Not a word was uttered in the chamber while he stood silent, contemplating his next words. “I was a youngling before all this started, if not in years, then certainly in experience. Now I am a bosun’s mate, a captain of Marines, and I guard some of the most important leaders of our alliance.” He stared hard at Meksnaak. “Do you dare call me a youngling, or offer further insult to those I protect?”
Saan-Kakja took a breath and realized she’d been holding it. She looked around the table, surprised how much Chack’s words had changed her perceptions of the people there. Particularly the Amer-i-caans. She’d heard the tales, of course, but they’d been told dispassionately. To hear Chack tell them, in his own words, made them real. She pierced her Sky Priest with another molten stare.
Meksnaak’s apologetic blinking was constant now and, from what Matt had learned of Lemurian expression, sincere. He even felt a little embarrassed for the Sky Priest, but he also knew Saan-Kakja needed to get this sorted out. He thought she had. She and Chack had. The new High Chief of Manila might be young, but she was no “youngling.” Not anymore. She finally spoke again, and when she did her voice had lost much of its fury.
“You may one day earn the right to be rude to me, Meksnaak, but you will never be rude to my friends again. They have earned our respect and gratitude. Besides, none of us have the luxury of being rude to
anyone
who will help us in this fight. Yes, we need their help as much as they need ours. This is our war too. The Grik have come as if our most horrible dreams have been made flesh, and they come to devour us all! Our only hope is to destroy them first, and we must have friends to do it. How can we expect to make those friends when we can’t even be polite at the breakfast table?”
“Hear, hear!” Bradford said, banging his coffee cup on the table for emphasis. It wasn’t quite empty, and much of the remains wound up on his sleeve. “Saan-Kakja for queen, I say!” He looked at the suddenly wary Sky Priest. “She certainly settled our hash! I suppose we’ll have to keep our little arguments more private from now on.” Meksnaak hadn’t had much contact with humans, but he’d learned a nod was still a nod. He nodded now and forced a small smile.
“If that is the will of my chief,” he said quietly.
“Surely she can’t object to a little debate between two scientific beings, though?” He arched his eyebrows once again, and Saan-Kakja couldn’t restrain a giggle. Like the cats—and lemurs for that matter—they so closely resembled, Lemurians had an extraordinarily limited range of facial expression. They were
very
expressive, through eye blinks, ear positions, and body posture, and their tails added an emphasis to their emotions and attitudes that humans couldn’t hope to match. A grin was a grin and a frown was a frown, but other than that their faces hardly moved at all. Humans, on the other hand, used comparatively little body language, and it took quite a while for Lemurians to understand that much of the true meaning behind their words was conveyed by a bewildering array of inimitable facial contortions. Courtney Bradford had discovered early on that ’Cats sometimes found these contortions amusing. Particularly when wildly exaggerated. He made good use of that knowledge now, bouncing his bushy eyebrows up and down like a pair of spastic caterpillars. Even Meksnaak couldn’t resist, and he suddenly broke into a grin after an explosive snort. Bradford looked at Chack, who’d resumed his seat, but was now barely able to stay on his stool. His eyes were clenched shut, and he was making a kind of high-pitched, hacking sound.
“What?” demanded Bradford in a voice of purest innocence. A moment before there’d been a dangerous tension in the room. Now . . . there wasn’t. Matt congratulated himself again for bringing the Australian along.
“Mr. Bradford,” he said, shaking his head with a grin, “I think you’ve made your point.” He nodded respectfully at Chack. “As has our captain of Marines. Now . . .” He looked at Saan-Kakja, who was gaining control of herself. “With your permission, perhaps we might proceed?”
“Of course.”
Walker
steamed southwest under a cloudless, hazy sky through the treacherous waters of the Visayan Sea. Lookouts were on constant alert for shoaling water and the little islets sprinkled about. Through Adar they’d acquired copies of Lemurian Scrolls for this portion of the trip, and Meksnaak was partially mollified to discover that, regardless of the detail American Scrolls possessed, they depicted a slightly different world, where conditions weren’t entirely the same. He’d also pinpointed the area, west of wild, largely unexplored Mindanao, where fishing boats of the southern clan colonies last reported the “iron fish.”
