“What of the Fil-pin industry? How does their shipbuilding proceed?” Adar asked anxiously.
“It’s not up to our level yet,” Alan Letts replied, “but I expect it will be pretty soon. No offense, but the Fil-pin Lands had already outstripped Baalkpan as an industrial trading center before the war even started.”
“You certainly do not offend me.” Adar chuckled. “Remember, I was but a lowly Sky Priest when this war began. I had no notion or concern regarding the relative industrial capacity of Baalkpan or Maa-ni-la. Any disparity may have troubled the great Nakja-Mur, but my only interest lies in what our combined capabilities might accomplish.”
“Well, as I said, their production of ships, weapons, and heavy equipment hasn’t quite matched ours just yet, but their fundamental industrial base and capacity is greater. Baalkpan had one large foundry when we arrived. It was mostly devoted to casting huge anchors or ‘feet’ for your humongous floating homes, but we turned it to pouring large cannons easily enough. We have upwards of half a dozen even larger foundries now, some pouring iron, but Manila had that many to start with. Once they hit their stride, I think we’ll be in pretty good shape. They’ve already blown us away as far as leather implements, canvas, grain production, even leather body armor are concerned. They had a bigger labor pool to begin with, and when everybody began fleeing there in the face of the Grik, that labor pool grew even more.” Letts’s expression was philosophical. “We’ll catch back up to some degree as people continue returning. In the long term, Baalkpan has much greater potential than Manila. Borno is a big island. Lots of space and raw materials. There’s no reason why Baalkpan and Manila ever need to become rivals, if any of your people are worried about that.”
Adar waved his hand. “That is the least of my worries, although I must admit the possibility is a concern to some. As you know, I ultimately seek a greater, more permanent union than our presently strong but potentially fragile Grand Alliance represents.”
“I think he was asking ‘How many ships have the Maa-ni-los built so far?’” Riggs supplied, sotto voce.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman.” Letts shook his head. “I guess I’m a little preoccupied today.”
“Quite understandable under the circumstances,” Adar allowed. “Our people share far more similarities than one might ever imagine just by . . . looking at us. There are profound differences, of course, but our unity and friendship feed upon a number of fundamental commonalities.” He grinned. “Such as our devotion to mates and younglings, it would appear. I have watched how the mid-age younglings you rescued from the Talaud submarine behave, and that behavior is somewhat consistent with that of our own young of like age. Your mate’s youngling is due to arrive at any time, I understand, and I am most anxious to observe the behavior of a human infant!”
“Trust me,” Riggs jabbed, “the behavior of the human parents is far more bizarre!”
“Say—” Letts grinned. “Steve’s probably right. Anyway, Shinya reports that the Maa-ni-los have only finished two steamers, but they’re close on a couple more, and they have ten that’ll be in the water within a month. He says the wood isn’t as good—they weren’t drying it like we were—but they’ve set up kilns. Hopefully, that’ll work. Their hardwoods are a little different than those around here too.”
“Maa-ni-lo-built Homes and feluccas last just as long as those built here,” Adar mused. “As in all things, ‘different’ may not mean ‘not as good.’ ”
“Of course, Mr. Chairman,” Letts replied. “I think he meant it wasn’t as good in the sense that it wasn’t as ‘ready.’ Maa-ni-la was building two or so Homes a year, and their hardwood supply has moved away from the city. It takes them longer to cut it, move it to the construction area, and lay it up for drying. That’s why they’re setting up kilns. Aside from the hardwood we’d already laid up when we cleared the jungle away from the city, the people here only used to build a Home once every couple of years, so there was a lot more suitable wood nearby. A Home takes at least ten times as much wood as one of our new frigates. Don’t worry,” he said soothingly, “they’ll catch up pretty quick, and probably surpass us in shipbuilding.”
