“Wish we had a camera,” Stites said languidly, slowly exhaling a blue cloud of smoke.
“Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford—quite recovered—scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.
“Why?”
“Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m
totally out of ammo
! Right now that gives me the creeps like I never had before. So just shut up and give me a bullet, before I beat you to death!”
Stites smirked and opened his bolt, then stared into his own magazine well in horror. Frantically slapping his pockets with increased panic brought no satisfaction. “Jeez, Dennis! I’m empty too!”
Silva was grimly quiet a moment, considering the long trek back to the refinery and the boat. Suddenly he brightened. “Hey, Mr. Bradford!” Courtney paused his examination and looked inquiringly at him. He had every reason to be well disposed toward the big gunner’s mate. After all, he’d gotten quite close to the monstrous creature and witnessed all sorts of movement before it was killed. Silva only hoped Bradford could protect him from the worst of his captain’s wrath. “You got plenty of bullets left, right?”
Bradford sheepishly hefted the Krag. “Indeed. I’m certain I fired several times, there at the end, but somehow I still have as many rounds as I set out with. Strange.”
“Musta had some extras an’ thumbed ’em in without thinkin’. You got plenty of stuff to think about right now, though. Why don’t you let me wag that heavy rifle back for you?”
Bradford grinned uncertainly. “Oh, thank you very much indeed . . . but I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I can carry my own weight, you know! Still . . . the sling is bloody uncomfortable on my sore shoulder. . . .”
Silva tossed the empty BAR to a wide-eyed Stites and leaned down to accept the Krag. “No bother a’tall!”
CHAPTER 2
Unusually, despite the early hour, it was already raining by the time all the lines were singled up, and the special sea and anchor detail finished all topside preparations for getting underway. Matthew Reddy, captain of USS
Walker
, High Chief of the Amer-i-caan clan, and supreme commander (by acclamation) of all Allied Military Forces, stood in the pilothouse, binoculars around his neck, waiting for “Spanky” to report on the engines. Raindrops pummeled the slightly convex foredeck below him, and ran from the freshly painted steel to course down the side. Behind him the newly overhauled blower roared reassuringly, and he felt a sense of calm begin to edge out the anxiety he felt about the expedition. The routine procedures he knew so well had much to do with that: all the sounds and shouted commands, the twitter of the bosun’s pipe. He was also encouraged just by the fact that they were finally getting underway. The expedition was his idea, and the mission they were on was crucial, but the time it had taken to prepare had cut deeply into the cushion he thought they had. He was glad to have his ship under him again, alive and straining for the open sea, but he was nervous about leaving all the same.
The bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds, spoke: “Engineering reports ready to get underway.”
“Very well. Cast off the stern lines.” He nodded at Chief Quartermaster’s Mate Norman Kutas at the helm. “Left full rudder. Port engine ahead one-third.”
“Left full rudder, port ahead one-third, aye.”
With a juddering vibration, dirty water boiled under the port propeller guard and the cramped, rounded-vee-shaped stern eased slowly away from the pier. Matt stepped into the rain on the port bridge wing and glanced aft. Immediately, water began soaking his hair beneath his battered hat. When the stern was far enough from the pier, he called back to the helmsman: “Rudder amidships. Cast off the bowlines.” The orders were quickly relayed, and the human and Lemurian destroyermen on the fo’c’sle, already soaking wet, scampered to throw off the heavy ropes. “All astern, slow.” He moved back into the pilothouse and quickly dried his face and the back of his head with a towel while he watched the proceedings. Quite a few people lined the dock in spite of the weather, watching the amazing ship depart. Many of their hopes rested with him and the successful completion of their task.
He noticed one person in particular standing with the furry, drenched Lemurians. Her small form already partially obscured by the deluge, he saw her sandy-brown hair hanging down in sodden strands. She raised a tentative hand.
We’ll be back soon
, he silently mouthed, knowing she couldn’t see, and he waved back at all the spectators, but one most of all. “We’ll be back soon,” he repeated aloud.
“Sir?” asked Reynolds.
“Nothing. Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third.”
“Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Kutas replied. “Recommend course two seven five.”
“Make it so. Reynolds, get the sea and anchor detail out of the rain and pass the word for the bosun and exec to join me on the bridge. Spanky too.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
To Sandra Tucker, standing on the old fitting-out pier, the new, light gray paint covering the battered old destroyer couldn’t hide her many defects, but it did quickly blend with the driving rain. She felt a lump the size of her fist tighten in her chest as the ship grew ever more wraithlike and ethereal, and she wondered if she’d ever see it again. If she’d ever see Matthew Reddy again. She said a quick, fervent prayer for the ship and all those aboard her—and one in particular. With a sigh, she turned and melted into the throng and made her way through the dripping, awning-covered bazaar, back to her own duties at the hospital.
