Distant Thunders

by Taylor Anderson

  “Not just yet, Ensign. The sea’s got a little chop to it. Besides, I expect that’ll be Achilles, based on our position. If we spot anything on the horizon we’re slightly less sure of, you can risk your crazy neck in that goofy contraption then.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” Fred replied, a little wistfully.

  The sail was indeed Achilles, and they easily overhauled her at twenty knots by early afternoon. Both ships flew their recognition numbers as they approached, even though each captain would have known the other’s ship anywhere. It was a procedure they’d agreed on in advance among themselves—just in case. Walker slowed to match Achilles’ nine knots. It was a respectable pace, considering the wind and the drag of the freewheeling paddles. Jenks was undoubtedly conserving fuel, and running the engine wouldn’t have given him a dramatic speed increase in any event. Matt recognized his counterpart standing on the elevated conning platform amidships, between the paddle boxes. Stepping onto the port bridge wing, he raised his speaking trumpet.

  “It’s good to see you, Achilles!” he shouted, his voice crossing the distance between the ships with a tinny aspect.

  “You cut a fine figure, Captain Reddy,” Jenks replied. “Your beautiful ship is quite the rage aboard here! To have you so effortlessly come streaking alongside within an hour of sighting you has been a marvelous sight to behold, while we here labor along and toil for every knot! I must protest your choice of such a drab color for such an elegant lady, however! Gray, for heaven’s sake! And I do fear I perceive a streak or two of rust! Clearly you’ve had a difficult passage!”

  Matt laughed. He couldn’t help it. For the first time, perhaps, he caught himself liking Jenks.

  “Rust, he says!” the Bosun bawled on the fo’c’sle. “Did you hear that, you shif’less pack o’ malingerers? If there’s a speck of rust anywhere on this ship, I want it chipped and painted if you have to hang over the side by your useless tails!”

  Lord, thought Matt yet again, in spite of everything, some things never change. Thank God. Of course, in his own way the Bosun was a genius. The man was a hero to the crew—to the entire Alliance—and even “Super Bosun” was an inadequate title. He had the moral authority of a thundering, wrathful God, and his increasing harangues were probably carefully calculated to keep the Lemurian crew from dwelling on the now obvious fact that they’d steamed beyond where any of their kind had ever traveled. Possibly only two things kept the more nervous ’Cats diligently at their duty: the persistent and familiar sense of normal gravity that proved they weren’t about to fall off the world, and the absolute certainty the Bosun would contrive to throw them off if he ever caught them cringing in their racks.

  “Maybe we should steam in company for the day and through the night,” Matt shouted across. “Then spread out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d be honored if you and your officers would join us for dinner. Juan”—he smirked slightly—“and Lanier have been preparing something special in anticipation of your visit.”

  “Delighted, Captain Reddy. It would be my honor.”

  Dinner was served in the wardroom with as much pomp as Juan could manage. He hovered near the guests with a carafe of monkey joe in one hand, towel draped over his arm. His wardroom breakfasts had become legendary, but he rarely got a chance to entertain. For this dinner, he was at his most formal best, and though mess dress hadn’t been exactly prescribed, everyone managed as best they could. Matt’s own dress uniform was one of his few prewar outfits Juan had managed to maintain. He’d even sent it ashore with other important items before Walker’s last fight.

  Earl Lanier entered with as much dignity as possible, carrying a tray of appetizers. He’d somehow stuffed his swollen frame into his own dingy mess dress and wore a long, greasy apron tied around his chest and under his arms that hung nearly to his shins. Laying the tray on the green linoleum table, he removed the lid with a steamy flourish. Nestled neatly around a sauce tureen were dozens of smoky pink cylindrical shapes, decorated with a possibly more edible leafy garnish. Matt’s face fell, as did the faces of all the human destroyermen. In his ongoing effort to use the damn things up, Lanier had prepared an appetizer of Vienna sausages, or “scum weenies,” as some called them. Juan almost crashed into Lanier, forcing him into the passageway beyond the curtain, where he proceeded to berate him in highly agitated Tagalog.

  “Ah, cooks and their sensibilities!” Jenks said, spearing an oozing sausage with a fork. After dipping the object in the sauce, he popped it in his mouth. “Um . . . most interesting,” he accomplished at last, forcing himself to swallow.

