Distant Thunders (40 page)

“We’ve done what we came here to do,” he said. “We’ve found Rasik’s ‘surprise,’ and I know what’s in the big crates. This ammo will come in real handy. Hell, it’s worth the trip by itself.” One of the books Chack had retrieved was the ship’s manifest. They’d lugged fifty-five thousand rounds of .50 BMG to the bulwark, and a few thousand rounds of .30-06. According to the pages in the book, there were
two million
more rounds in the ship. Quite understandable when one considered what they were for. A lot would be underwater and some might be ruined, but they’d have the brass and bullets. He tucked the manifest under his arm. He’d look it over some more on the way back to the ship.

He studied Koratin as the Marine corporal worked. It was hard to spot, but there was a little blood on his now slightly grungy white leather armor. “What did you do with Rasik, Koratin? I have to know.”

Koratin paused in his labor. “He desired to be set ashore here, instead of on the island,” he said simply. “As you Amer-i-caans would say, I owed him one.”

Ellis clenched his teeth. “Is he alive?”

“Of course! We left him quite well situated, as a matter of fact.” He glanced at the other two Marines. “We left him all our rations and even our spears! He should have no difficulty surviving for a considerable period. I swear to you now, before the Sun sinking yonder, Rasik will never die by our hands!”

Slightly mollified—Aryaalans didn’t swear by the Sun lightly—Ellis frowned. “But he might wander back to Aryaal, damn it! That’s why I wanted him on the island!”

“It matters little. If he’d wanted across, he could have built a raft. No, I think King Rasik will trouble the Alliance no more. He fully understands he is not wanted!”

“Well . . . you still disobeyed an order! Put yourself and these other Marines on report. I’m tempted to put Chack on report as well, as an accessory of some kind!” Jim looked at Chack. “Philosophical, my ass!”

“He had nothing to do with it!” Koratin objected.

“Maybe not, but he knew.”

“He may have
surmised
, Cap-i-taan, but he did not know.”

Jim looked at Chack again. Maybe Koratin was right. Clearly, Chack had expected them to kill Rasik. “Very well. For now. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here. It’ll be a long row home, mostly in the dark, and with that giant duck-eating . . . whatever it is, and with what got our Marine, that’s kind of a creepy thought!” He shook his head. “What is it with this damn world, where everything wants to eat you?”

“Hey, Cap’n Ellis,” Isak said suddenly. Once unaccustomed to making unsolicited comments to officers, the fireman blurted them out all the time now. “It just hit me. The ol’
Blackhawk
used to be
named Santa Catalina
before the Navy bought her! One of her snipes told me once when we was alongside.” He shook his head. “Guy was one squirrely bastard. Used to run around ever’where tootin’ on a duck call! That’s why I remembered it all of a sudden. You know, the duck call . . . ? Well, anyway, it’s still kinda weird.”

Weird was right, Jim thought. Weird the way Isak’s brain worked. A few minutes before, he’d been irate that Jim wouldn’t tell him what was in the crates. Then he dredged up something like that.

 

 

Rasik-Alcas watched the boat pull away through small gaps in the canopy. They hadn’t covered his eyes; they’d only gagged him. Now, through the searing waves of agony, he couldn’t even scream. They hadn’t taken him far, just a short distance beyond the jungle-choked shore. He’d actually been close enough to hear Koratin reassure Ellis that he wasn’t dead! How could any creature lie so amazingly well? Rasik himself hadn’t suspected a thing—but of course, he hadn’t wanted to. Koratin would have known that! As depraved as Rasik knew himself to be, he’d certainly met his final, evil match—and all because of younglings!

He struggled feebly, but the movement only caused more agony. Koratin and the Marines had pinned his arms to the trunk of a wide subaa tree, right through the twinbones. He couldn’t even tear himself free! Not that it would do any good. They’d done the same to the twinbones in his legs and then made a small incision in his belly. Not large enough to bleed him to death, but quite large enough to pull his intestines through. The squirming, tearing sensation had been more than he could bear, and he’d finally passed out. When he awoke, his murderers were gone. Food was scattered on the ground all around him—and his guts had been strung five or six tails away and hung on a limb.

He clenched his eyes shut as biting insects buzzed around his entrails. If only he’d known! How
could
he have known? Not only Koratin’s precious, despicable younglings had perished on
Nerracca
—the Home the Japanese destroyed—but so had the younglings or mates of all his conspirators! He
should
have had a way of knowing that.
Would
have, if he’d been thinking clearly! Even so, what did younglings measure against the power Koratin could have had as King Rasik-Alcas’s Supreme Minister? Younglings were simple to replace, even a pleasure, but the kind of power Koratin had denied was a priceless, precious thing. It was madness!

Even as Rasik-Alcas considered these imponderables and watched the boat grow small against the setting sun, the tiny, timid night predators began to gather around.

M
att looked at the message form Clancy had handed him. The fact they now had relatively reliable communications was a godsend in many ways. He could keep track of all the various operations under way and he could even exchange semi-private correspondence with Sandra back in Baalkpan. He got daily updates—when atmospherics didn’t interfere—on the progress made on
Walker
and all the other projects of the Alliance. He was a little worried about the silence from Laumer, but not
too
worried. The ex-Grik “tankers” they’d sent with both bunker-grade and diesel fuel should arrive there soon. Still, he’d received so much bad, sometimes calamitous news typed as neatly as their battered typewriters could manage on the dwindling message forms, he always accepted them with a trace of apprehension.