Lieutenant Larry Dowden,
Walker
’s executive officer, reached the bridge first, water running from the brim of his hat. Dowden was of average height and spare, but the young towheaded officer from Tennessee had stepped into his new job with energy and professionalism. He’d been a good choice to replace Lieutenant Ellis, Matt reflected once again, tossing him the towel. Soon afterward, Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray clomped up the metal ladder and joined them.
“Mornin’, Skipper.” He didn’t salute because technically, as soon as he stepped out of the rain, he was no longer “outdoors.”
Gray was a bear of a man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station before the war, but had since trimmed back down and muscled up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on all the activity and adventure they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d always demonstrated a clear—indeed, profound—understanding of the practical; that had perhaps been the very definition of his duty as
Walker
’s senior noncommissioned officer. Unlike many in the Navy who had the rank without the skill, Gray had the skill in sufficient measure to apply it beyond the insular world of
Walker
’s deck. As Spanky could, when it came to anything mechanical, Gray brought absolute moral authority to any discussion regarding what people were capable of, and his uncannily accurate assessments now included Lemurians as well.
“Mornin’, Boats.”
“I ran into Juan on the way up here and he said he’d be along directly,” Gray said, referring to Juan Marcos, the Filipino mess attendant who had, for all intents and purposes, become Matt’s personal steward. It was never discussed, and it certainly wasn’t official, but that was how it wound up. Juan had seen to that. “He’s bringin’ coffee,” Gray added ominously, but with an entirely innocent expression—quite an accomplishment for him. Matt grimaced. Juan wasn’t good with coffee, never had been. Somehow he couldn’t destroy the stuff that passed for coffee here as thoroughly as he had the “real” stuff, but it still wasn’t exactly good.
“Maybe . . .”
Juan appeared, beaming, as wet as they. He carried a tray loaded with cups and a silver tureen. A towel was draped over his skinny brown arm.
“Good morning, Cap-tan! You slept well again, I trust? I am so pleased! Here is your coffee!”
“Uh, thanks, Juan.” Matt took a cup and glanced at Gray. “Pour some for Chief Gray too.”
“Oh, no, Skipper, I’ve had plenty already. . . .”
Matt arched an eyebrow. “Nonsense, Boats, I insist. Since you were so diligent in letting Juan know I was ready for my coffee, it’s only right you should have some too.” He turned to Dowden. “How ’bout you, Larry? No? Well, perhaps later.”
Juan happily filled two cups, then set the tray on the edge of the chart table. “When that is gone, I will bring more.”
“Thanks, Juan. You’re too good to me.” The Filipino smiled even more broadly, bowed, and turned away.
“Little booger should’ve been in the hotel business,” Gray said, peering into his cup doubtfully after Juan disappeared. “There’d be few complaints as long as they kept him away from the coffee.”
Matt sighed. “Yeah, but ever since my ‘promotion’ to supreme allied commander he’s been treating me like MacArthur. It’s weird and kind of . . . embarrassing.” He was uncomfortable with his new title, and all the stuff that apparently went with it—in Juan’s estimation, at least. But it was his job whether he liked it or not, and the people who’d given it to him deserved his very best regardless of how he felt. He briefly wondered what Admiral Tommy Hart would say if he could see him now—let alone General MacArthur.
Gray nodded. “Kinda hard to go through everything we have without makin’ that comparison—all the runnin’ around fightin’ and such, with you right in the middle of it, and so much dependin’ on every word you say.” Matt started to chuckle. “Misery and strife shared by all, sword fights, for God’s sake! Wounds, sudden death at any moment,
everything
wants to eat us . . .” Matt was laughing out loud. He held up a hand for the bosun to stop, but Gray continued: “Yeah, I can see how it’d be hard not to compare you to that Army idiot who let all our air cover get hammered on the ground and never even saw a Jap. The excitement and adventure. Honors and glory! It’s everything
I
joined the Navy for in the first place.”
“Okay, Boats, I give up,” Matt said at last, still smiling at the older man. Gray never made any secret of his opinion regarding MacArthur’s strategies. “I guess everyone’s earned a little rest. Maybe this trip will provide one.”
