“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 fabled earlier “tail-less ones”—which caused quite a stir at first. But old Naga wasn’t there; he hadn’t been seen in days. Adar was, but having been included among those with the need to know, he hadn’t resolved the dogmatic challenges to some fundamental interpretations of the ancient Scrolls they represented. He’d chosen not to “make a big deal” of their presence until he sorted things out in his own mind. The specter of bitter controversy loomed, controversy that might prove distracting at the worst possible time. There was no telling how—or if—different historical perspectives on ancient events might conflict with their own, and if they differed wildly, how might they be reconciled? It was a perplexing problem. He expected no challenge to the most basic unifying gospel of his people, however: reverence of the Sacred Heavens. So for now, he’d concentrate on his sworn task: defeating the Grik. Only with victory would he have the leisure for theological contemplation, not to mention possible “adjustments” to many of his people’s most closely held beliefs.
Ensign Laumer was clearly out of his depth, and it showed in his expression. There just hadn’t been enough time for him to grasp all that was going on. His previous situation had been far enough beyond his experience, but his slowly growing understanding of
this
situation left him overwhelmed. Matt knew the kid wasn’t ready to lead his men in battle, but he knew he’d have to figure out
something
for him to do or he might be ruined. O’Casey was stony-faced, observant, apparently curious about how he could help. That was what he’d asked the captain, but Matt wasn’t sure. He’d introduced him to Letts and told the lieutenant to figure it out, as long as O’Casey, Silva, or now—apparently—Sandra was with the girl at all times.
Sandra became one of Rebecca’s “protectors” almost at first sight. Rebecca was a virtual (smaller) twin to the nurse, and each had recognized herself in the other at once. Both were willful, intelligent, accustomed to getting their way, but profoundly empathic as well. Sandra was impressed by the girl’s resilience, her capacity to cope with the hardships she’d endured and remain so self-possessed at such an early age—not to mention her devotion to such bizarre and disparate “friends” as Lawrence and Dennis Silva. When they were first introduced, Rebecca was still seething with revulsion and indignation over Silva’s behavior at the pier and Sandra recognized an anger founded on affection at once. She also instantly realized the girl harbored a great secret that wasn’t for public discussion.
Rebecca saw in Sandra a mirror image of her mother, but an image—much as she loved her—her mother could never reflect in action. She’d already seen a huge difference between how Lemurians and her own people perceived a female’s role, and now she saw a similar stunning difference in the way the “Americans” treated their women. She sensed they were extremely protective of them, which made sense when they were so few, but there was no condescension or disdain, and the protectiveness was of a different sort; it was not of the type extended to property. She’d been immune to that sort herself, considering who she was, but knew it was pervasive among her people. Here, despite their scarcity, women had real power and status—equality—and Sandra Tucker epitomized that equality with her every word, her bearing, and her most casual gesture. Here was a woman like Rebecca had never seen, who, while wholly feminine, demanded and received respect. Not because she’d been born to it, but because she’d earned it.
At the same time, the girl also sensed a sadness, a vulnerability separate from Sandra’s professional self, and knew the woman held a great secret of her own. Even Rebecca, a child of ten, quickly realized what it was.
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 waste the ammunition.” He glanced at Sandison, then looked at Nakja-Mur.
“We’re almost out of ammunition ourselves,” he admitted. “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 of Ensign Laumer. The young officer still looked lost. Matt understood how he felt. “Laumer?”
“Sir?”
“I want you and half your submariners to go as well. Continue providing security for our noncombatants. Besides, if we fail here, it’ll be up to you to continue the fight, keep helping our friends in technical matters.” Laumer straightened, glad to have something to do. Something he
could
do, while he got his feet under him.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Matt turned back to Geran-Eras. “I understand there’s a small Baalkpan settlement at Saangku. They may need evacuation as well, if things go poorly here.” There were a few thoughtful nods in the crowd. Matt pressed on. “If that happens, then the Homes will serve yet another purpose. If Baalkpan falls, we’ll retreat north through the jungle, and the Homes’ll be waiting to take us to safety.” He smirked. Everyone knew how dangerous a trek of that distance through the Borno jungle would be—particularly with the Grik snapping at their heels. Perhaps some would survive. “Not much of a backup 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!”