Maelstrom d-3

by Taylor Anderson

  “You’ve still only got one propeller,” Sandra pointed out. That was true. They’d tried to cast another to replace the one Walker had “commandeered,” but the first attempt had been hopelessly out of balance. They were working on another, but it would be some time before they were even ready to pour it.

  “That’s right,” Ellis agreed, “but Mahan ’s still faster than anything she’ll meet, by a long shot.”

  “Maybe, but there’s still the other consideration: Matt… Captain Reddy left strict orders that Mahan not do anything remotely like you’re considering. He has a plan for the defense of this place, when the time comes, and that plan not only includes Mahan; she’s essential to its success. Desp. I am bound to obey his orders more closely than anyone. He holds my life, my very honor, in his grasp, and can do with it what he will. But he is not here, and we must deal with this situation in his stead. Knowing him as I do, I am positive he would bless this course since it is our only option-and it is a thing that must be done. Knowing him as you do, I am equally positive you must agree.”

  Sandra slowly wilted under Rolak’s intense gaze, and finally she nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She sighed. “I only wish we could tell him. It’ll be days before he starts to wonder why we haven’t made our daily comm check. Even then he won’t worry, not for a while. We’ve missed it before due to bad weather or atmospherics.” She looked at Riggs and he nodded confirmation.

  “She’s right,” he said. “And even when he does start to wonder, he won’t have any reason to be alarmed. Everything was fine when we made our last report, and he knows we’d have days of warning, at least, if the Grik were on the move. He’ll just think the radio’s busted”-he snorted-“which it is. But that might not mean we can’t get in touch with him.” The hall grew silent, and he had everyone’s attention. “As you know, Radioman Clancy is with Walker, but he, Ed, and I have been working on simple crystal receivers. There’s not much to them, really, and we’ve got all the stuff we need to make a few. We located some galena for the crystals, which is good, but we could have done it by mixing powdered sulfur with lead. They’re passive receivers and don’t even require batteries. Just a little copper wire and a headset-or we might even try building some simple speakers. That won’t help us right now, although they’ll come in handy, but I think we can put together a simple spark-gap transmitter that might reach the captain. We’ll need stuff: lots of wire, for example, and power, of course. Mahan ’s generator would do nicely, but since she won’t be here… I think we can make some wet-cell batteries. Lead acid. I’m pretty sure we can do it, and it shouldn’t take much time.”

  “How much time?” Letts asked.

  “We should have done it already,” Riggs admitted. “We’ve all just been so busy, and we had a good radio… I’ve been so occupied building the semaphore towers and training the operators…” He shook his head. “No excuse. A week or so, I guess. We’ll have to make everything from scratch.”

  Letts looked at Nakja-Mur. “Highest priority,” he said. “Use whoever and whatever you need.”

  “So I guess it’s settled, then,” Ellis said, rubbing his scalp. “We go. What have you got for me, Bernie?”

  The dark-haired torpedo officer’s eyebrows rose, and he took a deep breath. “Not as much as I’d like. We’ve got twenty of the new projectiles cast, turned, and loaded in shells for the four inch-fifties, but we’re just now gearing up to manufacture the primers, so that’s it. The primers have been the hardest part, actually. Up till now we’ve had to make them one at a time, with a swage, and a stamp to make the anvil-not to mention some very dangerous experimentation with fulminate of mercury. We’ve got that sorted out now, but it’ll be another three or four days before I can get you more.” Ellis was shaking his head. “I know, too late. But.. . at least you’ll have a few to test… if you need them. Remember, though, they’re just solid copper bolts, no explosive, and they’re loaded with black powder, so the fire control compu all the recipes and procedures-but it’s tricky stuff, and we haven’t finished making the things to make it with, if you know what I mean. The reloads should work fine against wooden ships in local control, though. They ought to shoot through and through. Sorry, that’s all I’ve got. Obviously we’ve been working on other stuff, but nothing’s ready yet.”

