Two tall funnels vented exhaust from four boilers in her hull on each side of the bay, and were surrounded by a forest of heavy, steam-powered cranes. The boilers themselves—a total of eight—were enclosed in narrow spaces on either beam and fed two powerful (but extremely cramped) triple expansion engines patterned after the one in USS Santa Catalina. That made her fast enough to keep up with a carrier, and her two screws and rudders gave her the agility, despite her size, to turn with the battlegroups. She wasn’t helpless either, having been armed with five of the new DP 4″-50 guns—one forward, and two on each side around her funnels. With the introduction of copies of the venerable M-1917 light machine gun, she was heavily festooned with those as well—particularly in light of the new aerial threat. And Tarakaan Island—and the other ships in the anchorage—currently had even more protection than usual, with nine steam frigates (DDs) clustered around, numerous armed auxiliaries, the new USS James Ellis steaming back and forth beyond the mouth of the bay, and a constant air patrol probing outward from the island.
Unlike Big Sal and Andamaan, however, which appeared to be resting from their labors, gathering strength, there was tremendous, almost feverish activity aboard Tarakaan Island. For within her repair bay, slowly settling on the blocks that would support her tired, battered hull when all the water was pumped from the ballast tanks, was Matt Reddy’s flagship of the entire naval effort to destroy the Grik—and Hisashi Kurokawa: USS Walker, DD-163.
Walker’s one DP 4″-50 aft added to their mutual protection, as did her own machine guns, and they remained fully manned. Despite there being little threat from Grik airships this far from Madagascar, they were in waters Kurokawa could reach with his more formidable air power if he chose to risk his final carrier. They had little choice but to gather their strength and make repairs there, however. Chances were Kurokawa wouldn’t risk it, and with Grik City menaced by mobs of zeppelins, Mahe was the best place to assemble all the troops, equipment, aircraft, and ships that had staggered through the gauntlet. It already had an airstrip of sorts, with more under construction on surrounding islands at the direction of Colonel Ben Mallory, and though they didn’t have as many planes as they’d hoped to have, quite a few had gathered there—almost certainly enough to stop one carrier. And Kurokawa’s torpedo planes couldn’t sink Mahe. Savoie was another matter. Stopping her with what they had might prove problematic once her new crew learned how to operate her. But that should take some time. Enough to put Walker back to rights again? They’d have to see.
Commander Brad “Spanky” McFarlane spat a long stream of yellowish Aryaalan tobacco juice into the swirling water of the repair bay and watched it splatter and surge aft in a string of pirouetting bubbles. He was short and wiry, with reddish blond hair and beard, but his personality was larger than his physique. He knew that, and carefully cultivated the impression, so he was particularly glad to have eliminated the one sign of weakness undermining his physical authority: the crutch he’d leaned on since the Battle of Grik City Bay had been tossed in Walker’s feeble wake as she steamed here almost a week before.
“Agh,” he grunted grimly, pointing at rainbow hues beginning to appear, streaking Walker’s sides as more of her hull was exposed. “That ain’t good.”
Leaning on the rail around him, feeling the vibration of mighty pumps shake the ship, were most of the heavyweights of First Fleet and the Allied Expeditionary Force. Keje was to his left, blinking sympathetically to Spanky’s observation, fully aware of what he was referring to. To Spanky’s right was the leathery-tan, dark-haired General of the Army and Marines, Pete Alden. He’d risen to his exalted rank from a wounded Marine sergeant aboard USS Houston, who’d been in hospital in Surabaya and missed his ship’s final sortie against the Japanese. Limping and bleeding, he’d hitched a ride on Walker to escape . . . here. Beyond him was Colonel Ben Mallory, who, as a second lieutenant, United States Army Air Corps, had also escaped Surabaya after USS Langley, loaded with the P-40 fighters he was trained to fly, was hammered down by that old enemy as well. He commanded all the army and naval air forces of the Alliance—which, ironically, included a rapidly diminishing number of P-40Es they’d discovered aboard Santa Catalina when they found her half-sunk in a swamp near Tjilatjap (Chill-Chaap). Both men were nearly as concerned about Walker’s condition as Spanky, and had their own reasons for considering her their savior.
