“Good morning, Selass,” he said, nodding at her.
“Good morning, Cap-i-taan,” she replied. She’d begun accompanying Bradford to the bridge after the two of them prepared her “battle station”-the wardroom-which would become a surgery in the event of battle. It certainly wasn’t due to any policy or anything; she just did it-like Sandra always had before. It probably even made sense in a way that the medical officer would want to come to the bridge and see for herself what was happening, so she’d have some idea what she might be about to face in the way of casualties. Matt hadn’t liked it when Sandra did it-at first-but as time went on, he couldn’t change it and didn’t really want to. She’d always known when it was time to leave. Now… to chase Selass off when there wasn’t any need would be hypocritical.
“Coffee?” Matt offered. Selass blinked distaste. Most Lemurians hated coffee, or “monkey joe,” as the destroyermen had dubbed the local equivalent. They considered it a medical stimulant, not a staple of daily life.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Bradford said.
Juan had returned with another carafe and he happily poured a steaming cup. “At least someone appreciates the labor necessary to render the strange seeds I get into something almost as good as the coffee I used to make!” he proclaimed piously.
Matt was glad he hadn’t been taking a sip just then, or he’d have spewed it out his nose. “Trust me, Juan, everyone appreciates it,” he interjected truthfully.
“That vile, bloated cook, Lanier-he just incinerates the beans and grinds them up! Sometimes he will even waste an egg!”
Matt’s brows furrowed. That explained a lot. Vile and bloated as Lanier certainly was, his monkey joe was actually better than Juan’s. And it didn’t have green foam on top.
“You know, I always kind of liked an egg in my coffee, Juan,” Matt experimented delicately.
“Nonsense, Cap-tan! If you want lizard-bird eggs, I will cook them for you, any way you like! Why eat disgusting green eggs, full of grounds?”
Matt sighed. “Oh, never mind.” Maybe he could drop another hint later. Juan was good to him, to all the officers. To come right out and tell him Walker ’s greasy cook made better coffee was out of the question. “Maybe I’ll have an egg sandwich, then, after all.”
“Good!” Juan approved. “You did not eat before GQ. You need to eat! You get too skinny!” The little Filipino-who probably didn’t weigh ninety pounds-scampered down the stairs behind them.
“That was close!” Bradford said. “For a moment I feared you might have gone too far! If Juan ever got his feelings hurt and went on strike, I know I would starve.” He shuddered. “Has Lanier ever actually bathed?” he asked. “Or even washed his hands, perhaps?”
Matt grinned sheepishly. “I had to try.” He turned back to Selass. “How’s everything in your department?”
“None are sick, oddly enough. I think they are too excited about our next landfall to malinger. All the injured have returned to duty but one, and he will recover.”
Matt remembered a striped, mustard-colored machinist striker who’d taken a rivet in the chest like a bullet when one of the thirty-pounders punched through the engine room. It had looked bad. Again, he was amazed by the curative properties of the Lemurian polta paste. “Glad he’ll be okay,” he said sincerely, then winced. “No, ah, screamers?” He asked, using Silva’s universally accepted term for diarrhea.
“None, Cap-i-taan. We seem to have arrived at a proper mix.”
The reason for Matt’s wince was that in spite of his best efforts to maintain Navy traditions and regulations, the U.S. Navy on this world was no longer exactly “dry.” One of Sandra’s longest-held concerns was that some bug in the water might annihilate the crew. This concern was not without foundation. For the longest time she’d insisted that the crew drink only ship’s water that had been either boiled or manufactured by the condensers. With personnel now spread so far apart, that was no longer always practicable. They’d consumed the various nectars and spirits produced by the Lemurians with no ill effects, but every time somebody even accidentally drank a little “local” water, they wound up with a bad case of Montezuma’s revenge. Even the various ’Cat clans had a few problems along those lines. The massive, lumbering seagoing Homes collected sufficient fresh water to keep them independent, but they almost always got a little sick when they visited the Homes of land folk. Before the destroyermen had arrived, they’d had no idea what germs were, but they’d settled on the simple expedient of making a sort of grog by mixing water with highly alcoholic “seep.”
