Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Her Excellency the Ambassador Sister Audry begs an audience with Her Majesty on behalf of the western members of the Grand Alliance.”

  “Afternoon, Sergeant Koratin,” one of the men replied. “Afternoon, Yer Excellency,” he added neutrally. “Her Majesty ain’t got back yet. Ought’a be here d’rectly. I figger it’s over by now.”

  “Where has she gone?” Sister Audry asked.

  “To the hanging, Your Excellency,” Koratin himself answered her. “The hanging of her parents’ murderer, Lord High Admiral James McClain.”

  Their escort deposited Audry’s things on the porch, and Koratin dismissed them. Then, for a while, he and Audry just sat there and waited. One of the guards summoned refreshments, and they drank chilled tea in silence. There was a commotion on the street beyond the lawn, and a squad of mounted guards clattered up, leading an ornate coach. Behind it were more armed riders, and they all drew to a halt opposite the porch. A footman leaped down from the back of the coach and opened the door, even as half the guard dismounted and formed a cordon around it. Other guardsmen tramped out from the house, across the porch, and assumed their place in ranks staring outward.

  “My,” Audry whispered.

  “The precautions are necessary,” Koratin insisted. “And Factor Bates—you remember him as Mr. O’Casey—is very serious about them, despite the young lady’s protests.”

  “I see.” Audry stood and moved forward to greet the approaching figures. She barely recognized Rebecca in her naval dress, but Sean looked much the same except for his fine clothes. There was a little gray in his magnificent mustache, but he hadn’t changed otherwise. “My dear Rebecca!” Audry said, accelerating toward the girl, arms outstretched. A guard stepped in front of her, but Bates physically pushed him back in place.

  “Och, let the lass through! She’s a particular friend o’ the Empress!”

  Audry grabbed Rebecca’s hands in hers and stood staring searchingly at the girl. “I have so ached for this meeting,” she exclaimed.

  Rebecca’s features softened, but she didn’t step into the embrace that Audry expected. “As have I,” she said quietly, almost shyly. “I’m so glad you’re here. Let us step inside, to my father’s library. There is much to discuss.”

  In the library, the Governor-Empress invited them to sit and told yet another guard to pass the word for Mrs. Carr to bring more tea. Mrs. Carr had been a fixture at the New Scotland Government House as long as anyone could remember. In some ways, she was similar to Juan Marcos, the Filipino steward who’d carved out such an unassailable position of moral superiority aboard Walker. Utterly unlike Juan, however, she was large and matronly, and spoke very little. She was the household cook, maid to the Imperial family, and had been Rebecca’s nanny when she was very young. She remained her body servant, and had very definite notions about propriety. Of all the inner circle Rebecca trusted completely, Mrs. Carr was likely the only one who disapproved of the reforms she’d enacted. There was no question of her loyalty, but despite her usual silence, she still managed to radiate her opinions quite effectively. She did so now when she entered the chamber and poured tea for Rebecca and her guests, lingering a moment longer than necessary at Audry’s side. But her frowns and sighs were all apparently aimed at Sergeant Koratin and Factor Bates. Both were used to her and ignored the nonverbal admonishments.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carr. That will be all for now,” Rebecca said quietly. Without actually huffing, the large woman stepped from the room and closed the door behind her. Bates rolled his eyes, and for the first time, Audry saw the faintest flicker of genuine amusement cross Rebecca’s face. The girl turned to Audry. “To business. As I said, I’m happy you’re here, and I do apologize for not meeting you myself.” She grimaced. “It has been a most unpleasant day, in some respects.”

  “Damned pleasant for me, Your Majesty,” Bates said. “I heartily enjoyed watchin’ the traitorous b . . .” He cleared his throat. “Divil’s face when ye made yer proclamation.” He grinned. “An watchin’ ’im drop through the trap shortly after was a relief as well. I feel much more comfortable with Lord McClain’s dead corp molderin’ in the sod, where he can cause no further mischief.”

  Rebecca took a long breath, her small nostrils flaring. “Quite,” she agreed. “Now, Sister Audry, what news?”

