Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  Sandra, Captain Lelaa, and Colonel Shinya were all jarred from their respective thoughts when Diania suddenly burst upon the bridgewing, gasping for air. The dark-skinned woman sketched a hasty imitation of salutes she’d seen, and, eyes wide, breathlessly proclaimed, “Beggin’ yer pardons, but there’s a daemon in the for’ard hold!”

  Rendered speechless by the sudden, distracting news, Sandra noticed a disturbance down on the flight deck and saw a group of ’Cats assembling around a tall, blond-headed figure with a shiny new eye patch. The man bowed occasionally to those around him as he strode toward the offset conn tower, or patted them on their heads. He was looking up at Sandra with that weird, distinctive grin.

  Sandra’s eyes narrowed. They’d learned that Silva had somehow escaped the “Buzzard,” but no one had any idea where he was. “I believe you, Diania,” she said angrily, “but the ‘demon’ is on the loose now.”

  “I ain’t AWOL,” Silva denied, “I been here all along—not ‘absent’ a’tall!” He was standing in Captain Lelaa’s “great cabin,” surrounded by a collection of humans and ’Cats. He’d never get a more sympathetic hearing since nearly everyone present owed him their lives, but this was a serious matter. Despite his plea, he was inarguably absent without leave, and in direct violation of orders. In contrast to the last time they’d seen him, covered with grease, he was actually fairly presentable. Some, such as Lawrence and Princess Rebecca—and, Petey, her weird little pet—were openly gleeful to see him, as was Midshipman Brassey. Irvin and Shinya appeared less pleased.

  Sandra couldn’t tell what Lelaa or the other Lemurian officers thought, and she groaned. When it came to rationalization, Dennis Silva was an artist, and judging by his opening shot, this was liable to be a masterpiece. What was more, she knew Lemurians were susceptible to the type of “performance art” Dennis excelled at. Ultimately, Silva’s punishment would be decided by Captain Lelaa, but Sandra felt compelled to play the role of the “reporting officer.”

  “Mr. Silva, as I’m sure you’re aware, ‘here’ isn’t where you’re supposed to be!” Sandra said severely. “And you’re ‘AWOL’ from where you were ordered to go!”

  Dennis affected an expression of concentration. “An’ I’ve given that a lot of thought since Mr. Riggs passed them silly orders,” he admitted. “Has anybody ever seen fit to in-vestigate whether he’s a Jap . . . or even a Grik spy?”

  “My God, Silva!” Laumer burst out. “Are you insane?”

  Brassey and Princess Rebecca stifled chuckles, and most of the ’Cats’ tails twitched with amusement.

  “It’s possible,” Silva confessed, “but you know, that scamp never liked me much ever since . . .” He paused. “Well, it ain’t pertinent, an’ I won’t refloat bygones if he won’t. But think about it; my original orders, spoke right at me by the Skipper himself, was to guard the Munchkin Princess to the death. After our recent . . . situation with the Comp’ny, I’m pretty sure them orders oozed over onto you, Lieutenant Tucker. You need me. Maybe Bernie thinks he does, back in Baalkpan, but I can wire any screwball schemes I come up with back to him from here, but I can’t protect you ladies nor help the Skipper from there. That’s what got me wonderin’ about Mr. Riggs; such a blatant misallocation o’ resources—me—in time o’ war, can only benefit the enemies o’ freedom, baseball, an’ beer.”

  The ’Cats roared and stomped their feet. Even Captain Lelaa grinned. Irvin covered his eyes with his hand and even Shinya stared hard at something else in the compartment. Sandra glared at Lelaa. As the senior naval officer, she should’ve at least tried to keep a straight face. Sandra realized she should have let Laumer do the grilling, but while now a genuine hero, the submariner and current exec of Maaka-Kakja, was still a little in awe of Silva—and most of the “original” human members of the Alliance. He had a tendency to overcompensate for that, and Sandra hadn’t known if he’d be too harsh or too lenient on Dennis. When the tumult died away, she persisted.

  “Mr. Riggs is not a Jap—or Grik—spy! He’s acting chief of staff to the most powerful figure in the Alliance. You can’t pick and choose which of his orders to obey!”

  “I can when they come over the wireless! Shoot, they might’ve been fake! Captain Reddy’s orders came face-to-face, an’ his orders trump Riggs any day. Always follow the last, highest-up orders you get; that’s my motto!”

