“Full astern!” he screamed. “Right full rudder!” Even as he gave the order, he knew it wouldn’t matter. The range was now just a little more than a thousand yards, and the two Type 93 torpedoes-weapons of devastating power and reliability that he was all too familiar with-would arrive in half a minute. It would take longer than that just to reverse the engine. If the range was greater, slowing the ship might spoil the solution, but now only the turn could possibly help-but they’d already been turning to port… “Correction!” he shouted, more controlled. “Rudder amidships! Continue full ahead!” All he could do was pray Mizuki Maru would pass the point Hidoiame ’s torpedo men had calculated for their weapons to intersect her path. With so little time, the chances of that were slim.
Another impact forward sent the crew of the number one gun sprawling, but most of them rose and returned to their posts, quickly sending another shell toward their tormentor. Okada lurched back into the pilothouse, where the talker was shouting a steady stream of damage reports, punctuated by the constant drumming and staccato explosions of those wicked twenty-fives. A gout of hot steam gushed through the doorway as something ruptured amidships, and Mizuki Maru staggered sickeningly and began losing way. For just an instant, there was near-total silence on the bridge, and Okada’s eyes swept the gazes that met him.
“I have failed,” he said simply, brutally. “My oath is spent and hollow. Wasted.” He paused. “Brace yourselves, my samurai,” he breathed softly. He turned to the talker. “Have the signalman transmit code letter G with our current position… and my apologies, if he has the time.”
The Type 93, twenty-four-inch torpedo was, hands down, the best weapon of its type in service with any navy in the world when Sato Okada crossed the mysterious gulf aboard Amagi nearly two years before. Almost 30 feet long, weighing close to 3 tons, and blessed with a speed close to 60 knots and a 1080-pound warhead, it was designed to rupture the thick armor and break the backs of battleships. Probably only desperation, or possibly panic, had induced Kurita to waste two such precious, irreplaceable weapons against Mizuki Maru, so in that sense, Okada felt a sudden, perverse surge of pride that his ship and crew had forced him to resort to such a drastic measure. But the disproportionate expenditure was on a scale with shooting a beer can with a high-velocity rifle.
Ultimately, the sudden course change, the heavy sea, or the haste with which the torpedoes were launched caused the first weapon to miss its target, speeding invisibly past, mere yards behind Mizuki Maru ’s rudder. That was irrelevant, because seconds later the next torpedo slammed into her side and detonated with a stupendous dark geyser that dwarfed the ship-and blew the entire stern, aft of the engine room, completely off. Steam and black soot vomited skyward from the stack and gushing fuel oil ignited with a snarling rush.
Mizuki Maru stalled as if her legs had been torn from her hips-which might as well have been the case. Her stern, propeller shaft, and most of her machinery was already nothing but mangled wreckage plummeting to the bottom of the sea. A widening field of burning oil coated the waves around her and lapped at the boat deck, already dipping low.
Sato Okada heaved himself from the deck, practically climbing the aft bulkhead. His left leg didn’t feel right at all and he wondered if the concussion had cracked it. The helmsman slid backward and impacted the bulkhead with a cry as the murdered ship settled quickly aft, and her dripping bow left the tumultuous sea and reached for the sky. A naked, oil-soaked ’Cat crawled in through the shattered doorway, wide, bright eyes questing in dazed confusion amid black, matted fur.
The dying roar of Mizuki Maru was terrific. Tortured steel groaned and tore with dismal shrieks of agony, and the wooden deck cracked and splintered like rifle fire. Heavy machinery tumbled loose and crashed down deep in her bowels as the bow continued to rise until it was virtually perpendicular. Dimly, Sato Okada saw the number one gun, some of its crew still clinging to it, rip loose and fall against the forward bulkhead of the pilothouse. The bulkhead smashed inward under the impact, and girders pierced and pinned him.
I failed! He railed silently at himself through the waves of agony. So long he’d shunned the friendship of the Alliance, and then only when he personally was affected did he act. Shinya had been right all along. The day did come that my honor demanded more of me-but my pride held me back until it was too late, and my arrogance made me promise what I could not achieve. I failed not only the Alliance that deserved my allegiance, but my crew-my people — who deserved my protection!
