Rising Tides (44 page)

The sub’s bow planes and damaged stern planes clawed at the sea, and her port screw drove with all its might. Sluggishly, the boat started down. The starboard shaft packing sprayed water at twenty feet, and more water gushed down from the number two periscope packing at thirty-five. Water seeped and dripped from her riveted, tortured seams in every compartment. At fifty feet, water exploded inward from the crew’s head, and the high-pressure pumps were already being overwhelmed. Irvin risked a look above with the number one periscope, and though it should still have been three feet above the sea, sea was all he saw—like he was looking down at it. As he’d feared, it wasn’t an ordinary tidal wave, but a bore—a “splash” wave, as Tex had described it. It wasn’t curling over them like surf breaking on the beach, but he couldn’t see the top, since S-19 wasn’t equipped with a lens adjustment to search the sky for aircraft. Irvin couldn’t even estimate how far away it was. He sounded the collision alarm.

Somehow, the old submarine had made it fifty feet beneath the sea. She was critically overstressed, but she could have even surfaced again on her own. The wave didn’t give her a chance to try.
It
brought the boat up. Suddenly, after all her desperate effort to escape Talaud’s death wave, the depth gauge in S-19’s control room swept
backward
, and in mere moments, the rusty old hull lay exposed in the depth of an immense trough, naked beneath the mountain rising against her. It pounced. In seconds, S-19 went swirling from the surface like a twig caught in an underwater vortex. Down she went, almost tumbling, shedding dive planes, superstructure, anchors—and life, as the mountain surged by above.

The vortex released her at last, drifting helpless, twitching like a storm-battered fish, bleeding air and oil at four hundred feet—twice as deep as she was ever meant to go.

CHAPTER 27

New Scotland, Sunday, December 4, 1943

T
he meeting in
Walker
’s wardroom consumed a lot of Juan’s coffee hoard, but didn’t produce much in the way of new insights. They’d learned precious little over the past week, not nearly enough to be sure of anything, except a possible “short list” of enemy objectives. What the conspiracy actually hoped to achieve, or how, was still a growing mystery. All they could do was try and prepare for as many contingencies as they could imagine. Jenks had come aboard once a day to “train” with Matt in swordsmanship, and he did improve, but mostly they brainstormed and discussed what Jenks had learned. It wasn’t much: a swift Dominion dispatch sloop had cleared Scapa Flow, and another later departed New Glasgow to the west the very night
Walker
arrived at New Scotland, but nothing flying the red flag had come or gone since. That seemed to confirm their suspicions that whatever was up, the Dominion was involved and major preparations had been underway for quite some time. Matt was impressed by how quickly the conspirators reacted, and how closely they kept their intentions. It hinted that whatever was coming,
Walker
’s arrival might have advanced the schedule, lit a shorter fuse, but only minor adjustments were required to a plot that had long been in place.

“So all we know—still—is that ‘something big’ is liable to drop in the pot tomorrow, but we don’t know what it is,” Gray observed.

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his eyes. It was almost 0100 and he had a big day ahead of him. Probably they all did. “Jenks still thinks it’s an attack of some kind, probably with Dominion aid for some reason, but he still doesn’t know where it’ll come from or what it might be composed of.” He sighed and swirled the lukewarm coffee in his “Captain’s” cup. “The objective might be Government House and the harbor facilities. It could be the dueling ground itself—there’ll be a lot of brass hanging around. Jenks has tried to make sure
all
the brass won’t be there, but he has to be careful who he talks to. No telling who’s involved.” Matt gestured at the porthole. “The objective might even be Home Fleet, God knows how. There’s six ‘ships of the line’ and ten frigates in port.” He looked at Frankie. “Mr. Steele, so far all you know you can count on, according to Jenks, are the frigates
Euripides
and
Tacitus
.”

Frankie nodded glumly. “What about our guys?” he asked Palmer.

The comm officer looked troubled. “Still no news.
Salaama-Na
and her escorts were on their way, last we heard, but there was another big storm out there, and we haven’t heard anything since. The ‘new’ Fil-pin-built
Simms
and Jenks’s
Achilles
sailed right after we did, but there’s been nothing from them either. Aerials or wind generators probably got carried away, and
Simms
might’ve cracked her batteries, or shorted everything out.
Achilles
’ set was a piece of ... junk to start with.” O’Casey nodded and Palmer lowered his voice. “Then there’s that damn Talaud. I hear Respite okay at night, but it’s fuzzy. Everything’s fine there, but they’re worried about a surge from the west. It seems the volcano’s been going nuts, and I only get snippets from Maa-ni-la. Respite Station passes stuff along, though, and it’s getting scary back home, Skipper.”

