Maelstrom

by Taylor Anderson

  “Right! They’re what it’s after! I’m not telling Captain Reddy I let you stand here and catch a Jap bomb!” Sandra was torn. She knew she’d be needed here if the plane inflicted any damage, but if she were dead . . . She made up her mind, and in an instant she was running beside Alan as fast as she could, the engine sound growing louder by the moment.

  “Run!” Letts gasped, as the two machine guns on the starboard side of the ship opened up. Many Lemurians were just standing and staring, and Letts and Sandra screamed at them to take cover. They made it under the bombproof and turned to look just as the plane roared over the moored destroyer. Plumes of spray were subsiding where the plane’s bullets had struck the water, and a dark object was falling toward the ship. A huge geyser erupted just short of Mahan, and the harbor resonated with a thunderclap roar. The plane pulled up, poorly aimed tracers chasing it, and banked hard left, to the north. All they could do was watch while it slowly turned and steadied for another pass, this time clearly intending to strafe and bomb the ship from aft forward. Bullets kicked up white bushes of spray, and whranged off the steel of the motionless ship. There were a few screams. Mahan seemed helpless, but at the last instant the plane staggered slightly, perhaps from a hit, and steadied on a different course: toward the PBY and ultimately directly at Sandra, Letts, and the others who’d taken refuge with ere just samned if I know. Hey, you monkeys!” he shouted. “Off your asses! Anybody that ain’t dead, fall in!” The workers struggled to their feet, still coughing and gasping, leaving several on the ground who were either too badly wounded or would never rise again. Sandra surveyed the scene.

  “Get some first aid started here!” she instructed. “Corpsmen are on the way.” With that she hurried into the smoke, closer to where the second bomb had struck, knowing there’d be more injured there. They couldn’t see Mahan through the smoke, but her general alarm was still echoing across the water.

  Mallory sighed and pointed at a group of five guardsmen who seemed relatively fit. “Well, don’t just stand there; go with her! The rest of you goons check your buddies.” He glanced at Ed and saw him staring at the fire as though stricken.

  “God a’mighty,” Ed whispered numbly.

  “What now?”

  Ed pointed at the fire, then fell to his knees in the sand in apparent desolation.

  “What?”

  “The radio shack,” he whispered. “It’s . . . gone.”

  All the top military and administrative personnel in Baalkpan had gathered in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, summoned by the rockets—when word got around what they meant—and the attack, of course. Heavy rain still pounded the ceiling high above, and there was a cool, damp, but refreshing draft in the place. Combined with the general gloom of the few guttering lamps, the drab evening light from the open shutters, and the events of the day, however, the comparative cool served little to temper the prevailing sense of anxiety. Old Naga might have helped; part of the High Sky Priest’s job was to administer to the spiritual needs of his flock, but all he did was sit by himself, chanting a nonsensical lamentation. It was inappropriate for any other Sky Priest or acolyte to speak without invitation while Naga was present. Adar could have—he’d practically been designated Naga’s successor—but Adar wasn’t there.

  All the “battle line” commanders were there, the High Chiefs of the few seagoing Homes of the alliance. Jarrik-Fas represented Salissa in Keje’s stead. Lord Muln Rolak commanded the third-largest infantry force, that of the displaced Aryaalans, but with Alden and Queen Maraan missing, and everyone else away, Rolak was the senior general. He couldn’t hold still. Safir Maraan had been queen of his people’s bitterest foe, and Aryaal had been at war with B’mbaado before the Grik came. Since then, however, he’d developed an intense fondness for the Orphan Queen. He thought of her almost as a granddaughter now—but more than that, as well. They’d fought side by side in the fiercest battle the world had ever known, and he couldn’t bear the thought that she might have fallen into enemy hands. So he paced.

  Commander Ellis had just arrived, soaked to the bone, his uniform badly stained from many hours overseeing repairs to the damage the near miss had caused his ship. He looked exhausted. He joined Ben Mallory and Ed Palmer, as well as Lieutenant Riggs and Lieutenant Commander Brister, who’d just arrived from Fort Atkinson. Alan Letts and Lieutenant Bernard Sandison, Walker’s torre the High Chief of Baalkpan reclined, eyes darting pensively at the uproar caused by the conversations of his other advisors. None of the “principals” had spoken yet; they were waiting for another to arrive.