They departed Manila with Saan-Kakja’s promise her personal Guard of a thousand troops would depart immediately aboard one of the “supply” Homes bound for Baalkpan. Chack’s Marine lieutenant remained behind to give rudimentary training to the levy, before taking ship with the Guard, whom he’d train as much as possible on the way. More would follow. It wasn’t as much or as quickly as Matt had hoped, but it was more than he’d begun to fear they’d get. As it was, they still had a few days left of the time he’d allocated for looking for the submarine, even if he’d begun to begrudge it. They still hadn’t heard anything from Baalkpan, and they had to assume, at the very least, that the radio was out. He didn’t want to think about other possibilities, no matter how far-fetched or unlikely.
Those possibilities were beginning to affect the crew, however, and Chack was becoming openly worried about Queen Maraan. Somehow he sensed she’d done something foolish, and he couldn’t get the conviction out of his head. Matt tried to soothe his nerves (and his own) by assuring him the problem was probably just some glitch with the radio—yet another piece of equipment they’d relied so heavily upon had let them down. Regardless, he was anxious to complete their quick sweep and head for home.
They saw plenty of gri-kakka, and even hit one again. This specimen wasn’t nearly as large as the plesiosaur they struck in the Java Sea, so there was no damage. The coloration was peculiar, however, and Mr. Bradford’s insistent demands obliged them to heave to briefly and compare the dead creature to others they’d seen. He didn’t have much time. Being back in relatively shallow water, the flashies made an immediate appearance, drawn by the blood, and soon the water churned with such violence he was forced to abandon his investigation. In the short time he had to study it, though, he documented a few distinct variations.
Land was never entirely out of sight, and strange, flying creatures dogged them constantly, swooping among the signal halyards and roosting on the number one funnel and generally shitting all over the ship. Chack had a constant detail plying hoses and mops, but it made little difference. Most of the creatures were familiar variations of the lizard birds they were used to, even if the colors were generally different. Some “birds” looked like actual birds, with real feathers, and they shrieked and cawed right among the others. On the amidships gun platform, Silva was pitching small morsels in the air, and the off-duty crew were betting on which creatures would slaughter the others to get them.
Matt was leaning on the bridge wing rail with Spanky and Keje, watching the entertainment, and was surprised to see Gilbert and Tabby participating. He raised an eyebrow at the engineer.
Spanky shrugged. “They’ve been getting out more,” he confirmed. “Weird. It’s like we had three trees growing off the same root, and when we cut one down, the other two took off.” He shook his head. “I wonder how Isak’s doin’. I know it sounds selfish, but I hope they all get along when we get them back together.” He grinned. “They still do their jobs, but I don’t get as much extra work out of them as I used to, what with them hanging around in the firerooms off watch.”
Matt saw Silva stiffen suddenly, his predatory eye fixed like a cougar on its prey. He shoved his way forward through his bewildered audience, scooping the large, slimy quid of “tobacco” from his cheek. Pausing by the rail next to the ladder, he waited for his chance. Below him, Chack and a couple Marine “deck apes” were working their way aft. Chack was grousing loudly about something, probably all the “bird” crap. Like a bombardier, Silva took careful aim at his objective and, when he judged the moment was right, released his payload. It struck the deck directly in front of Chack with a resounding, viscous
splap
, and the ’Cat quickly looked skyward, searching for whatever creature was capable of creating such prodigious droppings. Instead of an unprecedentedly large flying reptile, however, his eyes fastened onto Silva’s bearded face, leering happily amid the sound of raucous laughter.
“Oh, Lord.” Spanky sighed.
Matt’s first instinct was to shout a reprimand. Instead he stifled the impulse and laughed. He caught Spanky’s questioning, almost indignant look. “Oh, don’t worry; he’ll clean it up. He’s become ‘responsible’! I’m just glad to see his practical jokes have moderated with his increase in rank.”
Spanky shook his head. “But have Chack’s?” he wondered aloud.