“So ... nada,” Steele said. Palmer shrugged.

Matt took a deep breath. “And I guess if anybody’d seen or heard from
Ajax
, they would’ve said something.” Only silence answered, and he slowly exhaled.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the plan. In the morning”—he rubbed his face—“later
This
morning, at 0400, Mr. Reynolds will take off.... Everything still good with the Nancy, Lieutenant?”

“Swell, Skipper. It’ll be a little creepy taking off in the dark, but no sweat.”

“Good.” Matt looked at Frankie. “We’ll raise hell on the ship, blow tubes, vent steam, and generally carry on in a variety of loud, mechanical ways, to cover the sound of the Nancy’s motor. It’ll draw attention, but hopefully nobody’ll notice an airplane taking off in the dark.” He shrugged. “We goofed up telling them what the damn thing was, but most people here don’t believe it anyway. ‘It’s a proven fact that powered flight is impossible,’ ” he quoted wryly, and everyone chuckled. He looked at Reynolds. “It’ll probably be like looking for a needle in a haystack—and we don’t even know if the needle’s there—but if anything’s coming by sea, we need to know it. Keep a sharp eye off Scapa Flow, New Glasgow, and Edinburgh. I know that’s a big grid, and you’re only one plane, but you’re probably the only warning we’ll have.”

Fred Reynolds gulped. “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

“After that ...” He paused. “Maybe it’ll look like a big send-off. Spin some platters over the shipwide comm too. Boats, Courtney, Stites, and myself will leave for the ‘dueling ground.’ ” He looked at Chack. “As soon as you hear the church bells sound the end to services, form your short company of the 2nd Marines on the dock. O’Casey? You’ll command the Imperial Marines. Lieutenant Blair’s been feeling out Marine officers, much like Jenks has been doing, to see who he can count on. He’ll meet you here with whatever he can scrounge up.”

“We should go with you,” Chack insisted.

“No, we have to assume they’ll be expecting that. It might even be what all this is about. You have to be ready to respond to anything. If we need you at the dueling ground, Stites’ll send up a flare. It’s about two miles, but you’ll see it well enough.” He arched an eyebrow. “It’s supposed to be a pretty day.” He laid his hands on the table, palm up. “Anything else? I think we’ve covered every base we can.... I just wish we knew we’re in the right ballpark!” He waited a moment while his crew glanced at one another. “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to try to sleep. Wake me if anybody hears
anything
!”

At long last the gathering broke up. Matt started for his quarters, but Spanky blocked his way, hands on hips. Throughout the meeting, he’d done little but chew yellow tobacco and spit in a sediment-filled Coke bottle. “I oughta be with you,” he said.

“No. I want Frankie to have three boilers all day if he needs them. You’re the only guy in the whole world who can do that ... and maybe
not
empty the bunkers!”

“Well ...” Spanky stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Skipper.”

Matt took the hand. “You too. I expect we’re both going to need it.”

The atmosphere at the dueling ground was like a big, garish fair, and as Jenks predicted, attendance was huge, even compared to the Pre-Passage Ball. The event had been the talk of the Empire for an entire week, and people came from almost every island to view the spectacle. Not many came from New Ireland, but it was a virtual Company possession and only a few executives there had the means to hire passage. Even so, oddly, not a single ferry or Company official arrived from New Dublin. That struck many as strange, since New Dublin constituted Harrison Reed’s prime constituency. Nevertheless, the New Scotland churches bulged with pious attendees, praying for the souls of the soon to be departed, and bookmakers hawked odds through the teeming crowd.

“Jenks is runnin’ about even,” Gray announced, reappearing with Courtney, pewter mugs in their hands streaming suds. “Thanks for the loan, Commodore,” he added.

Jenks nodded. He was dressed simply in a white shirt with a red cravat, his white Navy knee britches, and a pair of knee-high boots. Around his waist was only a tight red sash, into which was thrust his naked sword. His long hair was clubbed at the nape of his neck, and his mustache was freshly braided. He looked very businesslike, and it was clear he’d done this before. Matt had followed his lead, wearing khaki shirt and trousers, both of Lemurian “cotton.” His loose trouser legs were bound by a pair of U.S. Navy leggings. His own naked Academy sword—carefully sharpened—was held against his side by a web belt. He took off his hat and handed it to Juan, who’d sneaked off the ship to join them as they made their way to the grounds. Juan had even shed his sling, gamely moving his arm around when confronted and claiming he didn’t think it was ever really broken at all.

“What about me?” Matt asked, tying a bandanna around his neck. He needed something to sop at sweat.