“Rest, is it?” Gray growled with a matching grin. “Don’t say that, Skipper. I feel better than I have in years.” His face became thoughtful. “You know, all that time on the China Station and in the Philippines, I was just goin’ through the motions. Drinkin’ San Miguel, fightin’ in bars, gettin’ fat. I did my job, but there wasn’t any real point to it, I could see. I love the old
Walker
, sir; she’s my home. But no matter how hard we tried to keep her ready to fight, nothing could’ve made her ready for the Japs. She was too old and worn-out. Just like me.” He sighed. “Then the Japs ran us out of the Philippines. Beat us up and chased us out of the Java Sea, too. Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper, but none of us were much good for anything but runnin’ back then. You were right. Even if the Japs hadn’t got us,
Walker
would’ve spent the war towin’ targets . . . or bein’ one, and most of her crew wouldn’t have been good for much else either. After that last big fight with
Amagi
, when we got sucked up by the Squall, none of that mattered anymore.”
A stormy frown creased Gray’s face. “I hate the Japs for what they done to us, and I hope wherever ‘home’ is, our boys are kickin’ hell out of ’em. But we wouldn’t have been helpin’ much, even if we were alive. Back there,
Walker
wouldn’t have made any difference.” His frown shifted into an expression of determination. “In this world, in this fight against those damn Griks, she has made a difference, and so have all her people. With God’s help, maybe she will again.”
“God’s, and Spanky McFarlane’s,” Matt agreed quietly, referring to
Walker
’s engineering officer, who still hadn’t arrived. The diminutive engineer had performed miracles keeping the battered ship not only afloat, but seaworthy, and three of her four boilers were probably in better shape than they’d been in years. Their arrival in Baalkpan, and the necessities of the war they found themselves in, had sparked an industrial revolution of sorts. The Lemurians had already possessed impressive foundries for casting massive anchors and other fittings for the Homes, but the Americans had taught them to make cannon, shot, and other things they’d need. The machine shops on the two destroyers turned out parts for lathes even bigger than themselves, and soon milling machines, lathes, and other heavy tools were operating in huge “factories” near the shipyard. They were running out of certain other spare parts fast, though, mostly bearings and things that Lemurian industry wasn’t yet up to helping them produce. They’d have to figure that out pretty quick.
Gray nodded. “Yes, sir. Please don’t ever tell him I said so, but Spanky’s been a wonder. Him and everybody else.”
“What?” demanded McFarlane, suddenly joining them, dripping like the rest, and striking his distinctive pose: hands on his skinny hips.
“Nothin’,” Gray grumped, recovering himself. “I was just wonderin’ who’s gonna restow that junk your snipes scattered all over my topsides.” He was referring to the disassembled drilling rig.
“Your deck apes,” Spanky replied cheerfully. “That’s their job.”
Walker
steamed past
Aracca
Home, one of the enormous seagoing cities of the Lemurians. She was moving toward the mouth of the bay to relieve
Big Sal
as a floating battery—a task all the sea folk despised, but knew was necessary. Larger than the new
Essex
-class aircraft carriers Matt had seen under construction,
Aracca
, like all her kind, was built entirely of wood. Her hull was double ended, flat bottomed, and diagonally plank laminated to a thickness of six feet in some places. Matt was impressed by the sophisticated design, and knew the ship was incredibly tough. It had to be. Despite the stresses inherent to her momentous proportions (1,009 feet long, with a beam of almost 200 feet),
Aracca
had been built to last for centuries upon a sea that was much more hostile in many ways than the sea Matt had known before the Squall.
Not in all ways, perhaps
, he reflected grimly—remembering that Homes like
Aracca
were not proof against ten-inch naval rifles.
Despite the rain, he saw her people going about their morning chores: preparing fish from the morning catch for drying, once the rain eased, and tending the polta fruit gardens on the main deck that ranged along the bulwark completely around the ship. The main deck was a hundred feet above the sea, and three huge pagodalike structures that served as apartments for many of her people towered above it like skyscrapers. Encompassing the structures were three massive tripods soaring another two hundred and fifty feet above the deck. They supported the great sails, or “wings” that provided
Aracca
’s only means of propulsion—other than the hundred giant sweep-oars her people could use for maneuvering when necessary.
Matt was always amazed whenever he looked at
Aracca
—or any Lemurian Homes. Not only because of their size, but also because of the industrious ingenuity they represented. ’Cats may have been a little backward in some respects when the Americans first arrived, but they certainly weren’t ignorant. He had
Walker
’s horn sounded in greeting, and he and the other officers went back out in the rain on the bridge wing and returned the friendly waves they received. Slowly the massive ship receded in the rain behind them.
“I’m already anxious to be back,” Matt said aloud, ruefully.
“We’re getting a late start,” conceded Dowden. He glanced apologetically at Spanky. “No offense, I know you went as fast as you could. It’s just . . .”
“I know,” Spanky growled. “By the original timetable, we should’ve been on our way home by now. But one thing led to another . . . It sure would’ve been easier with a dry dock, especially to get at the damage below the waterline. She won’t ever be ‘right’ until we can do that.”