“Then attack?” asked the Celestial Mother, suddenly thoughtful.
“Then attack,” confirmed Kurokawa. “The enemy does not breed or reach maturity as quickly as you. Break their Army and Navy and they will have no defense. You can then roll them up with ease and conquer every land from here to the Eastern Sea.”
The Celestial Mother scratched her jowls. “Interesting,” she hissed thoughtfully.
Esshk was staring at Kurokawa. They’d discussed all this before, but it was supposed to be he who presented their argument to the Giver of Life. “Indeed,” he said, equally thoughtful.
Alan Letts stood from his place at the long table in the now almost fully restored Great Hall. The formal reception was intended to commemorate that, as well as the other grand undertakings that would soon commence. In spite of a general mood of joviality and goodwill, there was also a bittersweet understanding that they stood, once again, at a crossroads. The tightly knit members of the Grand Alliance that had hurled back the Grik would scatter again. Some would resume operations against the enemy at long last, while others like Shinya and Saan-Kakja would depart for the Fil-pin Lands, to oversee the development of an even greater arsenal of freedom than Baalkpan could ever be. Laumer’s little squadron would accompany Saan-Kakja on his way to perform the perhaps impossible task Matt had set him. Regardless of their missions, the possibility always existed that they would never all be gathered like this again. They’d lost too many friends in this terrible war to take such things for granted. Letts tapped his mug with a knife to gain everyone’s attention, and raised it high.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I propose a toast?”
Matt smiled as he released Sandra’s hand under the table and stood with everyone else. He was proud of Letts. Like all of them, he’d come a long way. He’d earned his post as chief of staff and had developed the confidence that went with it. The main reason for that rose to stand beside him. Nurse Lieutenant Karen Theimer Letts, now Sandra’s medical chief of staff, had once been rendered almost catatonic by their situation. Her recovery had inspired Letts to apply himself, and they made a good team. Karen’s pregnancy was also beginning to show, and that had gained her an almost reverent consideration by the same rough men who might once have resented the depletion of the “dame” supply in the middle of the famine her marriage to Letts had made even more extreme.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Letts repeated, “I give you Saan-Kakja, U-Amaki ay Maa-ni-la!”
The diminutive High Chief of Manila and patriarch of all the Filpin Lands regarded those at the table and the rest of the assembly in the hall. She was even more striking than usual with her fiery, golden eyes and polished, chased-golden breastplate. Her yellow and black clan colors decorated her cape and kilt, and a short, ornately hilted dirk hung from an elaborate belt in a golden sheath. The martial ensemble clashed with her tiny stature and evident youth.
“They’re all so young,” Sandra whispered in Matt’s ear, and he squeezed her hand. It was true. He reflected that the veterans of every war probably thought much the same of all the recruits who joined them in battle—even while they themselves seemed young to the veterans of earlier wars. Rarely were the leaders quite so young, however. It suddenly struck him that most of the positions of high authority in the Alliance were held by young, comparatively inexperienced . . . amateurs. Saan-Kakja was by any definition, human or Lemurian, little more than a child. The strikingly competent and just as exotic Safir Maraan wasn’t much older. Neither was Chack, who’d probably command a Marine battalion before long. Tassana-Ay-Arracca, whose father had perished with Nerracca, had risen to High Chief of Aracca Home after her grandfather fell in battle. The commander of the growing Sularan Brigade couldn’t be much over twenty. General Muln-Rolak was practically ancient, but he wasn’t technically a head of state—although Matt suspected that would change when they retook Aryaal. That meant, as representatives of the Alliance, Keje and Adar were the “geezers,” since they were in their early forties.
On the human side, Matt knew how young everyone was. The Bosun was around sixty and was the oldest human in the Alliance, but at the august age of thirty-two, Matt was the oldest officer, just after Spanky. If the newly minted Ensign Reynolds was eighteen yet, he’d eat his hat. Of all the Allied commanders, Matt had the most combat experience by far—all of about fifteen months—and here he was, Supreme Commander of all Allied forces. Again, he wondered what Tommy Hart would have thought of that.
Conventional wisdom would imply they were all too young for their jobs. The thought was a little intimidating, but Matt wondered if it was true. The old guys back home, commanding their rectangular dreadnoughts, hadn’t been doing so hot. It was their stupidity and shortsightedness, to a large degree, that had made Pearl Harbor such a disaster—and even possible in the first place. Matt didn’t want to think about the hoary old men in Congress who’d virtually invited the attack by allowing the Navy to wither to a point that it couldn’t credibly enforce their threats and policies. Maybe conventional wisdom wasn’t always wisdom at all.
He decided, experience aside, it was probably a blessing they were all so young. Particularly the Lemurians. There’d been numerous times when he’d had trouble dealing with older, more entrenched ’Cats. Saan-Kakja’s own sky priest, Meksnaak, was a prime example.
