Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  There was an uproar in the chamber, and Linnaa spoke above it. “Tell us this plan!” he demanded.

  Herring cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said to Adar, “in light of all we’ve discussed, particularly about secrecy, I think Captain Reddy’s plan should remain confidential for now.”

  Adar slowly nodded. “I am afraid I must agree,” he said. “I apologize for the tantalizing hint. Please put it out of your minds.”

  There was muttering, but no one pressed for more . . . yet.

  “Well,” said Bernie, “back to ‘explorers.’ What do we know of Silva’s—I mean, Mr. Cook’s—expedition north of the city to contact the indigenous feral Grik on Borno itself?” he asked.

  “Mr. Riggs?” Adar asked.

  “Communications are sporadic,” Riggs confessed. “It might be interference from the jungle or mountains, or deterioration of their comm gear. I understand they’re moving through some really crappy country. They have orders to turn back if they lose contact completely, but you know how well Silva follows orders—and he’ll likely get Cook to agree to push on regardless.” He shrugged. “That said, I’m not too worried. Silva can take care of himself, and he’s pretty good about including those around him in that blanket of . . .” He grinned. “Lethal defense.”

  “Why don’t we send Nancys to fly around where we think they are?” Ronson asked.

  “Mr. Cook suggested that aircraft buzzing about might incline the natives toward greater concern or even violence when or if they meet our friends,” Adar replied. “Remembering the first time I ever saw the old PBY land on Baalkpan Bay, I tend to agree with him.”

  “But surely they’ve seen planes flying around before,” Ronson persisted.

  “Almost certainly. We have mapped the region as best we can from the air, but the flyers and their observers have never seen any of the . . . ‘Injun Jungle Grik’ Mr. Silva described. It follows that they hide from aircraft and may fear them.”

  “I guess that makes sense. Moe told Silva that jungle hunters from Baalkpan have killed them on sight for so long that few others even knew about them. They’re liable to fear us—anybody from Baalkpan, flying or not.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Adar. “I never knew the creatures existed, and am confident that if the great Nakja-Mur knew of them, he considered them an almost mythical remnant of earlier times. Jungle hunters such as . . . the one called Moe had become rare before the War, before so much meat was needed to supply our armies and Navy—not to mention the expanding population of Baalkpan itself. Many new hunters scour the jungles now, and there have been reports of . . . contact between our people and these Grik-like beings. Some of those contacts have been violent.” Adar blinked regretfully. Then he blinked irony. “Ultimately, if not for the peaceful outcome of Mr. Silva’s meeting with the creatures, I never would have agreed to the expedition in the first place.”

  The conference continued a while longer, but finally dispersed. Alan Letts had the sense that it was a dissatisfied group that left the War Room and was pretty sure it had most to do with this new policy of secrecy. The People were used to openness, and keeping secrets left them feeling slightly dishonest. More importantly, they wanted to know everything that was going on, and Letts could understand that. He did too—and wasn’t sure why he felt a little weird leaving the Great Hall to join his wife and daughter for supper while Bernie Sandison remained behind with Adar and Commander Herring. Doubtless they had more questions about Bernie’s new ordnance schemes, questions he and Bernie had already discussed at length. But Alan couldn’t completely forget it.

  A few things at Ordnance weren’t adding up, like what exactly some of its people and equipment were doing. Logistics was Alan’s job, and he knew Bernie had more people working for him than were ever at the shops and mills. The thing was, Bernie had a lot of shops and mills, and a lot of projects going on. Alan might be wrong, but he didn’t think so. If he wasn’t, what difference did it make? Bernie was doing good work, and if he had an extra project or two lying around that he hadn’t reported—maybe out of fear of another very public failure—was it really Alan’s concern? Yes. When Alan suddenly became responsible, a transition from his old self to the new, as clear as their passage to this earth from the old, he’d jumped in with both feet. If Bernie was up to something he didn’t know about, he needed to find out what it was. Tomorrow, he decided. It had been a long day—they all were lately—and right now he was going home to his wife and daughter. Bernie would keep until tomorrow.