Perhaps even more reverential toward her for that reason, even more than Spanky, was the seasoned Lemurian standing to Keje’s left. Somewhat past middle age, his pelt gone almost entirely gray, was the commander of I Corps, General Muln-Rolak. One of the few true, prewar, warrior ’Cat commanders in the Alliance, he bore many scars on his body and soul. He’d been lord protector of Aryaal before the Grik came and still held that title in Aryaal as well as its traditional rival, the island of B’mbaado. The monarch over both city-states, once antagonists and now politically united, was his adored queen, Safir Maraan. As military commanders, however, they were equal, and Safir usually deferred to him due to his age, wisdom, and, frankly, more thoughtful nature.
“It’s certainly a pretty color,” Rolak observed in his usual urbane tone, pitching his voice above the thunder of pumps and rushing water. “What does it mean?”
“It means she’s leakin’ like a sieve,” Spanky ground out. “That’s fuel oil from the bunkers lining her hull. I expected that,” he confessed, “based on how much saltwater’s been gettin’ in the fuel, but it still pisses me off to see so damn much of it. Shit, half the ship looks like a goddamn rusty trout.”
“You think it’s the rivets again?” Alden asked. They’d had trouble with them before.
“Who knows?” Spanky spat, disgusted, squinting. “Maybe not. She’s taken a lot of hits an’ near misses since her last overhaul. Not to mention a goddamn grounding. We’ll just have to see. It looks like most of the seepage is in the vicinity of roundshot dents,” he added hopefully.
“She’s got a lot of those,” Ben pointed out.
“Yeah. An’ if just three or four had been naval rifle shells of the same diameter instead of shitty Grik cannonballs—even if they didn’t explode—she’d already be rustin’ on the bottom somewhere.”
“You patched many more holes than that, some even larger, if I recall,” Keje reminded in his gruff voice.
“Sure,” Spanky agreed. “But her bones were stronger then. It’s gettin’ harder to find sound studs to nail to, if you know what I mean.”
Alden waved around at the huge ship and the swarm of Lemurians, already starting with their cranes now that Walker was firmly resting on her blocks. A number of things had been prepared for removal as soon as she entered Tarakaan Island’s bay, and the mangled number-two torpedo mount was already swaying up in the air as they watched. “They’ll fix her,” he consoled. “Look at James Ellis out there past the reef,” he added, then pointed behind them at the low, sleek, distant shape, made fuzzy by the humid, hazy air. “They built her from scratch!”
“Yeah, they did. An’ she’s a dandy—aside from all the nigglin’ little issues she has. Hell, we oughta put her in dry dock.”
Rolak regarded him, blinking disdain. “You are determined to be unhappy today, aren’t you, Co-maander Mc-Faar-lane?”
“Damn straight.”
“Why?” Ben asked, honestly surprised. “You oughta be glad! The old girl’s finally getting some real work done.”
“Yeah,” Spanky agreed. “A lot of it, too. New torpedo tubes, boiler an’ condenser overhauls, better searchlights than those first ones we made. Finally some decent-quality gear oil. They even brought out thick, bullet-slowin’ mattress pads that can be brought up an’ hooked on the stanchions so the guys’ll have better protection than just those stupid wooden rafts, we ever have to repel boarders again. There’s better glass for the pilothouse windows that doesn’t look like you’re starin’ through the bottom of a Coke bottle, lightbulbs, electric f
ans, all the latest luxuries, and even new liners for her main battery. The Skipper declined the new DP mounts for numbers one through three.” He shrugged. “I get that. They’re still a little twitchy an’ tend to shoot loose, an’ he wants Walker to keep bein’ our sniper in surface actions. Figures, in addition to extra machine guns to keep planes away, she can still squirm out from under Jap-Grik bombs and torpedoes.” He glowered. “But that didn’t work so good for Geran-Eras.”
“Did not Geran-Eras have Dee-Pee mounts?” Keje asked.
Spanky glanced at the sky. “Sure. An’ they didn’t save her either. Goddamn planes!”
Keje looked at the others. “I do not believe Mr. McFaar-lane is unhappy about the overhaul, only the location. And that his ship is, as you say, a sitting duck just now.”
Ben looked at him. “It’s gonna to be okay, Spanky. Look, I’ve got a CAP over the island and there’s picket ships in all directions with TBS sets. Kurokawa’s not sneakin’ up on us!”