Seep was a spirit made by fermenting the ubiquitous polta fruit that gave the Lemurians food, juice, and the fascinating curative paste. When seep was further refined and distilled, it produced a high-grade alcohol. Alcohol could be made from other things, such as certain grains the’Cats used in the production of their excellent beer. A beetlike tuber worked well, and their efforts to boost the octane of their gasoline had resulted in the discovery of other things that could be used to produce ethanol. Seep, or its distilled version, still remained the preferred ingredient in Lemurian grog. Matt didn’t know if they’d come up with the idea on their own or if Jenks’s ancestors let it slip, but under the circumstances, necessity dictated that some form of grog-the weakest effective mixture-be reintroduced aboard U.S. Navy ships.
Matt was certainly no Puritan, and he’d considered prohibition a useless, stupid, harmful political stunt, but as far as his Navy was concerned, he’d done his absolute best to maintain its traditions and regulations. He wouldn’t have a bunch of drunks running his ships. Fortunately, the mixture required to purify water could barely be tasted, much less felt, and the condensers still provided enough fresh water to dilute the mixture even further. At least on Walker. She utilized an open-feed-water system, with seawater going straight to the boilers. This hadn’t worked as well on some of the new boilers they’d made. Corrosion and sediment in the steam lines were already becoming a concern on USS Nakja-Mur and USS Dowden. The closed systems they were using on some of the newer steam frigates about to join the fleet when Walker left Baalkpan were fresh-water hogs. They’d have to keep fuel and water tenders trailing behind them wherever they went. Big Sal ’s massive engines were open systems, so maybe they could replenish from her. He shook his head. Ultimately, he wasn’t bothered nearly as much by the result of the policy as he was by the principle of the thing.
“How long until we reach this ‘Respite’ Island, Captain?” Bradford asked. “We’ll be there for a while, I take it?”
Matt refocused and shifted uncomfortably in his elevated chair. “A week and a half at this pace. Maybe more,” he said grudgingly, glancing out to port, where Achilles steamed. She’d set her fore course, topsails and topgallants, as well as her fore staysails. Soon, she would draw her fires and proceed under sail alone. She’d be just as fast, and didn’t have the fuel to keep her boiler lit for the entire passage.
“I say,” Bradford said, “couldn’t we just go on ahead without her? We could be there in a matter of days! If we dawdle along awaiting Mr. Jenks and his prizes, our oilers and other ships will most likely beat us there!”
“Oh, Courtney, come on. You know that’s ridiculous. I wish it were true, but our supply convoy from the Fil-pin Lands must travel under sail alone, and I’m afraid our stay at Respite will be longer than even you would like.” He didn’t say that he was far more anxious than Bradford to reach their destination and then be on their way. Billingsley, Ajax -and Sandra-drew ever farther from his grasp with each passing day.
“Well… but surely there will be some emergency that will prevent me from properly studying the biology there! No doubt something will derail my first opportunity to gaze upon the wonders of an utterly isolated land! It happens all the time, as you well know. Poke, poke along, and then ‘Do hurry up, Mr. Bradford! We must get underway!’ ”
Matt almost chuckled. In a way, he envied Bradford’s ability to set aside their primary objective, eve
n for a while. At the same time, he kind of resented it too. A lot of people were counting on them, not only to rescue Sandra and the princess but to forge an alliance with a powerful seagoing nation. All in the midst of a cataclysmic war. To even contemplate other priorities at a time like this struck him as at least mildly selfish. He knew Bradford well enough by now to understand that the man just couldn’t help it though. It was just the way he was. What he was.
“We can’t go any faster,” he said, with a trace of lingering bitterness. “We don’t know these seas like we used to, and it might not be a good idea if we arrived at our first Imperial outpost without Commodore Jenks to smooth the way. Besides, if we don’t wait for our resupply, we won’t have the fuel to reach New Britain with any reserve.”