“How is our dear Saan-Kakja holding out?” Adar asked. Saan-Kakja was a remarkable High Chief in many ways. Like so many of the “youngling rulers” or commanders this war had created or “brought of age,” Saan-Kakja had “stepped up to the plate” with poise, resolve, and a singular dedication to “the cause.” They’d been fortunate in her, and others as well: Tassana-Ay-Aracca, Safir Maraan, Chack-Sab-At, Princess Rebecca—arguably even Matthew Reddy himself. He was no “youngling” at thirty-three, but he was awfully young for the responsibilities heaped upon him. So was Pete Alden. He’d been just a sergeant in USS Houston’s Marine contingent, and now he was General of the Armies and Marines. Alan Letts himself had been a lazy, freckled kid from Idaho, marking time as Walker’s supply officer. Now he was Adar’s and Captain Reddy’s chief of staff. It was like that for most of the men and women who’d ridden Walker, Mahan, and S-19 through the Squall that brought them here.
Of them all, however, Saan-Kakja was burdened with the greatest responsibility for her age. While in Baalkpan, she’d passed her fourteenth season and, as High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands, she ruled over the largest single territory claimed by any one High Chief. Even Adar didn’t claim all of Borno. He ruled only the inhabited settlements thereon, and then only until they were independent. Most of the many islands of the Fil-pin Lands were populated to some degree or other, and all were “daughters” of Ma-ni-la. Only her brother’s settlement on southwestern Mindanao, Paga-Daan, had been close to independence, and now that brother was dead—killed by Walter Billingsley and the HNBC.
In addition to the difficulties of overseeing a painful and somewhat resentful industrial revolution in a land that was rapidly becoming the “arsenal of freedom,” Saan-Kakja had to deal with an even larger population of malcontents and antiwar “runaways.” The guilds were more entrenched there, and she hadn’t even had the support of her own Sky Priest, Meksnaak, at first. Her iron will had finally co-opted Meksnaak and the council members she hadn’t fired, and with Shinya’s help and the devotion of her army and the majority of her people, she’d steamrolled the guilds. Adar—and most of the chiefs of the allied Homes and cities—worried most about the “runaway” faction. With Maa-ni-la firmly in the Alliance, they had nowhere left to flee, and it is always remarkable how violent some “pacifists” can become in order to maintain their status.
Adar worried for Saan-Kakja, with her mesmerizing golden eyes. He worried for Matt and Walker. He worried about the fate of Princess Rebecca, Sandra Tucker, and even Dennis Silva. He feared for the safety of his own new realm and the exposed distance of the 2nd Allied Expeditionary Force. He couldn’t help it. All were beyond his help and all were people he cared about a great deal.
He glanced through the small shutter at the world beyond the War Room. The rain that had come with the dawn was over, and as though the Heavens had exhausted themselves early that day, the sky was suddenly clear and bright.
“I am, of course, well informed regarding those events that have transpired in Baalkpan today,” he began. That was certainly true. He’d been at the docks himself when his old Home, Big Sal, finally rebuilt and completed as the allies’ first “aircraft carrier,” or more appropriately, “seaplane tender,” got underway and steamed slowly out of the bay under the command of his oldest friend, Keje-Fris-Ar.
Watching that had been a bittersweet experience. His old Home had risen from near destruction to become the most powerful warship known to exist, but she was no longer his Home. Baalkpan was his Home now; he’d made that choice. But Salissa epitomized the changes his society—his world—was undergoing at such inexorable speed. No longer did she stand to sea under her lofty, mighty, beautiful wings. Instead, she belched smoke, and two massive engines turned a single giant screw propeller. She would never be fast, like Walker, but she would
always be faster than she’d ever been, and in any direction.
Adar knew Salissa’s conversion was the only way she would ever survive this new kind of war. It was the only way she could really contribute. Other High Chiefs had volunteered their Homes as well: Tassana had offered Aracca, with the consent of all her people. Geran-Eras’s Humfra-Dar was in the dry dock, with work already begun. Still, it made him sad.
“But what news is there from the AEF?” he asked. “I noticed the messenger from the telegraph office seemed more heavily burdened than usual. Has there been a major action?”
