“Oh, Lord,” Matt said, and contemplated that off and on over the next several hours while they watched the Imperial Fleet—what was left of it—return to port. It was true, though, he finally decided. It was time for Bradford to go to work. Right then, Matt had other concerns. Every Imperial ship was damaged to some degree. It had been a hell of a fight. A lot of the “liners” had serious damage to their paddle wheels despite the heavy wooden boxes that encased them, and Matt felt at least a little vindicated regarding his insistence on screw propellers for the Allied fleet. A couple of Imperial ships with sound propulsion had badly battered Dominion warships in tow, with the Imperial banner streaming above the red ensign of the enemy, but apparently, not many Dom ships had surrendered. Matt still didn’t know if that meant they’d escaped or been destroyed. As time went by, however, with no sign of Walker, the scene in Scapa Flow; all the drama, horror, relief, and even the dawning jubilation of victory, faded to insignificance as the fiery fist of anxiety for his ship continued to tighten its grip on his heart.
“My God!” Jenks exclaimed, staring through his telescope. He looked at Matt and handed the instrument over without a word.
Just becoming visible beyond the gaggle of limping Imperials, USS Walker steamed into view. Matt had never seen his ship return from a desperate battle; he’d always been aboard her. But now he knew how his people—and he unconsciously included the Lemurians in that category—must have felt every time he brought her in. She looked like a floating wreck. Several gaping holes were visible in her starboard side, surrounded by dozens of deep dents that ran her entire visible length, and she had a slight list to port. Water gushed over the side, and even a couple of auxiliary pumps were running, the hoses pulsing with pressure and adding to the torrent returning to the sea. The splinter shield on the number one gun was knocked askew, and the starboard bridgewing rail stood naked where the side plating had been battered in. The searchlight above her fire control platform was completely gone, leaving only the tangled rail and twisted conduits.
Matt absorbed the initial impact of what he saw, then began to observe details. At least two boilers were operational, judging by the smoke curling from her dented and shot-pierced funnels. There were no bodies strewn on her deck and “apes” were hosing blood and other debris from her fo’c’sle. Much of the junk included shattered wood and charred canvas that had to have come from other ships. The battle flag still stood out, straight and proud near the top of her foremast, and all the smokestained guns were trained fore and aft. In addition, the old girl’s heart was still as strong as ever, because the only reason she seemed to strain at all was because of the two savagely mauled Imperial frigates she was towing in her wake.
Jenks must have mistaken the expression on Matt’s face when he lowered the glass and unconsciously handed it to Gray. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
Gray looked away from the glass he’d raised and glared at Jenks, eyes red. “What the hell for?” he demanded savagely. “She ain’t sinkin’. Sure, she’s taken a few dents an’ a little smut, but I seen her look worse the mornin’ after a hard liberty! She went toe to toe with Amagi! You seen her sunk-ass carcass at Baalkpan. You really think them pipsqueak battleships the goddamn Doms think are so hot are even close to a match for our ol’ Walker?” He slammed the telescope back in Jenks’s hand and stormed off, swearing, toward the dock Walker had steamed away from the morning before.
“Quite an excitable fellow,” Admiral McClain observed awkwardly.
“Indeed,” Jenks replied, “but right, more often than not.” He gestured beyond Walker and his own voice gained excitement. “And look there, Captain Reddy! I do believe I see the source of the other green rockets we saw!”
Appearing somewhat incongruous among all the war-ravaged ships returning to port, Achilles was just passing beneath the guns at the harbor mouth. Beside her steamed what could only be USS Simms. Both looked sharp and fresh despite their long voyage, and the contrast between them and the battered prizes trailing behind could not have been more profound. Two relatively unmarked Dominion transports were towing a pair of ravaged liners and the Stars and Stripes and the Imperial banner floated proudly above them all.
“Now that’s what I call a stylish entrance,” Matt said.
