“We’ve done what we came here to do,” he said. “We’ve found Rasik’s ‘surprise,’ and I know what’s in the big crates. This ammo will come in real handy. Hell, it’s worth the trip by itself.” One of the books Chack had retrieved was the ship’s manifest. They’d lugged fifty-five thousand rounds of. 50 BMG to the bulwark, and a few thousand rounds of. 30-06. According to the pages in the book, there were two million more rounds in the ship. Quite understandable when one considered what they were for. A lot would be underwater and some might be ruined, but they’d have the brass and bullets. He tucked the manifest under his arm. He’d look it over some more on the way back to the ship.
He studied Koratin as the Marine corporal worked. It was hard to spot, but there was a little blood on his now slightly grungy white leather armor. “What did you do with Rasik, Koratin? I have to know.”
Koratin paused in his labor. “He desired to be set ashore here, instead of on the island,” he said simply. “As you Amer-i-caans would say, I owed him one.”
Ellis clenched his teeth. “Is he alive?”
“Of course! We left him quite well situated, as a matter of fact.” He glanced at the other two Marines. “We left him all our rations and even our spears! He should have no difficulty surviving for a considerable period. I swear to you now, before the Sun sinking yonder, Rasik will never die by our hands!”
Slightly mollified-Aryaalans didn’t swear by the Sun lightly-Ellis frowned. “But he might wander back to Aryaal, damn it! That’s why I wanted him on the island!”
“It matters little. If he’d wanted across, he could have built a raft. No, I think King Rasik will trouble the Alliance no more. He fully understands he is not wanted!”
“Well… you still disobeyed an order! Put yourself and these other Marines on report. I’m tempted to put Chack on report as well, as an accessory of some kind!” Jim looked at Chack. “Philosophical, my ass!”
“He had nothing to do with it!” Koratin objected.
“Maybe not, but he knew.”
“He may have surmised, Cap-i-taan, but he did not know.”
Jim looked at Chack again. Maybe Koratin was right. Clearly, Chack had expected them to kill Rasik. “Very well. For now. Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here. It’ll be a long row home, mostly in the dark, and with that giant duck-eating… whatever it is, and with what got our Marine, that’s kind of a creepy thought!” He shook his head. “What is it with this damn world, where everything wants to eat you?”
“Hey, Cap’n Ellis,” Isak said suddenly. Once unaccustomed to making unsolicited comments to officers, the fireman blurted them out all the time now. “It just hit me. The ol’ Blackhawk used to be named Santa Catalina before the Navy bought her! One of her snipes told me once when we was alongside.” He shook his head. “Guy was one squirrely bastard. Used to run around ever’where tootin’ on a duck call! That’s why I remembered it all of a sudden. You know, the duck call…? Well, anyway, it’s still kinda weird.”
Weird was right, Jim thought. Weird the way Isak’s brain worked. A few minutes before, he’d been irate that Jim wouldn’t tell him what was in the crates. Then he dredged up something like that.
Rasik-Alcas watched the boat pull away through small gaps in the canopy. They hadn’t covered his eyes; they’d only gagged him. Now, through the searing waves of agony, he couldn’t even scream. They hadn’t taken him far, just a short distance beyond the jungle-choked shore. He’d actually been close enough to hear Koratin reassure Ellis that he wasn’t dead! How could any creature lie so amazingly well? Rasik himself hadn’t suspected a thing-but of course, he hadn’t wanted to. Koratin would have known that! As depraved as Rasik knew himself to be, he’d certainly met his final, evil match-and all because of younglings!
He struggled feebly, but the movement only caused more agony. Koratin and the Marines had pinned his arms to the trunk of a wide subaa tree, right through the twinbones. He couldn’t even tear himself free! Not that it would do any good. They’d done the same to the twinbones in his legs and then made a small incision in his belly. Not large enough to bleed him to death, but quite large enough to pull his intestines through. The squirming, tearing sensation had been more than he could bear, and he’d finally passed out. When he awoke, his murderers were gone. Food was scattered on the ground all around him-and his guts had been strung five or six tails away and hung on a limb.