“No, sir,” Letts replied. “If there had been, that would’ve been the first thing I told you when you came in.” He shook his head. “No, it’s mostly just a bunch of logistical stuff. Alden and Mr. Ellis are gearing up to jump on that Grik force at Rangoon.” He stood and paced to a map on the wall. “Mr. Ellis was inclined to bypass it at first, but General Alden changed his mind. He thinks a bunch of the Grik that abandoned Singapore might have wound up there by now. Some didn’t break. We still don’t know what to make of that. We’ve got those Grik ‘guards’ Rasik-Alcas had, and I wish we could understand them. They seem to understand’Cat but can’t speak it. You ask me, I think they’re too young. They act crazy to please, like dogs, but don’t seem to really know what’s up.” He scratched his nose. “I sure wish Lawrence was here.”
“As do we all,” Adar agreed. “I sincerely doubt he speaks the same language, though. He had no idea what the aboriginal—I think Mr. Silva called them ‘Injun Jungle Lizards’?—had said to him during their encounter. Perhaps he would be better able to learn their language, or teach them his, however.”
“Yeah. Anyway, it’s starting to look like being on their own for a while kind of ‘wakes them up’ a little, or something. Pete says that gives him the willies.”
“Do you think they might influence this Grik force at Raan-goon?”
Letts shook his head. “Not really, and neither does Pete. Chances are, the Singapore Grik will never even make it to Rangoon. Alden, and Mr. Ellis now too, see the campaign more as a chance to test new tactics and equipment before the bigger push later, than anything else. But face it, Mr. Chairman, our ‘tame’ Grik aside, meeting Lawrence has forced us to realize that the Grik probably aren’t all nuts. They may be born nuts, and the Hij may do their best to keep their Uul that way, but that doesn’t mean they just naturally have to stay that way.”
Adar stroked his whiskers in thought. “A most disturbing ... speculation.”
“You said it,” agreed Brister.
“I suppose that leaves only Mr. Mallory’s expedition to discuss,” Adar said.
Riggs looked at the other men, then back at Adar. “Mallory’s little squadron has passed through the Bali Strait and should reach Tjilatjap—’scuse me, ‘Chill-chaap,’ within a few days. They picked up another transport and two hundred more troops and laborers at Aryaal.” He shook his head. “That whole deal is going to be complicated as hell. I really wish we didn’t have to spend the resources on it just now.”
“I agree with you on that,” Brister said, “but think of the payoff if he succeeds! I wish I was with him. He’s going to need a good engineer, and time isn’t on our side. The longer we wait, the more deterioration there will be.”
“He’s got Mikey Monk, Gilbert Yeager, and Jim’s dispatching Isak Rueben to help out.”
Letts laughed. “Both original Mice back in one place, working together! Ha!”
“An effective combination, surely, but who will ‘wrangle’ them?” Adar asked.
“Well, they’re all ‘chiefs’ now, but Monk’s a lieutenant. He worked with Mr. Mallory throughout the development of the Nancys. At least he knows something about airplanes, and Ben Mallory likes him.”
“Yeah, but he’s almost as screwy as the Mice, and all of them will be under the command of a hot-pursuit jock who’s just been given the greatest Christmas present of his life,” Riggs pointed out.
“No, I sent a message to General Alden and he talked Captain Ellis into giving Tolson to Russ Chapelle. Russ has earned her anyway. He’ll take Tolson down to Chill-chaap for two reasons: first, it’ll give the expedition some real defensive firepower if they need it, and second, Russ will assume overall command. Tolson’s current skipper will get one of the new steam frigates when it arrives.”
“Russ Chaap-elle,” Adar mused. “An interesting choice,” he continued delicately. “He has always struck me as a most formidable man, but perhaps a little . . . too much like Sil-vaa? In some ways.”
“He is like Silva in some ways,” Letts agreed. “But Silva—if he’s alive—is like a lone marauding wolf that might take on protecting a cub now and then. He’s loyal to the Skipper and damn handy in a fight, but otherwise, his most predictable personality trait is to ‘kill whatever worries you so you won’t have anything to worry about.’ ” Letts shook his head. “Honestly, regardless of the fate of the other hostages Billingsley took, I expect Silva’s dead. I can’t imagine even Billingsley being crazy enough to let somebody that dangerous live.”