  Audry smiled tentatively at the child. “I’m sure you know more of the war than I, in the East and West, but I’ve brought some personal letters from your friends. I have them in my baggage. All but this one,” she reached into her handbag and produced a folded, tied sheaf of papers, and handed them over. “Young Lieutenant Cook begged me to give you this the moment I saw you, and I promised. He was preparing for an expedition into the heart of Borno at the time.” She saw concern flash across Rebecca’s face. “Never fear. That monstrous brute Dennis Silva was to accompany him. He promised me that no harm would come to the lad! He also asked me to give you a, um, ‘double-barreled squeeze’ for him.”

  For just an instant, Rebecca’s eyes seemed to mist over, but she dashed a hand across them and forced a brittle smile. “Thank you, Sister Audry.” She laid the letter aside. “But now, what is the situation—as you see it—on New Ireland? What of the Dom prisoners? Can they ever be truly human? Can we even trust the populace there, particularly those that rose in support of the Doms?”

  “I’ve learned much, Your Majesty, and confirmed much we already suspected. The Doms are not Catholic at all. They’ve embraced some of the trappings, but there is otherwise almost no similarity. The civilians of New Ireland, many of them, are rather Catholic, I believe, and did not embrace the Doms as much as they hoped to use them to further their own cause of independence.” She shook her head. “Although I’m sure they didn’t want independence nearly as much as they wanted religious equality. They were duped by the appearance of Catholicism the Doms project, and most fought alongside our troops to destroy them in the end. You’ve nothing to fear from them that you cannot cure with leniency. As for the Doms themselves,” she sighed. “Some are not human. Many of their officers in particular can never be brought to see the light, nor can the few elite ‘blood drinkers’ that were captured alive. I’ve never seen such fanaticism before, except perhaps among the Grik, and I fear their sect, or whatever it is, will cause great suffering when our forces invade their homeland.” She paused. “As for the rank-and-file Dom troops, I do hold out great hope. They are not as mad as the others, and the skillful and most imaginative way that Mr. Silva slew their leader was not supposed to be possible. That act in itself sowed fertile seeds among them that their faith might be misguided.” She chuckled. “Once again, our inimitable and inestimable Mr. Silva may have found himself the coarsest of tools in the hand of God.”

  Even Rebecca laughed in delight, and Bates grinned at that. Koratin merely blinked sour amusement.

  “In any event,” Audry continued, “perhaps a thousand prisoners volunteered to hear the untainted word”—she glanced down shyly—“and I spoke a sermon as best I could. Several, in fact. I left chaplains among them, Lemurian, and those who preach the true Catholic and English faiths. As you know, a common thread binds all three, and I didn’t see the harm.”

  “You did well,” Rebecca assured her, “and I shall be more inclusive toward our Catholic subjects. After the decree I made today, how could I not?” She smiled at Audry’s curious stare. “I will tell you all about it, but I suppose only time will tell what we must ultimately do with our prisoners.”

  “We may enlist a few, eventually,” Bates said thoughtfully. He glanced around at the stunned expressions. “Aye. What’d ye do if ye discovered all the sufferin’ in yer land, an’ that which ye’d heaped on others was based on a horrible, nasty lie? Would ye nae try ta’ put a end to it, as we ha’ done ourselves?”

  CHAPTER

  14

  ////// USS Walker

  April 16, 1944

  F or five days, USS Walker had steamed carefully south, avoiding the number
less Fil-pin islands to the east, across the treacherous depths of the Sulu Sea, then west-southwest along the Sulu Archipelago. Finally, she turned south to cross the equally dangerous Saa-leebs Sea, pounding the depths with her sonar to discourage the monstrous but sound-sensitive denizens lurking there. By the time she steered southwest into the Makassar Strait, even Earl and Isak were more resigned to the superficial newness of their ship, and, weird as they were, they couldn’t completely resist the sense of excitement animating the rest of the crew. At long last, after all they’d endured, through battles and storms across uncounted thousands of miles that many of Walker’s Lemurians once hadn’t believed possible to cross or even exist upon, the old destroyer passed beneath the formidable defenses of Fort Atkinson and reentered her home port of Baalkpan Bay.

  Matt was on the bridge with Sandra, Spanky, Gray, Courtney Bradford, and Tabby, and with the strangely more-than-essential watch standers present, the pilothouse was crowded. Both wings were packed, and most of Walker’s officers and new POs had found some vantage point from which to view the busy harbor so stunningly different from how they remembered it. The fire-control platform, amidships deckhouse, and aft deckhouse were packed with gawkers, and whatever crew could find a pretext to be on deck lined the rails.