The news today was anything but bad. In fact, it was almost horrifyingly good. Jim Ellis had discovered Rasik’s secret in the form of a battered freighter marooned in the swamps north of Chill-chaap. Clearly, the ship had somehow come through the same Squall they had. Jim hadn’t found the ship’s log, but her manifest told the story. She’d been attempting a mission similar to the one doomed
Langley
and a few old freighters had been trying to accomplish: a last-ditch effort to beef up Java’s air defenses.
Langley
and the freighters—including
Santa Catalina
—had been ferrying P-40 fighters, spare engines, tires, parts, fuel tanks, and millions of rounds of ammunition to the beleaguered island.
Langley
was caught short and bombed into a sinking wreck. Matt had heard one of the other freighters made it to Tjilatjap, but since there was no nearby airfield, they’d actually assembled the planes dockside and were attempting to
tow
them overland on refugee-choked roads! He didn’t know if they’d ever made it to an airstrip or not. Judging by Jim’s report,
Santa Catalina
had been trying to do the same thing.

The only explanation for her condition, position, her very presence in this world, was that she too must have been damaged at sea, passed through the Squall, and arrived at a far different Tjilatjap. The Grik must have already sacked Chill-Chaap and the ship’s captain, likely wondering where he was, proceeded as far upriver as he could to preserve his cargo and his ship from the deeper waters. Jim found no trace of the crew or the pilots who would have accompanied the planes. Maybe they were still out there somewhere, but more likely they hadn’t survived their contact with this terrible world. Matt shook his head. Much the same would probably have happened to
Walker
and her crew if she hadn’t made friends so quickly.

The existence of the ship and her cargo was an incredible stroke of luck, however, maybe even a war winner if they could salvage any of the planes. Jim thought it likely. The manifest totaled twenty-eight aircraft. Curtiss P-40Es! If they saved only half of them, they’d have more than the Philippines had after the first few days of the war. The reason it was horrifying was that Matt wanted those planes
now
and he had no way of getting them. Isak Rueben had said that the ship’s engines were probably okay, but the fireroom was a shambles. She was also “kind of sunk,” according to the report, so there’d be no salvaging her on a shoestring. An ecstatic Ben Mallory quickly fired back a suggestion from Baalkpan that they immediately launch an expedition to recover the planes. If they could hack an airstrip out of the jungle alongside the ship and somehow power her cargo cranes, they could simply assemble the planes and fly them out.

Matt knew there’d be nothing “simple” about it. The project would require a small army and there’d be no way to keep that secret. They’d also need a higher-grade fuel than the PBY had required and they’d have to cut airstrips everywhere they went to accommodate the planes. He’d been impressed by Jim’s initial reaction to remain tight-lipped about the find, but realistically, it probably didn’t matter. There was no risk of the Grik or even the Japanese infiltrating their ranks, and if they had spies on the island, they were just as likely to find the ship on their own. If the current Allied offensive was successful, they’d soon have the Grik pushed back almost to Ceylon, making long forays by enemy vessels into the Allied rear even more unlikely. Right now, every ship in Matt’s squadron was essential where it was. They’d bottled up the approaches to Singapore and captured or destroyed a few ships—mostly leaving. His assault was essentially awaiting only Ellis and
Dowden
, and the extra weight of metal her broadside might add to the fight. He’d recommend to Adar that they send a small garrison to Tjilatjap and maybe at least begin recovery and stabilization efforts. That made good sense. But right now, his own plate was heaping full.

“A hell of a thing,” Garrett commented, reading over his shoulder. “If we’d had those planes in the Philippines, we might still be there.”

Matt grunted. “We had a hell of a lot more than that to start with and it didn’t matter much. I don’t know. MacArthur might have been some kind of Army genius, but he understood even less about his own Air Corps than he did about naval operations.” He frowned. “I kind of wish we had him with us now, though. How’s Pete’s attack plan coming?”

“Pretty good, I think.” Garrett looked at Matt. “Pete’s done a swell job. I wouldn’t be pining for that Army prima donna if I were you.”

Matt laughed. “Not ‘pining,’ but I do wish I had someone else to bounce Pete’s plans off of.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Skipper. You’ve done fine onshore.” Garrett looked thoughtful. “Besides, you have Rolak and Queen Maraan. Unlike our sea folk friends, they’ve been fighting on land all their lives. Pete and Safir did a good job chopping up that Grik force on Madura . . . I mean, B’mbaado.”

“They sure did,” Matt reflected. He took a breath. “Jim should be here in three days. Four at the outside—if the weather holds. Don’t forget, this is the stormy time of year!” He chuckled grimly. Protection from the terrible “Strakkas” that struck the region was another reason they needed Singapore in their hands. “We’ll pass the word via wireless or couriers for all ships to assemble just west of Bintan Island at that time. We’ll have a final conference before we kick off the show.”

“You want to invite Jenks?”

Matt nodded. “He’s seen
why
we fight now and I think he’s more sympathetic than ever before. He’ll want to see
how
we fight. I think I’ll give him a chance to get in closer this time, if he likes.”

 

 

Captain Jim Ellis was piped aboard
Donaghey
and received a warm welcome.
Dowden
had made a quick passage, mostly under sail with the stout winds of some distant storm. He was a little surprised to be openly congratulated for his find—he still hadn’t told his crew what he’d seen—and only his wireless operator and exec knew what the flurry of transmissions, prodded mostly by Ben Mallory, were about.

“Doesn’t matter, Jim,” Matt told him. “Adar has already sent a small force to secure the area. He wouldn’t let Mallory go; he’s still training pilots for the Nancys and he’s fit to bust! But if we’re successful, he’ll have plenty of time to go play with his new toys.”

“You’re not going to give him a squadron, or wing, or whatever?” Jim asked.

“Hell, no! He’s taught some guys and ’Cats to fly, but he’s the only man we’ve got who’s ever actually had real pilot training. He majored in aeronautical engineering at West Point, too. Even flew with Colonel Doolittle a few times. How do you think he got the Nancys up so fast?”

“I’ll be damned.”