  Alan walked along the bustling, muddy pathway leading down to the shipyard. The relatively elegant quarters he inhabited with his wife, Karen, former Navy nurse and acting Minister of Medicine in Sandra’s absence, and daughter, Allison Verdia, no longer stood alone. There were other married officers now—mostly Lemurians, certainly, but a few of the first surviving destroyermen had gotten hitched to ex-pat Impie gals that had streamed into the city for a while to escape the institution of indenture. The Impie gals were almost all lithe, dusky-skinned beauties, even if they had a tendency toward plumpness in later years, and there were more human infants in Baalkpan now. Almost all the married women, and quite a few unmarried ones, bulged with child, and Alan foresaw an explosion in the human population of Baalkpan. He chuckled. He was a lucky man to have caught Karen Theimer when there were only a few known women in the world, but with the “dame famine” broken, a little money in their pockets, and a real war to occupy their thoughts, many of his old comrades had quickly reverted to the lifestyle they’d loved and lost in the Philippines.

  Alan decided to go down to the shipyard proper and have a look around. The shipyard was a mass of noise and motion. Smoke and steam streamed skyward from boilers that powered engines in the big cranes and heavy machinery. Masts and smokestacks jutted everywhere, and yelling ’Cats heaved on taglines as heavy timbers, steel plates, guns, deck machinery, even engines were shifted about, raised, lowered, or mounted in place. At the moment, he was most interested in the new construction or alterations underway, and he moved to a pair of floating dry docks that occupied a long stretch of the pier.

  Yellow-hot rivets arced through the air from furnaces situated almost everywhere, to be expertly caught in tin scoops by ’Cats or Impie women high on scaffolds. Tongs fished the rivets out and drove them into holes, where ’Cats with heavy mauls waited to pound them home. It was a scene Alan had witnessed many times, wherever he’d been during his relatively short Navy career, but to see it here now gave him a proud, but almost wistful sense of nostalgic unreality. Industry—and life—had been so simple here just a few short years before, but he realized that had been an illusion as well. An inexorable force had been gathering in the West to exterminate all these people. Walker’s—and Letts’s—arrival may have altered the culture, but the people still had a chance to be free—and survive. That would have to be enough, and Letts was proud he’d helped.

  The first ship Alan focused on was Irvin Laumer’s pet project: the conversion of S-19 into something “useful.” Even he had finally agreed there was no way the submarine could ever again be trusted to rise to the surface once she went underwater. She was just too complex and too badly damaged. Alan could still see the old boat beneath what she was becoming, but an untrained eye would scarcely recognize the sub. Right now Irvin was reconfiguring her hull to make a better, more stable sea boat. The pressure hull remained the foundation of the new vessel, but Irvin had raised her freeboard and increased her beam for a larger deck, while keeping her center of gravity low. The . . . thing ought to be fairly quick on its feet now they’d gutted all the stuff out of her that she didn’t need anymore, and both her diesels—and all four of her torpedo tubes—were operational. Alan still wasn’t sure how much good she’d be, and it probably would’ve been easier and made more sense to scrap her and start from scratch. But Irvin and some of his mixed human/’Cat crew had gone through so much to save her, the skipper had given him his head on the project. The trouble was, there was so mu
ch other construction underway that it was hard for Irvin to keep the workforce and materials he needed.

  Irvin’s most irritating rival for attention was the “wreck” of USS Mahan, right beside S-19 in the floating dry dock, and more fiery rivets arced in her direction. Mahan had been shattered during the Battle of Baalkpan, but her stern section, from amidships aft, had been raised relatively intact. The yard apes were almost finished building a new, shorter bow for the ship, and adjoining a new pilothouse with her amidships deckhouse. She’d have only two boilers and two stacks, but lighter, she might be just as fast. Her armament would remain essentially the same as before, and it was hoped she too could soon deliver Bernard Sandison’s torpedoes.

