There were other unexpected guests. Two of the big Grik ironclad battleships lay at anchor in the roadstead, and neither was Sular—the one they’d converted to a semi-armored troopship. She was just coming out of a dry dock farther north, barely visible through the jumble of hulls and forest of masts. At second glance, however, the other two seemed to have undergone similar conversions. Both had only two funnels now, and their old armaments had been removed.
“I wonder where they got those?” Bernie asked.
“Madraas,” Toos replied at once. “Before I, ah, raan off to help Commaander Tiaa build a new bow for Mahaan, I waas stuck raaising and fixing those naasty Grik things to send baack here.”
Matt was watching the MTBs signaling for Savoie and Gray to anchor among the other large ships sharing the roadstead west of the docks and had a sudden thought. “Any comm traffic?” he asked Minnie. She promptly queried Ed Palmer below in the radio shack. A few moments later, she reported his response in her small, high-pitched voice. “Not a peep, Cap-i-taan, other thaan normaal chaatter from scout planes. Nothin’ about us at all.”
“Huh,” Matt murmured. “As much as ’Cats love to gab, they’re taking Mr. Stokes’s radio silence pretty seriously.”
James Ellis was the first to approach the dock, gliding straight in until she kissed it, and line handlers quickly secured her. Mahan was next, with an equally easy approach. The lane had been cleared, and they wouldn’t have to twist and turn through any obstacles.
“Take her in, Mr. Toos,” Matt commanded. The burly Lemurian nodded, blinking nervously. He knew his limitations, and if it had required any squirming around, Matt would’ve taken the conn himself, or asked Spanky to do it. He secretly suspected Sandra or Diania would do a better job, but Toos had to gain confidence with experience. As it was, he came in a little fast, reversed too much, and left Matt sitting white-knuckled in his seat. But by the time he nervously cried “All Stop!” he’d brought Walker to a halt within a dozen yards of the dock, an easy throw for her lines. The thunder of the blowers dwindled to a faint rumble—before Matt realized the crowd alongside was roaring.
“Liberty, Captain?” were Spanky’s first words.
Matt nodded and stood. “For once, we’re not sinking and nobody’s shooting at us. Just a skeleton watch tonight, Mr. McFarlane,” he added formally. “But have everybody back aboard by the forenoon watch. I’ll have an idea what’s what by then and we can arrange some real leave for our people. He stood and grinned at his wife. “My God, do you realize what we’re about to unleash on this city?”
She chuckled. “Besides the obvious?”
“Yeah. Silva.”
Sandra’s eyes widened.
“I say lock his ass up,” Spanky instantly suggested.
“Maybe . . . that’s not such a good idea,” Sandra countered, frowning. “He’d probably wreck the ship breaking out, and after all he’s done for us, I wouldn’t blame him. Besides, we need him too much. Can’t let him hurt himself, or do something serious you’d have to lock him up for. Hmm . . .”
“What?” asked Matt, suspicious of the mischievous expression growing on his wife’s face. She smiled reassuringly. “I think I’ve got it covered. Don’t worry about it.” Coughing politely, she gestured behind him. Matt turned to see Juan Marcos frowning disapproval at his khakis. He sighed. “Right. I know. It’ll be a few minutes before they rig the gangway. I’m heading down to my stateroom to change right now.”
“Better hurry, Skipper,” Spanky said, nodding outside. Anxious dockworkers were already positioning a new wooden gangway, its fresh-cut planking bright and crisp. “Do you need help with your sword and pistol belt?” Juan asked. It wasn’t as much a question as a reminder. Nat Hardee also told them that Chairman Letts wanted senior Allied officers to go armed at all times, even in Baalkpan, until they learned the extent of the suspected conspiracy against the Union. Such a precaution would’ve seemed ridiculous once, but there were so many new people in the city, from all over, it was impossible to be sure of each and every one. “I can manage that,” Sandra replied. “And I’ll make sure he puts it on too.”
