Whole new industries and occupations sprouted to support that. All were necessary for other endeavors, but repairing and maintaining Walker—and making others like her—had been the test bed and driving force behind so much else. Her first two “daughters” took a long time to make, while furry workers and engineers honed their experience with near-constant practice, all the while making boilers and engines for wooden warships. They were different engines, in different hulls, but the new skills still applied. Often, they reinvented methods even their teachers couldn’t show them, or came up with entirely new ideas. Aside from the first boilers built to power Baalkpan’s infant industries, all newer ones were near copies of Walker’s. Some were larger, a few smaller, but—particularly now that the “tube crisis” seemed under control—all seemed uniformly better as well, incorporating improvements Spanky long yearned for, or the ’Cats came up with by themselves. Just as important, interchangeability of parts and assemblies had been stressed throughout Lemurian industrialization. Standard units of measure were quickly adopted, and things like calipers, yardsticks, and tape measures had been among the first items mass-produced—even during the frantic effort to arm the ’Cats against the first Grik swarm. Ancient, wildly variable Lemurian measurements almost instantly vanished from use. Some still used the term “tail” instead of “yard,” but they were so similar, there’d been little difficulty defining both as 36 inches.
It helped that Imperial inches, feet, and yards were the same in principle, even if other weights and measures were screwy. But as Allied designs for things went to the Empire, so did Allied calipers and other measuring devices. Interchangeability had been so heavily stressed that innovation sometimes suffered, with manufacturers occasionally disdaining improved designs for various parts simply because they wouldn’t exactly fit existing assemblies that otherwise worked just fine. One example was Baalkpan Arsenal’s refusal to replace the brittle flat mainsprings in its rifle locks with new, improved coil springs—because then they’d have to change the tumblers as well. Instead, they attempted to improve the flat springs and sent out lots of spares. Things like that were understandable in wartime, Matt supposed. Design changes caused production delays they could ill afford, and the obsession with interchangeability didn’t much affect the development of new weapons or prevent qualitative innovations. For example, Walker’s new shaft packing that so reduced vibration was identical to what she was built with, but the materials, the naturally creosoted trees in northwest Borno, were better. Innovations of that sort left him confident that now that Lemurian inventiveness had been unleashed, they’d never be hopelessly shackled to the tried and true once the pressure of “good enough now is better than perfect later” was eased.
And interchangeability was a wonderful thing. Tarakaan Island had carried entire extra boilers. If they’d had time, they could’ve installed a new one where Walker’s old number one used to be. They’d never removed the stack above it after all. Not only was it useful for venting the forward fireroom when the need arose, but Adar once convinced him that it would diminish the appearance of his ship in the eyes of his people—make her look incomplete, less capable somehow. Matt conceded, still hoping to someday replace the boiler, but, honestly, even he hadn’t relished the image of the gap-toothed silhouette that would result. Still, even if they had all the time in the world, with three healthy boilers, Matt wasn’t sure he would’ve replaced the fourth. It would cost them the fuel bunker they’d installed in its place, and the extra few knots might not balance the range penalty. He’d reassess all that if he ever did have time—and if he and his old ship lived long enough. That returned his thoughts to the action ahead and he frowned as he set his cup down and lurched to his feet.
Raising his binoculars, he watched a pair of Mosquito Hawks of Salissa’s Combat Air Patrol complete the northern leg of their pattern and then turn south. There were Nancys up there too, farther out, watching for anything approaching the task force. They’d heard the engine drone of the big PB-5Ds before dawn, heading back to Mahe after another raid on Zanzibar. Two were lost this time, and he grieved for the planes and pilots. They have it awful tough, he reflected, immediately turning around at the Comoros Islands after missions over Sofesshk, to fly all the way up to Zanzibar via Mahe. Now they’d go back. He was asking a lot of the big seaplane bombers—and their crews—and Sofesshk had been anything but a cakewalk. The strange Grik rockets were knocking planes down as well, as the enemy’s aim, and possibly the rockets themselves, improved. Fortunately, as promised, replacements from Baalkpan continued to make up for losses. So far. The latest raid on Zanzibar had focused on the southernmost airfield, so at least Matt felt confident it hadn’t killed his wife, now that he knew about where she was. The thought that she might die due to actions undertaken at his orders had tormented him beyond words. And it was possible she still could. There’d be one final raid, and then who knew what would happen when the full attack commenced. But to know she was still alive now, thanks to Silva’s report, was a tremendous comfort.