  What might have added insult to Laumer’s injury was that in another floating dry dock alongside, the keels and skeletons of two new, exact copies of Walker and Mahan had been laid. The Lemurian yard workers were intimately familiar with both ships now, having already rebuilt Walker almost from scratch. If anything, with their . . . different notions of shipbuilding, the two new four-stackers might even be better than the originals. There were still technical problems, like how to achieve the precision necessary for steam turbines, but the new destroyers would be cheap in materials while providing priceless shipbuilding experience—and, ultimately, powerful additions to the Allied fleet. There were even plans in the works to lay down an upsize version, like a four-stacker cruiser!

  Irvin Laumer might’ve taken it worse than he did, Alan supposed, his attention returning to the fair-haired officer directing the work aboard his old sub. He and S-19 were heroes, after all. What seemed to motivate him most, however, was that despite his adventures and his service as Maaka-Kakja’s exec during the fighting for New Ireland, he hadn’t really seen any action. Letts thought he knew how Laumer felt. Before he’d gone to the “pointy end” in the West for a while, he didn’t feel he’d really contributed much to the war effort. In Laumer’s case, though, Letts suspected the man still yearned to prove himself the equal of those who’d been in so many fights. Like them all, to an extent, Alan supposed, Irvin couldn’t help but feel he’d wound up on this world for a reason, and was somehow destined to do great things. Alan got that, but he’d realized his destiny was to support those at the front. Organization was just as important as troops in the field. But Laumer apparently couldn’t shake the sense that his destiny remained tied to S-19.

  Alan saw Irvin looking at him and waved. Laumer waved back a little self-consciously. Maybe he was wondering if Alan was there in his official capacity, comparing the progress on the various projects—and considering which ones to cut. Alan shook his head and moved along. Irvin was a good guy and had a lot of potential. He hoped S-19 was “worth” him—and wouldn’t get him killed for nothing.

  * * *

  “Speaking of secrets, what about the special weapons?” Adar asked almost hesitantly when he, Herring, Bernie, and Herring’s chief of staff, Lieutenant Henry Stokes, were alone in the War Room. Stokes had been a leading seaman on HMAS Perth on another world, but had been with Herring and a couple of China Marines when they came here. One Marine was with Silva now, but the other worked for Bernie in Ordnance.

  “The one is nearly ready to deploy,” Bernie replied nervously, “but there’re still major issues regarding delivery, and some really serious moral and practical implications to consider.” He shook his head. “The more I work with the stuff, the scarier it gets.” He looked accusingly at Adar. “Captain Reddy would not approve, and Mr. Bradford would go absolutely ape if he knew what we were cooking up.”

  “Cap-i-taan Reddy and Mr. Braad-furd are not here—and you work on this project in the capacity of Minister of Ordnance to the Grand Alliance, not a naval officer in the Amer-i-caan Clan. Besides, the weapon is not gaas, and that is what Cap-i-taan Reddy was specifically opposed to. Even then, he was not opposed to developing it, only using it—unless as a last resort.”

  “With respect, Mr. Chairman, this stuff’s worse than gas! A lot worse. If we turn it loose . . .” Bernie shook his head. “There may be no stopping it.”

  “It was well enough contained before,” Herring said dismissively.

  Bernie looked at the former Navy snoop and wished Adar hadn’t told the man. Bernie had sworn not to tell anyone, even Letts. Now Herring and this Stokes guy both knew. Bernie liked Stokes, but Herring bugged him. Maybe it was just his attitude?

  “That’s because it was isolated,” Bernie insisted. “You turn it loose on a continent and God knows where it’ll stop—if it ever does. Jeez.” He shook his head.

  “I understand how you feel, Mr. Saan-di-son,” Adar said softly, “and it will remain a weapon of last resort. You also have my word that I will never order it used without consulting Cap-i-taan Reddy, and even Mr. Braad-furd if possible. Cap-i-taan Reddy or someone under his command, within his clan, would almost certainly have to be involved in deploying it, at any rate, so his agreement and equal appreciation of the necessity would likely be essential. Do not concern yourself, Mr. Saan-di-son. You may discuss the project freely with Cap-i-taan Reddy when you see him. I only desired your secrecy for the same reasons we discussed earlier.”

  “But even from Mr. Letts? Do you really want him thinking he’s not trusted, Mr. Chairman? He knows something’s up; he’s not stupid. . . . And others have figured out at least as much as he has.”

