He nodded at Spanky, coming in late and sitting down with a plate of food. The engineer was already sweaty and stained, and his slight tardiness wasn’t even worth mentioning. There was bound to be a good reason. He missed the other officers who would normally have joined them, but those still alive had remained in Baalkpan to continue defensive preparations. That left space for a few new faces. Acting Lieutenant and Gunnery Officer Charles “Sonny” Campeti was there for the first time, replacing Lieutenants Greg Garrett and Pruit Barry, who’d have command of the first new construction frigates. Campeti looked a little nervous. He’d always dined with the other chiefs in their own, smaller version of the wardroom. He’d get used to it, Matt predicted. Chief Gray had.
The Bosun was the only noncommissioned officer to join them, but ever since the Squall, his presence had been fairly routine. Besides, he wasn’t really just the chief bosun’s mate anymore. He was something else, ill-defined, but damned important. Of necessity, promotions had rained down on many of the crew, but to what did you promote the Bosun? Only the most senior officers would dare give him an order, even though the most junior ’Cat ensign technically outranked him. “Promoting” him to ensign, or even lieutenant, would be almost like a demotion, practically speaking. So the Bosun remained the Bosun, but his real status was something akin to Spanky’s or Dowden’s: one of the captain’s right-hand men.
As each officer finished his meal, Juan or Mertz swept the dishes away and refilled the coffee cups that remained. The ’Cats couldn’t stand the stuff, but their cups were filled with more water or polta juice. There was still a little tea left, something Lemurians had become fiends for, but it was now reserved for special occasions. After Spanky wolfed down his meal (it was a very late breakfast for him, after all), Matt gently tapped his cup with his spoon to get everyone’s attention.
“First,” he said, “I have some good news. The morning radio check was successful, and High Chief Nakja-Mur reports the christening of our first new construction frigate. Gentlemen, I give you USS
Donaghey
!” Palms slapped the table all around in satisfaction. Chief Donaghey had been a true hero, sacrificing his life to save his ship. “I’ve also been informed, although they haven’t been launched yet, that the next two frigates will be named after Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar.” The acclaim was even greater than before. Rick and Kas had commanded
Revenge
and had died defending her against overwhelming odds. Ultimately they’d destroyed their ship and all aboard to keep her (and her guns) from falling into enemy hands. Clearly the names were popular choices.
“It’s a shame we missed
Donaghey
’s christening, but we should be back in time for the others. I understand
Donaghey
will sail within days, in an attempt to rescue more of Queen Maraan’s people from B’mbaado.” He glanced at Chack for some reaction, but there was none. Everyone knew he and the B’mbaadan queen were besotted with each other. They also knew that, regardless of risk, she’d accompany the expedition.
“Next, as you know, we should reach Tarakan Island tomorrow morning. The supply ship set out more than a week ago, so she should be waiting for us now. We have much to do there, obviously, but I don’t want to linger longer than necessary. We’re constrained by time and fuel, so hopefully we can off-load all the equipment and personnel in a single day and be on our way. We still have a long trip ahead of us.” The others murmured agreement, and he turned his attention to Shinya. “Chief Gray will be in overall command of the operation. He’ll have to coordinate the off-load with Spanky, but once we’re gone, he’ll be in charge. That being said, have you decided who will command the security force?”
Shinya was silent for a moment, looking at the Bosun. He knew Matt was giving him an out. Of all the crew, Gray had probably maintained his hatred of “Japs” more fiercely than anyone else. In that one respect he seemed almost irrational. Shinya didn’t even think it was personal; the man had, after all, once saved his life. But Gray couldn’t get over the fact that when they went through the Squall, three months after Pearl Harbor, his son was still listed as missing. The younger Gray had been aboard the USS
Oklahoma
, one of the battleships sunk in the attack. She’d capsized and settled, upside down, to the muddy bottom of the harbor, trapping countless souls aboard. Many had never even known who was attacking them. Even though Shinya hadn’t been there, he knew Gray could never forgive him—for being a Jap.
“I will command the security force,” he said at last, “if Mr. Gray has no objections.” The Bosun only grunted. “Chack will command the Marines remaining aboard the ship.”
Matt nodded thoughtfully, noting the tension between the two. It would probably actually be better to leave them both there, he decided, and let them sort things out. He didn’t think either would let their animosities interfere with their duties. Besides, if things got out of hand, they were still close enough to Baalkpan for the Bosun to send Shinya home on a supply ship.
“Very well. Fifty Marines will land from the supply ship, and we’ll leave twenty of ours behind. That should be more than sufficient to deal with any local menace. I’d highly recommend beginning defensive fortifications, however. Seventy Marines and about a hundred workers from the Sixth Baalkpan might seem a formidable force, but if only one Grik ship should come as far as Tarakan, you’ll be outnumbered two to one—and we know the Grik usually operate in threes.”
