His Excellency Sean Bates, once known to the Lemurian/American powers in the Alliance as “O’Casey,” had advanced from the status of outlaw protector of a young, shipwrecked princess to become Prime Factor to the Governor-Empress. He remained her legal guardian as well, though most recognized that post as a fiction. He’d continue to guard her, with his one mighty arm until the day he died, and he’d always counsel her, if allowed, but he couldn’t—wouldn’t—exercise any legal restraint on her. She’d proven herself sufficiently mature beyond her fourteen years to fully assume her duties, and his only real concern was that she’d been forced to grow up too quickly—and far too violently. That showed in the degree to which she’d begun to suppress her sweeter nature, and isolate her emotions from those who loved her most.
Sean passed her yet another page to sign—a naval commission for the master of a former Company ship—and glanced at the clock on the mantel above the cavernous fireplace in the library.
“Sister Audry’ll be along directly, lass,” he said quietly.
Rebecca finished signing her name for perhaps the hundredth time that morning, and sighed. She looked at the clock as well. “She’s probably already waiting, poor thing. Please do see if she’s in the hall, won’t you?”
“Of course, Yer Majesty.” Sean’s chair creaked as he stood to step to the heavy door. Opening it, he peered outside. “Aye, there she is, with that evil Sergeant Koratin, as usual,” he said with a grin. Then he paused, his grin fading. “An’ they seem to’ve brought that . . . visitor we discussed.”
“I see,” Rebecca murmured. “Well, don’t leave them waiting any longer. Let them in.”
“I’m still nae sure ye shid see ’im without a guard,” Bates hedged.
“I’m confident you and Sergeant Koratin can protect me, even should he sprout wings and fangs and go for my throat,” she said dryly. “You’ve both protected me from far worse before. And if Sister Audry, a far greater threat to his soul than I, remains safe in his presence, I should have little to fear.”
Grudgingly, Sean opened the door wider. “Her Majesty’ll see ye now,” he said, then stepped aside. Sister Audry, wearing a new duplicate of the habit she’d worn to utter destruction, hurried into the room, an enthusiastic smile on her face. She was Dutch, a Benedictine nun, carried away from Java in the Old War to shepherd a number of children of diplomats and high-ranking officers aboard the old submarine, S-19. Rebecca had known her since they had all been stranded together on Talaud Island a couple of years before. She was very attached to the young straw-haired woman who believed she’d been called not only to spread the “true faith” among the Allies, but perhaps more important, salvage the tortured souls of those enslaved by the twisted faith of the Dominion.
She’d gone among the Dom prisoners taken during the New Ireland campaign, along with ministers of the British Church, preaching and explaining how the Catholic faith of the Spanish element of their culture had been so hideously perverted. Dom regulars were professional and competent soldiers, but only their officers could read—essential for passing orders and dispatches, and completing the paperwork required for any army—but there was no acceptable literature other than devout treatises and holy writs in the Dominion, and their entire cultural and religious indoctrination came from the fearsome Blood Priests. After learning as much about the Dom faith as she could bear to hear (since she had an active imagination, even verbal descriptions gave her nightmares), Sister Audry found it relatively simple to refute much of its twisted, contradictory dogma. Her teachings were far more compelling and attractive, particularly to defeated soldiers who’d been raised in such a repressive, unforgiving, and impulsively cruel society. She believed, and had reported, that she’d made significant breakthroughs at last.
Following her through the doorway was a slender man in the tattered but clean uniform of a lieutenant of Dominion “Salvadores,” or expeditionary regulars. The expression on his dark, handsome face was guarded—except when he glanced at Audry for reassurance. Then it turned to something that bordered on . . . worshipful. He paused before Rebecca and bowed very low.
Bringing up the rear was a short, muscular, wizened Lemurian with quick eyes that gave the impression he was constantly evaluating threats—or opportunities. The fur beneath his white Marine dress armor had streaks of white as well, from middle age and battle scars. Rebecca stood and received Audry’s kiss on her cheek, nodded at Koratin with a smile, then regarded her other visitor curiously.
“May I present Teniente Arano Garcia?” Audry gushed. “He has been selected to represent nearly eight hundred souls that have surrendered their lives to God, and to your service in the cause of liberating their people from the evil infesting their home!”
“Eight hundred, indeed?” asked Rebecca with a tentative smile. “How charming.”
“Eight hundred out’a more’n four thousand prisoners,” Bates gruffed.
“My—our—mission has had little time to reverse lifetimes of lies,” Audry defended, “and more are coming around. But Teniente Garcia has staked his life on the loyalty of the men he represents!”
“We’ve all staked our lives on the defeat of his country, which will result—has already resulted in the deaths of thousands on both sides,” Rebecca said softly.
“He understands that,” Audry insisted. “He wants to help!”
“I know you speak some Spanish, but do you speak enough to fully evaluate his motives?” Rebecca asked, a polite way of inquiring how Audry could be sure Garcia wasn’t lying.