Walker’s crew was already streaming down the gangway and boats were motoring in from the anchored ships when Matt, Sandra, Diania, and Pam Cross gathered by the brow. Sandra was clutching little Fitzhugh Adar Reddy close and Matt noted she’d added extra padding to his bundle, in case they got jostled in the mob. They were quickly joined by Spanky, Bernie, Tabby, Toos, Ed Palmer, and Nat Hardee. Sonny Campeti would remain in charge of the ship while Silva and Lawrence escorted the gaggle of officers. Chief Bosun Gray had once proclaimed himself head of the “Captain’s Guard,” choosing its members by steadiness, its number fluctuating with the circumstances. Silva had unconsciously assumed Gray’s role after his death (when he was available to do so), but figured there wasn’t much he and Lawrence couldn’t handle. Of course, none of the officers they were guarding—except maybe Palmer—was helpless in a fight.
Before they could leave, a small party of Lemurian yard workers pushed past the dwindling flow. Their leader, carrying a writing slate, didn’t salute, but he was grinning broadly. “I’m haappy to be first to welcome you home!” he said. “I’m the overhaaul supervisor, an’ dis is my evaal crew. You got lotsa work for us, an’ Chairmaan Letts waants us right on it.”
Matt looked apologetically at Tabby and Toos. “Get the general schedule worked out, then take off. But make sure the new boiler’s at the top of the list.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Tabby and Toos chorused. The rest proceeded down the gangway and the boisterous cheers and cries of jubilation redoubled at the sight of them.
The dockyard had turned to bedlam as long-absent Lemurian sailors found their mates and squealed with happiness. Many hoisted new younglings for the very first time. But even if they’d never seen them themselves, all of Walker’s officers—and Matt and “Lady” Sandra in particular—had become iconic figures across the Grand Alliance, and especially in Baalkpan. The roar of approval for all they’d done resounded thunderously, seemingly spreading away from the dock to encompass the entire city. Matt felt Sandra’s free hand clutch his and appreciated the contact. He even smirked slightly as the historian’s voice rose within him, reminding that successful Roman commanders were supposed to have had someone, maybe a slave, constantly telling them “remember, you’re mortal” during their triumphal processions. He didn’t need anyone to remind him of that.
A square of Lemurian troops in standard (if fresh and unfaded) combat dress, armed with immaculate Allin-Silva rifles, opened before them, revealing a group of dignitaries. Matt was stunned to realize he only recognized a few, and didn’t think he knew any of the Lemurians. That bothered him a lot. There was Henry Stokes, though, standing to the left. His wiry frame beginning to spread a little, and he wore Imperial-style weskit, coat, knee breeches, and tall brown boots. Matt wondered if that was typical human attire in the Union now. On the right, to Matt’s surprise, was a similarly dressed Ambassador Bolton Forester. He’d been planning to retire and return to the Empire long ago. Had he stayed out of necessity, or just because he liked it here? Then there were Alan and Karen Letts, of course, both grinning hugely while trying to manage their children. Karen held a human toddler, Allison Verdia, while Alan tried to keep an even younger ’Cat named Seetsi from squirming out of his grasp. “Sandra” was their oldest adopted Lemurian daughter, named after Matt’s wife and Karen’s friend. Wearing a bright dress she’d contrived to streak with mud and creosote, she scampered boldly forward to peer at Matt and Sandra’s son. “He’s pink, just like a baby mouse!” she cried delightedly, without any accent at all.
“Yes, he is,” Sandra agreed, laughing, and kneeling to embrace the precocious Lemurian child. “My name is Sandra too! I’m so glad to meet you at last.”
“C’mon,” the little Sandra said, tugging Matt’s wife forward. “The sooner you meet my par
ents, the sooner we can get out of here and I can play!”
Silva leaned over and muttered at Lawrence, “Kinda how I feel.”
“That’s enough, young lady!” Karen scolded her impatient daughter, but now she was hugging her old friend and their two human children had been mashed face-to-face. “He stinks,” remarked Allison Verdia, wrinkling her nose.
Matt solemnly shook Alan’s hand. “Glad to see you . . . Mr. Chairman.”
Alan shifted a wide-eyed Seetsi to the crook of his left arm and crisply saluted Matt. “Am I ever glad to see you, sir—and that rusty old bucket you rode in on.” He shrugged, indicating the high-collar white uniform he wore, which was the same as Matt’s. “And ‘chairman’ or not, as long as I’m in this, I’m under your orders. Not the other way around.”