  Baalkpan Bay had always been a busy seaport, but the activity, structures, and sheer volume of shipping both moored and moving within its confines had increased exponentially. Matt was both elated and a little saddened by the sight. It clearly indicated that their adopted home was all in for the war effort, and the combat power, supporting infrastructure, and industrial might he saw encouraged him in the face of the increasingly global war forced upon them. At the same time, his mind’s eye poignantly reminded him what Baalkpan looked like when his battered, war-weary ship arrived there the very first time, in company with a savagely mauled Big Sal just two short years before. The place had been busy then, but happily so, and there hadn’t been the least warlike aspect to any endeavor in view. The innocent, inherent peacefulness of Baalkpan was gone, perhaps forever, and if Matt and his people weren’t to blame for that, they’d certainly facilitated it.

  “It ain’t our fault, Skipper,” Gray grumbled, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s the Grik’s. They were comin’ if we were here or not. Nobody here would even be alive if we hadn’t showed up.”

  “He’s right, of course,” Courtney said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “But it doesn’t make the sense of it all any easier to swallow.”

  “I don’t know what you all upset for,” Tabby scoffed. “Baalkpan’s different, sure. Not as pretty either. I always thought it was pretty here, when my Home come to visit. But it’s still here, an’ that’s to be proud of, not so sad.”

  “Yep,” agreed Spanky around a mouthful of the yellowish tobacco leaves. “Personally, I’m fairly proud to be alive instead of the swarms of Grik we’ve shoveled into hell, and if Baalkpan had to quit bein’ such a vacation retreat so we—and everybody here—can say that, I got no regrets.” He glanced at Gray. “I don’t know about Chief Bashear, but I know your notions of entering port were never so lax.” He nodded meaningfully at the throng down on the fo’c’sle.

  Gray grunted, but just then a bosun’s pipe squealed and its call was taken up by whistles the ’Cats could manage. As usual, Petey was draped across the back of Sandra’s neck, and he tensed at the commotion. “Goddam!” he practically mumbled, apparently aware that shrieks of any sort on the bridge drew more attention than he wanted. Almost reluctantly at first, but with increasing purpose as Chief Bosun Carl Bashear’s nasal but forceful voice mounted, the crew of USS Walker scampered to line the rails more properly.

  “The main battery will stand by to salute the flag of the Grand Alliance,” Matt commanded. The newest “stainless banner” had changed a little, but only in ornamentation. It was a gold-edged field of white, with a circle of stylized gold and green trees representing its member Homes, or states. All surrounded a gold-edged blue star signifying the Amer-i-caan Naa-vy clan that brought them all together. All clans were considered equal, but the Navy clan—Matt’s (which included the Marines)—was the only one composed of every clan and that, despite its losses, continued to grow.

  “All guns crews report maanned an’ ready to fire salute,” Minnie, the talker, announced a few minutes later.

  “Very well. Stand by,” Matt replied. He paused. “Have Mr. Campeti acknowledge that all guns will fire five salvos, except number one, which will fire six.”

  Spanky looked at him strangely. Twenty-one guns were usually reserved for entering a foreign port.

  “What’s that about?” Sandra asked.

  “Just a subtle hint to Adar that even united, the Alliance still consists of sovereign clans—and the Navy’s mine.” He shrugged. “I doubt he’ll even catch it, and, besides, it’ll show we’re glad to be home!”

  “Oh, he’ll catch it!” Gray murmured to Courtney, who glanced at Matt, concerned.

  Walker had already steamed past the oldest, most prominent part of Fort Atkinson, but the fort had been enlarged all the way to the high, reinforced berm protecting the southern part of the city itself. Matt was waiting until the salute would carry to the greatest number of people ashore. “Commence firing,” he said at last.

  Five perfect salvos boomed out from Walker’s four main guns, then number one added a single shot. Almost immediately, every gun along the Baalkpan waterfront thundered out, one after the other, and the answering salute went on and on. Matt started to grin when the number passed their own, and didn’t end until more than seventy great guns had choked the harbor with dense white smoke.

  “Don’t you feel just a bit petty now, Captain Reddy?” Courtney sniffed.

  “No. Even if I wasn’t making a point, seventy-odd rounds would have emptied our magazines.” He chuckled. “Not much point in bringing a full load of the new shells back here from the Fil-pin Lands! I’m glad everybody seems happy to see us, though.”

