Maelstrom

by Taylor Anderson

  She still seemed stunned. “So you will stay with these people? Fight with them?”

  “Aye. Theirs seems a cause worth fightin’ for, after all, an’ hopeless as they make it sound, it isna over yet.” He lowered his head. “Me last cause is finished, an’ there isna any hope a’tall.”

  “Perhaps,” she hedged, still uncertain. “We shall see. In any event, I shall not betray you. If Captain Jenks arrives, I shall tell the entire truth of our ordeal, but at first I shall not reveal you live. Enough?”

  He nodded. “Enough, Your Highness. Thank ye.”

  Silva had drifted over. “What the hell’s all this ‘Highness’ shit?”

  Captain Reddy appeared, dressed in his finest, academy sword at his side. “Yes, Mr. Silva,” he said quietly, looking at the girl. “You’ve been associating with royalty all this time, and never even knew it. None of us did.” He glanced around. He’d already decided to include Silva in the circle of those who had the “need to know,” and he made sure no one else was near enough to hear. “And for now, that’s the way it stays. Tell no one. From now on, if, and until her own people collect her, she’s your responsibility: yours and Mr. O’Casey’s, of course. Her safety’s in your hands.” He paused. “Highness?” The girl nodded. “Well. Perhaps a proper introduction is in order at last?”

  “Becky” cleared her throat. “Rebecca Anne McDonald will suffice, I think,” she answered. “As Mr. O’Casey just pointed out, my various titles are rather meaningless anymore. Only one might pertain to the current situation”—she glanced at Silva with a grin—“and I might just trot it out someday, if I get the chance.”

  Just then she perceived a clattering, rumbling drone unlike anything she’d heard before, growing louder by the moment. She looked up.

  “Damn that idiot!” Matt declared. “Who gave him permission to fly?” He paced to the rail and watched the battered PBY approach from the south. It looked decidedly odd with its shortened wings, and the engines sounded like they’d mixed rocks with the oil.

  “I can’t believe he got it up again,” Gray confessed, joining them.

  “Ol’ Benny’s a whiz with gizmos,” Silva stated, “an’ pretty sharp for an army aviator.”

  “It’s an air-plane!” Rebecca squealed excitedly. “Oh, it is, it is! Mr. Flynn told me about them, but I confess I scarcely believed him! Oh, look! Is it going to land upon the sea?”

  The Catalina staggered past Walker, banked delicately, and flew toward the open sea still separating the destroyer and the picket force. Two hundred yards away it thumped exhaustedly onto the calm sea and wallowed to a stop. Gunning the port engine, the pilot began his approach.

  “Oh, look, oh, look!” chanted the girl, almost hopping.

  When the plane was within a hundred yards, the pilot—it must b cut the engines. The ensuing silence seemed almost more intense than the previous racket. A moment passed; then Signals Lieutenant (JG) Palmer appeared on the wing.

  Matt spotted Stites leaning on the rail near the whaleboat. “Don’t just stand there,” he shouted. “Go get him!” He looked at Silva and O’Casey, then glanced at the impatient nun. “Carry on,” he said. “I’d better get to the bridge.”

  “Captain!” shouted the nun, her Dutch accent clear. Grimacing, Matt paused while the woman strode quickly toward him. “Captain, I must protest! I have been asking to speak with you for days!”

  “My apologies, uh, sister . . .”

  “Sister Audry. I appreciate you rescuing us from our previous . . . circumstances, but now I understand we are steaming directly toward a battle? Have you not thought of the children in my care? Is it possible you will expose them to further risk? I must insist you provide for their safety!”

  Matt gritted his teeth. “Lady . . . Sister, I haven’t got time for this now, but you have my word those kids’ll be as safe as I can make them. If I could drop them, and you, off someplace safe, I would, but there is no safe place. I’ll do what I can, but for now you must excuse me.” He turned and continued on his way, leaving the nun wearing a stormy expression.