Matt smiled and shook his head. “Not the way it’s supposed to work.”
Alan shrugged again. “I guess. Too bad.” Then he grinned. “Of course, if you agree you have to do what I say, that makes things easier. For example, I can make you accept some . . . revisions, shall we say, to the way you do things.”
Matt stubbornly shook his head, suspecting where this was going. “Not if it’s combat, or Navy Clan business.”
“Maybe not,” Alan conceded, “but I can make you take on a real, honest-to-God staff, for a change. Call ’em my representatives if you want, but you need to spread the work around, let others help you plan. This war went beyond what one man can handle a long time ago.” He waved his arm around. “Believe me, I know. It’s a miracle you’ve done as well as you have.”
“I have a staff,” Matt objected, glancing at Spanky. “All the officers and skippers under my command, and the land force officers too.”
“It’s not the same,” Stokes denied, “and you bloody well know it.” He glanced around, but there was no way anyone could hear what they said with all the noise. “Things aren’t only bigger now, they’re different. It was bound to happen eventually, mashed together as we were, but with the war pushed back farther than most can see it, the glue you used to hold things together is startin’ to get wet.”
“Mr. Hardee mentioned your suspicions.”
“A bit more than ‘suspicions’ now,” Stokes glowered, “but this isn’t the time or place.”
“Yeah.”
“You will need a staff, though,” Forester reemphasized with his deep, kindly voice, returning to a point they’d apparently agreed to hammer. “Not only for the obvious reasons, but to help . . . integrate developments you may not be aware of,” he added, smiling conspiratorially.
“I assume you’ve already started thinking about how we’re going to lick the Dom-League alliance,” Alan stipulated.
“Sure. I started thinking about that as soon as they started killing our people.”
“And with a good idea of what they have, you know you can’t do it with what you brought home today.”
“I’ve been stirring things around,” Matt hedged, “based on what we have—and what we hope to. That’s given me an outline to work from.” He wouldn’t mention that his overall strategy was already well established, discussed in depth with Sandra, Spanky, and Courtney Bradford. Given Stokes’s concerns, he probably wouldn’t add many to that list for a while.
Alan grinned even more broadly. “Swell. I’m sure it’s a good one. But that’s all the more reason you need a dedicated team to help put flesh on the bones of your outline.” Matt could only blink at him, and Alan explained. “God knows how much we’ve been able to keep secret from the enemy, but something must be working because even you don’t know about some of the fun toys you’re going to get, do you?”
Completely taken aback, Matt shook his head. “I know about the new DDs, and torpedoes. There’s more?”
Alan, Stokes, and Forester all laughed. Some of the Lemurian representatives behind them started making impatient noises. They were ready to be introduced and couldn’t hear anything. “A lot more,” Stokes confirmed. “You think the handful of tanks we sent you in Africa is all we’ve come up with? In a year?” He grinned wickedly. “Or all the specs we sent on what our allies are building—and you complained so much about—were real?” He shook his head. “Too many chances for them to be intercepted. I think you’ll like what everyone’s really been up to.”
“And how better to fool the enemy than by duping me?” Matt mused. “Sneaky. And annoying. Costly too,” he accused, wondering what they might’ve given him to save lives against the Grik—or to High Admiral Jenks against the Doms! “But effective,” he granted.
“And necessary,” Stokes stressed. “But now isn’t the time,” he repeated as the commotion behind him increased.
“All the more reason you need knowledgeable people helping you,” Forester insisted. “Quite a few, in fact, including myself, of course. To help complete your ‘outline.’ Perhaps rearrange it a bit, as well.”
“Maybe so,” Matt finally grudged, fully aware that consenting would probably also mean accepting what all this was really aimed at: getting him out of Walker. He understood the rationale, but even discounting his personal feelings on the matter, he wasn’t sure it was right. He had no illusions about his old ship’s capabilities and doubted she—or Mahan—even belonged in any more fights. But she was where all his people, human and Lemurian, perhaps the entire Grand Alliance, expected him to lead from. Walker was their talisman, far more than him, he believed: a dilapidated but tangible symbol of past victories and hope for the future. And maybe her very decrepitude was an asset, in an “if she can still swing it, we can too” sense? Finally, ultimately, if his old destroyer wound up in the final fight, where the hell else could he be? He’d have to ponder that.