  “Yes, well . . .” was all Matt could manage. The “appetizer” remained little sampled except by Chack and some of the other ’Cats, who actually seemed to like the things. Sooner than expected, Juan returned with the main course: a mountainous, glazed “pleezy-sore” roast. He quickly removed the offending tray. The excellent roast was much more enthusiastically received and consumed with great relish. Juan also brought in some other dishes: steamed vegetables of some sort that tasted a lot like squash, and some very ordinary-looking sautéed mushrooms. There were tankards of fresh polta juice and pitchers of the very last iced tea known to exist on the planet. The ice came from the big refrigerator-freezer on deck behind the blower, and Spanky and Lanier themselves had teamed up to repair it. Ice, and the cold water that came from the little built-in drinking fountain, was always welcome, and of course the truck-size machine allowed them to carry perishables.

  The dinner was a huge success, and to Juan’s satisfaction, everything was much appreciated and commented on. He might kill Lanier later, but for a time, he was in his favorite element.After the last remove, Jenks spoke up. “A most flavorful dinner.” He patted his stomach. “Perhaps too flavorful!” He turned to Juan. “You and Mr. Lanier have my heartiest compliments! Even the iced tea! How refreshing! We usually take tea hot, you know. Even if we had a means of making ice at sea, I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to anyone to ice tea before!” He paused, and everyone looked at him with keen interest. Of course the Empire would know tea! Planting and growing some of the “founder’s” cargo would probably have been one of their first imperatives!

  Jenks continued. “I am given to understand that you do not imbibe strong drink aboard your Navy’s ships, Captain Reddy. Perhaps that is not a bad policy. In case you might consider an exception, I did bring a very mild, dry port to commemorate our rendezvous. There is just enough for a single short glass for all present, and I intended it as a means for proposing a toast.”

  Matt nodded. “In that case, Commodore, I’ll allow an exception. It’s not unheard-of in situations like this when ‘foreigners’ are aboard. Juan, would you be good enough to fetch glasses?”

  A few minutes later, glasses had been positioned and filled by Juan’s expert hand. Jenks raised his glass. “It is customary at this time for our most junior officer to offer the first toast to the governor-emperor. I do not expect you to participate, under the circumstances, but I do beg you to give His Majesty the benefit of the doubt in this matter. It is his own daughter who has been taken, after all.”

  “Very well,” Matt agreed. “The benefit of the doubt . . . for now.” One of Jenks’s midshipmen stood, and all those present, everyone, stood with him.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “His Majesty!”

  All, including Matt, took a sip. The port was interesting, fruity, Matt decided, and as mild as Jenks had promised. He held out his own glass. “The Grand Alliance, and the United States Navy!” All drank again, but Matt noticed there was the slightest hesitation among a few of the Imperial officers. Inwardly, he sighed.

  Jenks held forth his glass. “Hear, hear!” he said forcefully. “And a most formidable Navy it is. We have joined together to embark on a venture essential to both our nations.” He paused. “May it ever be thus: that we will forever cooperate as friends, and never meet as enemies!” On that, Jenks emptied his glass, and with no hesitation at all, everyone else in the wardroom follow
ed suit.

  “Captain!” Reynolds exclaimed excitedly. “Lookout reports surface contact bearing one two five degrees! It’s a sail, Skipper! More than one. He says it looks like three or four!”

  “Course?” Matt snapped. Sails! Here? Other than Billingsly, who else would be in these waters? According to Jenks, they were still a considerable distance from the closest Imperial outpost. Possibly four ships! Could others have joined Billingsly?

  Reynolds relayed the course request and stood, waiting anxiously for several minutes before the lookout in the crow’s nest replied, “Almost reciprocal, Skipper. Lookout estimates contact course is two eight zero! Four ships for sure, sir, under sail!”

  “Well,” said Courtney Bradford, “of course we all presume those are Imperial ships? If not, personally I’d be willing to lay a wager to it.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Gray asked. “ ’Specially after all that stuff you were goin’ on about the other day.”

