“Probably exactly why he wouldn’t go into it,” Matt agreed.
“Then why didn’t we squeeze him, as Mr. Silva put it?” Courtney asked, exasperated.
Matt pursed his lips. “Haven’t you been listening? Because I’d rather have his voluntary cooperation. We’ve already had some, and I think we’ll get more in time. Besides, he has to know we’ll find out everything if we take Zanzibar. You don’t think all the League personnel pulled out, do you? Gravois even said they still have an embassy there.” He waved his hand. “And maybe Fiedler was uncomfortable enough about blabbing what he had, he wanted us to get the rest of the dope from someone else.”
Courtney frowned. “That’s not very principled.”
“Maybe not. But it is human.”
“He’s no human—he’s a Nazi!” Courtney flared. “All the League is fascist! How can we ever coexist with such as them? Any of them?”
“Is he a Nazi, Courtney?” Matt countered. “Did you ask him? He didn’t even know who Hitler was, so even if he is one, he’s not the exact same kind. The League’s clearly fascist—Nazi, if you will—and Fiedler dropped hints that it may be just as bad as Hitler’s Germany in some ways. Gravois’s behavior, and Savoie’s before Gravois gave her to Kurokawa, tend to support that. But we’ve discovered principled men among our enemies before, remember.” He leaned back on the rocker and took another sip of coffee. “I think, deep down, Fiedler’s just a pilot who doesn’t understand why his people have to keep fighting on a different world. Who knows how widespread that sentiment is in the League? And we’re coexisting with Halik, for God’s sake—so far—and he’s a Grik. I’d say if that’s possible, damn near anything is. Either way, I’m glad we didn’t do anything to wreck Fiedler’s goodwill—if we really have it,” he qualified again. “It might come in very handy.”
“Well, I’m sure you know best,” Bradford said primly.
Matt set his cup down and rubbed his forehead again. “No,” he said regretfully. “I’m not sure of that at all—regarding Fiedler or anything else.”
Bradford looked taken aback by the sudden confession. Then he leaned back as well and cleared his throat. “So, you want my honest opinion?” he asked, and Matt glared at the Australian. “Very well,” Courtney continued. “In that case, I disagree about the Fiedler issue. I think you should’ve squeezed him, as Mr. Silva so eloquently phrased it, for every drop of useful information, leaving him a dry, dead husk, if necessary.” He nodded at Matt’s surprised expression. “Indeed, I had a bit of an epiphany on my last adventure. The Shee-Ree have a simple philosophy: those who can’t be trusted to live peacefully with others must go away. One way or another. And such are not considered people.” He chuckled darkly. “It was somewhat disconcerting to find myself defending Mr. Silva—and Chack—from suspicions they weren’t people, simply because they’re so dangerous! I was distressed by that, at first. And though Chack, at least, is certainly a person by anyone’s definition, the suspicion wasn’t unfounded from the perspective of the Shee-Ree, and the wisdom of the concern converted me to their philosophy to a degree. I’m no longer quite the fuzzy, wobbly being I’ve been so long, and recognize things are now past the point that mere sentiment may be indulged.” He sniffed. “That said, though I disagree about the Nazi, I’ll support your decision in front of others, as always.”
Courtney frowned. “Not what you wanted to hear, I know, but there it is.” He paused while Matt absorbed that. “I also know that’s not what’s troubling you,” he added. “Your greatest fear, and why we’re having this private chat, is that Lady Sandra’s peril—yes, and all the others; you’d never allow yourself to worry so selectively—has influenced your planning for the upcoming operations.” Matt stared at him, wondering where this . . . different Bradford was heading. “Well, I’m quite sure it has,” Courtney stated. “The thing is, though I’ve never pretended to have a military mind, I was once quite the chess player. So I do have a minimal understanding of strategic”—he smiled—“principles. And having studied the plan alongside you, listened to all the arguments from those we trust, and based on what I know of Kurokawa and General Esshk, I believe your overall strategy and the plans you and your staff have prepared represent the only possible avenue to success. We’re against the wall, so to speak, and can’t simply wait for the enemy to come to us as before. Esshk’s numbers are too great, if consolidated, and Kurokawa’s potential combat power—most specifically Savoie, if he’s allowed to bring it to bear at a time and place of his choosing—is too overwhelming. We must prevent them from doing those two things, and even more, we can’t allow them to combine under any circumstances. It’s as simple as that.” He took a long sip from his own cup.