Suddenly, a bloody, blackened face appeared before his eyes. It was the mad cook! Okada realized with searing shame that he’d failed him too-perhaps more than anyone-and he didn’t even know the man’s name!
“Come, my lord,” the cook said in a soft, gruff voice. “I must get you free!”
Just then, the boiling, flaming torrent of water and oil burst into the pilothouse, and Mizuki Maru quickly slid, blowing and booming, beneath the frigid, tossing waves of the iron gray sea.
CHAPTER 1
USS Walker
Central Pacific
February 22, 1944
The sea was brisk beneath a bright blue sky, marred only by cotton-candy streamers of white. No land was visible in any direction, and the one thing that might catch the eye of some far-ranging, broad-winged lizard bird was a lonely wake that stretched behind a battered, rust gray shape pitching tiredly across the long, deep swells. Such a creature might turn to join several others of its kind, seemingly effortlessly coasting along, pacing the strange ship. The flyers stayed off either beam, avoiding the hint of foul-smelling smoke blurring the tops of two of the four funnels standing high above the narrow hull. Occasionally, one of the lizard birds dropped back and snatched a morsel from the foaming wake, but most maintained almost unerring stations as if shepherding the exhausted ship along.
It had been a tough couple of wars for the old U.S. Asiatic Fleet four-stacker destroyer USS Walker (DD-163). The first one nearly killed her. This one, a far different war on a wildly different earth, had destroyed her-for all intents and purposes-once already. Refloated and rebuilt after the desperate Battle of Baalkpan, where she defended the Lemurians against the hated, semireptilian Grik and the mighty Japanese battle cruiser Amagi in a place that should have been Borneo, Walker had steamed straight back into action against new enemies across the vast Pacific, or Eastern Sea. Again, she and her mixed human and Lemurian-American-crew had accomplished more than anyone had a right to expect, but it had cost her dearly in bruises and blood. Now she was nearing the Imperial island appropriately called Respite, where she’d lick her wounds and catch her breath before heading “home” to Baalkpan and a much-needed overhaul.
“Ten-SHUN!” rumbled the hulking Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva, practically guarding the fancy Lemurian-embroidered curtain that separated the passageway from the wardroom. Chairs and stools squeaked and clattered against the… less-pleasant shade of cracked green linoleum on the deck, as those in the crowded wardroom stood. (Stools still seemed out of place, but chairs were uncomfortable for Lemurian tails).
“As you were,” Lieutenant Commander (Captain) Matthew Reddy responded mildly, escorting several others into the compartment. He was tall, with premature gray threading his brown hair at the temples. The pace of operations had also cost him considerable weight, giving his finely tailored Lemurian-made khakis a slightly disheveled appearance. His intense green eyes and quick smile undermined any possible impression that he was overwhelmed by his responsibility, however. Captain Reddy commanded Walker, but he also bore a great many other burdens on this strange world. Not only was he “High Chief” of the “Amer-i-caan clan,” which now encompassed virtually all Lemurian Marine and Naval personnel, but he was also Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces (CINCAF), by acclamation, of all the powers united beneath (or beside) the Banner of the Trees. The wars had been as hard on him as they’d been on his ship, but, like her, like nearly everyone, he’d risen to the challenge.
Th
ose gathered in the wardroom quickly resumed their seats, making way for Matt, Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, and His Excellency Lord Bolton Forester, the new ambassador from the Empire of the New Britain Isles, to find theirs at the battered table in the center of the compartment.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen… and ladies,” Matt amended for Sandra’s benefit, and for that of Lieutenant Tab-At, or Tabby, the newly appointed engineering officer. Tabby was modestly dressed in a T-shirt and kilt (wearing a top was something she did more often now that she was an officer), but the clothing did little to hide the fact that she was female. The silky gray fur on her arms and face was still blotchy in places where it hadn’t quite covered all her steam scars, and Sandra winced slightly at the sight. Her expression turned into a satisfied smile at the thought that Matt-and every other human in the Navy-was going to have to start getting used to the idea of female officers of all sorts. She almost laughed out loud when Matt frowned at her.