  Walker slowed to a crawl as fishing feluccas jockeyed near, and every manner of small craft from steam barges to motor launches paced her progress. All were filled with excited ’Cats, ex-pat Impie women, and even a few teary-eyed members of her original crew who’d remained behind, running various industries and projects. They approached the same dock they’d tied up to after their first arrival in Baalkpan, the one that served the waterfront bazaar that remained the most familiar aspect of the city. It was bigger now, expanded to accommodate the growing population, but just as boisterous and colorful as the first time Matt laid eyes on it. The bazaar endured as an island of normalcy in the surrounding sea of change. And such change! The city had surely quadrupled in size, mostly with the addition of massive warehouses and factory buildings backing the expanded docks, repair slips, and fitting-out piers. Yet another mighty aircraft carrier was rising in the huge dry dock, and half a dozen floating dry docks, festooned with cranes, were building other ships. Walker had just missed the newest carrier, Baalkpan Bay, and her battle group including the rebuilt Santa Catalina. They’d sailed to join First Fleet just a few days before. Nancys from one of the patrol wings swooped and sported over the bay, joined by a few of the new P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or Fleashooters, that no one on Walker had ever seen.

  Bashear’s bosun’s pipe twittered, calling the sea-and-anchor detail as the ship inched toward the dock. Lines were thrown to handlers, and the cheering throng redoubled their voices when Walker’s whistle sounded, deep and exuberant, amid a cloud of steam. Matt turned to Sandra and squeezed her hand. “Home, I guess,” he said with a wry smile.

  Sandra squeezed back. “Home,” she agreed more forcefully.

  “Captain Reddy,” came Juan’s voice from behind. “Your best uniform is ready.” He looked at Sandra. “An’ your Miss Diania has prepared yours as well.” He sniffed. “I helped her, but she is learning.”

  “What about my fancy duds?” Gray demanded.

  Juan looked at the Super Bosun down his lo
ng nose. “I believe that chore has been accomplished,” he said a bit coldly. “Though I cannot say for certain.” He waved a hand. “I passed the word that you desired it done.” He smiled at Spanky. “Yours are ready as well, Mr. McFarlane, as are Mr. Campeti’s.” He looked back at Gray. “I saw to it myself.”

  There was good-natured laughing while Gray grumbled.

  “And what of my things?” Courtney asked eagerly.

  “I did my best to brush and press that bizarre . . . Imperial costume you presented to me,” Juan replied in a long-suffering tone, “but I cannot answer for the results.” He sighed dramatically. “Such oddly placed seams! And the shoulders are quite ridiculous.” He paused, peering hard at Bradford. “Was that . . . thing . . . truly a cravat? Why can’t you just wear a proper uniform like everyone else?”

  “Because I’m not in the Navy, my dear Mr. Marcos!” Courtney replied cheerfully. “And that cravat, for indeed it is one, most likely saved my life. I will wear it—loosely in this climate—for no other reason than that.” He looked down his own stubby nose. “And the ensemble you so haughtily term a costume is the height of fashion in New London. No doubt it will be all the rage here soon enough!”

  CHAPTER

  15

  ////// Baalkpan

  T raditionally, visiting High Chiefs went to the Great Hall to call on the High Chief of Baalkpan, but Adar and his personal staff were waiting on the dock when Matt, Sandra, Courtney, and Chief Gray came ashore.

  “Cap-i-taan Reddy!” Adar greeted enthusiastically, moving through the happy crowd to stand before them. He embraced Matt and Sandra, then Courtney in turn. As usual, Gray backed away before he could be hugged, but Adar didn’t mind. He stepped back to look at them. “I am joyful to see you!” Others followed Adar through the gap he’d made. Ambassador Forester was there, as was Major Jindal in his immaculate Imperial Marine dress. Chack and his sister, Captain Risa-Sab-At, were an even more impressive (and welcome) sight in their blue kilts and spotless white armor. Then there was Alan Letts with his peeling, boyish face; Perry Brister; Steve Riggs; Ronson Rodriguez with his bald scalp and Pancho Villa mustache; Bernie Sandison, dark haired, reticent. All were a sight for sore eyes, and all saluted crisply. Matt returned the salutes and happily shook hands all around. These people were like family to him now, and he’d missed them more than he’d realized.