Nakja-Mur had been exceptional in many ways, but even he’d been a little difficult until his own Home was at stake. Matt knew it had been difficult for the old ’Cat. It was hard for the young ones, watching their whole world change with the exigencies of war, but they could at least comprehend change and feel confident they could absorb it, accommodate it, use it. It occurred to him then that if all the Lemurian leaders had been a bunch of stick-in-the-mud, geezer bureaucrats—like those back home—they’d all be dead by now.
“It’s a good thing they’re so young,” he whispered back to Sandra. “I think it’s made things a lot easier. And besides, it could be a very long war.” He saw her nod, and believed she understood more than he’d said.
“Please do sit,” Saan-Kakja said when the cheers and stamping feet subsided. Obediently, the crowd returned to their stools or cushions. The request was more than a courtesy. With everyone standing, no one could see her. “Tomorrow I must leave you,” she resumed, “and return to my own land. Colonel Shinya and I must oversee a replication, even an enlargement of what you have accomplished here; this ‘in-dustree. ’” She smiled. “Some may not like it. Maa-ni-la has been a refuge for many of the runaways, as you call them, from various lands, and there will be dissent among those who prefer the old ways.” Her eyes flashed and her chin rose slightly. “Their obstructionism will not be tolerated. Fear not.”
There was more cheering, and Matt realized he needed to talk to her again about her own security. They’d already learned that even Lemurians were capable of appalling treachery.
“Even when I depart, do not think Maa-ni-la has left you. Half my personal guard will go with me, to become officers and form training cadres in the new, changing ways of war, but many more of my people have arrived here since the Great Battle and I shall leave you over five thousands.” She looked directly at Matt. “Lead them as you will. My troops are your troops, and I have no doubt you will cherish them as your own.”
Touched, Matt bowed his head, acknowledging the compliment. And the responsibility.
“Soon I will return with even more troops, ships, and many new weapons. I look forward to ‘raa-di-o’ reports from your upcoming expedition, when we will know the enemy’s stance. Regardless, I am confident that if we seize this time that has been granted us by your valor and the Heavens above, when we bring our full, combined might against the scourge, we will stamp it out forever!”
Further cheers filled the hall, and, unnoticed at the far end of the table, Billingsly leaned toward Jenks. It was the first time he’d been ashore for an official function and he’d been haughty and uncommunicative throughout. “And still you do not consider
them a threat to the Empire?” he hissed. “The force they are planning will be almost as large, and considerably more advanced than that of the vile Dominion that even now menaces our people back home.”
Jenks looked at him and blinked. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Billingsly. Of course I consider them a threat, but not at present. Look about you! These . . . creatures”—he’d almost said “people,” and what would Billingsly think then?—“are clearly preparing to renew their war with an enemy of potentially greater menace even than the Dominion. These Grik are possibly even more savage, if not as depraved.”
“They have a Roman priestess among them,” Billingsly reminded him darkly.
Jenks frowned. “I have heard that too, though I haven’t seen her. From what I understand, there is a difference. The Roman ‘faith’ as practiced by the Dominion is an abomination, and as much as our ancestors may have disagreed with the old version, they wrote that it became something entirely different on this world. If she is a priestess of the old version who got displaced here as did the others, her fundamental beliefs are not much different from our own.” Jenks smiled. “Besides, I have seen no temples or altars or any of the other trappings of the perverted faith. If she serves the Roman Church, as we know it, she certainly hasn’t gained many converts.”
“I implore you,” Billingsly said, with a hint of what might have been true sincerity, “with the child queen gone, the Americans and the bulk of their Army and Navy away, and much of their new construction incomplete, we would have our absolute best opportunity to rescue the princess and be on our way.”
Jenks’s expression hardened. “And then we would be at war with them, fool! Do you think we could take her without bloodshed? Do you think they would ever trust us then? I have given my word to accompany their expedition. I could not change that now, nor would I. You think them a threat? Very well. What better way to gauge that threat than by watching how they fight? I would much rather make those observations while they fight someone else than while trading broadsides with them!”
Billingsly’s face hardened as well, and he sat back in his chair. Around them, the festive atmosphere resumed after the speeches were done and the smells of unusual dishes reached them as servers came to the table.
“So be it,” he muttered to himself, unheard.
CHAPTER 6
July 1943
Two weeks after Saan-Kakja and Tamatsu Shinya took their leave of Baalkpan in company with (now Lieutenant) Laumer’s small squadron, another, considerably larger force prepared to sail. Saan-Kakja departed amid sincere, exuberant fanfare, but though the turnout of well-wishers was even bigger this time, the mood was more somber. The Second Allied Expeditionary Force was not encumbered by any lumbering Homes—those would come later, when they were fully prepared and sent for—but the fleet was still impressive. Donaghey was Matt’s flagship, back under the command of a much recovered Commander Garrett. Tolson’s refit was considered sufficient to allow her participation as well. The first two new steam frigates, with their fewer but more powerful thirty-two-pounder smoothbores, were fresh from the new fitting-out docks. A lot depended on them even though this was essentially their maiden voyage and shakedown cruise combined. Jarrik-Fas commanded USS Nakja-Mur , and Captain Jim Ellis commanded USS Dowden. Ellis would serve as second in command and commodore of the steam element of the fleet if it was detached for independent operations. Additionally, there were now seven former Grik Indiamen that had been razed and rerigged into single-deck corvettes. Observers found it difficult to believe that the far lighter, sleeker-looking ships, glistening with fresh black and white paint, had been reworked from ships originally belonging to their hated foe. The final consensus concerning designations—regardless how they were rated—was that since none of the ships were big enough to be considered “cruisers,” all were still destroyers, in a sense. The only difference it made was to morale.