Alan turned, letting the first wave of Lemurian ministers, assemblypersons, and their deputies through, and their enthusiasm momentarily banished Matt’s sour mood. These were politicians, but enough of them proudly shouted the names of battles and places they’d been, and a one-armed female stepped in front of him with an awkward, left-landed salute, proclaiming she’d been in Mahan at Second Madraas. Matt was struck by that because he now knew it was a League torpedo, not an errant one from Walker, that blew off Mahan’s bow—and this former sailor’s arm. She knew it too, and most of these people were with them to the end. The others . . .
Stokes tugged on his sleeve and pulled his ear down near his lips. “See that ugly striped bugger over there?” he asked, indicating a rather surly-looking knot of Lemurians that hadn’t advanced.
Matt thought he saw the ’Cat Stokes meant. “The one in black and red, with white whiskers?”
“That’s the one. Deputy Assemblyperson Giaan-Naak. From Sular. Deputy in name only, since his boss never leaves Saa-leebs.” Stokes chuckled darkly. “I think Giaan knocked him off. All them Sularaans’ve gotten pretty pushy, but Giaan’s the real croaker. Watch out for him.”
“You said there was more than just suspicion . . . ?” Matt asked tentatively.
Stokes hesitated. “You remember Savoie’s old skipper, exec, whatever the hell he was. Named Dupont?”
Matt’s lip curled. “Yeah. Why?”
“We squeezed him as tight as we could, an’ even Fiedler an’ Hoffman had a go at him when they got here. You’ll see Walbert Fiedler tonight, by the way. I want him on your staff. Anyway, Dupont’d clammed up by then, an’ we’d actually kind of lost interest in him. Then, about a month ago, an’ about right when a lot of other stuff started happening, somebody broke him out. Killed two guards.”
Matt grabbed Stokes’s coat. “What the hell?”
“Later,” Stokes stressed, pushing away.
“Come! Come!” Alan shouted. “Let’s move out of the press!” Misunderstanding Matt’s suddenly furious expression, he added apologetically, “We’ve set up a reception at the Great Hall. You know how that’ll be. Music, stories, dancing—though you’ll find it a little different
from what you remember. Stay for a while, then go see your home for the first time in a year!”
“What about us, Skipper?” Silva asked, jerking his thumb at Lawrence, and almost poking Petey in the eye. “With all Chairman Letts’s troops around, you think you’ll need us?” To Matt’s surprise, Silva didn’t sound like he was trying to bug out. He’d obviously like to, but he’d stick without complaint.
“Take off,” Matt said, still fulminating, but knowing there was nothing for it at the moment. “Have fun,” he added more cheerfully, then reminded, “but be back at the ship before the forenoon watch.”
A gap-toothed grin appeared on the big man’s face. “Count on it, Skipper. C’mon, Larry!”
“One thing!” Sandra shouted before Silva and Lawrence could disappear. “I want you to help Diania find Gunny Horn, then escort Lieutenant Cross to the hospital where General Queen Safir-Maraan is staying. You should find Chack there,” she added more softly. “I’ll be along directly myself, and you will wait for me!” She suspected seeing so many wounded comrades and friends might have a cooling effect on Silva’s revelry. Especially with Pam along. She couldn’t order Silva to pay attention to Pam, or stick by her all night, but she could make sure they spent a little time together. And maybe they wouldn’t fight in a hospital. . . .
CHAPTER 15
////// Baalkpan, Borno
How’s Colonel Chack?” Savoie’s acting gunnery officer, Arnold Horn, almost had to shout the question as he slid onto a bench across the scarred, rough-hewn table from Silva and Lawrence. They were seated in the open-air fringe of the Busted Screw, Baalkpan’s oldest and hottest nightspot for Navy and Marine personnel. Lawrence managed benches by straddling them, but that forced him to twist awkwardly sideways to plant both elbows on the table. He sat like that now, hands wrapped around a large brass beer mug while his long purple tongue darted in it, nonstop. Silva had a pair of pitchers and two mugs, one for Horn, but the first pitcher was empty, the second almost so. Petey seemed jumpier than usual, and eyed Horn like he’d never seen him before.
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