“Therefore, as I see it, the only option truly is to break the oldest rule in the book: to divide our forces in the face of the enemy, even though his dispositions remain mysterious. Often a recipe for disaster, to be sure, but it’s succeeded rather spectacularly from time to time.” He waved his hand. “So, your chief concern, that you’re subordinating what you should do to what you want to do, is groundless. In this instance, what you want—to rescue your wife and destroy the maniacal Hisashi Kurokawa once and for all, while the rest of the entire Allied Expeditionary Force stands ready, waiting for the proper moment to assault Sofesshk unaware and unprepared—is not only the best option; it’s the only one we have. So. Rest easy, Captain Reddy, and do get some sleep. Just because you want to do it doesn’t make it wrong.”
“Why am I not overly reassured?” Matt asked, but his voice was dry, with a trace of humor.
“Because you’re a man of principle,” Courtney replied cheerfully, “who’ll always question his decisions regarding life and death, at least when you’re at leisure. I’ve never seen you display such uncertainty when fighting your ship. But that’s immediate, instinctive. Planning ahead for operations that’ll cost many lives touches your soul with its premeditation.” Courtney grinned. “And also because we disagreed before. About Fiedler. You wonder why you should listen to me now. Well, the answer is that in both cases I gave you my honest opinion. I may be wrong about Fiedler,” he confessed, “and it’s quite difficult for me to be objective about Nazis, you know. I also admit I can’t be entirely objective about you because you’re my friend. But as your friend, I counsel you most urgently to lay your concerns about yourself aside because they can only benefit our enemies.”
Matt stared back at his cup. “And if it all goes in the crapper?”
Courtney actually laughed. “It always goes in the crapper, doesn’t it? Your greatest strength, Captain Reddy, and our most significant advantage over all our enemies in this war, above and beyond ships, guns, planes, and bullets, is how you always seem to wrench it back out again when it does. So rest easy. Be confident. I am, in you.”
Courtney emptied his cup and poured more coffee for them both. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “You know, despite my unwavering, reasoned Darwinism—and Sister Audry’s resultant incredulity—I’m a religious man. All conscientious architects perpetually strive to refine their creations or adapt them to diverse applications, and the Supreme Architect of the Universe can be no exception. So I pray to Him each day for Lady Sandra, Adar, and all the rest. I pray for the success of our cause and all those we’ve lost. I hope you don’t mind that I pray for you as well, because I know those losses weigh heavily upon you . . . some—quite naturally—more than others.”
Matt knew Courtney was talking about Chief Gray now, and he was right. The Super Bosun, with all his faults and quirks, had been like a father to him—to the ship itself, in many ways and, certainly, by example, to the Amer-i-caan Navy as it was manifested on this world. And next to Sandra, Gray had been the firmest foundation for the confidence Matt needed so badly. He still missed him more than he could measure.
Courtney continued, choosing his words. “Such personal loss causes the most excruciating pain i
maginable, and can’t—probably shouldn’t—go away entirely. But it does fade. The Lemurian faith that the dead watch over us from the Heavens is quite attractive and I like to think it’s true.” He smiled ironically. “I’m not much given to proselytizing in matters of faith, but whether that’s the case or not, I beg you to consider that the pain of loss also teaches us a lot about ourselves—focusing our concept of what defines us. Sometimes, at first, that concept can be distorted—I know that all too well—and not only to us, but to those who look to us for guidance and example.” He shrugged. “And ultimately to those who passed, still hugely present in our minds and hearts, who I believe do watch us. They also grieve, to see us suffer, to allow what we’ve lost to define us, even for a time. Therefore, it’s what we have, who we truly are—what they made us, to varying degrees—that we must strive to return to for their sake as well as ours, and for all who look to us for comfort.”