  When Lieutenant Greg Garrett limped in, leaning on a crutch, attended by Sandra Tucker, Karen Theimer, and Keje’s daughter, Selass, he was freshly shaven, and his uniform, while damp, was as crisp as he could make it, given the dingy spots where soot, powder fouling, and blood had been scrubbed away. His narrow, handsome face was pale and drawn, and he looked . . . miserable. Letts had ordered him to stop by the hospital for a checkup before appearing in person. The gist of his story was in the report he’d already submitted by courier as soon as he dropped anchor, however: a report that had spread like wildfire. Letts and Ellis crossed to him, assuring him by their solicitude that they didn’t blame him for what happened, but it was clear that, no matter what they said, he blamed himself.

  Nakja-Mur didn’t stir from his seat. He felt no bitterness toward the young officer, nor did he blame him in any way, but so many new worries had been added to his endless list that day, he didn’t trust himself to stand. Besides, ever since battered Donaghey entered the bay on a weak, sodden breeze, and the rockets soared into the sky—and then they heard the report of the explosions down at the shipyard and saw the Japanese plane soaring unimpeded over his city—he’d felt a strange tightening in his chest. Now they had some hard choices to make, choices that might lead to disaster. As much as he trusted his current human and Lemurian advisors—his friends, he felt—none of the “steadier heads”—Captain Reddy, Keje, Adar, Alden, even Chief Gray and the Japanese officer, Shinya, the ones who’d always been there for him in the past—were there. Oh, what a terrible stroke of ill luck! He almost wished the Japanese bomb had struck the ship or the plane instead of the priceless radio!

  “Is the raa-di-o truly beyond repair?” he asked almost plaintively, silencing the hubbub around them.

  “I’m afraid so,” Palmer replied woodenly. “Everything’s gone, even the batteries.”

  “We lost nineteen people too,” Sandra added harshly, putting things in perspective. “And it could have been a lot worse.”

  Nakja-Mur nodded to her, acknowledging the hit. He visibly straightened himself. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. He had to set an example. “Of course. While I grieve for the families of the lost, I am grateful it was not worse. I only needed to hear the words myself. In the ‘bigger picture,’ as Captain Reddy would say, the loss of the raa-di-o is surely a straa-tee-jik setback.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Letts asked remorselessly. “I’ll sum it up. Two of our most important leaders are marooned, at best, behind enemy lines. . . .” Garrett flinched, and Alan looked at him apologetically. “It’s not your fault, Greg; it’s theirs. Damned silly heroics. Besides, you handled your ship superbly, not only in battle, but by getting her back here so quickly in the shape she’s in, with such important information. My God, Grik with cannon! But the fact remains, we’ve left some very important people behind. If we can’t get Queen Maraan out, at the very least it’ll clobber the morale of her subjects here—who, I might add, constitute over a quarter of our cad rst thing we must contemplate!” Rolak demanded hotly, still pacing back and forth.

  “I agree. But we’ve got to figure out how, and we’ve got some other angles to consider. First, though, how.” He turned back to Garrett. “What shape’s Donaghey in?”

  “Not good,” Garrett admitted grudgingly. “Her stern was battered in by the explosion, and besides the loss of her mizzen, her top hamper’s a mess. We repaired a lo
t, and jury-rigged more, but it’ll take several days, at least, of intensive effort by the yard to accomplish the bare essentials—such as replacing the mast and stopping all her leaks.”

  Letts nodded somberly. “The next two frigates are nearing completion, but neither is ready for sea. The yard manager says he needs another week—and repairs to Donaghey’ll set that back. The rest of the ‘fleet’ of captured Grik ships is either still undergoing alteration and arming, or is scattered all over the place. Only Felts is in port, taking on more supplies for the Tarakan expedition. The Homes of the battle line are certainly powerful enough to face however many cannon-armed ships the Grik might have so far, but they’re just too slow.”