  Bradford looked oddly at Gray. “Why, I will gladly wager my . . . my hat that they are indeed Imperials, coming in response to the ship and message Jenks dispatched when he first arrived in Baalkpan! Considering the time it would have taken that ship to travel to the Imperial homeland, spread the word, outfit another expedition . . . that expedition would be about, well, here by now!”

  Gray looked at the bizarre sombrerolike hat hanging from Bradford’s hand (he wasn’t allowed to wear it on the bridge) and shook his head. “I wouldn’t want that nasty thing as a gift. ’Sides, when you put it that way, you’re probably right.”

  Matt was already convinced. He’d forgotten all about the ship Jenks was allowed to send away, with news of the princess’s survival and rescue. He rubbed his chin, looking at Reynolds. Oh, well, he’d promised. Besides, there were other good reasons. “How do you like the sea, Ensign?” he asked.

  Reynolds studied the swells. “Looks fine, Skipper. You’ll need to heave to and set us down in the lee. The hard part, actually, will be moving away so we’ll have the wind again—without sucking us into the screws.”

  Matt sighed. Another danger he hadn’t really thought of. “Very well. Sound General Quarters and call your division. Have Mr. Palmer signal Achilles that we’ll reduce speed and await your report.”

  “Aye-aye, sir!”

  After all stations reported manned and ready, Reynolds announced shipwide: “Now hear this, now hear this! The Special Air Detail will assemble and make all preparations for flight operations!” Those members of the Special Air Detail not stationed at the plane as part of the Plane Dump Detail during GQ sprang from their various battle stations and hurried to their new posts. Matt had decided that the ship would always be at general quarters whenever the plane was launched or recovered so everyone would be at their highest state of readiness in the event of an accident. It was then easier to call the larger air detail from their normal battle stations, which, with the exception of the designated observer, were all close by. Observers came from Lieutenant Palmer’s comm division.

  “Mr. Reynolds, you are relieved,” Matt said, gesturing for Carl Bashear to take Fred’s headset. Kutas was at the helm, so Fred couldn’t hope for better ship handling.

  “Aye-aye, sir! Thank you, sir!” Reynolds said, and slid down the stairs behind the pilothouse. Hurrying past the galley under the amidships deckhouse, he heard the diminutive Juan Marcos and the monstrous Earl Lanier still arguing about the night before. He chuckled. He didn’t care—he was going to fly! His division, almost entirely ’Cats, had already cleared the tarps from the plane and were arranging the tackle to the aft extended davit when he arrived. This Nancy was his own personal plane, the one in which he’d finished his training. It was one of the new, improved models, infinitely better than Ben’s prototype. It looked incredibly frail, but Fred knew appearances were deceiving. He’d botched a landing or two, and it had held together under stresses he’d have thought would tear it apart. He had confidence in the plane and himself. Shoot, he had almost thirty hours in the thing! He climbed up to the cockpit and, as always, looked at the large blue roundel with the big white star and smaller red dot with a mix of pride and a sense of incongruity. The roundel contrasted well with the lighter blue of the wings and fuselage/hull, and all the colors looked right, but the contraption they covered was, while in his eyes a thing of beauty, still strange enough to cause a disconnect between its shape and the familiar colors. He shrugged and climbed in. “Who’s my OC?” he shouted, referring to his observer/copilot.

  One of Ben’s improvements, besides turning the engine around, had been installing auxiliary controls for the observer. It only made sense. Observers didn’t have to be pilots—yet—but they had to be familiar with the controls and able to demonstrate at least rudimentary flying skills. Of course, their main job was to observe and transmit those observations via one of the small, portable CW transmitters (originally meant for airplanes) that all the new transmitters in the Alliance were patterned after. There was no battery—Alliance-made batteries were still too heavy—but the “Ronson” wind powered generator and a voltage regulator the size of a shoe box gave them all the juice they needed with little weight. An aerial extended from a faired upright behind the observer’s seat to the tail.

  Fred looked aft and saw Kari-Faask scrambling into her position. She was a niece of the great B’mbaadan general Haakar-Faask, who’d died so bravely in a holding action against the Grik. Kari wasn’t quite as bold and fearless as her uncle, but Fred knew she had plenty of guts. She never made any bones about the fact that she was afraid to fly, for example, but she went up anyway and performed her duties without complaint. Also, despite her still somewhat stilted English, she had a good fist on the transmitter key.