  “What about the torpedo? Should I take it?” The only torpedo they had left, between Walker and Mahan, was an old MK-10 submarine torpedo Bernie had salvaged from a shack in bombed-out Surabaya before they abandoned it in their own world. He’d thought it was damaged somehow, since it was with others that were condemned. After exhaustive inspection, he’d determined there was nothing wrong with it after all.

  “No,” Letts decided. “The captain has plans for that fish. We have no real reason to suspect Amagi ’s ready to move, and that’s the only thing you’d have any business shooting it at. Besides, it might get damaged. The torpedo stays here.” Ellis nodded agreement, and Letts looked around at the others. “So I guess it’s settled then-except for the other ‘angles’ I mentioned at the start.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that plane didn’t get here by itself,” Mallory interrupted with absolute certainty. “It was a ‘Dave,’ just like the one we tangled with, and it doesn’t have the legs to make a trip all the way from Aryaal and back. They must have rendezvoused with at least one, and probably two ships, to refuel on the way. They’ll still be out there, and I bet they’re the armed ones that showed up when Greg tried to go back for Pete and the queen.”

  “Grik always travel in threes,” Ellis said, pondering. “Maybe we can catch them and destroy them on the way back to Aryaal. Maybe even get the plane, if it was damaged.”

  “That would be ideal,” agreed Letts, “because otherwise they’re going to know all about our defensive arrangements. Maybe they’ll think they got the plane and the ship, which might be good, but maybe they won’t. Regardless, they’ll have a good idea what they’ll face when they come.”

  “I fear the events of the last week, the attack on Donaghey, and the destructive scout mission, proves they will come soon. Sooner than we planned,” Nakja-Mur interjected. “Why else should they do those things now? Why not wait until they are ready-unless they already are?”

  “Well, we need to know that too,” Letts agreed. He looked at Ben. “How soon can you fly?”

  Ben was exhausted and hurting, and his brain wasn’t working right, so it took him longer than usual to form a reply. “Uh, we can have the starboard engine reassembled in a day. Another day or two to install it and check it out… No sense putting the cowl back on; shredded as it is, it’ll drag worse than the motor.” He fell silent again, contemplating. Finally he sighed. “Three days, if we have plenty of help and everything works. We still need something for a windscreen, though.” He looked speculatively at Ellis. “Maybe some of Mahan ’s spare window glass?”

  “Very well,” said Letts, realizing he was treading on another of Captain Reddy’s orders: never fly the plane without established communications. Nothing for it. 1 Amagi and the Grik fleet are up to, and head straight back. Can you do it?”

  Ben shrugged. “It’ll probably be the roughest flight of my life, but we should still be able to go higher than they can shoot. Yeah, provided the wings don’t fold up on us.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime, Felts sails tomorrow, whether Clark’s ready or not. He’ll warn Tarakan, in case those three Grik ships didn’t head back to the barn, and then proceed to Manila. If we can’t get a transmitter going, he’ll be the quickest way to inform the captain the Grik are up to something.” He looked at Nakja-Mur. “Yeah, I feel it too.”

  Brevet Captain-General Pete Alden and Captain Haakar-Faask lay in the undergrowth near the beach, taking turns with Pete’s binoculars and watching Grik warriors disembark from the three ships closest to shore. Those three had no cannons they could see, but they suspected the other three, keeping station to seaward, did. The tac
tic was far too methodical and sensible for Alden’s taste. He looked at Faask and arched an eyebrow. Faask almost snorted a laugh-he found the face moving of the humans hilarious-but he understood the gesture, even if he had little English. Fortunately, Alden had picked up a functional ’Cat vocabulary by now. “I think they’re through messing around with us,” was a rough translation of what he said.

  Two weeks had passed since he and Queen Maraan were marooned with the rest of the refugees, long enough for the three Grik ships that drove Donaghey away to return to Aryaal with news of the battle, prepare this expedition, and return. It was also past long enough for Donaghey to make it to Baalkpan, damaged as she was, and another relief force to be dispatched. The problem was, with the allied navy scattered from here to the Philippines, could they even scrape together a force large enough to come to their aid?