  Nakja-Mur listened while Letts spoke, and honestly wondered if anything they did at this point would make any difference. But they had to do something. He heard the American discussing all the possibilities and discarding them in turn, just as he already had in his mind. There really was only one choice, but he waited diplomatically until the others came to the same conclusion.

  “We’ll have to use Mahan.” Ellis sighed at last.

  Sandra pounced. “Two things wrong with that,” she said. “First, can she even do it? What kind of damage did she sustain today?”

  “Two dead, and seven wounded by machine-gun fire.” Ellis looked at Selass. “Saak-Fas was one of the wounded, but only lightly,” he added with compassion. “He’s already returned to duty. Damage to the ship consists of a few sprung plates from the near miss. Maybe some cracked firebricks in the number two boiler. We’ve already shored up the plates and welded them, and shut down number two. If the bricks are damaged, we’ll have them replaced and be ready to steam by morning. We can take on fuel and supplies and be underway by the morning after that, I believe.”

  “You’ve still only got one propeller,” Sandra pointed out. That was true. They’d tried to cast another to replace the one Walker had “commandeered,” but the first attempt had been hopelessly out of balance. They were working on another, but it would be some time before they were even ready to pour it.

  “That’s right,” Ellis agreed, “but Mahan’s still faster than anything she’ll meet, by a long shot.”

  “Maybe, but there’s still the other consideration: Matt . . . Captain Reddy left strict orders that Mahan not do anything remotely like you’re considering. He has a plan for the defense of this place, when the time comes, and that plan not only includes Mahan; she’s essential to its success. Desp. I am bound to obey his orders more closely than anyone. He holds my life, my very honor, in his grasp, and can do with it what he will. But he is not here, and we must deal with this situation in his stead. Knowing him as I do, I am positive he would bless this course since it is our only option—and it is a thing that must be done. Knowing him as you do, I am equally positive you must agree.”

  Sandra slowly wilted under Rolak’s intense gaze, and finally she nodded. “You’re right, of course.” She sighed. “I only wish we could tell him. It’ll be days before he starts to wonder why we haven’t made our daily comm check. Even then he won’t worry, not for a while. We’ve missed it before due to bad weather or atmospherics.” She looked at Riggs and he nodded confirmation.

  “She’s right,” he said. “And even when he does start to wonder, he won’t have any reason to be alarmed. Everything was fine when we made our last report, and he knows we’d have days of warning, at least, if the Grik were on the move. He’ll just think the radio’s busted”—he snorted—“which it is. But that might not mean we can’t get in touch with him.” The hall grew silent, and he had everyone’s attention. “As you know, Radioman Clancy is with Walker, but he, Ed, and I have been working on simple crystal receivers. There’s not much to them, really, and we’ve got all the stuff we need to make a few. We located some galena for the crystals, which is good, but we could have done it by mixing powdered sulfur with lead. They’re passive receivers and don’t even require batteries. Just a little copper wire and a headset—or we might even try building some simple speakers. That won’t help us right now, although they’ll come in handy, but I think we can put together a simple spark-gap transmitter that might reach the captain. We’ll need stuff: lots of wire, for example, and power, of course. Mahan ’s generator would do nicely, but since she won’t be here . . . I think we can make some wet-cell batteries. Lead acid. I’m pretty sure we can do it, and it shouldn’t take much time.”

  “How much time?” Letts asked.

  “We should have done it already,” Riggs admitted. “We’ve all just been so busy, and we had a good radio. . . . I’ve been so occupied building the semaphore towers and training the operators. . . .” He shook his head. “No excuse. A week or so, I guess. We’ll have to make everything from scratch.”

  Letts looked at Nakja-Mur. “Highest priority,” he said. “Use whoever and whatever you need.”

  “So I guess it’s settled, then,” Ellis said, rubbing his scalp. “We go. What have you got for me, Bernie?”