Lieutenant Dowden joined them with a smirk. “You know, right now we’ve got half the deck division spraying bird crap off the ship, while the other half is encouraging the damn things to squirt more on it.” He shook his head when the others laughed.
“Is this a . . . met-a-for? A metaphor for human behavior?” Keje asked, and joined in when the laughter redoubled. In spite of their worries about the radio, everyone felt a certain lightness now that the greater part of their mission had been achieved. Baalkpan would be reinforced. It would take a while, but they should have the time.
“Maybe so,” Matt conceded, “but there’re plenty of ’Cats doing it too. Maybe we’re too much alike for our own good.” He sobered and looked at Spanky. “How’s our fuel holding up?”
“Okay, so far. We made a slower run out than planned, so we saved a little there. We’re kind of pouring it on for this little side-trip, holding twenty knots, but we’ll have to slow down again in the Canigao Channel. We’ll be taking the Surigao Strait in the dark, so we ought to keep it slow. . . . Plenty of fuel for a return trip like the one we came out on. Where are we looking first for this sub?”
Matt stepped around the charthouse and stared down at the copied Lemurian Scrolls rolled out under the Plexiglas on the chart table. The others joined him there. “Last reliable reports have it in this vicinity,” he said, pointing at Davao Gulf and circling his finger south of Mindanao. “Fishing boats from Saraan-gaani—used to be General Santos, where one of Saan-Kakja’s brothers set up house—saw it pretty often for a week or two, from the reports Meksnaak finally coughed up, but nobody’s seen it for a year now, which would be about right.” Matt frowned. “I know Meksnaak finally made all nice, but I still don’t know about that guy. I’m pretty sure he’s still convinced it’s a sea monster of some sort. Anyway, given that it must have gone through the same Squall we did, and the fuel it must’ve had, it couldn’t have made it much farther than that. By the time they made it here, they must have realized something was seriously out of whack.” His finger traced the western coastline of Mindanao, paused at the bay where Mati should be, considering, then swept around Cape San Agustin and into Davao Gulf. “If it was anywhere near Saraan-gaani, or beached on the coast anywhere along here, Saan-Kakja’s brother would know about it. We’ll look, of course, especially in that bay, but I don’t think we’ll find it there. No one’s reported it, and I understand the local wildlife is even more extreme than usual. If they tried to land along there, I bet they didn’t stay.”
“Maybe it’s just gone, Skipper,” Dowden said. “Sunk.”
“Maybe . . .”
“Where, then?” Keje asked.
Matt’s finger roamed south about a hundred and fifty miles to Talaud Island and drew a circle, encompassing the tiny islands around it. “Here, I think, if they had the fuel. These islands are . . . were Dutch. Maybe they hoped to find
somebody
home.”
Keje studied the chart. “Deep water. Deep water all around.”
“Yeah. Nobody in their right mind would go monkeying around down there. No reason to, besides. Dangerous water and nothing to catch. If they’re there, they could’ve easily gone a year without anybody noticing.” He looked at Keje and their eyes met.
“I have seen those islands,” Keje said softly, “many years ago. I did not go ashore—that was not our purpose—but the land on the big island, this Taa-laud, is lush, and could sustain them if they were not eaten by predators—and if they made it across the deep waters in the first place. The island is also founded upon a burning mountain, a ‘vol-caano’ that rarely sleeps. I have heard the earth moves often, and the very sea sometimes behaves strangely.”
Matt straightened, decision made. “We’ll work south along the coast of Mindanao, checking every nook and cranny, but then, if we haven’t found it, we’ll cross to Talaud.”
“What if it’s not there either, Skipper?” Spanky asked.
Matt shrugged. “We go home.”
CHAPTER 8
It was overcast, but not raining this time when Sandra waved good-bye to yet another destroyer. Now
Mahan
was steaming toward the mouth of the bay, looking just like
Walker
from a distance, and fingers of dread clutched Sandra’s heart.