There’d been female ’Cats aboard ever since Walker started supplementing her dwindling human crew with Lemurian cadets. That was the Lemurian way, and if Matt wanted sailors, he had to take both genders. All were “Americans” now, having sworn the same enlistment oath as Walker ’s original crew. The Marines and the Lemurian Armies were also entirely integrated. Many of Walker ’s losses in the recent campaign had been made up with former Imperial women, however, and incorporating human females into the Navy and Marines made almost everyone uncomfortable except said females-and the Lemurians, of course, who didn’t know what the big deal was.
Sandra had initiated the integration aboard the new Lemurian purpose-built carrier USS Maaka-Kakja (CV-4), originally recruiting women from Respite who were escaping the then-all-pervasive institution of indentured servitude that most women in the empire endured. Matt was furious when he found out, but by then it was a fait accompli. The Imperials were (publicly) furious too over the equality the move implied, not to mention the almost unavoidable precedent it set for their own navy.
When his rage passed, Matt secretly suspected Sandra’s move was a stroke of genius that had solved a lot of problems, both for him and for Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald, who was doing his best to eliminate the age-old “Company”-inspired institution of virtual female slavery throughout the Empire. Having uncorked it, Sandra had made it practically impossible to put the genie back in the bottle.
Regardless, there were now human females, sea… women running around Walker, to the amusement of half the crew-and horror of the rest. Matt understood it, accepted it, even welcomed it for various reasons, but he didn’t like it.
“I’m sure you’ve all met His Excellency, Ambassador Lord Forester,” he began, looking across the table at the tall, somewhat heavyset man. Matt didn’t know Forester well, but the man was a personal friend of the Governor-Emperor and that spoke well for him. He waited briefly while most politely nodded. “Good.” Matt smiled. “Try to be nice to him. It’s in all our interests, his people’s and ours, that we get along.” There were chuckles, and even Forester’s face broke into a smile. There had been, and doubtless would continue to be, tensions between the Western allies and the Empire. The Empire had spawned the criminal Billingsley, after all, who’d managed to cause so much trouble. Even now, in its death throes, the legacy of the Honorable New Britain Company was still cause for concern. The societies were very different, and some enmity remained.
“I will do my part,” Forester said, absently twisting the graying ends of his massive, stereotypical Imperial mustache. “I’m rather new at this; the Empire has had no diplomatic department, per se, and no real tradition of negotiation. And though we allowed the Dominion to maintain an embassy in the New Britain Isles-which they apparently used primarily to intrigue against us-there has been no ambassador to the Doms for a decade.” He grimaced. “Hopefully, there won’t be one until the evil that rules there is destroyed.” He spread his hands with a small smile at Matt. “Then, of course, we had no one else to talk to until you came along.”
Matt refrained from pointing out that the Lemurians had always been there-and the Empire knew it.
The ambassador straightened. “It is no secret that I feel inadequate and wholly unprepared for my new, consequential post, but though I may not be a polished envoy, I understand that I must learn all I can about the military and political structure of your elements of our Alliance. Just watching and listening helps me with that.” He smiled more broadly. “I assure you, even listening to the… English-Lemurian patois you have developed is most helpful.”
There was more laughter. “I think we’re even, then, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Courtney Bradford is the best we can come up with for your counterpart, and he’s not very polished either.” Bradford was an amazingly valuable but… odd individual. He’d been an Australian petroleum engineer in the East Indies, but considered himself first and foremost a naturalist. Sometimes Matt wondered if everything that had happened to them since they passed through the Squall that brought Walker and her people to this world wasn’t some divine attempt to overwhelm Courtney’s curiosity. “I think the Governor-Emperor knew our people would react better to someone like you than to someone more ‘polished.’ As for listening to the gab, knock yourself out. I don’t think we have, or should have, any secrets you shouldn’t hear. Make yourself comfortable…” He grinned, considering the lively gyrations of his ship. Walker rolled horribly in any kind of sea, and was currently pitching rather briskly as well. “If you can.”