It was an impressive force, considering all were heavily armed, crowded with Marines, and covered with stacked landing craft. Four relatively unaltered Grik ships (except for color) carried Lord Rolak’s 2nd Aryaal, Safir Maraan’s “Six Hundred” as well as extra field artillery, draft beasts, and other baggage. Ten large feluccas would serve as the eyes of the fleet and dispatch vessels. Achilles was also making final preparations for getting under way, her black coal smoke coiling lazily into the light morning air contrasting with the gray smoke of the Allied steamer’s oil-fired boilers. The reason for the more somber mood was that this force, at some point, would certainly make contact with the enemy for the first time since the Battle of Baalkpan. There was a sense of confidence that the fleet could handle itself, but no one knew what they would find. Had the enemy withdrawn, or been reinforced? Had the Grik also made unforeseen improvements? They already had crude cannon when they attacked the city. What other surprises might they have introduced since their last meeting? No one knew, and it was frustrating.
They’d grown accustomed to having reports of enemy dispositions from the flying boat, but they were still a week or more away from discovering whether their “new” aircraft would even fly. They were moving forward with the conviction that it would; many more airframes and engines based on the prototype were already being built, but it would take time before Big Sal’s conversion was complete, and they still had to train a lot of pilots. Flight training was already under way, in an ingenious simulator that mimicked flight controls, but it remained firmly on the ground when students climbed aboard. What would happen when/if they actually flew?
In many ways, perhaps the greatest test of the Alliance would be faced in the coming days and weeks, and the thought no one was willing to voice was that, for the first time, Captain Matthew Reddy didn’t have Walker beneath his feet. He wouldn’t even be here when they learned, once and for all, whether he ever would again. That simple fact was the source of tremendous unease. In the past, the mere existence of the old destroyer had been a source of considerable comfort and security. They’d fought without her before, but she’d always been there, somewhere, somehow always ready to come to their aid just in the nick of time. This was the first time the Alliance had engaged in any major military undertaking without Walker to back them up.
Nakja-Mur and Dowden were tied to the dock, but Donaghey was moored beyond them. Scott’s launch was waiting to take Matt over after he said his good-byes. Adar, Keje, Spanky, Sandison, Brister, and Letts were all there, but the only one Matt really had eyes for was Sandra Tucker. She and Princess Rebecca had joined them mere moments before, almost out of breath. Sandra had obviously come straight from the hospital, where she’d been working either quite late or very early. Even after all these months, many of those wounded in the battle to save the city required ongoing operations. Her long, sandy brown hair was swept back in a girlish ponytail that accented her pretty face and slender neck.
Everyone knew Captain Reddy and Sandra Tucker were nuts about each other, even though they’d once tried to hide their feelings out of respect for Walker’s crew. Of course, the crew probably knew how they felt before they did, and their poignant sacrifice was the source of much sympathy—and respect. Only after the Battle of Baalkpan, when it was clear that everyone knew and further denial was pointless, did Captain Reddy and Lieutenant Tucker show any open affection. Even then, public displays were limited to holding hands, an occasional embrace . . . and spending as much time together as they possibly could. It was obvious their love continued to grow and each was a reservoir for the other’s strength, but still they didn’t marry or “shack up,” as Silva and Cross had apparently done. They did nothing, in fact, that all the surviving destroyermen from Walker and Mahan couldn’t do. The men rolled their eyes in exasperation, called them dopes . . . and loved them for it.
Alan Letts liked and admired Sandra, as did everyone, but she always made him feel a little guilty. He loved Karen very much, but they’d convinced the captain to marry them when they’d all fully expected to die. Now things had changed, sort o
f, but his happiness was undiminished. He was guardedly ecstatic that he’d soon be a father. But his very happiness inspired much of his guilt. He couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t fair for him to be happy when so many of the men were still miserable. And not all those who were miserable were men.
Alan was amazed by Matt and Sandra’s self-sacrificing willpower. Again, he compared their situation to two star-crossed lovers from a John Ford western trapped in a Cecil B. DeMille epic, complete with a cast of thousands, monsters, and freak weather events. He noticed, with a surge of relief—for both of them—that as soon as Sandra arrived, she’d unobtrusively inserted her hand into the captain’s, and he’d reached to caress her face.
Distant Thunders Page 16