Mahan
was following in the wake of a pair of fast feluccas that had departed the night before. They’d serve as scouts at first, then transports if the need arose. Nobody really knew how many people remained on B’mbaado—trapped now behind enemy lines.
Selass was with her, come to say farewell to her mate, Saak-Fas. He’d been leaning on the rail, staring, as the ship moved away, but if he saw her in the throng he made no sign. Now the ship had almost vanished against the dreary, light gray sky. They saw a wisp of smoke, a sense of ghostly movement. Otherwise all that marked her passage was a flicker of color at her masthead as the Stars and Stripes streamed aft in the sultry air, stirred only by the ship’s motion. Sandra watched the flag slowly fade with mixed emotions, an elusive memory of something Matt once told her rising to the surface. Something he’d seen a doomed British destroyer do in the face of impossible odds, and then
Exeter
did the same thing before her final battle. She strained to remember, sure it was important.
“Do you think they will return?” Selass asked quietly.
“They must. We’ll need them desperately when
Walker
returns.”
“I meant
Walker
,” Selass almost whispered. “I feel so guilty. I find myself almost hoping
Mahan
will fail. That would mean the end of Queen Maraan, but then I might have a chance when Chack returns. It would also probably mean the end of Saak-Fas as well.” She paused, then almost pleaded, “But that is what he wants, is it not?”
“I suspect so,” Sandra replied, saddened for her tragic friend, though not shocked that her thoughts had taken such a turn. “If that’s the case, if he truly wants to die, he’ll likely get his chance.” She sighed. “Jim Ellis is a good man and an excellent officer, but I’m not sure he should be commanding this mission. He still blames himself for losing
Mahan
when Kaufman shot him and took command. He thinks his ship’s honor is stained—
his
honor too. He feels he has something to prove. Nobody like that should ever command a mission like this, with so much at stake. I know Jim, and trust him, but I can’t shake the fear that he’ll take chances with himself and his ship, hoping to remove that stain, when his most important objective is to get himself and his ship back in one piece.”
She lowered her head in thought as they walked back through the bazaar in the direction of the hospital. They entered the textile section, where colorful tapestries and fine fabrics swayed gently in the light air. A matronly Lemurian female, with hard-used, pendulous breasts, was perched on a high stool, embroidering a smock with an ornate design, and Sandra paused to admire the work. Then it hit her.
“Excuse me,” she said excitedly. “Your embroidery is beautiful, but do you also sew fabric together?”
“Of course! What a silly question . . .” The female grunted rudely, then looked up and hastily added, “Esteemed healer!” She stood and bowed low. “My apologies! Indeed, I must first make these garments before I embroider them.”
“Excellent! I know you’re busy, but could I commission you to make something for me?”
“For you, anything! You healed one of my daughters, badly wounded at Aryaal. Nothing will take precedence. I will begin work today! What would the esteemed healer have me make?”
Sandra took her precious notebook and pen from her shirt pocket and began to draw. Curious passersby stopped to stare, and it occurred to Sandra that she’d probably doubled the old seamstress’s business by choosing her. She displayed the sketch and said how big she wanted the finished product.
“I have seen that before,” the matron said. “Everyone has. Certainly I can make it, but so large?” Sandra nodded emphatically. Then, thinking of the female’s embroidery skills, and her own Virginia heritage, she scribbled some more on the drawing. “And I want that on it too.”
Tarakan Island had changed dramatically. Chief Gray had finally taken Silva’s advice and burned half of it off. They took extreme care to make sure the prevailing winds confined the blaze to only half the island; still, Gray knew Bradford would be livid. There’d been nothing for it, though. The dense foliage simply couldn’t be cleared in the time they had, and the priority, after all, was the well. Besides, it was a dangerous place. They’d lost two more ’Cats surveying the site—killed this time—and the Bosun wouldn’t sacrifice another life for every tree on the island. Even so, he’d been surprised how well the place burned. He hadn’t even been sure they could light the wet, waxy undergrowth, and when it went up like kerosene-soaked wood, it was a scramble to contain the blaze and get everyone clear. They even had a battle on their hands, of sorts, down on the beach, when swarms of wildly unlikely creatures stampeded from the forest. Fortunately, Shinya had already begun defensive positions, and a lot of the fleeing beasts simply leaped the entrenchments the workers and Marines scrambled into. Some of the terror-maddened creatures wanted to fight, though, and some of his people suffered a few injuries—none serious, fortunately, but they were well supplied with meat for a couple days before it began to spoil.