  He had no doubt that, eventually, help would come. If nothing else, Garrett would return as soon as his ship was repaired, but that might be a while. In the meantime, the better part of a thousand Grik warriors were about to start beating the brush for the less than three hundred souls left in Faask’s and his care, mostly males by now at least, but mostly civilians too. Less than a hundred had ever borne arms, but ever since he’d been left behind, Faask had been training all the refugees, females and younglings included, for just this eventuality. Fortunately, most of the latter had already been rescued. There were still a few, those who wouldn’t leave their mates, or females who’d been separated from their younglings and still hoped against hope they might turn up. A few elders had remained as well, too old and frail to wield a sword or spear, but who wouldn’t leave until everyone else was rescued. Many were ill, due to either malnutrition or exhaustion. That left Alden’s “effectives” at just over two hundred.

  His scouts had discovered a force of two thousand or more closing from the west-northwest, pushing them back from observation points overlooking the bay they’d used to such good effect, and now this blocking force was landing in their “rear,” cutting off their egress to the sea.

  “We better get back to the rally point and tell the queen what we’ve seen,” he said. Motioning a pair of pickets to maintain their positions and keep tabs on the enemy advance as long as they could, Alden and Faask slitherethoght="1em"›

  Queen Maraan awaited them, anxious for their news. “Is it true?” she hissed. Pete and Haakar-Faask both nodded, and her eyes turned to slits. “What will we do?”

  “We must keep you safe, Your Majesty,” Faask replied.

  “How? Would you have me slink off into the jungle, dig a hole, and crawl into it?” She gestured around at the refugees, huddled under makeshift shelters against the rain that had begun to fall. “What of them?”

  “With respect, Majesty-” Faask began.

  “No! I will not skulk around, leaving my people to be slaughtered!” She stared levelly at Alden and Faask. “We will fight! All of us! You two are probably the greatest generals this world has ever known. In different ways, perhaps, since you come from different backgrounds, but that should give us an insurmountable advantage, not a disadvantage. Surely, between you, you can devise a plan that will, if not give us victory, at least deny it to them! All we need is time, my friends. Our allies will not abandon us.” She grinned. “We are too important, are we not?”

  “But they are simply too many!” Faask protested. “They outnumber us fifteen to one!”

  Alden scratched his beard. “Yeah,” he agreed, “if they were all in one place, that would be true.” He knelt to the soggy ground and swept the leaves and brush away, revealing a bare spot of damp earth. The rain was already tapering off-another short squall-and he selected a small, pointed stick. After he scratched a rough outline of the island, he drew a line across the top. “This is the main Grik force. There’re many of them, but they’re stretched across the entire width of the island. If we mass our forces here”-he pointed to the south-“we can strike their right flank and probably have numerical superiority, at least locally. We hit ’em like maniacs and break through into their rear. Even against a ‘normal’ enemy, that’d leave them dangerously exposed. With any luck, they’ll go nuts-like we’ve seen them do before-and we roll up their flank, killing as we go.” He grinned. “We might even set the whole army to flight, but probably not. Sooner or later our guys’ll get tired and the attack’ll run out of steam. That’s when they’ll hit back.”

  “I agree so far,” Faask said, “but what good will that do? It will be a glorious end, but it will not protect the queen.”

  “Sure it will, because we don’t let our ‘army’ run out of steam. We pull back to here”-he pointed again with his stick-“where we take a breather while the Grik center turns to attack us on their right. Where we were. When they do that, we hit ’em again, on their new left flank!”

  Faask was silent for a moment, studying the impressions in the dirt. “But that’s… brilliant!”

  Pete grinned. “Of course it is! We just have to make sure our coordination works like clockwork, and we have signals that work and are obeyed instantly.”

  Faask stroked his own beard. Alden was more used to the sea folk, who generally kept their facihe south-“ready. It would be the greatest, most audacious victory of the age!” He looked at Alden with renewed respect, then frowned. “But what of the blocking force? Our warriors will be exhausted, even if we are successful.”

  Alden gestured toward the sea. “It’ll take them a day to get their shit together. We know where they are, but they don’t have a clue about us. They’ll figure it out pretty quick, but by then we’ll already be headed toward the main force. That ought to confuse them. I figure we’ll have a day or so to rest before they catch up, and they’ll be at least as spread out as the first bunch by then.”