  Shortly the whaleboat returned, with Palmer standing in the prow. When it came alongside, the signalman scurried up, saluted the flag and Gray, and raced for the pilothouse. “Skipper!” he said with feeling, saluting again. “Am I glad to see you!”

  “The feeling’s mutual, but what’s the meaning of this?” Matt gestured at the plane.

  Palmer’s face took on a haunted look. “Yeah, well, jeez. Believe me, Skipper, we wouldn’t have gone up in that death trap if we didn’t have to. It flies, but I think that’s only because it hates floating even more.” He gathered himself. “Mr. Letts sent us. You were right; the Griks are on the move. They handled Mahan pretty rough, but we thought that might’ve just been a stab at catching her. No go. It looks like the real deal.”

  “Any sign of Amagi?”

  “Not with the advance force. Looks like a hundred-plus ships, even after Mahan tore ’em up. We might’ve seen smoke way to the south, but we didn’t want to push the old girl, if you know what I mean.” Palmer shuddered. “I hate to say it, Captain, but I think it’s time we stripped her for the metal.”

  “Probably right,” Matt mused sadly. “We might need her to fly once more, but after that . . .” He shrugged. “How long before the enemy arrives?”

  “The wind’s against them,” Palmer replied, “but by late tomorrow morning, surely.”

  “Very well. How are the preparations I mentioned to Mr. Sandison proceeding?”

  Dowden shook his head beside Captain Reddy on the port bridge wing. “That crazy bastard! I’ll have Silva polishing brass from one end of this ship to the other—with his toothbrush!”

  Matt barely heard him. Alone, it seemed, of all Walker’s crew, his mood remained unaffected by the stunt. His attention was fixed on a small, slim form, standing a little apart from the others, long, sandy-brown hair unclasped for once, flowing in the stiffening breeze. “Don’t bother,” he said absently, the words ringing hollow. “I said he could. Everybody needed a laugh.”

  Dowden chuckled uneasily, then followed his captain’s gaze. Lieutenant Tucker wore an anxious, sad smile as she stared back across the impossible gulf the others had simply hopped over, with a sharply focused message of love, welcome, and . . . pain that almost broke his heart. He looked back at Matt. Now he knew why the captain had dressed in his best—and why he wasn’t laughing.

  Matt stepped briskly back from the rail. Nearby, snugged to the old fitting-out pier, was Mahan, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Her crew was waving and calling across the distance, their shouts lost in the wind. A loud toot-toot and a jet of steam escaped her forward stack. Her new paint was blotched with rust, and there were patches welded here and there. After her long trip, Matt doubted Walker looked much better. He noticed the other destroyer already sported her old number again, 102, and the fresh paint contrasted sharply with that around it. He’d transmitted permission to the request early that morning. The deception didn’t matter anymore; with any luck the enemy would never see Mahan again, and he was glad Mahan’s crew—and Jim Ellis—was proud of her once more.

  “Commence refueling at once,” Matt commanded. “Off-load our ‘passengers’ and all nonessential or specified personnel, as well as small arms, ammunition, depth charges—you know the list.”

  Dowden nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Maybe, if we have time, we can tear out the other stuff we talked about tomorrow night. In the meantime”—he glanced at his watch, 1310—“try to let as many guys as possible go ashore for an hour or so. We can wait for Big Sal to follow us in and tie up, but I want to be underway by nineteen hundred.” He looked around. “Now take over, if you please. I have someone . . . some people to see.”

  They gathered for the staff meeting, perhaps the final one, in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall. Lieutenants Letts, Brister, and Sandison, as well as Lord Rolak and Queen Maraan, of course, had met Matt on the pier, so he and Sandra
hadn’t had a single moment alone. They stood together now, however, and if they weren’t holding hands, they stood close enough for their arms to touch and make that vital connection: a warm, tingling, electric circuit both of them needed to draw strength from the other. For now it had to be enough; neither of them knew what the next few days might hold.