Work on the well proceeded rapidly after that, surrounded by a surrealistic landscape of fire-blackened stumps and a jumble of fallen trees. At least the workers were no longer in peril from predators, although nighttime brought a variety of scavengers anxious to pick the cooked victims clean. Soon even they lost interest, and before long one could walk from the beach to the well at any time of the day or night in relative safety.
Shinya and Gray had a falling-out over the burn, but not for environmental reasons. Shinya wanted to leave a belt of jungle as a fallback defensive position. Gray even tried to arrange it, but the fire took off quicker than anyone expected. Angry, Shinya accused Gray of deliberately disregarding his advice, and, just as angry, Gray told him to go to hell. They coexisted even more uneasily than usual after that, and each concentrated on his own area of responsibility. As a result, both probably did a better, quicker job than they would have otherwise, but they drove their work crews unmercifully. By the time Isak brought in the well, everyone was exhausted.
The upside was, that left little strenuous labor for anyone to do. The storage tanks were erected and emplaced, and a pipeline had already been run to where the new refinery would be once
Felts
returned with the equipment. Shinya had overseen the construction of impressive works down at the beach, with multilayered defenses anchored on the impenetrable jungle on one flank, and a rocky mole extending into the sea on the other. The storage tanks were just outside the secondary defensive perimeter, but the wellhead was protected.
Gray sat on the edge of his cot under a makeshift shelter the Marines erected. It was a sturdy affair and would probably survive a moderate blow. It wasn’t big, but at least he had it to himself. All the workers and Marines shared similar structures with ten or more. He heard a loud
crack
and glanced up from the journal he was keeping, pen poised over the paper. He had a good view of the beach, and experienced a nostalgic moment when he realized it looked just like any other island beach he’d seen—like those in the Keys where he took the Boy fishing when he was on leave—before his wife got fed up and took the Boy away. He hadn’t seen him more than half a dozen times after that, so he’d been shocked to run into him, all grown up, in a bar in Cavite. The Boy was in destroyers then too, but he’d received a transfer. They had a few beers, talked about things, and then went to the beach and fished until the sun came up. The next day, the Boy shouldered his seabag and boarded an oiler bound for Pearl. From there he’d hitch another ride to the States and spend a few days with his mother before joining his new ship: The USS
Oklahoma
.
When things started getting hot with the Japs, the Pacific Fleet—and
Oklahoma
—moved to Pearl. Gray had been planning on taking some leave to get together with the Boy, but a little over a year ago now, on December 7 . . . The letter he got said the Boy was “missing and presumed lost.” He figured his ex got one just like it, but he never wrote to find out. There wasn’t any point. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face.
There was another
crack
and he focused on the cause. Down by the water a group of ’Cats was gathered around a man, and Gray did a double take. He snorted with amazement. He’d seen dinosaurs, monkey-cats, flying lizards, and Grik, but nothing rivaled this: Isak Rueben was teaching the ’Cats how to swing a baseball bat. Gray was shocked that he even knew how. The Mice had always scorned the ship’s team, back when there was one, and never even watched the games. While Gray stared, Isak tossed another of the softball-size, inedible nuts they’d discovered on the island into the air, and with a confident flourish twirled the bat and whacked the nut far out over the water. It disappeared with a splash, lost in the sound of the surf.
“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, a grin creeping across his face. It vanished an instant later when he heard the insistent clanging of the general alarm bell. The bell was little more than a hollow bronze pipe, but its sound carried amazingly well when it was vigorously struck. There was only one reason for anyone to do that. Tamatsu Shinya appeared in the entrance to his hut, breathing hard, almost coming to attention.
“We have visitors,” he said, very formally.