  “You okay with this, Kari?” Fred called back to her.

  “I good. You be good and no crash us!” she hollered back.

  Reynolds could tell Walker was heaved to by the sudden wallowing sensation. He quickly checked the function of all the control surfaces and shouted down to the chief of the air detail, “All right, Chief, pick us up and swing us out! Set us down with plenty of slack but don’t cut us loose until the engine starts, hear? And keep an eye on those line handlers!”

  The Nancy lifted. ’Cats strained at the taglines to keep the plane from swinging with the rolling motion of the ship. Reynolds knew Ben had been hoping to construct some kind of catapult, a sort of abbreviated version of what Amagi had had, but there just hadn’t been time. Now Reynolds better appreciated Ben’s scheme. It wouldn’t have made any difference with recovery, but with a catapult, they could have just flown right off the ship. A couple of times, the Nancy swung dangerously close to the davit and Fred clenched his eyes shut, expecting a splintering crash, but somehow, fairly quickly, the plane was over the water and headed down. Now the only immediate concern was giving the plane enough slack that the roll of the ship wouldn’t yank her back out of the water and smash her against Walker’s side.

  Suddenly, Reynolds felt the independent motion caused by water under the plane. There’d been no thump or splash at all. “Switch on!” he yelled, and Kari leaped up to lean against the little railing that kept her body away from the prop. Reaching as high as she could, she grabbed a blade and yanked it down. There was a cough, but nothing else. She repeated the process and was rewarded by a loud, muffled fart and the blades blurred before her. Reynolds advanced the throttle while she fell back into her seat and strapped herself in. This was the signal for the detail on the ship to pull the tagline pins that released all ropes from the plane. Kicking the rudder hard left, Reynolds advanced the throttle still more to gain some distance from the ship.

  “All right!” Reynolds shouted, tension ebbing away. “We’re on the loose!” Behind them, the ship slowly eased forward, exposing them to the westerly breeze. Turning the Nancy’s nose into the wind, Reynolds advanced the throttle to the stop. The new liquid-cooled engine was heavier than Ben’s makeshift prototype, but the power-to-weight ratio was actu
ally a little better. It stayed uniformly cooler too, which could be good and bad. They’d need better spring technology before they could do a proper thermostat. The big, exposed radiator behind the cockpit also negated any potential speed increase, but having flown a couple of times in the prototype, Fred liked “his” Nancy a lot better. Unlike Ben, Reynolds had also quickly figured out a major secret to seaplane flying. Maybe it was because he’d had no preconceptions and just did what came naturally, but he’d amazed Ben on his third flight by “bouncing” his plane into the air off a wave top with half the speed and in a third of the distance with which Ben had ever managed it. Ben had been flabbergasted, amazed, annoyed, and proud all at once. After he got Fred to first figure out what he’d done, and second explain—and ultimately show it to everyone else—the practice became SOP.

  Fred used the procedure now, and within moments of his applying full power, the plane was in the air. “Whooee!” he shouted, banking low over the water. He gradually pulled back on the stick. The Nancy’s CG was still just a little aft, and Ben had constantly pounded it into them not to fool around with the stick, particularly at low altitude. Slowly, the plane climbed. In the distance, about ten miles away, he saw Achilles. He knew no one on the Imperial ship had ever seen a man fly, and he was tempted to cruise over and buzz her. He resisted the impulse, realizing it probably wasn’t appropriate to goof around in the air the first time the skipper let him fly. He grinned, thinking about what it would be like—Ben had told him of the chaos he’d caused on Ajax that one time. Shaking his head, he banked a little sharper and flew back toward Walker, gently waggling his wings as he flew over.

  In all the wide expanse of the world around them, there was nothing but sea. He’d never flown over the empty ocean before, at least not beyond sight of land, and it made him a little queasy. Worse, it was a dull, humid day and the higher he flew, the more difficult it became to tell where the sky and the horizon met. He looked at his clinometer and steadied his wings. As far as he could see, there was no sign of land at all. Just the hazy, grayish sky and the hazy blue sea below. Achilles and Walker were there, of course, and that comforted him, but the only other things in view were the distant ships the lookout had spotted. It was time to get to work.