Matt looked at the others in the wardroom and the grin disappeared. Time to get down to business. “Okay, here’s the deal. As you’re all aware, Walker needs a major refit and she’s on the binnacle list for now. For some time, particularly since we turned for home, it’s been bugging me that a fair percentage of the personnel most needed to accomplish various projects have been cooped up here aboard Walker. In the past, I’d have swallowed that frustration, of necessity. But the wonders of this modern world we’re building are throwing changes at us so fast that they’re hard to keep up with.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like the guy living in the house with oil lamps, who never twisted the light switch because he knew there was no electricity and all the bulbs were burned out-then somebody just waltzes in and turns on the lights.” He grinned sheepishly.
“The point is, before departing New Scotland, I sent a message asking the guys back home to put their heads together and figure out a way to get some of you malingerers off this ship and back to work. In retrospect-I don’t know why; I didn’t expect much. I knew we could fly you out of Manila, but by then you’d only have a few days on us.” He nodded at Ed Palmer, the communications officer. “We just received, via Respite Station, confirmation that two four-engine seaplanes the Air Corps cobbled up-I think they’re calling them ‘Manila Clippers’-should arrive at Respite at about the same time we do. They’re supposed to be bigger, more powerful versions of the three-engine ‘Buzzards,’ and I’ve been assured they’re reasonably safe and reliable.” He paused. “A number of you will board those planes and proceed ahead of us to Maa-ni-la. Some of you will continue on to Baalkpan, via other appropriate fueling stops. Once you reach your respective destinations, you’ll commence a variety of assignments that you are, in some cases, uniquely qualified for.”
“What kind of assignments?” blurted Silva. The big, heavily tanned, one-eyed man still stood, leaning against the aft bulkhead. His mighty arms were crossed, and the spray of scars on his face testified further that Walker ’s people had suffered as much as she had. Beside him, much shorter, stood an orangish, tiger-striped creature named Lawrence, or Larry the Lizard. Lawrence’s physical similarity to the Grik, with his furry-feathery reptilian form, sharp teeth, and wicked claws, was still a little disconcerting to some, but all knew he was fiercely loyal.
“What kind of assignment, SIR, damn your insubordinate soul!” growled Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray. Gray was more than twice Silva’s age but nearly as big. His decades-old
China Station flab was long gone, and if he might not quite be a physical match for Silva, he had infinitely greater moral authority.
“Sir,” Silva amended agreeably, and Gray rolled his eyes.
“Let’s hear what the Skipper has to say before flapping our gums,” Brad “Spanky” McFarlane commanded. Spanky was a skinny little guy, and had once been Walker ’s engineering officer. Somehow, despite his size, people always remembered him as much bigger than he actually was, and now he was Matt’s exec.
“Please,” agreed Sandra Tucker. She was even smaller than Spanky, but her new job in the Alliance was Minister of Medicine, and petite and pretty as she was, she had a will of iron and couldn’t be lightly ignored (or resisted) by anyone. She was also, incidentally, Captain Reddy’s fiancee. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. No one resented her hard-earned authority, but some inevitably reflected on the most recent result of it.
Juan Marcos, Matt’s self-appointed personal steward to the CINCAF, appeared with a carafe and noisily stomped through the suddenly quiet wardroom on a remarkably complicated peg fashioned for him on New Scotland. He’d lost his left leg during a sneak attack by the Holy Dominion. No one spoke while the little Filipino filled cups with an air of supreme satisfaction. Well, at least the “monkey joe” is back to normal, Captain Reddy reflected, staring bleakly at the not-quite-green foam rimming the brew in his captain’s cup. Juan had finally returned to duty, relieving Taarba-Kar (Tabasco), his Lemurian replacement. The first thing he’d done was insist on making the local, ersatz coffee the way Matt “liked” it, and since Matt-or anyone-had never summoned the courage to tell the Filipino they hated his coffee, they were back to drinking what some described as “bilgewater and boiler soot” in the wardroom. At least they had Imperial tea now, and Juan was content to let Tabasco handle that.
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