanced quickly around. Other than those gathered near, his Home seemed deserted. The forward wing clan's pagoda that they'd so recently rebuilt was intact, but the great tripod lay athwartships, its huge wing trailing over the side. Frayed cables, shattered barrels, and other unrecognizable debris were strewn across the exposed deck area. With a surge of concern, he glanced shoreward where his helpless People raced around in panic as rumors began to fly. A few tried to rally a defense, but not many.

  Here was a prize, ripe for the taking. The enemy couldn't possibly refuse.

  An entire Home of the People, loaded with food and supplies. Riches beyond calculation to any Grik raider fortunate enough to stumble across her! And her People! Their favored prey! Tired, traumatized, disorganized! There'd be no restraining them. He raced up the ladder to the battlement, and a memory of the last time he stood there, preparing thus, flashed through his mind. So much had changed since then. He raised the binoculars again.

  Grik!

  Three towering clouds of dingy canvas resolved themselves against the dirty-gray background, charging toward them as quickly as they dared.

  Already, the bloodred hulls were visible, and there was no question they'd sighted their prey. A stone seemed to churn in Keje's stomach. The Grik were as predictable as a school of flashers when a person fell into the sea, and just as remorseless.

  "They've seen us," he muttered pointlessly.

  For a long while he stood on the tilted platform with a handful of his officers. Jarrik-Fas was there, as was Adar's senior acolyte. Adar himself remained ashore at Keje's command, to take charge in his absence. His daughter, Selass, was aboard as well, somewhat to his surprise. They'd spoken little since Saak-Fas disappeared, but much of that was probably his fault. He'd been so busy. They didn't spea
k now, and she stood nearby but apart. That may also have been because Risa-Sab-At was present.

  She'd been recently promoted to commander of the Forewing Guard, and there was tension of some sort between the two females.

  He knew Selass had expected Risa's brother to press his suit once more, but he hadn't. He just treated her like he did everyone else—with friendly familiarity. Just as if there was never anything between them.

  That would have been the hardest blow of all to his prideful, self-centered daughter, he mused. To think she was that easy to forget. It would . . . do just exactly what it had: leave her sullen and introspective and less sure of herself. He wondered with a burst of clarity if that was what the former wing runner intended. In spite of the situation, he felt a small grin spread across his face. He remembered that the big Amer-i-caan, Dennis Silva, had once called Chack a "scamp." A good word. If true, good for him.

  But the war had changed Chack in many ways. Not only had he become a warrior of note, but he'd joined the Amer-i-caan clan. Keje had not foreseen that, although he didn't disapprove. It just highlighted how profound the change had been. He was more serious and much more mature—his feud with Silva notwithstanding. Keje grinned again. Unlike most, he was sure that Silva and Risa's "mating" was a farce, although along with Captain Reddy, he'd pretended it was real, hoping to make them uncomfortable enough to admit the truth and let it pass. But they hadn't. He didn't even want to contemplate whether an actual mating was possible, but he was convinced, personality wise, that Silva and Risa were made for each other. Life had become very interesting in many different ways. Much too interesting to end here, today.

  The Grik ships grew. Antlike figures scampered among their sails, reefing and furling in a surprisingly orderly fashion, much like wing runners of the People would have done. Half a mile away, beyond the first of the rocks that stood like sentinels around the little island, the enemy hove to. Through the amazing binoculars he saw masses of armored warriors surging against the bulwarks, waiting for boats to go over the sides. Their garish shields and bright plumage seemed dingy and washed-out, but he still felt a chill as he watched them. They didn't descend to the boats with the same enthusiasm they had when they once boarded his ship, however.

  Perhaps the weather was affecting them? He felt vengeful satisfaction at the thought that Grik might be susceptible to the sickness that came to some if the sea was too lively. As he watched, at least two actually fell into the sea trying to gain the boats. He was appalled that no effort was expended to rescue them. "Fewer enemies to fight," he muttered, "but by the Stars, are they not loathsome beyond imagining!" There were also three times as many as they'd expected to find in the area. Little was going as expected. Oh, well. There was certainly nothing they could do about it now.

  Before long, twelve Grik longboats set out from the sides of the ships.

  Each was twice the size of Walker's launch, and the warriors were packed to overflowing. There must be eighty or more in each boat, and as the oars dipped, it was apparent that Salissa would be their first target. Once they secured it, he expected they would stage the rest of their fighters aboard his Home and prepare their assault against the people on the shore. The thought ignited the stone in his stomach. Over his shoulder, he saw that a semblance of order had been restored, and a larger number of his people now stood on the beach with swords and crossbows ready.

  He looked back at the Grik.

  Terrifying banners of red and black unfurled above the boats, each festooned with some grim image or awful beast, and they rattled downwind in almost perfect profile. Long tufts of fur or feathers bordered each flag, and he assumed they were some sort of clan device. They'd crossed perhaps a third of the distance between them now.