  “And we do it again!” Faask shouted triumphantly.

  “And then we do it again,” Alden confirmed.

  Queen Maraan coughed. “All very inspiring, noble generals. I am impressed. I knew you could do it, and it seems an outstanding plan. .. only remember the single greatest lesson I have learned from both of you: no plan may ever be entirely relied upon, once the battle has begun!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Warm sunlight filtered through the delicately woven curtains draped across the doorway to the balcony, and Matthew Reddy opened his eyes and blinked. He’d slept late again, he realized with chagrin. That was two days in a row. All his life he’d risen with the sun-or before-but lately… He shook his head Wand rubbed his eyes. Rolling off the great, mushy cushion that served as a mattress, he stood and walked to a water basin on a table near the door. He submerged his face for the count of ten, then rubbed it briskly with his hands. Rinsing, he parted the annoyingly long hair and combed it from left to right across his scalp, and looked intently into the polished silver mirror above the basin.

  “Starting to look like a hobo,” he growled, remembering the ones he used to see wandering around the stockyard train station when he was a kid. “Acting like one too. Waking up when I feel like it-damn, I bet it’s nearly oh eight hundred!” He glanced at his watch: 0750. He frowned, shaking his head, then looked at the mirror again. His hair was halfway down his ears, and starting to curl a little against his collar in the back. It also had a little gray in it all of a sudden. The stubble on his face seemed as much salt as pepper, and he was only thirty-three. He needed to hit Juan up for a haircut, he thought with a grimace, but then, with a twinge of satisfaction, he remembered he still controlled his razor, at least.

  He shaved as carefully as he could. Most of his old Asiatic Fleet destroyermen had long since ceased shaving. He wouldn’t force them to, with razors so scarce. The main reason he still did it himself was that the men expected it. He’d kept his face clean shaven, to the best of his ability, throughout all the trials they’d come through together, and even though it was a little thing after all, sometimes it was the little things that made all the difference in the end. It was a symbol of continuity they all
could cling to, even him. It was a stubborn statement that not everything they knew before the Squall was lost forever. The skipper still shaved his face. He had to admit it was a rather pathetic affectation, but they’d lost almost everything else.

  Some of the indiscriminate heaps were deposited by creatures he’d never seen before. One looked a little like a brontosaurus from a distance, although it was smaller, and had a shorter-if beefier and more muscular-neck, and a much shorter tail. The head was larger, with short, palmated antlers. It was also covered with fur-real fur-and Bradford excitedly insisted the things were herbivorous marsupials, of all things. Matt wondered why no one ever imported them to Baalkpan; they were obviously more sensible draft animals than the ubiquitous brontosaurus. Probably smarter and more biddable as well, from what he’d seen. He found himself wishing for some to pull his light artillery pieces. Perhaps they could even be ridden, although he hadn’t seen anyone doing it. They were called “Paalkas,” but Silva had immediately dubbed them “pack-mooses.”

  There was an animal the Maa-ni-los did ride, but he’d seen only a couple. They looked like long-legged crocodiles that ran on all fours, as they should, but their legs were shaped more like a dog’s. They ran like dogs too, and the only time he’d seen them, they bore troops in Saan-Kakja’s livery on some apparent errand. The crowds gave them a wide berth, and Matt noticed their jaws were always strapped and buckled tightly shut. The ’Cats called them one thing, he couldn’t remember, and Courtney Bradford had made up another name he couldn’t pronounce. Whatever they were, he’d have to find out more about them.

  It was all very fascinating, but profoundly frustrating as well. Strangely, he liked this Manila a lot better than the old, in a way, but he was becoming almost frantically anxious to complete his mission and get back. He missed Sandra terribly-missed everybody-and there was still the iron fish to consider. Each day they spent here, dithering over details and placating the endless stream of dignitaries and counselors, was one less they could spend looking for it. And another thing was troubling him too: they hadn’t heard a peep out of Baalkpan in days.