He clenched his eyes shut as biting insects buzzed around his entrails. If only he’d known! How could he have known? Not only Koratin’s precious, despicable younglings had perished on Nerracca -the Home the Japanese destroyed-but so had the younglings or mates of all his conspirators! He should have had a way of knowing that. Would have, if he’d been thinking clearly! Even so, what did younglings measure against the power Koratin could have had as King Rasik-Alcas’s Supreme Minister? Younglings were simple to replace, even a pleasure, but the kind of power Koratin had denied was a priceless, precious thing. It was madness!
Even as Rasik-Alcas considered these imponderables and watched the boat grow small against the setting sun, the tiny, timid night predators began to gather around.
Environs of Tjilatjap
CHAPTER 16
M att looked at the message form Clancy had handed him. The fact they now had relatively reliable communications was a godsend in many ways. He could keep track of all the various operations under way and he could even exchange semi-private correspondence with Sandra back in Baalkpan. He got daily updates-when atmospherics didn’t interfere-on the progress made on Walker and all the other projects of the Alliance. He was a little worried about the silence from Laumer, but not too worried. The ex-Grik “tankers” they’d sent with both bunker-grade and diesel fuel should arrive there soon. Still, he’d received so much bad, sometimes calamitous news typed as neatly as their battered typewriters could manage on the dwindling message forms, he always accepted them with a trace of apprehension.
The news today was anything but bad. In fact, it was almost horrifyingly good. Jim Ellis had discovered Rasik’s secret in the form of a battered freighter marooned in the swamps north of Chill-chaap. Clearly, the ship had somehow come through the same Squall they had. Jim hadn’t found the ship’s log, but her manifest told the story. She’d been attempting a mission similar to the one doomed Langley and a few old freighters had been trying to accomplish: a last-ditch effort to beef up Java’s air defenses. Langley and the freighters-including Santa Catalina -had been ferrying P-40 fighters, spare engines, tires, parts, fuel tanks, and millions of rounds of ammunition to the beleaguered island. Langley was caught short and bombed into a sinking wreck. Matt had heard one of the other freighters made it to Tjilatjap, but since there was no nearby airfield, they’d actually assembled the planes dockside and were attempting to tow them overland on refugee-choked roads! He didn’t know if they’d ever made it to an airstrip or not. Judging by Jim’s report, Santa Catalina had been trying to do the same thing.
The only explanation for her condition, position, her very presence in this world, was that she too must have been damaged at sea, passed through the Squall, and arrived at a far different Tjilatjap. The Grik must have already sacked Chill-Chaap and the ship’s captain, likely wondering where he was, proceeded as far upriver as he could to preserve his cargo and his ship from the deeper waters. Jim found no trace of the crew or the pilots who would have accompanied the planes. Maybe they were still out there somewhere, but more likely they hadn’t survived their contact with this terrible world. Matt shook his head. Much the same would probably have happened to Walker and her crew if she hadn’t made friends so quickly.
The existence of the ship and her cargo was an incredible stroke of luck, however, maybe even a war winner if they could salvage any of the planes. Jim thought it likely. The manifest totaled twenty-eight aircraft. Curtiss P-40Es! If they saved only half of them, they’d have more than the Philippines had after the first few days of the war. The reason it was horrifying was t
hat Matt wanted those planes now and he had no way of getting them. Isak Rueben had said that the ship’s engines were probably okay, but the fireroom was a shambles. She was also “kind of sunk,” according to the report, so there’d be no salvaging her on a shoestring. An ecstatic Ben Mallory quickly fired back a suggestion from Baalkpan that they immediately launch an expedition to recover the planes. If they could hack an airstrip out of the jungle alongside the ship and somehow power her cargo cranes, they could simply assemble the planes and fly them out.