  “But . . . Captain Reddy confirmed the orders!” Sandra said adamantly. Silva was already shaking his head.

  “Over wireless. Which he’s too busy to go over every little housekeep-in’ chore in the Alliance, an’ old ‘Gap Sparks’ Palmer probably gapped it up.” He shrugged. “Wire the Skipper again, get him to personally ex-voke his standin’ orders to me, an’ I’ll go to Baalkpan, meek as a sheep.”

  “You know, he’s probably right about the confirmation,” Shinya said, surprising everyone. “A ream of routine requests was sent to Walker, once the relay was in place and communications were reestablished. All were granted.”

  Sandra looked at Shinya, as startled as the others. She rounded back on Silva. “How long did it take you to figure all this out?” she demanded. “If you’d pulled this before the ‘Buzzard’ left Manila, you might’ve gotten away with it.” She paused. “Come to that, how did you get back to Manila in time to sail with us? We all saw you get on the plane!”

  “Dee-vine providence!” Silva exclaimed piously, casting his one eye to the overhead. “You personally ordered me on the plane, an’ I got on. Wouldn’t never disobey a direct, face-to-face order. Beyond that?” He shrugged and his twisted grin spread. “I’ve always been mortally fearful o’ flyin’. I guess, combined with that an’ all the other things I had to say, I must’a been miracled aboard!”

  “Only to be discovered once it’s too late to fly you back to Maa-ni-la, and Walker has steamed beyond wireless reach yet again,” Shinya observed dryly.

  “Is that so?” Silva asked innocently. He glanced at Diania, standing away from Lelaa’s “wardroom table,” ready to refill Sandra’s water cup if asked. The small woman was staring at him with barely restrained fury. “I do apologize for startlin’ your girl there, by the way,” he said. “I was whoopin’ some empty grain sacks off me when all of a sudden, there she was! Scared me half to death!”

  There were chuckles, and Diania’s dark face darkened further.

  Lelaa cleared her throat. “Regardless of Walker’s position, this task force is currently steaming under blacked? Blanketed . . . communications to prevent discovery by the mysterious Jaap destroyer, the whereabouts of which is still unknown . . . but perhaps you considered that as well?” she pondered aloud, contemplating the big man looming before her. She shook her head, blinking. “Until Captain Reddy can be consulted, to resolve this matter, Mr. Silva will cease berthing in the forward hold, and will be entered as a chief gunner’s mate in the ship’s rolls.” She looked hard at Dennis. “Work with the gun’s crews; they’re all ‘green,’ I think you say? Behave yourself, or you’ll be returned to the hold—in irons!”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n Lelaa!” Silva said. “Gunnery’ll be up to snuff directly!”

  Lelaa paced the offset bridge, surveying her domain. “Tex” Sheider had the watch, and she was free to simply enjoy her ship, and honestly, her position. It hadn’t been that long since the biggest thing she’d commanded was a medium-size fishing felucca. It had been her Home, her life. When the war came, she’d been given a razeed Grik prize, a Navy “corvette,” or “DE.” She’d loved USS Simms, but when she was destroyed by Billingsley, and Lelaa herself joined Sandra and the others in captivity, she’d never expected to command anything again, even if she survived. She certainly hadn’t expected to command something like Maaka-Kakja, the largest, most powerful, and advanced vessel likely ever built on this entire world. She loved it.

  On the bridge, she was surrounded by an assortment of devices she’d once have considered miraculous or magical, and was amazed that she’d almost begun to take them for gra
nted. What was more, she understood them, and People, Mi-Anaaka, operated them with growing precision and practiced ease despite their inexperience compared to other “carrier” crews. Much of that was due to Maaka-Kakja’s veteran teachers. The still-weak Orrin Reddy was doing his best to help organize the air wing, and though he wasn’t very communicative, Gilbert Yeager taught engineering by example extremely well. Now I have Dennis Silva, Lelaa thought somewhat smugly, to shape my gun’s crews. Things couldn’t be much better from her perspective.