There was silence in the War Room for a moment while those present reflected on the probable loss of a bold and valuable warrior, as well as what his death might mean for the other hostages under Billingsley’s control.
“Anyway,” Letts continued, “Chapelle is sort of like Silva. He’s a wolf, but he can lead a pack—or be part of one.” He glanced at Adar. “Sorry for all the human euphemisms. What I mean is that he can be aggressive as hell, but he can also be counted on to follow explicit orders and lead others in carrying them out. He started out as a torpedoman, so he’s got some engineering smarts, but he’s also been exec of two square-riggers now, so we know he can sail, lead, and organize men and ’Cats. With him riding herd on Ben Mallory, I’ll feel more confident that the mission will proceed in an efficient, timely fashion than if the ‘euphoric pursuit jock’ was running the show.”
“Does the ‘euphoric pursuit jock’ know all this yet?” Riggs asked.
“Sorta,” Letts hedged. “He knows he’s in charge of recovering and/or preserving the airplanes, and he’s already done a good job preparing for that. He’s mixed up a quantity of what we hope will serve as high-octane fuel with all the ethyl alcohol we could cook up in so short a time. He says if we mix it with the gas we’re running in the Nancys it ought to work; it’ll just be inefficient as hell.”
“And I still don’t think it’ll stay mixed,” Brister objected, continuing an apparent argument.
“Maybe not,” Letts allowed with a sigh. “I’m not the guy to ask. There’s no way, under the present circumstances, we can come up with tetra-ethyl-lead—that’s the stuff Mallory and Bradford told me they usually add to the gas. Anyway, we’ve got an airstrip started north of the shipyard. If he and Russ decide to try to fly the things out, we’ll have a place to land them. God knows who’ll fly them, though. He’s got a few of our new pilots with him, but as I understand it, learning to fly a P-40E is about as far beyond flying a Nancy as brain surgery is beyond picking your nose.” There was general laughter at the analogy, but Adar clearly didn’t quite understand. Hopefully, he would one day.
“Personally,” Brister said, “I’d rather they try to get the ship out, with the crated planes on board.”
Letts nodded. “That’s my hope too, and one of the main reasons Russ will be in charge. Ben won’t give a hoot about the ship; he’ll just want the planes. I’d rather have it all, and if there’s any way that can happen, I bet the Mice and Mikey Monk will figure it out.”
“Captain Ellis said the area the ship’s in, this . . . swamp, is a really spooky place,” Riggs pointed out.
“Yeah, well, if it was easy, we wouldn’t have to send as much to do the job.” Letts looked at Adar. “I know you’ve been a little reluctant about this. You think ‘we’ve got airplanes, why do we need these?’ All I can tell you, until you see one fly, is that they’re even further out of our Nancys’ league than Amag
i was out of Walker’s.”
With an exhausted grunt, Adar stirred himself from the cushion and stood. “Oh, I believe you. I just hope the gain will be worth the effort—and the cost as well, I fear.” He sighed. “I have been hiding here long enough, however, not to mention interfering with your meeting.” He bowed to Alan Letts. “Please do convey my kindest regards to your mate, Nurse Kaaren. I know nothing of human birthing customs, but among our people it is expected that the male should be nearby, to render support and protection to his mate during her time of helplessness.” He blinked, and Alan Letts shifted uncomfortably.
“Another similarity our cultures share,” Riggs proclaimed. “It’s not like a fellow is supposed to be in the room or anything, but he ought to be there. That’s pretty much what we told him when we showed up for this meeting.”
Letts cast a scathing look. “Pam and Kathy said they’d send word when . . . you know, the . . . water thing ...”
“I know you are busy,” Adar said. “You have great responsibility over momentous events, but the first human youngling born in Baalkpan is momentous as well. The city stands still in anticipation! Perhaps you might consider that, as well as the possibility that the war might manage to muddle along without you for a short time.” He turned to the others. “Mr. Riggs, Mr. Brister, good day.”
CHAPTER 8
Rising Tides Page 9