“Of course, Captain Reddy. Defenses will be my first priority.”
“Mine too,” the Bosun growled.
“Of course. Now, Mr. Bradford, I assume it will be no inconvenience for you to accompany the landing force? Bear in mind your primary duty will be to pinpoint an appropriate place to sink the first well and establish our refinery. Fascinating as I’m sure you’ll find them, don’t be distracted by every new bug and beetle you come across. I promise you’ll have plenty of opportunities to play tourist later on. Just find them a place to drill; then get back aboard.”
“I suppose I can delay my explorations for the sake of the war effort,” replied Bradford with a rueful grin, “but really, I must protest. Plotting the best spot to drill should not be difficult at all. Tarakan was a veritable island oil well before the war. The Jappos snapped it up right quick, let me tell you!” He glanced at Shinya. “No offense personally, I’m sure! Anyway, the place looked like one great refinery sprouting from the very sea. You could poke a hole in it just about anywhere and find oil, I expect. It’s disgraceful how little time you’ve included in your schedule for scientific discovery.”
“Discover a magic twig that, when waved about, will erase the Grik from the world and I shall devote myself to carrying you to unknown shores for the rest of your life,” Keje barked, and everyone, even Gray, laughed at that.
“Details, then,” said Matt, smiling, and the discussion began in earnest.
CHAPTER 3
Another beautiful morning dawned over the Makassar Strait, and even before Matt could see much beyond the fo’c’sle, he heard a cry overhead from the crow’s nest. Moments later the talker repeated the belated report of the lookout.
“Tarakan Island, sir, off the port bow.”
Binoculars swung and Matt raised his own to his eyes. It was difficult to tell, but he thought he could discern a vague, bulky outline of black against the darkness. Slowly, as more light gathered around them, the shape became more distinct.
“Well, gentlemen, it seems we’ve arrived.” He looked at Keje, standing beside him. “You’ve been this way before; does that look like the coastline in your Scrolls? It doesn’t much resemble the Tarakan I remember.” The last time
Walker
steamed past the island it was dark, but the only thing protruding from it then were brightly lit wells, tank batteries, refineries, and other works of men. The island before them had none of those things, and was blanketed by a dense, opaque jungle. Keje took the binoculars and studied the land.
“Certainly, but I have never been ashore there, so I can tell you nothing of what to expect. People live near, on the mainland, I am told. . . .” Matt knew that, but questioning them would probably be of little use; the graw-fish gatherers made their harvest in the shallow, swampy river fan at low tide. There were no graw-fish on the island; the water around it was too deep and the currents too turbulent.
“We’ll just have to explore it,” Matt replied. “That should make Courtney happy. Besides, as American territory, I suppose it’s appropriate.”
It had been decided, since the island was to be developed primarily for the American Navy, it should be considered an American possession. That would actually make political and administrative matters easier, since it would add no new High Chief to the budding alliance bureaucracy. It could simply be enfolded into what most considered the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee Clan,” which was already growing by leaps and bounds on this new Earth. Some in the alliance had protested the . . . unorthodox nature of this “clan,” since it represented multiple ships, and now a land possession as well, but most realized the war required considerable adjustment to the way things had always been. A few, like Keje, and possibly Queen Maraan, were even beginning to envision the far more radical adjustment of combining the alliance into a unified nation. In any event, there were so many willing recruits for the American Navy, they didn’t have the ships for them all. Nakja-Mur was trying to help. Just as Matt gave his first “prize” to Nakja-Mur (
Revenge
) so Baalkpan would have a physical presence in the expeditionary force, some of the prizes they’d captured after the escape from Aryaal had gone to the Americans. Even Nakja-Mur’s beloved “new construction” ships were being placed under Matt’s authority. The combined alliance would eventually have a navy of its own, but in the meantime, the Amer-i-caan Naa-vee was the “academy,” the school where their own people learned their craft, as well as the necessary discipline to employ it.
An example of Matt’s “prize” Navy became visible south of the island. It was the “supply” ship USS
Felts
, named for Gunner’s Mate Tommy Felts, who died saving Captain Reddy’s, Keje’s, and Chief Gray’s lives at the Battle of Aryaal.