There came a discreet knock on the bulkhead in the passageway forward, and Juan clomped in with a tray. Two plates slid precariously from side to side with his rolling gait but he made it to the table without dropping anything. He’d had a lot of practice in heavier seas. “Pleezy-sore steaks,” he announced. “Medium rare,” he said to Matt, laying a plate on the table. “And well-done.” He sniffed disapprovingly at Bradford as he laid out the other. He paused a moment while the two men stood from their rockers and seated themselves at the long wooden table.
“Thanks, Juan. Smells great.”
“Indeed,” Courtney agreed.
Juan moved their coffee cups and added glasses of iced tea. The tea came from the Empire of the New Britain Isles. Most Allied steamers had freezers now, and ice—and refrigerated water—once unknown to virtually any Lemurian, was an accepted, beloved obsession. Juan stood for a moment while they dug in, but cleared his throat. Matt looked at him questioningly.
“I listen, Cap-tan,” he said simply. “You know I do. I spread scuttlebutt, true scuttlebutt the hands need to hear from one of their own. You allow this because you know I know when to keep my trap shut.” He shrugged. “I also know when not to listen, but sometimes I hear things by accident. The last part of what was just said was such a thing,” he admitted. “So I’ll tell you something about Chief Gray. He was a great man, a great destroyerman, but like the rest of us, was often afraid. He hid it well, but he was. How did he overcome that, you ask?” He shrugged again. “By looking to you, Cap-tan Reddy. As we all do. Because we know, no matter what or why”—he looked at Bradford—“when it all does go in the crapper, you will sort it out.” He turned back to Matt, a smile on his brown face. “You always have before. And knowing that, your crew, your clan, the whole Alliance will always back you up.” He nodded and started to turn away, but stopped and looked back. “And getting the Lady Sandra, your beybi, and all the rest back, is just as important to us as it is to you. We owe those bobo gago Japs, for this, and much, much more!”
CHAPTER 6
////// USS Donaghey (DD-2)
Mid-Atlantic
October 27, 1944
“My apologies to the Cap-i-taan, and please can he come on deck,” came Lieutenant Saama-Kera’s muffled voice from above, through the open skylight. Commander Greg Garrett had been fast asleep in a kind of gimballed hanging cot in the great cabin of USS Donaghey, but immediately tossed off the blanket made sodden and heavy by the humid night air and came instantly awake in the fashion he’d learned to do. None of the usual noises of the ship—the groan of working timbers, the rush of the sea along her side, even the calls and whistles prompting the hands to adjust the sails amid squealing blocks and thundering feet—ever disturbed him. Those were normal, practically soothing sounds, no matter how loud or sudden. Anything out of the ordinary, however—a strange noise, even a different sway of his cot, brought him instantly awake and alert. He’d become such an integral part of Donaghey that he suspected part of his mind never slept; had become as much the ship’s mind as his own. He was content with that.
Donaghey was the oldest ship in the American Navy on this world, aside from Walker and Mahan themselves. Older in this navy than Santa Catalina. But in spite of all the new construction he could’ve had his pick of, there was no other ship or assignment he’d rather have. His was the ultimate “independent cruise,” far beyond the point that anyone they knew had ever ventured. He supposed he knew how Magellan must’ve felt, and by the time he reached the Caribbean, he would’ve circumnavigated the earth himself—if one combined this world with the last. He sat up on the cot and slid to the deck, reaching to pull on his shoes even as he heard the rumble of feet coming down the companionway forward. There was a knock on his door.
“Yes?” His voice was devoid of any inflection as he tucked in his shirt and plopped his hat on his head. He knew what the mirror would show him if he could see it in the dark, and frowned. Like Captain Reddy, he tried to keep himself well groomed, even to the point of shaving—which almost none of the old destroyermen did anymore. He’d set the precedent, and the hands expected it. It was harder for him, however. His black hair and beard grew so thick that his tanned face turned dark only a few hours after his razor passed over it. In addition, his Lemurian-made khaki shirt and trousers were available only in the most basic sizes. He was as tall as Matt but slighter built, so to accommodate his long arms and legs, he otherwise looked like he was wearing a tent—impossible to keep from looking rumpled, even when he hadn’t been sleeping in it. His steward was worse with a needle and thread than he was, and he refused to add to the sailmaker’s toil. But he’d anticipated a call when he turned in, and hadn’t wanted to skin down to his skivvies. According to his and Sammy’s calculations, they’d raise Ascension Island sometime that night. Apparently, they’d been right.