“Maybe not in daylight,” Spanky sneered at Ben. “An’ that’s what your damn MacArthur said, right before the Japs clobbered all our air in the Philippines and bombed the shit outa Cavite!” Spanky snapped his fingers. “That’s for your damn air cover. We never had any before, and I’ll never trust it.”
Ben rolled his eyes and leaned on the rail, looking down. The sea had receded to the point that he could see the heavy timbers at the bottom of the repair bay beneath the shallow water. There were other things, too: quick, wiggling shapes, darting over and around the great blocks supporting the old destroyer. To his surprise, he noticed a group of naked ’Cats armed with fishing spears advancing in a skirmish line from aft, against the flow of calf-deep water. They stabbed down and heaved up as they went, pitching skewered fish—and other things—into a long, wide tub a pair of Lemurians pushed before them, chittering happily (or in occasional alarm) at what landed snapping and flopping so close by. And there, marching grimly behind, his legs protected by heavy leather waders he’d probably stitched himself, was the obese form of Walker’s irascible cook, Earl Lanier. He was brandishing his own spear and urging the party into the fray like some great, fat, sodden general of the deep.
“Swell,” Spanky growled. “Now King Neptune himself, an’ all his pollywogs’re here, to add to my misery.”
The traditional “crossing the line” ceremonies had languished on this world, not because Lemurians were averse to them or amusing celebrations in general, but because most of Walker’s earliest ’Cat volunteers were seafarers themselves and, due to proximity, had crossed the equator countless times without taking notice of the unknown fact. Besides, they’d spent so much time on the equator, there was nothing particularly special about it. Scuttlebutt was that Greg Garrett allowed King Neptune aboard when Donaghey rounded the Cape of Africa. Maybe the tradition would catch on to mark the passage into unknown seas?
“Cheer up, Spanky,” Alden urged. “It’ll be fine.” He waved at Lanier. “And besides, maybe somethin’ll get him this time.”
Something almost did. In a sudden flurry of frothing motion, a shape about seven feet long, with a segmented shell, which had apparently crouched in the shadow of the ship, darted out from between a pair of blocks and right at Earl Lanier. Whatever it was—a roughly oval-shaped centipede with way too many legs and slashing mandibles sprang to mind—was dark, almost blue-black, and amazingly fast. Earl instinctively flung his spear, which bounced harmlessly off the thick carapace, and then turned to flee. He splashed frantically away for perhaps three steps before the thing was on him. With a high-pitched wail, Earl went down and the . . . bug?-crustacean? scrambled atop the flailing, sputtering mound of flesh and kept on going.
“Hold you fire!” a female Lemurian PO bellowed nearby at a machine-gun crew that spun its weapon around and was trying to line up on the galloping creature. “You shoot up you own ship, you stupid shits?” she demanded. Finally, the surging thing disappeared aft, into the deep, and Earl Lanier slowly stood. Blood stained his wet T-shirt, probably where the sharp, uncounted legs pierced his back, but he didn’t look seriously injured. Hesitantly, relieved Lemurian laughter began. Soon it became a high-pitched roar, joined by the throb of stamping feet. Shaking his head, Earl picked up his soggy hat and plopped it on his head, then retrieved his spear. Without a word to his fishing party (also laughing helplessly), he urged them insistently on and they resumed the hunt.
“Gotta give the dumb-ass credit,” Alden grudged, still chuckling himself. Lanier had always been obsessed with catching—and eating—fish, and sought any opportunity to harvest his favorite food. It didn’t matter that many ships in the fleet lowered fishing nets almost daily and there was never a shortage. He wanted to catch his own. “He definitely stays focused on his priorities.”
“Somethin’ll get him one of these days,” Spanky predicted optimistically around a smile that had involuntarily formed.
Within minutes, Earl’s party completed its adventure and dragged the tub to a hoist that lifted it from the basin. Earl and his fish warriors quickly followed and the entertainment was at an end. At no time had the cranes stopped working.
“Saanty Caat and Arracca and her battle group should be here tomorrow,” Keje stated, getting back to business. “Have you prepared a place to put Chack’s Brigade?”
“Yes,” Rolak said, answering for Alden. “With difficulty,” he confessed wryly. “Maa-he is not large, and is excessively, ah, hilly. In addition to the space required for the near forty-six thousand troops of First and Third Corps, not to mention the fit survivors of the ships we lost, even now training as infantry, few flat places remain. How we will manage when the First North Borno arrives, I cannot say.”