  The dark-haired torpedo officer’s eyebrows rose, and he took a deep breath. “Not as much as I’d like. We’ve got twenty of the new projectiles cast, turned, and loaded in shells for the four inch-fifties, but we’re just now gearing up to manufacture the primers, so that’s it. The primers have been the hardest part, actually. Up till now we’ve had to make them one at a time, with a swage, and a stamp to make the anvil—not to mention some very dangerous experimentation with fulminate of mercury. We’ve got that sorted out now, but it’ll be another three or four days before I can get you more.” Ellis was shaking his head. “I know, too late. But . . . at least you’ll have a few to test . . . if you need them. Remember, though, they’re just solid copper bolts, no explosive, and they’re loaded with black powder, so the fire control compu all the recipes and procedures—but it’s tricky stuff, and we haven’t finished making the things to make it with, if you know what I mean. The reloads should work fine against wooden ships in local control, though. They ought to shoot through and through. Sorry, that’s all I’ve got. Obviously we’ve been working on other stuff, but nothing’s ready yet.”

  “What about the torpedo? Should I take it?” The only torpedo they had left, between Walker and Mahan, was an old MK-10 submarine torpedo Bernie had salvaged from a shack in bombed-out Surabaya before they abandoned it in their own world. He’d thought it was damaged somehow, since it was with others that were condemned. After exhaustive inspection, he’d determined there was nothing wrong with it after all.

  “No,” Letts decided. “The captain has plans for that fish. We have no real reason to suspect Amagi’s ready to move, and that’s the only thing you’d have any business shooting it at. Besides, it might get damaged. The torpedo stays here.” Ellis nodded agreement, and Letts looked around at the others. “So I guess it’s settled then—except for the other ‘angles’ I mentioned at the start.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like that plane didn’t get here by itself,” Mallory interrupted with absolute certainty. “It was a ‘Dave,’ just like the one we tangled with, and it doesn’t have the legs to make a trip all the way from Aryaal and back. They must have rendezvoused with at least one, and probably two ships, to refuel on the way. They’ll still be out there, and I bet they’re the armed ones that showed up when Greg tried to go back for Pete and the queen.”

  “Grik always travel in threes,” Ellis said, pondering. “Maybe we can catch them and destroy them on the way back to Aryaal. Maybe even get the plane, if it was damaged.”

  “That would be ideal,” agreed Letts, “because otherwise they’re going to know all about our defensive arrangements. Maybe they’ll think they got the plane and the ship, which might be good, but maybe they won’t. Regardless, they’ll have a good idea what they’ll face when they come.”

  “I fear the events of the last week, the attack on Donaghey, and the destructive scout mission, proves they will come soon. Sooner than we planned,” Nakja-Mur interjected. “Why else should
they do those things now? Why not wait until they are ready—unless they already are?”

  “Well, we need to know that too,” Letts agreed. He looked at Ben. “How soon can you fly?”

  Ben was exhausted and hurting, and his brain wasn’t working right, so it took him longer than usual to form a reply. “Uh, we can have the starboard engine reassembled in a day. Another day or two to install it and check it out . . . No sense putting the cowl back on; shredded as it is, it’ll drag worse than the motor.” He fell silent again, contemplating. Finally he sighed. “Three days, if we have plenty of help and everything works. We still need something for a windscreen, though.” He looked speculatively at Ellis. “Maybe some of Mahan’s spare window glass?”

  “Very well,” said Letts, realizing he was treading on another of Captain Reddy’s orders: never fly the plane without established communications. Nothing for it. 1 Amagi and the Grik fleet are up to, and head straight back. Can you do it?”

  Ben shrugged. “It’ll probably be the roughest flight of my life, but we should still be able to go higher than they can shoot. Yeah, provided the wings don’t fold up on us.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll do. In the meantime, Felts sails tomorrow, whether Clark’s ready or not. He’ll warn Tarakan, in case those three Grik ships didn’t head back to the barn, and then proceed to Manila. If we can’t get a transmitter going, he’ll be the quickest way to inform the captain the Grik are up to something.” He looked at Nakja-Mur. “Yeah, I feel it too.”