Felts
was actually rated a ship-sloop in the new/old way they’d resurrected of defining such things, since she mounted only twenty guns, but despite her original owners she was a beautiful sight. She was on a tack taking her directly into the morning sun, and Matt shielded his eyes against the glare. The water was an almost painfully brilliant blue, and was still touched by the golden glory of the new day. At present it was still somewhat cool as well. It would soon warm up, and at some point there would almost certainly be rain. Even now, in the distance, a vigorous squall pounded an empty patch of sea. He contemplated it for a moment, as he always did, hopelessly unable to prevent himself from wondering what it had been about the Squall that brought them here that had, well . . . brought them here. If they ever entered another with that strange green hue, would it take them back again? Home? He massaged his temples. Would he really want it to?
He shook his head and looked at
Felts
. The former Grik “Indiaman” was now a United States sloop. Her once bloodred hull was painted black, with the exception of the broad white band down her length highlighting the closed black-painted gun ports piercing her side. One of Matt’s decrees as supreme commander had been, with the exception of “spy” ships that would retain Grik colors, all allied warships (other than the two old destroyers) would be painted in the same scheme that adorned their final sailing cousins on that other Earth long ago. He was glad he’d made that choice. The total difference it made in their appearance went a long way toward divorcing the ships from the terrible creatures who built them, and it was easier to look at them, and live on them, and give them proud names, if their loathsome makers were not so closely associated with them anymore, even by color. And red, the color of blood, was easy to associate with the Grik. Now, in spite of who made her,
Felts
was a heartwarming sight, loping almost playfully along under close-reefed topsails so she wouldn’t shoot ahead of the approaching destroyer. Matt could see her barge in the water, coming their way. “Ahead slow,” he called to the helmsman. “We’ll bring her in our lee as she closes.”
The bosun’s pipe twittered, and Carpenter’s Mate—now Lieutenant (JG)—Sam Clark arrived on deck, followed by his Lemurian sailing master and second in command, Aarin-Bitaak. Clark was from
Mahan
, and had been given
Felts
because of an extensive sailing background. He was raised building boats in his father’s shop. Matt, Keje, and Lieutenant Dowden returned his salute.
“Am I glad to see you guys!” Clark exclaimed, then winced and added, “Sirs!” Matt made no comment. He normally didn’t discourage familiarity between his officers and himself, but in public, which they now were for all the crew to see, he expected proper behavior. It was as important to morale as it was to discipline. Clark was young and exuberant, and not quite used to being an officer yet. He’d understandably want an assignment like Rick Tolson had had: essentially, harassing the enemy any way he could. He wouldn’t enjoy being a freighter, but that was part of the responsibility of command: doing what you were told whether you wanted to or not. Duty was the same for anyone in the Navy, but with command came the added responsibility of inspiring an equally disgruntled crew with the importance of the task. Exuberance must be leavened with introspection, and at least the appearance of calm confidence. Matt suspected Lieutenant Dowden or maybe even the Bosun might slip Clark a word or two before he left.
Clark continued: “We’ve been tacking back and forth for two days. We tried to anchor, but the tidal race around these islands is something fierce! We had a hard time getting everything ashore.”
“I assume you managed?”
“Yes, sir. All baggage and supplies are ashore, and the Marines have established a defensible beachhead.” He paused and shook his head. “I have to say, sir, getting the brontosarries ashore was a task I’d sooner not have to repeat.” Matt could imagine. Brontosarries were pygmy versions of the dinosaurs they so closely resembled from the fossil record and were indigenous to most of the large regional landmasses. Bradford proposed that one of the reasons their charts were a little off, regarding various coastlines, was that this Earth might be experiencing an ice age of sorts, lowering the sea level. He believed whatever event caused evolution to take such a drastic diversion here was also at work on the planet. Therefore, the seas were not quite so deep as they should be. Perhaps, aeons ago, an even more severe ice age left many of the islands connected in some way. That would explain why brontosarries and other large creatures, clearly unfit for a long swim in such hazardous seas, might be as prolific as they were.
Regardless, the beasts they’d brought were domesticated and “trained”—if such a word could be used regarding a creature with roughly the intelligence of a cow—to provide motive power for the drilling rig. The task of not only transporting them (small as they were, compared to their ancestors they were still twice the size of an Asian elephant) but off-loading them and rafting them ashore must have been harrowing, to say the least. Inexperienced as Clark was, it spoke well of him that he’d accomplished it.
“Very well.” Matt grinned wryly. “We’ll try not to delay you much longer”—the young lieutenant winced again—“but I’ll trouble you for your boats and crew to help us unload as well.”
“Aye, aye, Captain Reddy!”