Matt knew there’d be nothing “simple” about it. The project would require a small army and there’d be no way to keep that secret. They’d also need a higher-grade fuel than the PBY had required and they’d have to cut airstrips everywhere they went to accommodate the planes. He’d been impressed by Jim’s initial reaction to remain tight-lipped about the find, but realistically, it probably didn’t matter. There was no risk of the Grik or even the Japanese infiltrating their ranks, and if they had spies on the island, they were just as likely to find the ship on their own. If the current Allied offensive was successful, they’d soon have the Grik pushed back almost to Ceylon, making long forays by enemy vessels into the Allied rear even more unlikely. Right now, every ship in Matt’s squadron was essential where it was. They’d bottled up the approaches to Singapore and captured or destroyed a few ships-mostly leaving. His assault was essentially awaiting only Ellis and Dowden, and the extra weight of metal her broadside might add to the fight. He’d recommend to Adar that they send a small garrison to Tjilatjap and maybe at least begin recovery and stabilization efforts. That made good sense. But right now, his own plate was heaping full.
“A hell of a thing,” Garrett commented, reading over his shoulder. “If we’d had those planes in the Philippines, we might still be there.”
Matt grunted. “We had a hell of a lot more than that to start with and it didn’t matter much. I don’t know. MacArthur might have been some kind of Army genius, but he understood even less about his own Air Corps than he did about naval operations.” He frowned. “I kind of wish we had him with us now, though. How’s Pete’s attack plan coming?”
“Pretty good, I think.” Garrett looked at Matt. “Pete’s done a swell job. I wouldn’t be pining for that Army prima donna if I were you.”
Matt laughed. “Not ‘pining,’ but I do wish I had someone else to bounce Pete’s plans off of.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Skipper. You’ve done fine onshore.” Garrett looked thoughtful. “Besides, you have Rolak and Queen Maraan. Unlike our sea folk friends, they’ve been fighting on land all their lives. Pete and Safir did a good job chopping up that Grik force on Madura… I mean, B’mbaado.”
“They sure did,” Matt reflected. He took a breath. “Jim should be here in three days. Four at the outside-if the weather holds. Don’t forget, this is the stormy time of year!” He chuckled grimly. Protection from the terrible “Strakkas” that struck the region was another reason they needed Singapore in their hands. “We’ll pass the word via wireless or couriers for all ships to assemble just west of Bintan Island at that time. We’ll have a final conference before we kick off the show.”
“You want to invite Jenks?”
Matt nodded. “He’s seen why we fight now and I think he’s more sympathetic than ever before. He’ll want to see how we fight. I think I’ll give him a chance to get in closer this time, if he likes.”
Captain Jim Ellis was piped aboard Donaghey and received a warm welcome. Dowden had made a quick passage, mostly under sail with the stout winds of some distant storm. He was a little surprised to be openly congratulated for his find-he still hadn’t told his crew what he’d seen-and only his wireless operator and exec knew what the flurry of transmissions, prodded mostly by Ben Mallory, were about.
“Doesn’t matter, Jim,” Matt told him. “Adar has already sent a small force to secure the area. He wouldn’t let Mallory go; he’s still training pilots for the Nancys and he’s fit to bust! But if we’re successful, he’ll have plenty of time to go play with his new toys.”
“You’re not going to give him a squadron, or wing, or whatever?” Jim asked.
“Hell, no! He’s taught some guys and ’Cats to fly, but he’s the only man we’ve got who’s ever actually had real pilot training. He majored in aeronautical engineering at West Point, too. Even flew with Colonel Doolittle a few times. How do you think he got the Nancys up so fast?”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah. He doesn’t brag on it. I didn’t know it either until he started pitching for the Nancys in the first place. In hindsight, we never should’ve let him risk his neck so much in that old PBY Catalina.”
“But then we’d all be dead.”
Matt nodded philosophically. “True. As a matter of fact, if we still had the damn thing, I’d tell him to take it up and scout Singapore for us.”
“What do we know?”
“Not much. C’mon, let’s adjourn to the wardroom. Juan’ll fix you something cool to drink while the rest of the captains and commanders arrive.”