  “Who?” Herring demanded.

  “Well, Silva for one. He smoked it out almost immediately. He was working with me in Ordnance before he left, and noticed some of our brighter bulbs wandering off in the woods toward the secure facility.”

  “Did he find out what you were doing there?”

  Bernie frowned at Herring and answered sarcastically. “No, and he didn’t much care. He asked if it was something he’d be interested in—and since he’s only really interested in doing personal, hot-blooded, honest violence, not this cold-blooded, remote, insidious—”

  “Mr. Saan-di-son,” Adar chided gently.

  “I told him no, and he believed me,” Bernie finished.

  Adar paused and looked at Herring. “We should have told Mr. Letts,” he said, then spread his hands, looking back at Bernie. “But I knew he would feel as strongly as you, and his . . . good opinion has become important to me, personally. Once the weapon is more near complete, I will tell him myself.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Letts is a young man, with a mate and new youngling. With his current duties and all he has seen, he has enough to trouble his sleep—if only for this short time longer.”

  “Besides,” said Herring, “as has been stated, the fewer who know, the fewer who might inadvertently reveal anything.”

  Bernie didn’t feel any better. As if Alan Letts would blow! If Herring knows, why not Alan? He was sharply tempted to tell Alan everything, and to hell with it—maybe just because Herring knew.

  “But that is not all I wished to discuss,” Adar continued. “What do you think of Cap-i-taan Reddy’s plan?” Bernie’s discomfort grew. Alan damn sure should’ve been here for this part.

  “The main objective of forcing the enemy to redeploy and thereby take some pressure off India is likely to work, but it’s risky,” Herring said.

  “He can’t do it alone either,” Bernie interjected. “He’ll have all the commandos, but what ships can he have?”

  “S-19 an’ Mahan might be ready by the time Cap’n Reddy gets here,” Stokes suggested in his Aussie twang, much more defined than Bradford’s.

  “Ahd-mi-raal Keje craves them for his operation against the Grik fleet at Maa-draas,” Adar pointed out. “More specifically, he craves the torpedoes they will carry.” He looked at Bernie’s fixed expression, and the former torpedo officer nodded.

  “They’ll be ready.”

  “But will they be needed there?” Herring mused. “Colonel Mallory’s plan might have the best, shorter-term chance of success.” He suddenly stood from his stool and began to pace. “Besides, as CINCWEST, Keje certainly had the need to know
of Captain Reddy’s proposed expedition, and now he craves even more for Salissa to accompany Walker on what he considers a masterstroke!” Herring snorted. “I’ve made no secret—among us—that I consider Reddy’s plan little more than a dangerous, possibly very wasteful stunt. The man is a gifted leader”—Herring almost sniffed—“and has been very lucky. But he is, after all, an amateur when it comes to strategic thinking.”

  Bernie’s face clouded, but Herring resumed before he could speak. “That said, and as I’ve said before, the ‘stunt’ might very well have the desired effect. To succeed, Reddy will need sufficient forces to deal with whatever he may encounter. Salissa is now, frankly, our least capable carrier, particularly considering her projected state of repair. She’s the best choice to provide Captain Reddy with the more limited air cover his task force should require.”

  Adar nodded thoughtfully. “The assignment would please Keje for a number of reasons, but who will then command First Fleet for the Indi-aa campaign?”

  “James Ellis would seem the best choice, as Captain Reddy proposed,” Herring said. “I’m sure his broken jaw is painful, but it doesn’t seem to have slowed him down.” He straightened. “And he’s an Annapolis man.”

  “So’s the Skipper,” Bernie almost snapped. “So am I. What difference does that make here?”

  “Maybe none,” Herring said insincerely. He looked at Adar. “We really need a naval academy of our own, you know.” He blinked humility, as he’d learned to do. “I’d be willing to organize it, somewhat along the lines of the Advanced Training Centers here and on Maara-vella.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Bernie muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. “Walker’s served pretty well as an ‘academy’ so far. Many of our best skippers started as cadets aboard her or Mahan.”