  As the sun faded aft, quickly plunging the sea into darkness, she blinked her trust at Tex and stepped out on the starboard bridgewing. The oilers were out there, churning doggedly alongside through the calming sea as the wind continued to lay. They were venturing more canvas now, to ease the burden on their engines and bunkers, and the sails flashed from purple-gold to gray. Soon, darkened as they were, the ships would be invisible to all but Lemurian eyes, and she welcomed the cover of night. Danger lurked in the darkness; even her people’s vision had its limits. Sleeping, wallowing mountain fish, with their blue-black bodies, could become virtually invisible against the black sea and sky. But oddly, the massive beasts appeared to actually avoid Maaka-Kakja—a courtesy they didn’t always extend even to her huge sailing cousins. Tex proposed that Maaka-Kakja’s size, combined with her massive pounding screw and—to the sound-sensitive behemoths—thunderous, machinery noises, might actually frighten them. Lelaa didn’t know, but the oilers had orders to stay as close to her as they dared. So far, it was well.

  What concerned her more, and made her prefer the uncertain night, was the rogue Japanese destroyer and its reputedly incredibly malevolent “Long Lance” torpedoes. She’d never seen torpedoes before, even though she knew Walker and Mahan had carried the things. One still existed in Baalkpan, a damaged “condemned” specimen from the other world, but she hadn’t been to see it. Someone had said there should be a few aboard Amagi’s dwindling corpse, but she didn’t know if they’d been recovered. Bernie Sandison made no secret of his efforts to make some and Captain Reddy would love to have them, but in truth, they terrified Lelaa. She hated the very idea of torpedoes. She’d been wholly convinced by the Jaap Okada, that mighty as Maaka-Kakja was, she had no defense against them. She suspected the rogue destroyer was far away, but if by chance it wasn’t, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan embraced the darkness that might protect her ship—her new Home—from the puny vision of any bad hu-maans lurking nearby . . . and their torpedoes.

  Strange music reached her ears from two decks below, from the vestigial “battlement” where Maaka-Kakja’s 5.5-inch guns were situated around her “island.” The battlement provided a high, unobstructed gun platform, and plenty of space for defenders too. It sometimes served as a social gathering place for off-duty crew away from the hot engineering spaces and hazards of the flight and hangar decks. The amusements there could sometimes distract those on duty, but over time, that concern ebbed away. Those on watch were allowed to listen, but woe was he or she caught watching. Few ever were. This was their Home too, and just as wing runners or watchers remained vigilant during amusements on the sailing Homes, they did the same on Maaka-Kakja. Lelaa wasn’t officially on duty now, so she listened—and watched.

  The instruments she heard were familiar; bows with tight strings and resonance chambers. “Laaukas,” mostly. Many Mi-Anaaka knew how to play them, and they were compact and portable. The tune was unfamiliar, though . . . if it could be called a tune. It had the jaunty, repetitive air reminiscent of “Amer-i-caan” songs she’d heard, but the players were obviously learning it as they went, while a familiar voice hummed the melody. Suddenly, the voice broke into song.

  “Ooooh! Cat-monkeys got long tails on Zambo-anga!

  “’Cause Zamboanga ain’t Zamboanga anymorrr!”

  Lelaa recognized Silva’s deep voice, but realized Orrin Reddy was singing along, squinting at a piece of paper in his hand. The Imperial midshipman, Stewart Brassey, was trying to play a laauka.

  “An’ the whales didn’t get ’em, ’cause the whales would be chikkin,

  To face things I have seen here, that’s for sure!”

  It was nonsense, but Lelaa chuckled in her throaty way. She’d tried to be strict with Silva that day, but didn’t think she’d succeeded. She couldn’t help it. She hated the big ridiculous brute . . . and adored him. He’d saved her life and avenged Simms, and done so many other things, but as Sandra said, he was depraved. Whatever else he’d done to get aboard Maaka-Kakja, he’d abandoned Paam Cross, a female who was devoted to him, for some reason. And even Lelaa occasionally speculated what exactly there was between him and Risa-Sab-At. . . . But the song amused her. She didn’t know what a “chikkin” was, but “whales” were something like mountain fish . . . she thought.

  Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore,

  Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore!

  Oh, we won’t go back to Subic, we drink seep instead of tubic!

  Oh, we won’t go back to Subic anymore!

  Orrin had harmonized quite nicely with Silva on that verse. Lelaa liked songs with harmony. She could see the growing musical throng much better than Orrin could see his page, and noticed Gilbert Yeager standing off to the side. He’d attempted some of those last words, and she was stunned to see tears streaking his face. She didn’t understand. The song sounded like others she’d heard hu-maans sing with mirth.