“Well… then I do have your word that I may spend at least some time exploring?”
“As far as it’s in my power to let you. The local authorities might not want you running wild. They’re not the most trusting folks with strangers, if you’ll recall. At least not until you get to know them.” Matt reflected on the real, growing friendship between Jenks and himself. They hadn’t liked one another at all when they first met. Jenks and the Bosun had probably actually hated each other. But the exigencies of war, a shared battle, and a common cause had erased their earlier animosity.
“Perhaps they are not all quite so standoffish and paranoid,” Courtney speculated.
“Hard to say. Our sample of their society’s been pretty small. All of Jenks’s people were-some more than others-and before that, all we had to go on was O’Casey and the princess. Even they seemed awful protective of their nation’s whereabouts.”
The pilothouse was quiet for some time after that, except for the rumble of the blower. Juan appeared with an egg sandwich and Matt wolfed it down under the Filipino’s satisfied gaze. Eventually, possibly sensing that Matt wanted to be alone with his thoughts, everyone not actually on watch in the pilothouse filtered away. The sea to the east stretched wide and empty, and the sky was clear except for a lonely squall, possibly lashing yet another unseen, uncharted atoll.
CHAPTER 10
North of Tjilatjap (Chill-chaap)
“ Lawsy, what a creepy place,” Isak Rueben mumbled softly.
“You said it,” Gilbert Yeager agreed. “Gave me the willies when I was here the first time. Didn’t’spect ’em ta send me back.”
“We need you,” Major Benjamin Mallory called back from the front of the boat. “You and a couple of the Marines are the only ones who’ve been here before.”
“So I’m kinda a guide?” Gilbert asked.
“That, and our resident expert on conditions at the site,” Mallory replied.
“That mean you’ll take my advice?”
Mallory paused before answering. Gilbert and Isak, both of Walker ’s “original Mice,” were capable of some of the most… unusual… thought processes he’d ever encountered. “Within reason,” he said at last.
“Then keep yer damn voice down… sir,” Gilbert hissed. “They’s some nasty boogers in this here water!”
Mallory nodded. He would try. The problem was, he was so excited he could barely contain himself. Ever since Mr. Ellis and his expedition discovered the wreck of the Santa Catalina in this swampy estuary north of Tjilatjap, or “Chill-chaap,” he’d been so anxious to salvage her-and especially her miraculous cargo-that sometimes he thought he’d burst. In his excitement he’d mentally dismissed or disregarded the dire warnings of Ellis and Chack. They’d been very specific about the terrible nature of the few threats they’d actually encountered. Both were certain that other, possibly more dangerous creatures lurked in and around the wreck. Gilbert was certain of it too, and he took every opportunity to remind anyone who’d listen.
Mallory looked around, taking in the water, the shoreline, and the dense jungle that bordered it as his large steam-powered flat-bottomed barge towed several other heavily laden barges upstream. The jungle did look spooky, and he noticed several big swirls in the murky black water as they proceeded. Other than that, however, it was an unusually beautiful day. Even the humidity wasn’t quite as oppressive as usual. Lizard birds and other flying creatures capered ceaselessly above, defecating all over everything and everyone, but that happened everywhere he went. Despite all the warnings, he just couldn’t summon enough anxiety to displace his eagerness to get there and get started.
He did recognize the possibility that he was being just a tad rash, and perhaps even irresponsible, but everyone-Adar, Letts, Ellis, even Captain Reddy-knew he would be. That was why he wasn’t in charge! Lieutenant Commander Russ Chapelle was in overall command of the expedition, and it was his job to do all the worrying. That suited Mallory just fine. He had a specific, important job, and the less he had to worry about other things, the better. He knew he’d have to take care, though; he had quite a few people under his personal direction and enough of the warnings had seeped past his enthusiasm for him to recognize that Santa Catalina and her environs were a dangerous place.