Shinya and Gray stood on the beach surrounded by their “staff,” consisting of two Lemurian Marine captains, their four lieutenants, and a Guard captain in charge of the project company. His lieutenants were organizing his workers into squads and arming them, while the Marine NCOs directed their troops into their fighting positions. Signalman “Mikey” Monk, from
Mahan
, and Shipfitter Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson from
Walker
, were also there, and, for some reason, so was Isak. Gray lowered his binoculars and grudgingly handed them to Shinya.
“Three Grik ships—you can just see the red of their hulls—working up from the south. There’s another sail, southwest and farther away, but coming up fast. She’s got a better wind.”
“You reckon it might be
Felts
?” Isak asked, uncharacteristically curious. “She’s due back.”
“Could be,” Gray answered. “Whoever it is, they’re by theirself. If she’s ours, maybe she’ll get here in time to intercept those Grik bastards.” He grinned wickedly. “I wonder how they’ll like her guns.”
A blue-kilted staff sergeant scampered up and saluted. “The Marines are in place, sirs.” His tail twitched. “The Guards soon will be. I sent first squad, second platoon, to help them get sorted out.” The Guard captain bristled, but said nothing.
“Very well,” Shinya replied. “Once they’re in position, have them stand easy. It will be a while before the enemy arrives. Make sure there is plenty of water and the ammunition is distributed.”
The ammunition was mainly arrows and crossbow bolts, although some of the NCOs had Krags. There were also the two field guns they’d brought ashore, six-pounders, now emplaced halfway from the center to each flank, where they could sweep all approaches.
For the better part of the morning, the group stood rooted, watching the approaching ships. A single, towering cloud appeared and lashed the sea with a vicious squall before vanishing entirely. The Grik ships continued their relentless advance. So did the other “sail,” and before long they saw the white stripe between her gunports.
Felts
.
“This ought to be a pretty good show,” Gray surmised, and indeed, he was right.
Felts
slanted down, Stars and Stripes streaming to leeward, and crossed the bows of the tightly packed enemy squadron. A single, billowing white cloud erupted along her side, and long moments later a dull thumping sound reached them over the surf.
“Give ’em hell, Mr. Clark!” Mikey growled.
They couldn’t see the effect, if any, of the initial broadside, but
Felts
wore around and punished the enemy with her portside guns. They saw splashes of debris, and a mast toppled into the sea. Cheers erupted behind them. The Grik squadron’s precise formation fell into disarray, and two of the ships slewed around, beam-on to their attacker. Then, with disbelieving eyes, those on the beach watched sporadic puffs of white smoke gush from the sides of the red-hulled ships.
“Holy
shit
!”
Round shot kicked up splashes, skipping across the wave tops in the general direction of the beach, and a few of the staff cringed involuntarily.
“Holy shit,” Dobbin murmured again. “Where’d they get
cannons
?”
“Same place we did, idiot,” Gray growled more fiercely than he intended. “The bastards made ’em.”
Felts
didn’t wear this time; instinctively Clark must have known it would expose his vulnerable stern. Instead, the sloop hove to and held her ground, pounding away at the enemy.
“Gonna be a better show than we thought,” Gray said ironically.
Felts
’s gunnery was far better, and she hacked away at the red ships. She finally fell away before the wind, to keep the Grik at arm’s length, and took a pounding then, but when the now crippled squadron re-formed for the advance, she hove to once more and raked them again and again. The damage she inflicted was exponentially greater this time. Rigging and stays, weakened by the previous fire, parted, and shattered masts teetered and fell, taking others, less damaged, with them. One enemy ship was a wallowing, dismasted wreck, and the other two weren’t much better, but their gunnery was improving at the point-blank range of the duel, and
Felts
was suffering too. Over the next hour they watched while the battle raged on the sea, and
Felts
maintained the same tactics: pouring withering fire into her foes until they got too close, then gaining some distance again. The dismasted, sinking Grik ship fell far behind, but the remaining two learned to present their own broadside whenever
Felts
moved away. It was difficult for them, since they could barely maneuver, but the American ship had finally lost her foremast and maintop as well.