“As a Salvadore, I have had intensive instruction in the English,” Garcia said quietly. “Many Dominion officers have. It is deemed important to communicate with conquered peoples,” he added with apologetic irony.
Rebecca looked at Sergeant Koratin. The Lemurian had once been a lord of Aryaal, and by his own admission an “expert” on treachery. He’d had a traumatic epiphany, however, and had actually been one of Sister Audry’s earliest Lemurian converts to Catholicism. “What do you think, Sergeant?”
Koratin blinked thoughtfully. “I have come to know Lieutenant Garcia,” he said, “and I think I believe him.” He shrugged and swished his tail. “But I have believed others before, to my . . . disadvantage, who had less reason to mislead me. I am—was—perhaps better at deception in my old life than at discovering it. And as an enlisted Marine, I have grown . . . rusty, yes? Rusty at intrigue. I have come to prefer much more straightforward confrontations.” Rebecca nodded. There was no doubting Koratin’s valor.
“But ye do think he wants tae fight fer us?” Bates demanded.
Koratin regarded Garcia a moment before nodding at last. “I do. And I have made very clear to him and his men how I would personally prosecute any hint of infidelity.”
Audry shuddered, then sighed. There were whispered rumors of how Koratin had “prosecuted” the treacherous, upstart king of Aryaal. “Really, Sergeant . . .”
“Good,” Bates agreed. He looked at Garcia. “So you want to fight?”
“I do. My people do.” His stoic expression suddenly went adrift, and he looked at Audry with eyes that reflected a tortured woe. “I cannot express, can hardly comprehend . . . My people, my race—the hideous lies that torment us from our very birth—”
“Very well,” Rebecca interjected gently. “I’m glad to hear it. I will give you your chance to fight, perhaps sooner than you might imagine.”
Bates looked at her. “Yer Majesty?”
Rebecca regarded every face, then took a long breath. “Please, everyone, be seated.”
Refreshments were brought, and they talked lightly for a time. Much of the conversation was directed at Garcia, of course, and Audry described conditions in the prison camp and the rebuilding efforts underway on New Ireland. Many prisoners had been set to work assisting in that respect, and others were employed harvesting the charred timber of the great valley forest. It
was hard work, but the prisoners universally considered themselves lucky. They were sheltered, well fed, and undoubtedly better treated than Imperial troops in their position ever would’ve been.
Finally, Rebecca took a sip of watered brandy and spoke. “The information I am about to relate must not go beyond this chamber,” she said, deeply serious. “Perhaps that will serve as a final test of Lieutenant Garcia’s loyalty?” She eyed the man. “Beyond those here, the only others who know what I am about to tell you are the Lemurian Marines entrusted with our most sensitive codes. If you speak of it, I will know.” She sipped again. “High Admiral Jenks has sent word that General Shinya and the Allied Expeditionary Force in the East have won a great victory over the Doms at the coastal city of Guayak. Not only that, but he has hounded a Dom army numbering upward of fifty thousand troops to virtual annihilation.” She let that sit a moment, examining expressions. Bates already knew, of course, but the revelation was news to everyone else. “General Shinya has now stopped and begun fortifying a crossroads vital to the enemy, without which they cannot mass more troops against him from east of the mountains, nor can they approach from north or south without exposing themselves to continuous air attack. He retains firm lines of supply, and contact with the coast. From there, he will consolidate his gains and prepare to resume his offensive.” She noted with satisfaction that Garcia leaned forward with a predatory gleam in his eye.
“Good,” she murmured, then raised her voice. “Despite the imperatives in the West, the time has come to support Admiral Jenks and General Shinya more fully. Having sent so many troops west, we have little left here but our strategic reserve and home guard. That said, I believe the Isles are safe from attack, and the time has come to use those troops.”
“Yer Majesty!” Bates protested, but Rebecca held up her hand. “The Isles will not be left naked. My sister, Saan-Kakja, High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands, will soon arrive for a state visit, accompanied by two thousand Maa-ni-la infantry. She has already sent enough of her people to fight our enemy, so they will remain here—but that frees more of us to fight.”
Bates sat back, a little less alarmed. He deeply admired Saan-Kakja, and knew the extraordinary Lemurian had already sent more assets east than she was comfortable with. Her profound friendship with the just slightly younger Rebecca was probably the only reason she had. Rebecca had called her “sister,” in the Lemurian way of addressing other High Chiefs, but Bates knew she trusted and regarded Saan-Kakja at least as closely as she would any real sister. Just as he’d begun to calm a bit after her earlier statement, however, young Rebecca stunned him with what she said next:
“It is my belief that Saan-Kakja means to travel from here to the eastern front of the war. She once promised to go west with the troops she sent against the Grik, and she has long been frustrated by her inability to do so. She has implied to me that, with as many of her people now in the East as in the West, at least with the Army, if not the Navy, she now feels equally drawn there.” She stared defiantly around. “If she goes, I shall go with her.”