Clark was right about the tide. When it came in, it did so with a mounting fury, and when it ebbed, the drop was equally dramatic. In between, the currents surged and swirled so violently they were forced to moor the ship fore and aft (with plenty of water under her keel) to begin off-loading the large pieces of the rig. This took much longer than Matt had been prepared for, but there was nothing for it. Powered boats and launches (
Walker
had all of
Mahan
’s for this trip, while new ones, using the salvaged engines of the old, were built at Baalkpan to replace those that were destroyed) plied back and forth from the beach carrying supplies and personnel, as well as the smaller parts of the rig. The heavier pieces were swayed out, causing the ship to lean noticeably to port, and lowered onto barges and rafts that were then either towed or heaved ashore by the monstrous beasts of burden. The loud bellows of the Bosun and the croaky shouts of the Mice made sure everything was accomplished as quickly and efficiently as possible, and by the afternoon watch, the transfer was finally complete. Matt moved to stand next to Bradford, who leaned on the bridge wing rail, intently studying the island through his binoculars. He was clearly impatient to go ashore.
“Take the Mice, Silva, and a dozen Marines, and find a suitable well site as quickly as you can. Shinya’s going to be tied up with the security situation, but I’m sending the Bosun to chivvy you along, so don’t go chasing lizards and bugs, clear? Also, the Bosun’ll be in charge after we leave, so make sure you mention any
pertinent
observations you make to him.”
“Absolutely clear, Captain! I’ll impart what wisdom I may . . . and obey Mr. Gray’s every whim. But are you certain I mustn’t remain here to help? I’m sure there’s much I could contribute.”
“Absolutely positive. Remember, this is just our first stop. We’ll be crossing deep water for the first time. Just imagine the strange creatures we may find on our
next
landfall. Besides, we might even see a ‘mountain fish’ and get to try our experimental defenses!”
“My God! Of course you’re right, Captain. I’ll certainly be of more use later on. I fear my current excitement must have addled my thoughts.”
“Good. For now, though, prepare to go ashore”—he raised a warning finger—“but don’t get sidetracked.”
“I don’t even know why I’m here, Goddamn it!” Dennis Silva complained. “I’m still restricted to the ship!” He gestured at the impenetrable jungle around them. “This look like the ship to you, Bosun?”
Chief Gray shook his head, avoiding another branch Silva let spring back toward his face. “It damn sure don’t look like Tarakan Island!” he gruffed. “We steamed right by it when we retreated from the Philippines. It had a lot of oil field equipment, some big sheds, and a few palm trees. . . . Hell, I wasn’t expecting that, but I didn’t expect to hack my way through steel wool neither!” The large group of men and Lemurians were creeping down a well-used game trail. It was, apparently, the only way to move on the densely forested island. To make matters worse, whatever made the trail couldn’t have been taller than a cow, and although it was a minor inconvenience to the ’Cats, the constant crouching and hacking with their cutlasses was hell on the destroyermen.
“How much farther?” Gray asked.
Bradford had stopped to consult a compass. Landmarks were, obviously, out of the question. Sweat dripping from his forehead obscured the dial, and he wiped at it with his sweaty shirt and sighed.
“Can’t be much farther now, I’m sure. Bloody island’s only ten miles long, from tip to tip! We came ashore south-southwest, and the site I wanted was only about two miles inland. We should be there . . . well, now.”
Silva looked around. “Why can’t we just burn the bastard off?” He was the tallest in the group and was suffering the most. At one point he’d grumblingly suggested they name the place “Spanky Land” after
Walker
’s engineering officer. He didn’t say why. They’d been searching for three hours, but the twists and turns the game trail took made it impossible to go straight to the spot Bradford wanted.
“That big ape Silva might actually have a point,” grumbled Gray. He kicked the mushy jungle floor. “If we could even get this shit to burn, I’m for trying it. Wait for a day when the wind is right . . .”
“Outrageous!” Bradford declared. “You’re contemplating ecological . . . murder! It would be a crime against nature and humanity to raze this island. I’ve already glimpsed many creatures I’ve never seen on the mainland! They might exist nowhere else!”
Gray sighed. “If you’d let me finish . . . I wasn’t talking about burning off the whole damn place, just part of it. Besides, you can’t tell me there’s never been a lightning fire here. If we do it—if we
can
do it—we’ll be careful.”
Somewhat mollified, Courtney considered. “Well, yes, that might work. But you’d have to be very careful indeed.”
Silva glanced back at the Bosun and rolled his eyes. “There wadn’t nothin’ here on the ‘old’ Tarakan,” he said.
“Well . . . of course not, but that’s entirely different.”
“How’s that?”
“Because,” Gray remarked cynically, “there was nothin’ left for him to ogle before. Now there is.” His tone changed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bradford, but we’ll do whatever we have to, to get oil outta this rock. If that means burning the whole thing down, we will. We’ll try to be careful, but the ‘needs of the service,’ et cetera, not to mention the needs of our allies and ourselves, must be met. Now, how much farther?”