Several ’Cats from the Republic of Real People accompanied them on this voyage, a token of Kaiser Nig-Taak’s commitment to join the war against the Dominion. And the island of St. Helena had been right where they’d said it would be, according to charts they brought. Republic ships had sailed that far many times since SMS Amerika arrived in 1914 and revealed its existence. Nig-Taak loved maps and was obsessed with knowing where things were. He’d commissioned what was probably the largest, most comprehensive world map of this earth in existence. It remained woefully incomplete, and vast areas of the globe were represented by approximate—at best—coastlines, but St. Helena had been painstakingly added. They’d stopped there, setting foot on dry land for the first time since Alex-aandra. They found the island, Napoleon’s final address on another world, a charming, temperate, apparently safe haven, populated only by swarms of lizardbirds—none as dangerous as those on islands east of Madagascar—and huge, hard-shelled sea turtles that laid their eggs in crevices on the rocky beaches and apparently dwelt year-round in the adjacent depths. From his Tennessee point of reference, they looked like gigantic, alligator snapping turtles, and he understood they were good eating if they could be caught. In addition, their shells were very durable and even beautiful when sanded and polished—like a dark, amber-shaded mother of pearl—and all sorts of decorative things were made from them. Like just about everywhere they’d been, flashylike fish lingered in the vicinity, but Greg supposed the aggressive, well-protected turtles had less to fear from them than most.
Still, though a permanent Republic outpost had once been attempted, St. Helena was probably one of the remotest islands in the world and turtles alone couldn’t justify the effort to keep it going. With the current crisis, Greg knew a garrison had been planned, but who knew when it would arrive? He’d strolled through the time- and storm-shattered remains of several buildings, while the hands pumped water to fill the empty casks in Donaghey’s hold from a well sunk long ago, and decided a garrison was probably a good idea. Not only was there evidence, old and new, that turtle hunters still came from time to time, but Doms had been there as well, erecting a stone marker claiming the island for their twisted pope. They might’ve even been
the same ones Captain Laborde of Savoie let slip that the League was in contact with. And the League itself had also been there, judging by the number of rusting cans and other refuse scattered near old fire pits. That made him wonder what to expect when they reached Ascension Island, and he meant to approach with caution.
“Loo-ten-aant Saama-Kera’s re-grets fer disturbin’ yer sleep, sur,” came the voice of a young Lemurian midshipman, “but could yer peese step up on deck? Dere’s a st’ange light on de horizon.”
“On my way,” Greg said, snatching his Imperial-made telescope and following the ’Cat up the companionway and out on the broad quarterdeck. All around was utter darkness, and only the sharp, bright stars made it possible to tell where sea ended and sky began. Two shapes stood by the wheel forward of the mizzenmast, and others lined the starboard rail staring to the north. A brisk, steady wind on the port quarter swept Donaghey along at an effortless ten knots under plain sail alone. All this Garrett took in with little thought. It was the same when he retired and he’d have felt a change. He stepped to the lee rail, joining the shape he somehow knew belonged to the white-and-brown-furred Saama-Kera.
Donaghey didn’t have a “quarterdeck” in the traditional sense, any more than Walker did. Both were flush-decked from bow to stern. Donaghey, named for Walker’s chief machinist mate who died to save his ship, shared other similarities with the old four-stack destroyer. Both were outdated compared to their respective contemporaries, and both had seen more action of various sorts than any other ship in the Grand Alliance. Donaghey was the sole survivor of the first three frigates they’d helped the ’Cats build, and one of only a few dedicated sailors left. The rest were cargo haulers, transports, and DEs made from cut-down Grik Indiamen. With the introduction of steam power, even they were increasingly rare. Their range wasn’t limited by fuel, but they were entirely dependent on the wind and required larger crews to operate. It meant that though Donaghey was held in similar esteem by the people of the Grand Alliance, and her crew of two hundred officers and enlisted was arguably the best in the fleet, unlike Walker, the ship herself had become somewhat . . . expendable. That, and her practically unlimited range, was why she’d been chosen for this mission in the first place.
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