Dennis Silva was hunting, as usual, during his free time. Besides being a pleasant diversion for him, it was an increasingly important chore. With so many foreign troops, artisans, and laborers in Baalkpan, the city needed more fresh meat than ever before, and the depleted fishing fleet was stretched to the limit. The ubiquitous polta fruit supplied a wide variety of nutrients the ’Cats, and apparently humans, needed, and other fruits and some vegetables were used as well, but both species needed plenty of animal protein. That left Silva with all the justification he needed to “go a-huntin’ ” regularly.
He did sometimes find himself craving some of the strangest things, though-stuff he’d always hated. Like beets. The killing grounds around Baalkpan had been planted with many different varieties of tuber and there was a root that tasted a little like beets that he sort of liked. It was odd. He’d always shunned vegetables as superfluous, useless things that took up space on his plate where more meat could have been. Now, some days, he figured he’d kill for a tomato-or a mess of black-eyed peas. Regardless, hunting was necessary. It got him out of the “house,” away from the women, and let him kill things on a regular basis.
Pam and Risa were swell, but they had a tendency to coddle him. That could get old, despite the benefits. Technically, he was still sort of convalescing, but he felt as good as he figured he ever would. He was up to full speed working in the factory for Campeti or fooling around with Bernie’s projects, but when he had any spare time at all, he headed for the jungle with the Hunter.
The Hunter was a scrawny, almost ancient Lemurian with a silver-streaked pelt and several missing teeth. He was barely taller than Rebecca, but like most ’Cats, he was incredibly strong. His weapon of choice was a massive crossbow that probably weighed as much as he did, and he carried it with a nonchalant ease Silva could only envy. He had guts too. Silva remembered when “Moe” (he called the Hunter Moe, since if the old ’Cat ever had a real name, he didn’t remember it) had used himself to bait the super lizard that got Tony Scott so Silva could avenge his friend. They’d finally managed to kill the thing, but it was a close call and one of the reasons Dennis had built his massive Super Lizard Gun. So far, he hadn’t found any super lizards to test it on. It killed the absolute, literal hell out of the big, dangerous rhino-pigs he and Moe pursued for their succulent meat, but rhino-pigs weren’t much of a challenge for the thing. He’d taken to waiting for the creatures to bunch up so he could see how many the gun would kill with a single shot. So far, the record was four.
Enjoyable as any day in the woods was, Dennis and Moe rather doubted they’d get much chance to test the big gun’s potential on this trip. In addition to the usual bearers they brought to deal with their kills, Courtney Bradford, Lawrence, and Abel Cook had tagged along. Lawrence’s fieldcraft wasn’t bad. His species were natural predators, and the little guy had an almost childlike desire to please. He also really liked Silva, even
though the big man had shot him once. The fact that his adored Rebecca liked him and considered Silva a demented big brother was probably sufficient explanation. Lawrence wasn’t the problem. Courtney Bradford and his young protege, Abel Cook, still had a lot to learn.
The bearers hung back, letting Dennis and Moe do all the hunting, but Bradford and Cook stayed right up with them. It irked Silva a little, but he figured Abel needed to do more “man stuff” and Bradford was, well, Bradford. He didn’t come along often. He was a busy, much-sought-after man. He could be a pain in the ass in the field, making too much noise or chasing after a lizard, but Dennis enjoyed it when he was around. Courtney was a hoot, and too much seriousness was hard on Dennis Silva. He missed the conversation Courtney provided, no matter how bizarre.
“What’s that?” Silva whispered as a small, striped reptile that looked like a fat ribbon snake with legs scampered across their path. They were hunting the pipeline cut where they’d killed the super lizard, and the earth was thick and mushy beneath their feet. Moe murmured something unpronounceable and shrugged. Probably not something fit to eat then, Silva decided. Certainly not worth the abuse of a shot. He wondered what Courtney Bradford would have done if he’d seen it. Chase after it on all fours, most likely. At the moment, Courtney was absorbed by retelling the legendary Super Lizard Safari to Abel.
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