  Her Highness, Rebecca McDonald, Sean O’Casey, and Ensign Laumer stood with them, the first two introduced as shipwrecked survivors of the fa"1em">Now she stood, her small hand in Sandra’s, eyes wide as she took in the sights, smells, and . . . terrifying momentousness of the proceedings within the Great Hall she was but a spectator to. She missed Lawrence’s comforting presence, but knew he’d been left aboard the iron ship for his own protection. The hall was filled with the tension of a looming battle of unimaginable proportions against creatures far too similar to him.

  Captain Reddy was talking, describing the voyage they’d returned from. Occasionally Sandra squeezed her hand uncomfortably tight when he spoke of some tense moment. Once she gasped, not sure if it was from pain or because she’d become so caught up in the tale, and Sandra knelt and murmured soft, fervent words of apology. Captain Reddy paused and glanced their way, and in that instant Rebecca caught a glimpse of him she hadn’t seen before: a gentle, almost boyishly wistful tenderness, haunted by something lurking beneath a fragile facade. She imagined she sensed a titanic conflict between howling terror and a capacity for unimaginable violence. She blinked, recoiled slightly, and it was gone, leaving only a benevolent expression of mild concern.

  Matt turned back and resumed, speaking to all, but generally directing his words to Baalkpan’s High Chief. Nakja-Mur looked terrible. His once massive arms had seemed actually frail when he wrapped Matt in the usual awkward greeting embrace. “You cannot know,” he’d said low, “how glad I am you have returned.” His eyes had even been misty. The stress he’d endured the last few weeks had been grueling, and if it hadn’t sapped his will, it had wracked his body. Since his greeting, he’d retired to his cushions and spoken little.

  “. . . so,” Matt continued, “we’ll sortie tonight with the frigates. Try to meet this advance Grik element and bust it up before it gets too close. That’ll leave time for Mr. Sandison and Mahan to prepare our final surprises.” He looked at Bernie Sandison. “I can leave you Silva and Chief Gray to supervise the detail. I wish I could leave Campeti, but I’ll need him at fire control.”

  “Thanks, Skipper. I didn’t expect Silva or Gray. We’ll get the job done.”

  “What about Amagi and the main force?” Pete Alden asked, speaking for the first time. He still looked haggard after his ordeal.

  “Day after tomorrow, I expect.” Matt shrugged. “That’s what Mallory thinks—if that was her smoke he saw. I think it probably was; why else come now at all? All the same, they must’ve really rushed her repairs to get her to sea this quickly. She’s their wild card. Normally she could blast Baalkpan to dust without even entering the bay. Her shells are a lot more effective falling on top of a target than hitting it from the side. If she shoots right at something, she either hits—and trust me, it’s a hell of a thump—or misses completely. That’s why ships like her usually don’t get in too close.” He was trying to demonstrate ballistics with his hands as he spoke. “Thing is, if she stands off, she has to see the target herself, which she can’t do here, or have forward observers correct her fire. They could stash one on a Grik ship, I suppose, or even send one ashore, if they have radios to spare. But regardless, if they use indirect fire”—his hand described a high arc in the air—“they’re still going to miss a lot. My bet is, they won’t want to “We picked up some from the submarine, and Jim says the copper bolts shoot fine, but have ‘limited destructive capability.’ In other words, they just punch holes. But they do work, and they’re better than nothing. Someday we’ll make explosive shells. It’ll be a lot harder for the Japs to do that—to make more of their big shells, that’ll not only take rifling, but also blow up. Without their explosive force, they’re not much more dangerous than our copper bolts. They’ll make a bigger hole, but against our defenses here they’ll just make bigger holes in the dirt.” He grinned crookedly. “And you have to wonder if even the Japs would show the Grik how to make something that might blow a hole in their own ship. Regardless, for now, they’ve got to be feeling the pinch—especially after they wasted so many destroying Nerracca . They must’ve thought they had us—that it’d be worth it to go for broke—but it didn’t work that way.” He paused, remembering that fearful night before continuing. “What I think they’ll do is come right up into the bay, use their secondaries as much as they can. That’s what we’ve planned for, and that’s what we need them to do. Our whole defense relies on it, and I think that’s our only chance to kill her.” He looked at Keje. “Trouble is, if they do that, the Homes’ll be slaughtered.”