CHAPTER 31
Ceylon
N’galsh, First Hij of Ceylon and Vice Regent of all India, personally awaited the longboat from Giorsh at the “Hunter’s Ramp” in the still strangely unpronounceable harbor at Colombo. (N’galsh, like Tsalka, was endeavoring to change the name.) N’galsh’s presence at the dock, even with his army of attendants, was unprecedented and demeaning, since this “General Halik” wasn’t born “of the Hij.” Halik was reputed to have “talent,” however, and that’s what they needed. N’galsh would sacrifice a few prerogatives, at least for now, and bend to the shifting imperatives within the realm of the Grik. His own personal concern regarding the cause behind those imperatives made it easier to choke down. Typically, a regent—or in his absence, a vice regent—was subordinate only to the Celestial Mother herself, but he’d been given clearly to understand that he would follow the directions or commands of the two generals in the longboat without question. The world had been gutted, turned upside down, inside out; its entrails exposed where they should be concealed. Personally meeting the longboat was a minor concession in the grand scheme of things and literally the least he could do under the circumstances. It might also be essential in the sense that, had he not come, it might have been the last thing he didn’t do. The way things were going, he just didn’t know, and he didn’t care to discover mistakes the hard way.
“In the name of the Mother, I greet you, General Halik . . .” He paused. “General Niwa,” he added. N’galsh loathed the “Jaaph” hunters, the “Hunters previously of the Iron Ship.” In his view, they were responsible for much of the vile change sweeping the Grik world. He didn’t know Niwa’s status, however, and suspected it would be easier to later retreat from excessive civility than to repair a slight.
Halik jerked a nod and Niwa saluted. “Vice Regent N’galsh,” Halik said. “Regent Tsalka and General Esshk extend greetings and blessings as well.” His eyes narrowed. “You will extend the same courtesy to General Niwa that you do to me.”
Good. N’galsh sighed. He’d guessed correctly. “Of course. Thank the Mother you both arrived safely. The prey—the ‘enemy,’ rather—has an ever-tightening grip on the sea approaches. Honestly, I’m shocked you were not intercepted. Nothing gets through.”
“We were intercepted,” Halik said bitterly. “A single of their ships, little different from ours, flying the ‘A’ery-can’ flag, destroyed our entire escort. Only its sacrifice allowed our arrival here.”
“Indeed? Then please accept my most profound congratulations. The enemy demonstrates a fascinatingly effective grasp of the Sea Hunt, at least. Their ships are well found, even those they took from us, and they are artists when it comes to this ‘gunnery.’ ”
“General Esshk says the same. That is one thing we hope to improve before we depart.”
N’galsh’s jaw fell slack. “Depart?” he asked weakly.
“As we have been commanded,” Halik replied.
“But . . . surely you will defeat the enemy first?”
“If we can,” Halik conceded. “But General Esshk is not hopeful. We will do what is possible—test new weapons, learn the ways of the enemy and bleed them with attacks when and where we can support them. We have new programs, new ‘trainings’ underway to make hunters that contest rather than conquer, but as you point out, even if those ‘troops’ were ready now, we could not get them here as long as the enemy controls the sea.” He took a breath. “We will do what we may, but we must be prepared in the event that the enemy succeeds in his campaign against this place.”
“Succeeds?” N’galsh murmured, suddenly distraught. “But the Celestial Mother cannot spare this land! It is the most precious of her eggs!”
“She can
spare it . . . and she will, if necessary. Ceylon is precious, but not nearly as much so as other eggs and the sacred Ancestral Lands that lie closer to the nest. Certainly you understand that?”
“Of course, but ... how can they be at risk while this one remains?”
“As long as the enemy controls the sea, no ‘egg’ is safe,” Niwa said, and Halik translated. “That will . . . not always be the case. Other programs are underway that will eliminate that control in time, but time is the essential element.”
“So . . . you have not come to save this land, but only to trade it for ‘time’ to save others?” N’galsh questioned, bitterness creeping into his voice.