He directed the binoculars to the right. Far across the heaving sea, about six miles to the east, he occasionally caught glimpses of USS James Ellis, apparently matching Walker’s renewed vivacity, as the two practically identical destroyers screened ahead of the plodding task force. For just a moment, in spite of everything, the sight let Matt peel back the years; wash away all the blood, anxiety, and crushing responsibility; and pretend it was Mahan over there, or Pope or Stewart or another old comrade Walker had paced in similar fashion in another place, before another war. But James Ellis wasn’t one of those other ships, Matt remembered with regret, and was, in a way, far more distant than a mere six miles of boisterous sea. She was separated from Walker by a quarter century and another world.
Shaking his head, he stepped out on the starboard bridgewing. Nodding at the Lemurian lookouts, he stared aft, past the wisping funnels, the amidships deckhouse, the searchlight tower, and the aft deckhouse, with its gun crew exercising the tall 4″-50 on its DP mount. The roiling wake churned white and peeled back and away, leaving a broadening, darkening V that shattered on the following waves. About three miles back was his little fleet, arrayed in two columns. USNRS Salissa was on the right, its massive form seeming almost motionless, the brisk sea barely affecting it. As he watched her, he suspected Keje was probably looking back. They’d been through so much together, and he wished, unreasonably, he could be on Walker beside him. Keje’s gruff but irrepressible personality rarely failed to cheer him and always helped keep things in perspective.
But Keje’s duty was to his carrier, his Home, and that was where he belonged. Her forward flight deck was cluttered with Mosquito Hawks, ready to escort the PB-1B Nancy floatplanes that would attack with bombs beneath their wings. Behind them, Ben Mallory’s four operational P-40Es were securely strapped to the deck. They’d take off last, ready to react to whatever went after the others. Nobody was happy about the recovery procedures, and even if they all made it back, they might still lose them. If Chack’s Brigade can overrun one of the Grik airstrips . . . began the thought, but Matt shook his head. They couldn’t count on that. One way or another, the next few days might mean the end of almost all their carefully hoarded modern fighters. If that’s the case, we’ll manage, he decided. And if there’s such a thing as fate, maybe this is what they were for all along.
He looked at the almost equally massive USS Tarakaan Island. She carried half their assault force and one of the few aces he had to play. He hated that they had to take her so close to danger; she represented their only means of repairing serious battle damage and might be very busy when this was over—if she survived. Behind the two biggest ships were a large number of oilers and other auxiliaries. Alan Letts had moved Heaven and earth to get as much to them as he could, after TF Alden’s losses, but could only replace so much, so fast. And if they lost more, there was no telling how long it would take to replace the ships, crews, and cargos. Pete,
Rolak, and Safir might have to go on the defensive at Grik City after all. Matt smiled. Letts had tried to send the new cruiser, USS Fitzhugh Gray, but she flat wasn’t ready and Matt forbade it. Fully complete and worked up, she would’ve been very welcome, but untried and unfinished, she might not even make it there, and waiting for her would impose an unacceptable delay. There’d be more than enough for Gray to do when the time was right.
Surrounding the task force in a wide semicircle to port were the sail-steam DDs of Des-Ron 6, including Jarrik-Fas’s Tassat, Muraak-Saanga’s Scott, and Naala-Araan’s old Nakja-Mur. To starboard were Clark, Saak-Fas, and Bowles of Des-Ron 10. All were veterans, and a couple, like Tassat, were barely seaworthy even after extensive repairs. Still, only Nakja-Mur, the oldest ship in the task force besides Walker and Salissa, and one of their very first steamers, seemed to be having trouble keeping up. Her engine had been very hard-used over time, and even with every stitch of canvas she could carry, she was sagging behind. Mentally comparing what he had to fight with against what they knew Kurokawa had, Matt needed every ship. But if Nakja-Mur couldn’t keep up, he’d have to send her back to Mahe. Grimly, he turned and stepped back in the pilothouse, but almost released a snort of amusement when he saw the embroidered cushion on his chair again. Someone had slipped in and secured it during the refit. Perry Brister’s chair in Ellie had one, and it must’ve been decided that he—and Walker—needed one too. His amusement was fleeting, however, and the frown returned as he sat.