  Keje blinked. “I’d rather avoid the ‘slaughter’ of my Home,” he said dryly.

  “Me too,” said Matt. “That’s why Big Sal and the other Homes should leave now. Tonight.”

  “But we’ve sworn to fight!” Ramik protested loudly. “I for one have a score to settle! I will not leave!”

  “Nor I,” said Geran-Eras.

  “I’m glad to hear it, but you misunderstand. Your warriors’ll fight on land, as they did at Aryaal, but I think the Homes themselves should sail immediately for Sembaakpan, near our new fuel depot at Tarakan. It’s a crummy anchorage, but that’ll take them out of Amagi’s reach. If we faced only the Grik, using the Homes as floating batteries would make sense. We could tear the hell out of them. But if Amagi comes in, they won’t stand a chance. Second, they could carry away more of the Aryaalan and B’mbaadan younglings Fristar and the others didn’t wait to take—besides our own recently acquired ‘noncombatants.’ ” He paused, catching sight obackup plan, but it’s better than nothing.”

  The High Chiefs of the three remaining homes spoke rapidly among themselves. Excited conversations erupted throughout the hall. Matt remained silent, watching, while Keje, Geran, and Ramik made up their minds. Finally they stood ready to speak, and Nakja-Mur touched the gong for quiet.

  “Very well,” Keje announced. “It’s agreed. Humfra-Dar and Aracca sail immediately for Sembaakpan, with enough people to trim the wings and work the guns, if necessary. The High Chiefs will remain to command their warriors.”

  Matt nodded reservedly. “Good,” he said, “but what about Big Sal?”

  “Salissa, like her sister, Walker, will remain here.” Keje blinked utmost resolution when he spoke. “That, my brother, is not open to discussion. You conveniently omitted the fact that Walker and Mahan will face the same ‘slaughter’ as our Homes. They will not face it alone. Salissa will be your floating battery as long as she can.”

  The hall was silent while everyone considered the implications of Keje’s words. Matt didn’t know what to say.

  “One problem I can see,” Ellis interjected, “is their damn observation plane they bombed us with. If it shows up again, it could throw a major wrench in the works. Japs could stand off and pound us—just like you said—and there’d be nothing we could do.”

  Matt knew Jim wasn’t very happy with Mahan’s assignment, and his tone actually sounded a little confrontational. Matt glanced at Shinya, then looked his former exec—his friend—in the eye.

  “Good point, but I have it on . . . good authority . . . the spotting plane won’t be a factor.”

  “How . . . ?”

  “Our radio wasn’t busted, remember? We picked up a transmission, in the clear, that the plane was damaged. Must’ve been right after its attack.”

  “Well . . . okay, but that’s just one example of how easily the plan can get thrown out of whack.”

  “I thought you liked the plan. If you didn’t, why didn’t you say something when we were making it?”

  “Because I did—do—like it!” Jim admitted in frustration. “No, I take that back. I hate the damn plan, but
it’s probably the best we could come up with under the circumstances. What I disagree with now, that maybe I didn’t before, is that the plan leaves Mahan out of the fight. By all rights, she ought to have Walker’s job!”

  Matt shook his head. “She’s too vulnerable. It’d be suicide. Amagi has to see Walker, which means she’s going to get to shoot at her. With one good boiler and only one screw, Mahan’d be a sitting duck.”

  “Walker’s not much better off than Mahan,” Jim insistedmake smoke and run like hell. After she sees Walker run away, she won’t worry about her anymore. That’s when Mahan does her job. It’s an important job, Jim. Besides”—he grinned wryly—“you already changed your number back.”