“Essentially, yes,” Halik confirmed. “But fear not, Vice Regent, that same ‘time’ we hope to win here will ultimately allow our reconquest of this ‘egg,’ as well as those of the enemy.” He looked behind him, confirming that his and Niwa’s staff had all arrived ashore. It was composed of other . . . unusual Grik. They had a sizable personal guard of “elite” warriors as well. It would be interesting to see how they performed. “Now, if you please, do show us the tools at our disposal, the tools with which we might shape that time we need.”
“Of course,” N’galsh said hesitantly. “I have arranged for you to review a gathering of the warriors here.”
“Thank you,” Halik said, “but there is no need for that. I know precisely what I will see—a mob of wild hatchlings, for the most part. General Niwa and I require interviews with . . . others such as myself.” Halik coughed ironically. “Hunters ‘past their prime,’ who have faced the enemy, in particular. I also want those who have been defeated, but were not ‘made prey.’ ” He looked ominously at N’galsh. “Unless they have been destroyed?”
“No, no, General Halik! General Esshk left strict instructions regarding that, before he and Regent Tsalka went to meet with the Celestial Mother!” He paused. “Despite the . . . irregularity . . . of that meeting, I obeyed!”
“Good. Additionally, General Niwa and I require transportation to various points on the land. Have those we wish to meet assemble in those places. Our staff will supply a list of locations.”
“Of course,” N’galsh replied. He hesitated. “Forgive me . . . Generals ... this is all quite new, and I confess some confusion. I pray you will suffer my presence on your travels? Perhaps I may attend your councils? There is much I have to learn; much I crave to know.”
“You are most welcome,” Halik said. Suddenly it was his turn to display self-conscious confusion. “Perhaps,” he began, paused, then continued. “We are all ‘new’ to this, with the exception of General Niwa, and this situation is beyond even his experience. Personally, I crave an answer to an extremely profound question, and you may be the only one with an answer of any sort.”
“Why . . . surely I will answer, if I can,” N’galsh said, surprised.
“Why are we even here?” Halik asked. “More specifically, why is the enemy not here already?”
N’galsh sighed with relief. He didn’t know the answer, but he did have a guess. “A most interesting question,” he temporized. “After the hideous, wrongful defeat at their ‘Baalkpan,’ we abandoned Aryaal, lost Singapore, and there is every indication that the enemy has conquered Rangoon as well. All that happened in rapid succession—yet they have stopped short of attacking us here. I confess complete mystification. I do not complain,” he hastened to add, “but . . . I think perhaps . . . their mouth is full. They must chew before they take their next bite?”
Halik looked at N’galsh with new respect. “I think you are right, Vice Regent.” He glanced at Niwa, who was nodding thoughtfully. “They have suffered no reverse—that we know of—yet they pause. As so recently . . . elevated . . . I am sometimes painfully reminded that fatigue and hurts often do not show, but they can shorten the reach of one’s sword.” He grunted. “And of course, a hunter—a warrior—must eat. It may be that their sword has reached its most extreme reach—for now. Perhaps they gather their strength for the next mighty blow. Possibly they await the arrival of a new, sharper sword. Regardless, their delay has already given us some time that may be crucial.” He hissed a chuckle. “It has given us the crucial time to arrive here, General Niwa, if nothing else!”
“True, General Halik,” Niwa replied in the English Halik now more perfectly understood. They’d had a long voyage to get to “know” one another and strangely, something resembling friendship, a form of “warrior bond,” had evolved between them. Neither was exactly “of ” even his own people anymore, and despite their vast dissimilarities, they had much in common. “But without reconnaissance,” he continued, “we can’t know what ‘new’ swords they may have been given. I can imagine a few, and we can try to prepare for some of those possibilities, but you must understand that other than the war in the Philippines on our old world, my people had rarely faced American tactics before, and those were strictly defensive. ‘General of the Sea’ Kurokawa has a low opinion of their discipline and capabilities, but I do not. When we were intercepting their un-encrypted messages, we learned that their ‘ground’ commander is a Marine named Alden.” Niwa shook his head. “I have never faced this ‘Alden’ before, but he is clearly talented—and a Marine.”
“What is a ‘Marine’?” N’galsh asked after Halik translated.
