Authors: Taylor Anderson
20
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TFG-2
USS
Donaghey
Western Ocean
April 23, 1944
T
he horizon was milky, but the sky above was a brilliant blue. A steady, easterly wind had prevailed for the better part of a week, and Commander Greg Garrett was pleased that his little squadron had logged more than one hundred twenty miles each day they’d been at sea since weighing anchor at Trin-con-lee. There was just the slightest pitch as the blue-green water foamed to white alongside USS
Donaghey
’s smooth, firm sides, and the rumbling rush was music to his ears. He leaned over the port, windward rail of the flush quarterdeck and watched the froth for a moment, then looked back at the big double wheel forward of the mizzenmast. His exec, Lieutenant Saama-Kera, Sammy, was standing beside the ’Cat at the helm, and grinned back at him, blinking delight. Sammy had been Chapelle’s exec on
Tolson
, and if Greg’s old executive officer, Lieutenant Saaran-Gaani was unavailable, hurrying to Andaman with troops recruited in the Great South Isles, Greg was happy to have Sammy. He grinned back at the dark-striped ’Cat and looked to the horizon. The “milk” was turning darker, and there’d be squalls in the afternoon.
USS
Donaghey
, recently designated DDS-2 to signify she’d been the second of three sailing destroyers built on this world, was slanting southwest under a full press of canvas across the great Western or Indian Ocean. The designation seemed odd to Garrett, since
Donaghey
was the last of those first three ships. The others had been lost in combat—as had
Donaghey
for a time—but she’d been refloated and undergone a major refit that included a number of upgrades that made her perhaps uniquely qualified for her current mission. She and her consort, the “razeed” Grik “Indiaman” USS
Sineaa
(DE-48), keeping station several miles to leeward, constituted the second Task Force Garrett (TFG-2), and as dedicated sailors with no need to carry fuel for anything but auxiliary generators and the Nancy flying boats struck down in their holds, they could push back the mysterious boundary of the known world. Exploring the extent of the Grik Empire in the vicinity of Madagasgar was their primary goal, but other tasks had been added to that mission, and Garrett was excited by what they implied. Still, he was even more anxious to proceed with his secondary, lengthier, and perhaps most dangerous mission: to round the southern tip of Africa and see what lay beyond.
He hated sailing off on what he almost considered a personal lark right when the big show to clobber the Grik fleet at Madras and relieve General Alden seemed about to commence. He’d missed the greatest naval battle of the war while overseeing
Donaghey
’s refit at Andaman. But he was realistic enough to know the war had passed his ship by and she’d be hopelessly outclassed in the kind of battles it had spawned. His ship and crew were better armed than ever, but her main battery still consisted of 18-pounders. She had thirty now, and could easily smash any ordinary Grik ship she ran into, but was no match for the ironclad monsters now constituting the main Grik battle line. She’d have to be careful if her probing brought her in contact with those. But with any kind of wind, she could easily outrun anything the Grik were known to have. There lay her main advantage; with her extreme hull and a clean bottom, only
Walker
herself—and maybe the rebuilt
Mahan
—were faster. Greg had heard of the PTs of the new “Mosquito fleet,” and they were supposed to be fast, but they’d never been intended to cross the broad, hostile seas on their own. He hoped they’d justify Captain Reddy’s faith in them, but they’d have to be
brought
to the fight. There were things in this sea that could gulp them like top-water lures.
He snorted.
There’s things out there that can eat
Donaghey
!
he thought, but one of his ship’s upgrades had been a crude, active sonar, developed by Mr. Riggs, Ronson, and Fairchild. It ran off a wind generator that charged a high-yield capacitor and periodically sent a torturous bolt of sound into the depths ahead. This had been proven to discourage the largest, most dangerous sea creatures. It had no apparent effect on the giant sharks like the one that sank the second
Revenge
, but that fish had been drawn to the new ship’s bright, spinning screw.
Donaghey
didn’t have one of those, and all new ship’s propellers were preoxidized now. That had been a bitter lesson.
Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At, commander of
Donaghey
’s Marine contingent, which constituted a quarter of the crew, joined Greg by the rail. Tagging along was Lieutenant (jg) Wendel “Smitty” Smith,
Donaghey
’s young but balding gunnery officer.
“Afternoon, Bekiaa, Smitty,” Greg greeted them.
“Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett,” Bekiaa replied, and saluted.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Garrett said with a smile. “And even if you did, once a day is enough!”
“But we’re outside.”
“Sure, but . . .” Garrett blinked consternation in the Lemurian way. “Skip it. Just once a day, though, okay?” Bekiaa nodded. Greg knew she was glad to be at sea after the hell she’d been through, but he also knew she’d brought more than a few ghosts aboard. She’d been wound pretty tight. He looked at Smitty. “How’s gunnery shaping up?”
Donaghey
had a large number of veterans from herself,
Tolson
, and
Revenge
. Though originally from different ships, all had fought together at the Sand Spit and formed one crew almost seamlessly. The gun’s crews were no exception.
“I like the new fire-control system. We still have to train the guns by eye, but with good ranges and electric primers, we’ll get more rounds on target. Commodore Ellis was right; it works. I just wish we could do more live practice.”
Greg nodded. “I know. Me too. We’ve got plenty of powder and shot now, but who knows when we’ll get resupplied? We could be on our own a long, long time.”
“Yes, sir. And I guess it shouldn’t really matter that much. The range finder in the main top and the tables of elevation have taken a lot of the guesswork out of it.”
“True.”
Bekiaa was staring forward, squinting hard. “Those islands we’re making for those ‘Chaagos.’ Do you really think they’ll be there? We’re a long way from nothing. I bet nobody’s ever sailed these seas since the Mi-Anaaka got pushed off Madagaas-car before the beginning of time.”
“They’re not so much islands as an atoll,” Greg corrected. “The biggest lump is Diego Garcia, though the chart just has a little D there. Used to be a French coconut plantation or something, and was barely big enough for a little Brit outpost on our world. As to whether they’ll be where they were on
our
charts . . .” He shrugged. “Who knows. They could be bigger, smaller, or not there at all. I just know the Skipper asked us to find ’em if they’re there. Any kind of waypoint between Ceylon and the heart of the Grik Empire, no matter how small, would be mighty handy for prepositioning fuel and supplies. As for us being the first to sail these seas since God knows when, you may be right,” Greg agreed. “But that could be a good thing, because chances are if they
are
there, the Grik would’ve never found ’em. Why should they? Like you said, there’s an awful lot of nothing out here.”
“Deck there,” came a cry from the masthead. “
Sineaa
signals ‘sail’ off her staar-board bow!”
“What the hell?” Greg muttered. “How far?” he demanded loudly, crossing to starboard and raising his Imperial telescope.
“Seven mile. Small sail.”
Greg adjusted the telescope but saw nothing but the haze on the water.
“I go up?” Bekiaa asked. “See what I make of it?”
“Not yet. We’ll wait a bit. A small sail way out here, I doubt
any
of us would know what to make of it.”
Half an hour later, with signals flashing between the two ships and even Garrett able to see the sail from deck with his telescope, the consensus formed that it was a lateen-rigged fishing boat of some kind. That didn’t make much sense either, until the masthead called down that he’d spied land.
“I’ll be,” Greg said. “An almost-perfect landfall on a place we weren’t even sure was there! And that explains the fishing boat too. Must be natives.” He frowned. “But what kind?” He paced back and forth, deep in thought. Sammy had joined the trio and seemed just as concerned.
“What if they is Grik?”
“Not much point in worrying about it. Lookout!” Greg shouted, “What’s the boat doing now?”
“It seen us. It hightailing to land.”
“Sing out the instant you see any other ships!”
“Ay, ay!” came the reply.
Greg looked at Sammy. “Make our course two one zero, and signal
Sineaa
to do the same. We’ll come down on the north side of the atoll. We don’t have any charts of the thing itself, and I doubt it would look the same if we did. Leadsmen to the bow. We’ll take soundings.”
More fishing boats were sighted as
Donaghey
and her consort drew closer, and the shout “No bottom with this line” came back periodically from the fo’c’sle. All the boats fled at the sight of them, making straight for the northwest edge of what was growing in view to become a much larger island than Greg had expected to find. It looked pretty flat, though, and was covered in a dense jungle of odd-looking trees.
“Have
Sineaa
take in her courses, and we’ll adjust speed accordingly,” Greg ordered, staring through his glass. “Looks like they’ve got some kind of anchorage those boats scampered to. Let’s have a look at it.”