Russ Chapelle stood beside Mallory in the lead barge. USS Tolson was his first command, and leading this expedition was his first truly independent mission. For a former torpedoman aboard USS Mahan, he had a lot of responsibility heaped upon him. It may have seemed odd to those who didn’t know him, but while he was highly conscious of the responsibility, it didn’t really worry him that much. In an infant but growing Navy that had already seen so much desperate action, he’d seen more than his share on land and sea. He’d earned a level of confidence in himself that comes only with experience. He knew some people often compared him to Silva, and the thought amused him. He liked Silva, and he did have a lot in common with the maniacal gunner’s mate. There was a profound difference, however. Whereas Silva had learned little from his own vast experience except how to be a better warrior, a better killer, Chapelle had learned to temper his boldness with caution. On a steamy, bloody, chaotic night, not yet a year ago, Russ Chapelle had learned that the reaper wouldn’t take IOUs forever. Despite all his injuries, Silva still hadn’t figured that out.
In any event, Chapelle was fully aware of the dangers the expedition faced, and he was mentally prepared for other things as well, even worse than they knew about. Chill-chaap had once been a thriving city, much like Baalkpan, before the Grik came and literally exterminated it. According to Keje and many of the other ’Cats he’d spoken to who’d once traded there, even less was known about the jungle surrounding Chill-chaap than was known about the area around Baalkpan. Doubtless there’d been Hunters, like the one Silva called Moe, who’d agreed to accompany them here, but to the land folk who once inhabited the city, the jungle beyond it was a mystery. Now, only about two years after Chill-chaap was sacked by the Grik, the insatiable jungle had reclaimed it. The dwellings were covered with greenery and the pathways were impenetrably choked with vines and briars. No one could live there now without burning the entire area to the ground and starting over from scratch. He knew how hard the people of Baalkpan worked to keep the jungle at bay, how difficult it was for them to maintain the open killing field beyond the ramparts. He had a sudden mental image of what Baalkpan would look like now if they’d lost the great battle there. It wouldn’t be as bad as Chill-chaap had become-yet-but within a few years it would be impossible to tell it ever existed.
He frowned. That reminded him of something else that was bothering him. As soon as the discovery of the ship had been reported, a small contingent of Sularan troops was immediately dispatched to the ruined city. They’d landed with a pair of heavy guns, their only duty being to keep an eye on the river mouth and drive away any snooping Grik ships that came nosing around. They were to remain concealed and not reveal themselves to any passersby, and only fire on anything that tried to enter the river itself. They hadn’t been on station very long, a little over a month perhaps, and a Navy ship had resupplied them just a couple of weeks before. Yet when Tolson arrived accompanying Mallory’s flotilla, after they rendezvoused ea
st of the Bali Strait, there was no sign of the Sularans. Their guns remained, strategically placed but with vines already crawling up the carriages. A few things had been found lying about-a sword, the implements for the guns, a few personal items. That was it. He couldn’t believe the Grik had taken them. The guns had not been fired; their bores were clean. The powder kegs and shot crates were scattered and broken, but nothing had been taken. Most telling of all, if the Grik had come, they certainly wouldn’t have left the guns. The loss of the Sularans was a tragedy, but the mystery of what became of them loomed menacingly over the entire expedition.
“We’re gonna be openin’ the lake purty soon,” Gilbert warned. “Maybe you’ll get to see some o’ them big-ass duck critters!”
“What duck critters?” Dean Laney demanded grumpily, showing some mild interest for the first time since he’d set foot on the barge. The big machinist’s mate was still angry about being sent on the mission in the first place. He’d had a cushy berth back in Baalkpan, running one of the machine fabrication factories, but Laney’s biggest problem was that he was universally considered a jerk. He’d lorded it over the ’Cats in his division to such an extent that, war and all, there’d nearly been a strike. Adar and Letts hoped if they got him back aboard a ship, back within a recognized Naval hierarchy, he might settle down. He was too distracting to keep around and too useful to shoot. The scheme had worked-a little. He wasn’t throwing his weight around quite as much, but he was bitter about being equal to or outranked by men and ’Cats he’d once had under his thumb.
Rising Tides d-5 Page 12