  Keje turned to the acolyte. "I believe now is the moment we've awaited," he said. The acolyte blinked wide-eyed acknowledgment. Reaching within the folds of his robe, he drew out a large brass-framed shape with a wooden grip on one end and a black pipe on the other. He pressed a button on the side, and the pipe tilted forward. Glancing in one end, he nodded to himself and closed it up again. With another glance at Keje, he wrenched the hammer spur back and pointed the thing at the sky, slightly into the wind. There was a muffled pop and a bright reddish object rocketed skyward, trailing a plume of smoke that vanished as quickly as it was made. A moment later, high above, a harsh pulse of unnatural light blossomed, unheard but visible for miles around. It sputtered and glowed impossibly bright as the wind carried it away. After only a few seconds, it went out. Together, they turned back to the Grik. "Now we will see," Keje said.

  For a moment the Grik hesitated, apparently startled, but when nothing happened they resumed their approach. Onward they rowed, steady and malevolent. Individual Grik, dressed gaudier than others, stood in the prows of the boats, exhorting the rest with brandished blades. It wouldn't be much longer before Keje would know if he and all his people would survive this day.

  "There!" Jarrik-Fas cried out and pointed. From behind the concealing point of land about three miles to the north, a pale gray shape, barely discernible against the stormy sky, lanced into view. The tiniest wisps of smoke hazed the tops of three of her funnels and a cascade of white foam sluiced along her flanks from the knife-sharp bow. A sensation of exultant satisfaction erased Keje's dread. Their chore was bigger than expected, but they could handle that. They'd hoped for one, planned for two, but three should make scant difference. He turned and gauged the distance to the boats, now almost two-thirds to their objective. Sharp teeth were exposed as his grin became a snarl.

  "They've risen to the bait. All that remains is to close the trap! Shall we reveal our surprise?" Jarrik-Fas strode to the new "jan-raal ay-laarm," a long bronze cylinder suspended in a gimbaled bracket. He struck it energetically with a heavy rod. The loud notes were clear, if somewhat flat, and experiments showed they carried well to all parts of the ship. Hundreds of Lemurian warriors erupted from belowdecks and raced to their posts along the seaward rail. In moments, Big Sal's starboard side bristled with eager warriors—not all of whom called her home. Some represented other Homes that had come to Baalkpan, like Nerracca, Aracca, and Humfra-Dar, but most were Baalkpan land folk leavened by Alden's Marines. Below the catwalk, five large ports opened, their doors raised by a pair of ropes and half a dozen crew folk each.

  The Grik slowed their advance momentarily when they realized they faced opposition. Keje hoped they wouldn't break from tradition and cancel the attack. He'd carefully held back more than half his troops so they would think they still had the advantage. A preponderance of numbers in their enemy's favor had never dissuaded the Grik before, but they'd been doing too many unexpected things of late. He needn't have worried.

  With a crescendo of snarling shouts, the Grik plowed on, waving weapons in fierce defiance. Closer and closer, gnashing their teeth and pounding weapons against their shields. Their large eyes were opaque with a frenzy of rage. It was terrifying, regardless of his confidence.

  He spared a glance at the Grik ships, still hove to in the distance. Their remaining crews had not yet noticed Walker bearing down upon them.

  That was understandable, since the destroyer approached from directly downwind. There was no reason on earth to suspect trouble from that direction. He grunted. Finally some lookout must have seen, because sheets were loosed and sails began to shift. The thought of the pandemonium aboard the enemy when they first glimpsed Walker brought a predatory smile to his cleft lips. Slowly, chaotically, the Grik sails filled, and the first ship heaved far over onto its starboard side, quickly gathering way. The other two weren't as fortunate. One attempted the same maneuver, but its head came around too far and smashed directly into one of the monolithic rocks, shattering the starboard bow and bringing down the masts in a rush of thundering, crackling devastation. It rebounded from the rock as though kicked in the nose by some terrible god and swirled away in the maelstrom, rapidly settling low.

  The third ship shaped a course that
might bring it in collision with Salissa. Very well, Keje thought. An even greater test, and one just as important. He ground his teeth and waited. The first Grik ship was clear of the rocks, but there'd be no escape. Walker was flying down upon her prey, and pure joyful wonder at her speed flooded through him. Formal supplication had been made before they set out from Baalkpan, but he sent a quick prayer to the hidden Sun and those who had gone before to watch over his friends and brothers. Then he returned his attention to the role he had to play. The Grik in the boats had no inkling of anything taking place behind. They might if the ship overtook them, but for now they were entirely focused on closing with Salissa.

  "At my command, Jarrik-Fas . . ."

  "Commence firing with the main battery, but at masts and rigging only, Mr. Garrett!" Even before the salvo buzzer sounded, Matt felt, as well as heard, a deep, muffled whuddump! from the direction of Big Sal. He looked, but at this distance all he saw was a massive fogbank of smoke dissipating to leeward. So far, so good, he thought, in spite of the heavier odds. Big Sal would face more warriors than expected and maybe a ship as well, but Walker's part remained essentially the same. He'd never really believed Letts could pull it off. The supply officer's ambitious plan to arm Big Sal with forty cannon had been reduced to five per side, but they were enormous thirty-two pounders—and long guns to boot. They were crudely shaped and probably heavier than necessary, but their bores were straight and true. He could only imagine what five hundred three-quarter-inch copper balls per gun had done to the Grik boats. For an instant, he even pondered later ramifications. History often showed that arming primitive people with artillery could be a very bad thing, but at this moment, under these conditions, he had no regrets. Besides, he had more-pressing matters at hand. The salvo buzzer shrieked.