“Marines were some of the finest warriors our old enemy possessed. No doubt this Alden has taught their methods to many of our new ones.” He looked at Halik. “American Marines are notorious for their ferocity and oddly, considering their high level of discipline, their initiative. Initiative is not encouraged among Japanese troops, and has been virtually unknown among the Grik. I suspect that when the enemy does come, it will be amid a firestorm like we have never seen.”
CHAPTER 32
Fil-pin Sea
Dennis Silva was scratching his name on the rough-hewn wood of the boat with a small knife he’d always kept in the shooting pouch he’s managed to save. He’d already carved abbreviations of the names of all the other Allied “survivors” of the monstrous wave: Princess “Becky,” “Lt. Tucker,” “Lelaa,” “Cook,” “Brassy,” “Sis Audry,” “Larry.” For some reason, he’d even added “Petey” before adding “D. Silva.” He thought it was important, if the boats they’d gathered and lashed together were ever found, that folks would know they’d made it this far. Otherwise, nobody would ever know what happened to them. He considered carving Rajendra’s name, but didn’t know how to spell it, and didn’t have the energy. He couldn’t remember the carpenter’s or engineer’s names. Dumb-ass, he thought of Rajendra. Silly, useless dunce finally rears up on his hind legs like a man—when it didn’t make a difference anymore. Hanging on To The tiller migh’ve seemed like a brave stunt at the time, but the boat was going over no matter what. Silva shook his head. The rest of the Imperials probably never even woke up—never knew what hit Them. Whether they did or not, they didn’t tie themselves in. Buncha dopes. Or were They? A quick drownin’ might’ve been better than this slow, dessicatin’ to death.
No. Scratchin’ names on a boat is one Thing—never hurts To cover all The bases—but just givin’ up and dyin’ is for pansies. One way or another, somethin’s going to have to kill Dennis Silva! He finished his wood work and put the knife back in his pouch. They’d collected and lashed together eleven proas that would float, but all had lost their masts and there wasn’t an intact sail left among them. There’d been no sign of the rest of their little “fleet” and all the food, and virtually all the water had been lost or spoiled. Over a hundred of Lawrence’s people survived the wave, but they’d begun dying almost immediately. The creatures could handle the sun and heat extremely well, but only if they had plenty of water. Now, most of the survivors were bundled beneath scraps of the rough Tagranesi sailcloth, seeking protection from the sun. Looking around at the mounds of gray “canvas,” Dennis saw little sign of life, and he began to imagine he was the last one alive. The proas themselves looked more like a logjam than
anything else he could imagine, bobbing and undulating with the swells beneath the merciless sun, inexorably coasting northward with the current. They might wash up on Japan someday, he thought, but they’d be long dead before then.
He caught sight of a blurry figure on the far side of the “logjam.” That was about as far as he could see with any clarity anymore. Squinting, he recognized Chinakru. The lizard leader had posted himself there as a lookout, much as Silva had done on this side. Silva was strangely encouraged that the old guy still had the juice to do it, even if there was little point. Maybe, like Silva, he just didn’t have it in him to give up while there was any life left in him at all. He felt light-headed, and his tongue was swollen so tightly in his mouth that he doubted he could speak, but he nodded solemnly, respectfully, at the old lizard. Chinakru nodded back.
The boat shuddered slightly and Sandra moved slowly, painfully, out from under the modest shelter they’d rigged. Seeing Dennis, she crawled in his direction, clumsily seating herself beside him.
“Three days,” she managed to say thickly. Her lips were cracked and her eyes looked dull.
“Yeph,” Silva replied, surprised that he could talk—and by how bad his voice sounded. He wished Sandra hadn’t come out. She looked terrible, and seeing her only reminded him how badly he’d failed to protect her and the others.
“S’vivors won’t ’ast much ’onger now,” Sandra gasped.
“I know.”
The canvas moved again, and Lelaa crawled out to join them, panting. She didn’t look as bad as Sandra, but only because of her fur. If anything, she’d probably suffered worse. ’Cats generally needed even more water than humans did.
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