  Oooh! The birdies ain’t real birdies in Maa-ni-la!

  Instead of feathers—they have teeth and fur!

  Some are green and blue, and they eat each other too!

  . . . an’ I can’t make up nothin’ that rhymes with furrr!

  Those in the crowd laughed and stamped their feet, but Gilbert was gone.

  Oooh, we lived ten thousand years in old Chefoo,

  The Japs got it, and then Caveetee too!

  I wouldn’t give a fart for a piece of either part,

  But I’ll make ’em rot in hell before I’m throooo!

  Lelaa realized Colonel Shinya was beside her in the dark. “You are a ‘Jaap,’ as they say, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had a war, on your world. Do Amer-i-caans really hate you that much?” She paused. “Does Silva?”

  Shinya hesitated. “Some do, even here. Even now. There was . . . unpleasantness. I never witnessed anything like what Commander Okada saw, perpetrated by either side, but ‘my’ war with the Americans was different . . . earlier. I cannot say how things would have gone had the war continued as it was when I . . . left it, but it was ugly enough already. And there were rumors of things happening in China. If the tide truly has turned as Okada says, it’s possible things have become as ugly as they are here.” He sighed. “But I don’t think Silva hates me, not anymore.” Unconsciously, he blinked irony in the Lemurian way. “We’re on the same side now, are we not?”

  “His song might leave some doubt, and he sings it to my People.” Lelaa shook her head. “I am ‘Amer-i-caan’ now, in the Na-vee clan, but I don’t hate Jaaps. I hope my people don’t come to.”

  “American songs are almost meaningless,” he assured her. “This one more than most.”

  Lelaa looked at Shinya. “Okada must stop the rogue destroyer, or you may end up mistaken.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Southeast Coast of Africa

  It was blustery, wet, and very cold. Lieutenant Toryu Miyata stood forlornly on the soggy sand with his two companions, Aguri and Umito. Wrapped in damp fur coats, they were watching the Grik longboat struggle back through the heavy breakers they’d just barely—in Toryu’s view—survived. He’d longed to escape the Grik, and the mission he’d embarked upon had seemed a good opportunity at the time, but the journey so far had been a hellish experience. And it had only begun.

  The “Cape of Storms” on this world had apparently earned its name for the same reason as the one “back home.” Not only was it so designated on the ancient, stolen charts, but the storms were even more intense and const
ant. The Grik didn’t believe any ship could round the cape, or even steer too close, and the world beyond was unknown to them. Toryu supposed that was one good thing. The only charts they’d captured intact from the long-dead British Indiamen showed only the coast of Africa and Madagascar. The Grik had been forced to earn their knowledge of other places.

  Because of that, the transport that brought his little expedition had set them ashore far short of their destination. They’d have to trek overland across unknown and probably hostile country long before they could deliver General of the Sea Kurokawa’s note to the strangers of this land. The Grik had a few frontier outposts to the north, and the “others” apparently maintained their own to the southwest. Toryu would have to cross the “no-man’s-land” between them—and he hadn’t even escaped the Grik. There were six Uul warriors along, and a low-level Hij—probably a lieutenant or something—named Bashg. He was to command them, interpret General Esshk’s orders, and generally “lead” the expedition.

  Ordinarily, Toryu believed he’d have killed Bashg and as many Uul as he could as soon as they arrived. He and his friends had discussed that very thing: kill their captors and flee to the mercy of the “others.” Toryu and Aguri each had a precious Arisaka rifle and fifty rounds of ammunition. Umito had a Grik crossbow that had been fitted to him. The problem was, Bashg and his troops weren’t “ordinary” Grik. They were some kind of “elite” Grik trained by Niwa and Halik before they left for Ceylon. Bashg was imperious and rude and probably not much of an “officer” to have been given this assignment, but his troops displayed an alarming level of awareness compared to other Uul Toryu had seen. They also carried guns.

  The guns weren’t really that threatening, particularly under the circumstances. They were essentially simple Japanese matchlocks formed to fit Grik physiques. Easy to produce, they were the most foolproof firearms Kurokawa and the surviving Japanese engineers could—or would?—give the Grik. They weren’t terrible weapons, but they were useless in wet air. Toryu doubted they were even loaded. Their matches certainly weren’t lit.