“Good morning, Skipper!” Lieutenant Ed Palmer said cheerfully, suddenly standing by his chair. Matt let the frown slide off his face and looked at the young signal officer. The reversion to signal designation from comm just seemed more appropriate now, since they used signal flags, Morse lamps, and rockets just as much as radio and CW. More, actually, for line-of-sight communication. And in addition to Henry Stokes in Baalkpan, Ed was responsible for formulating and distributing new codes, as well as trying to break them. He spoke some French, and he’d had some success with League voice codes—before they changed them again. Undaunted, he’d started again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Palmer,” Matt said, glancing significantly at the Imperial chronometer secured to the aft bulkhead. It was 1222. “I believe you’re late. You were on the watch bill as OOD for the afternoon watch.” Matt wanted all his officers able to conn the ship, and Ed had always been reluctant to assume that responsibility, not trusting his seamanship.
Ed’s smile vanished. “Aye, sir. I apologize. It won’t happen again. I was going over the command codes for Outhouse Rat, and got, ah . . .” He stiffened. “No excuse, sir.” He glanced at Tabby, who’d had the conn since 0800, and she grinned back at him. When Matt said every officer, he meant it, and Tabby’s engines and boilers were doing fine.
“Then you better get to it. I’m sure Tabby’s anxious to check things out below.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Ed turned to Lieutenant Tab-At. “I, ah, I’m ready to relieve you, sir.”
The ’Cat at the big brass wheel chuckled behind Tabby as, just as formally, she replied, “I’m ready to be relieved. Course is tree one seero, fifteen knots. Wind’s outa the north-northeast, an’ the sea’s runnin’ about six feet, but moder—gettin’ less. Ellie’s on station six miles east, an’ the taask force is tree miles aft, makin’ ten knots, an’ zig-zaaggin’. We’re due to alter course an’ exchange positions with Ellie in”—she glanced at the chronometer—“twenty-five minutes.” At preselected times, but seemingly at random, Walker and James Ellis converged and passed each other to take the other ship’s position in the screen. Not only did the maneuver allow the task force to keep up, but if there was a sub out there, it might shake it up and help detect it.
“Thanks, Tabby—I mean, I relieve you, sir!”
“I staan relieved,” Tabby replied. “Attention in the pilothouse: Lieuten-aant Palmer has the deck!”
Self-consciously, Ed took her place and, clasping his hands behind his back, peered out over the plunging, bucking fo’c’sle.
Spanky McFarlane chose that moment to join them. He had his own cup of coffee and seemed enormously pleased with himself. He tapped the deck with his shoe. “She sure feels fine, huh, Skipper?”
“That she does,” Matt agreed. “Another big job ahead, though,” he added.
“Sure, but that’s nothing new.”
“No, but the stakes . . .” Matt shook his head. “I keep running the plan through my mind, trying to find flaws. It’s not all that complicated, but a lot can go wrong.”
“Stuff always goes wrong,” Spanky told him gently. “You know that.” He waved back at the little fleet behind them. “And everybody knows what to do when it does. Chack’s got better intel than we’ve ever had before jumping on a beach, the minelayers did what they were supposed to before they got chased off, an’ that idiot Silva knows where they’re keeping our people. His reports on Savoie are kinda weird, though. Don’t know what to make of that. But if everybody does their job, we got a better than even chance o’ pullin’ this off.” He chuckled. “Since those’re better odds than we ever had before, I’d say it makes this stunt a sure thing!”
Matt tried to smile. Ordinarily, he’d agree. But this time they were dealing with Kurokawa himself. A stab of worry burned his chest. What’ll he do when he figures out what’s happening? He will, at some point, no matter what we do. And when he does, what’ll he do to Sandra? So much depends on Silva! Not only my wife—if she’s still alive by then—but everything. So much of what we think we know has come from him. He bit his lip. Silva had always been dependable when it came to getting things done, but not always the way you expected, or even wanted. That could cause confusion, and confusion was deadly. The knife of apprehension twisted in his chest. I have to put it away! he thought forcefully. Put it way back in my mind. I don’t have the luxury—the right—to focus on Sandra.