Keje huffed. “We will deal with that when the time comes. They are still weeks away. The bulk of the army may even have sailed by the time they arrive.” He blinked discontentedly.
“What’s the matter, Admiral?” Alden asked.
Keje sighed. “Only, along with my concern over our friends in Kuro-kaa-wa’s hands, I remain not skeptical, but . . . apprehensive, regarding Arracca’s and Saanty Caat’s initial role in the campaign against Sofesshk.” He was clearly thinking about Tassanna-Ay-Arracca, the other Home-turned-carrier’s high chief, slated to be commodore of that task force. Everyone knew a relationship was blooming between Keje and Tassanna, despite their age difference. Things like that mattered little to Lemurians. But risk to Tassanna alone wouldn’t have made Keje express concern, either. “They will be very exposed,” he continued. “Almost . . . bait.”
“Maybe a little,” Alden agreed somberly. “But if anybody can take care of themselves, it’s Tassanna—and Russ Chappelle in Santy Cat. They will draw attention while they’re hitting Sofesshk with Arracca’s planes, but that’ll keep Esshk’s eyes off the South, where the Republic’s about ready to kick off. We need that,” he said simply. “Besides, they’ll also be keeping more Grik forces from landing in South Madagascar. There may already be more than Miles and his army of Shee-Ree and Maroons, or the troops we’ll leave at Grik City, can handle.”
“But will the Republic truly strike?” Keje asked gloomily. “We place all our hopes on an ally that has proven . . . less than reli-aable.”
The Republic’s representative, Doocy Meek, was at Mahe, but wasn’t with them. He was aboard Big Sal, for his daily wireless consultations with his government.
Pete Alden spread his hands. “Doocy says so. We have to trust him. And taken with Bekiaa’s word, I do.”
Keje looked unconvinced.
“Don’t worry,” Ben said. “When the Republic crashes into the Grik’s belly, it’ll yank their eyes right off Arracca—and that’s when Pete’ll hammer ’em with three full corps.” He considered. “Or vice versa, depending on the timing. Either way could work, and at least this plan has some flexibility built in.”
“I hope so,” Keje said. “My experience with plaans is th
at they rarely proceed as intended.”
“Plans’re for shit,” Spanky agreed grimly, spitting at the remaining inches of water below. “And I’ll tell you now, we maybe ain’t planned enough time to refit Walker, or do a hundred other things.” He pointed. Now that she rested high and dry on her blocks, far more oily water than could be accounted for continued to pour from her hull. “Open seams in her bottom, prob’ly from the grounding,” he said, then looked at Keje. “But I want in on the plan to get our people back from Kurokawa—an’ kill his sorry ass. Has anybody given that little thing any thought?”
“You can aask that?” Keje snapped, blinking angrily.
It was Ben’s turn to frown, nodding at Keje. “The Skipper, Admiral Keje, and Chack are cooking something up. But we have to make sure about the layout. That League Kraut drew the Skipper a rough map of the harbor, airfields, and industrial facilities, but he didn’t know much about what defenses they have. Apparently, none of his bunch had complete access to the place, and him less than the rest. But he saw a lot from the air, despite Kurokawa’s attempts to hide as much as he could, and was able to infer a lot based on what was obvious. He was certain about the harbor, the location of three airfields, and their main airplane-engine assembly plant, but a lot of the rest is educated guesswork. Still better than nothing—assuming he’s on the level,” Ben qualified in a cautionary tone. “Anyway, we’re sending the P-Forty floatplane up to have a look. It’ll rendezvous and refuel with AVDs we’ve had cruising between here and Zanzibar ever since Gravois told us where the Jap-Griks are. The plane’ll cross the enemy coastline just at dawn, catch the Jap-Griks by surprise as the sun rises, get a good close look before they react, and get the hell out.”
“Risky,” Spanky objected. “Not only for the plane an’ pilot, but it’ll ring the bell that we know where they are.”
Alden nodded. “Yeah, but just like we’re still piecing together what the AEF’ll run into at Sofesshk, knowing where Kurokawa is won’t do Captain Reddy much good if he doesn’t know what the bastard’s got waiting for him”—he looked at Spanky—“and you. And Walker an’ Big Sal . . . Not to mention Chack’s Brigade.” He shook his head and grimaced at Keje. “Sorry. Still not happy about splitting our forces so far apart.”
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