Gray winced. “Lots of sympathy, Skipper, but you’re runnin’ about twenty to one, give or take. Against.”

“Ridiculous,” Juan scoffed, tying another bandanna around Captain Reddy’s head to keep sweat from running into his eyes. Juan’s attitude reflected that of virtually
Walker
’s entire crew. The “distracting” send-off they’d given him had been real, and it warmed Matt’s heart, but he’d been a little taken aback by how little concern they’d shown that he might lose his contest. Most just couldn’t understand how far out of his element he would be.

“That bad?” asked Matt. “What makes folks so pessimistic?”

Gray cleared his throat. “Well, ah, as we suspected, there’s been scouts down watchin’ you and the commodore prancin’ around on the ship, practicin.’ Lots of folks think you’d do well ... with a lot more practice. But the word is you’re too, ah, ‘predictable.’ Too worried about form ...” He shrugged. “Sorry, sir. Like I always say, too much calf slobber’ll spoil the pie.”

Matt frowned. “That’s okay, Boats. I’ll give ’em a show, whatever they think.”

“That’s the spirit, sir! You’ve been in worse scrapes before.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. He had. “Who’d you bet on?”

“You, of course.” He glared at Jenks. “Penny-pinchin’ devil didn’t give me enough money to do it up right, and he demanded fifty percent of my winnings too!”

“It
was
a risky wager,” Jenks reminded him. He paused. “The good thing is, your opponent will likely ‘stretch it out.’ He’s a ‘professional,’ and makes his living at this. He’ll want to make it look good; provide a ‘spectacle.’ That should give you plenty of time to practice your new, ‘predictable’ style against him.” He stopped. “Please excuse me,” he said, stepping away to meet his wife, waiting behind the rope line. They saw him cradle her chin with his hand.

“Weird duck,” Stites pronounced, fiddling with a tarp-covered crate they’d sent up the day before. “All of ’em. Weird ducks. Treat wimmen like pets, or worse, but Jenks does love that gal. I wonder if he ‘bought’ her.”

“I sorta loved a dog once,” Gray grumbled. “Damn fine bitch. Even so, my mother woulda cased me out if I treated a woman like I did that dog.” He paused. “Skipper, are we even sure this is our fight? We got women now—though I ain’t personally—and a hell of a fight all our own, a long way from here. I know we wanna save
our
girls, and even Silva, but ... well, you know as well as I do that’s ... probably out of our hands.” It was the closest anyone had come to actually saying the hostages were probably lost with
Ajax
. “We still need to kill the Company and that’s a fact, but ... this is a lot bigger than that now.”

Matt looked at the Bosun, but for an instant he was seeing the face of Don Hernan, and remembering that ... twisted interview. He was personally convinced that the “Blood Cardinal” was up to his neck in whatever was going on, though he still didn’t know how.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is way bigger than that. But it
is
our fight because we’re here.” He snorted. “Hell, Boats, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two years, since Pearl Harbor: fighting the war we’re
at
. I’m not saying we need another war, or even that I like this Imperial setup much, but I have started to like the people. Some of ’em. Right now I think they need us ... and damn it, we need them. That Don Hernan gives me the creeps worse than the first Griks I ever saw. In a way, he and his Dominion strike me as even worse than the Grik because they’re
people
that act the way they do. And this Reed and the Company ...” He shook his head in exasperation. “Hell, I don’t even try to calculate ‘shades of gray’ anymore. There’s just too many. All we can do is try to look underneath them all to see if we can find the basic black or white, good or bad. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I can’t help feeling that if we quit trying to find good folks on this world, even if we run into more bad ones while we’re at it, we might as well steam back to Baalkpan and wait for the Grik to return and finish us off.”

Gray nodded slowly, staring out at the dueling ground. “Aye, sir. Maybe so. I sure would like to get me one of them gals and spend a year or two retired before I croak, though.”

Stites rolled his eyes. “S.B., if you ever ‘retired,’ we’d be buryin’ you from boredom in a week.”

Horns sounded, and the combatants moved to face one another across the field. It had been decided that the contests would be simultaneous. Despite the gladiatorial atmosphere, the layout of the dueling ground itself reminded Matt of a football stadium in a forest. The architecture was surprisingly familiar, and the thick woods of Imperial Park surrounding the grounds were unlike anything Matt had ever seen on the “old” islands. They looked more like pines. The spectators on one side occupied an expansive set of wooden bleachers, built around the Imperial viewing box. The Governor-Emperor stood in his box with Andrew and a number of military officers. All were dressed in their Sunday best and wore impassive expressions, but it was clear whose side they were on. The bleachers around them thundered with noise, the accumulated effect of perhaps four thousand voices talking at once.