Spanky looked at him oddly. “You’re thinkin’ about Silva?”
Matt started, surprised. “How did you know that?”
Spanky shrugged. “You’re not the only one. Somehow or other, I bet just about everybody goin’ into this fight is thinkin’ of him.” He grinned. “Good thoughts an’ bad. I know he’s on Chack’s mind and I’joorka’s, thinkin’ about how many Grik he counted. Ben has to be wonderin’ if he got the best dope on the airfields. Keje an’ Tikker’ll be wonderin’ that too. Then there’s Savoie an’ all those Grik cruisers. Will they still be where he said? What if they’re not? I just came from the wardroom”—he held up his coffee cup—“an’ Pam’s a nervous wreck, figurin’ Silva’ll do somethin’ stupid an’ get himself killed.” He took a sip. “And he might. Sooner or later, he will. It’s the law of averages, an’ the fact is, he’s pushed his luck too damn far.” He gulped down the last of his coffee and smacked his lips. “We all have, I guess, but Silva takes the cake.” He looked out to sea, forward. “I called him an idiot, an’ he is—in some ways. But not in ways that matter for this. He’ll do somethin’ weird, you can count on it, but it’ll probably make some sort of sense. And he’ll probably raise a lot of hell, right when we need it most. More important, if anybody can get our people out in one piece, it’s him—and Larry. You can also count on that.” Spanky’s rough voice turned uncharacteristically soft. “They’re his friends too, see? He will die to save Sandra if it comes to it, an’ not just for her—though she’d be enough. They’re not five years apart, but she’s probably more a mother than he’s ever had.” He shrugged. “I know—kinda weird. But it’s true. When she scolds him, he listens.” He looked back at Matt. “Still, mainly, he’ll do it for you, because you trust him to.” He shook his head. “Chief Gray saw it before I ever did. Saw something in that big goon before anybody else, I think. That’s why he left him his hat an’ coin. His legacy.” He held up a hand. “Don’t get me wrong, Silva’ll never be Super Bosun of the Navy! But if he lives, he might wind up something else, maybe just as im
portant someday. I think, in the end, what Gray figured out was that Silva never had a cause before this ship—and you—came along. Now? He’d set himself on fire an’ wallow in fuel oil before he let you down.”
“But . . . why?” Matt asked, almost whispering, genuinely mystified by Spanky’s observations.
Spanky rolled his eyes. “You still really don’t know, do you? He’d do it for the same reason I would, an’ thousands of other humans an’ ’Cats on this screwed-up world. Because of who you are, what you are, an’ what you’ve made of the rest of us. Simple.” With that, he scratched his chin under the reddish beard. “Simple,” he repeated softly, then took a deep breath. “C’mon, Tabby,” he said to the gray-furred Lemurian who’d watched the exchange, blinking amazement. “Let’s go watch your hot new boilers an’ listen to the steam sing!”
CHAPTER 20
////// Operation Outhouse Rat
November 23, 1944
It was pitch-dark, without even stars, when the first act of Operation Outhouse Rat began. Clouds had moved in during the night and, because of concern about the implications for air operations, the go order had been delayed. The experience of the Sky Priests, many of whom had joined together in a meteorological section aboard Big Sal, had finally made the difference. Unfamiliar as they were with these seas, they’d spent their lives observing the weather and had concluded, though it might storm a bit, it should be a relatively short, mild blow. The whipping wind and occasional pulses of lightning to the north seemed to contradict their prediction, but not only were they the best resource for such things, a little storm might be advantageous, preventing the task force’s discovery. And it would be discovered if it lingered long. They had to go now, or bear away and wait another day at least. Another day for Kurokawa to change his dispositions, possibly move his hostages, or even discover the task force with a scout plane and make preparations far costlier to overcome. And the bombing raid was going in, anyway. If they delayed, the whole plan might have to be retooled. Finally, Matt himself gave the order with a simple “Commence OOR” flashed from Walker’s Morse lamp.
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