Another hour crept by as Sammy shouted into the rigging to shorten or adjust the sails and slow their approach according to Greg’s directions. As a precaution, Greg had his ship cleared for action. Rounding a small island lying off the coast of the larger one, they glimpsed a broad channel, maybe half a mile wide, that the little boats were still ducking into. Suddenly Bekiaa saw something else, just as the lookout reported it. “Cap-i-taan Gaarrett!” she cried.
“Holy moly,” Smitty muttered, seeing it too. Everyone seemed to spot the stunning object at once, and it was no wonder; it was
huge
. The thing had been partially hidden even to the lookouts by the tall trees on the smaller island, but there, in the narrow gap between them, lay a very large iron-hulled ship with two tall funnels, leaning perhaps twenty degrees to starboard.
“Oh my God,” Garrett murmured, and an unacceptable number of the crew surged to the port rail to gawk.
“Twenny faddoms,” came the delayed report from forward, “an’ comin’ up!”
“Stand by the anchor!” Greg shouted distractedly, still staring at the big ship. The Lemurian bosun collected himself and roared at the crew to get back where they belonged.
“She been here a while,” said Sammy when he found his voice. “She looks sunk, with that list, and she’s low at the head too.”
“A while,” Greg agreed, “but not that long. She’s rusty, but her paint isn’t that old.”
“Weird paint,” Bekiaa observed. “That’s a ship of human people,” she said with certainty, “but I never seen one painted that colorful before.”
Greg cocked his head to match the list. “It
is
pretty weird,” he agreed. “She looks like a passenger liner—deserted too, thank God—you see she’s got at least a couple of big deck guns? Anyway, I’d say she’s about the same vintage as
Santa Catalina
, so she’s old, but the last time I saw a paint job like that, it was on a Subic taxi!” He felt a chill. “Hey, it’s hard to tell, but does that look like a dragon—or a big lizard—painted down her side?”
“Yeah,” said Smitty. “I guess that leaves me wonderin’ where she came from, how’d she get here, and did somebody paint all that shit on her before or after?”
“Where and how? Same as us, I guess.
Who
her final passengers were is the biggie.”
Greg’s two ships had crept far enough forward to pass beyond the hulk’s leaning bow. “Yikes. Not
completely
abandoned, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett!” Bekiaa warned, pointing. A rough pier had been constructed along the big ship’s port side, and it was packed with suddenly staring workers, apparently involved in removing cargo from large hatches in the sloping hull. More figures were in boats—some also standing and pointing now—that were rowing heavy cargoes through the mild, protected surf toward shore. Many tents and huts had been erected there, and a considerable heap of crates and other large objects had been gathered under protective coverings. Greg and everyone else who had them were staring intently through their glasses.
“Fi’ faaddoms!” came the cry from forward. “Busted coral!”
“Well,” Greg said at last, lowering his telescope and slamming it shut, “whoever they are, they’re not Grik. Look like humans and ’Cats—like us! I wonder how the hell they got together way out here?” He snorted. “Guess we’ll find out. Nobody’s pointing guns at us, and I don’t see any batteries at the mouth of that lagoon.”
“What’re we gonna do?” Sammy asked.
“Signal
Sineaa
to ‘wear ship,’ and stand off while we get to the bottom of this. We’ll heave to, if you please. Stand by to drop the hook.”
* * *
The afternoon was wearing on by the time someone “over there” apparently decided what to do. A boat that looked appropriate for the grounded steamer—aside from its own bizarre paint job—set off from shore with an equally bizarre collection of passengers. Some, both ’Cats and humans, wore coats and hats, and a couple had shiny breastplates and helmets. A couple of the ’Cats were entirely naked and, at a glance, looked even shorter than the norm. None appeared armed. The squalls that had loomed nearer all day took that opportunity to catch them at last, and long, dark tendrils of rain beat down on the open boat as it approached. Greg and those gathered with him to receive their guests got drenched as well, and it was amid this annoying but somewhat amusing circumstance that the momentous meeting occurred.
“I say,” shouted a voice from below as the boat touched
Donaghey
’s side, and an oarsman leaped up with a pike and hooked on. “Judging by your flag, you’re the very bloody Americans we were off to meet! What luck, that?” The voice came from a grinning, bearded, light-haired man in one of the breastplates. “You
are
the ones fighting the . . . I guess you call ’em Grik, right?”