“Nay, lass! I ferbid it!” Bates thundered. “Tis much too dangerous!”
“You forbid, Prime Factor Bates?” Rebecca asked softly, icily.
Bates paused, gathering himself. “I counsel strongly against it, Yer Majesty,” he revised, face red. “The situation here in the Isles is better, aye, but nae yet fixed in stone. Ye cannae risk yersel’ so. All we’ve worked tae achieve could wither away!”
“Not if you remain here, as regent, to prevent it,” Rebecca said reasonably, but Bates’s eyes bulged from their sockets at the suggestion she might go without him. “I will have sufficient protection,” she assured before he could speak, and looked squarely at Sister Audry. “Particularly now that you have raised me yet another loyal regiment of already seasoned troops!”
“I didn’t raise them, Your Majesty,” Sister Audry demurred modestly before she caught Rebecca’s intent stare. “But . . . you cannot mean!”
“Indeed. It is your regiment, Sister Audry, yours to lead and command!”
“This is utter madness, my dear!” Audry exclaimed. “I have no notion whatsoever of military affairs!”
“You know who the true enemy is,” Rebecca countered relentlessly, “which is more than many of my more formally trained commanders did for some time.” She looked at Garcia. “And who better to lead them? Whom do they revere more?”
Garcia seemed stunned as well, but finally nodded. “Sister Audry came to us as a prophet, and she raised our souls from the sickening pit in which they dwelt. Speaking for myself and all my men, you could not appoint another leader over us to whom we would be more devoted. We will follow and protect her like the prophet she is!”
“Never fear,” Rebecca added to the flabbergasted nun. “You shall have sufficient help. I’m sure Sergeant Koratin, for one, will be pleased to remain with you and can certainly deal with many of your administrative and training duties.”
“Of course,” Koratin said, blinking amusement. He wondered if he alone recognized the brilliance of the Governor-Empress’s scheme. With Audry commanding the regiment, not only would the chance of treachery from the ranks be even less likely; Audry had the chance to redeem not only the former Doms under her command, but her very church in the eyes of the Imperial subjects. There was no real association between the true Catholic Church and the superficial similarities the Doms had adopted, but far too many of Rebecca’s people didn’t understand the distinctions.
“It’s all settled, then,” Rebecca said grandly. “Factor Bates? Would you kindly send for more refreshments?” She smiled at Sister Audry with a trace of her old, girlish enthusiasm. “We must propose a proper toast to the formation of our newest regiment. I wonder what we should call it.”
CHAPTER 7
////// First Fleet South
1100 Miles South of Ceylon
June 30, 1944
The sky remained dazzlingly clear for the third day in a row above the white, gust-swept wave tops that marbled the cerulean sea. Most of the DDs and support ships constituting USNRS Salissa’s battle group and the other accumulated vessels that rounded out the task force plodded creditably through the brisk swells at a modest but workmanlike eight knots. From the surface, the collection of ships appeared a formidable force. To one of the Nancy floatplanes returning from a long-range scout, however, the task force looked more like a scattered, lonely atoll in the center of an endless, empty sea.
The DDs and all sail DEs could’ve easily made much more of the strong, southerly wind. Even Salissa, lightened as she’d been, could’ve comfortably made ten or twelve knots. But the tenders—and particularly the oilers—were having a little trouble. Some of the screening DDs could gallop along unrestrained, scouting ahead or on the flanks of the task force, pounding the depths with powerful sonar pulses to deter any lurking mountain fish that might pose a threat to the fleet. But the ship most grievously inhibited by the poky advance at the moment was USS Walker. She was steaming carefully alongside Salissa, her helmsman straining to match her every move and compensate for the suction, the thumping waves, conflicting wakes, and the old destroyer’s erratic pitching. Matt was on the port bridgewing, watching the narrow gap between his ship and Salissa with apparent calm. If someone had noticed his right hand gripping the rail beside the Morse lamp, however, they’d have seen his knuckles were white.
Their own experiments, and others performed before the Old War that Matt was aware of, had shown that steaming this close was actually easier at a greater speed of ten to fifteen knots, when the ships could more easily compensate for the suction generated between them. But Matt was determined that they practice the maneuver at all speeds and in various sea states. So far, the results were decidedly mixed.
“No, no, no, goddamn it!” roared the terrible Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray down on the fo’c’sle below. “Who told you to secure those taglines? Cast ’em off
!” For an instant, some of the mostly Lemurian detail just stared at him, but then a couple scampered to obey. Fortunately, the lines were still slack, but the instant they were released, Walker’s bow pitched down and some of the lines—and a fat cable hawser—whipped up into the sky like flying snakes, and then lashed the sea alongside. Gray’s face was purple with rage. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he ranted. “You can’t secure the goddamn hose to the ship! How many times’ve I gotta pound it through your pointy little ears?”
“But it get away!” a tall ’Cat cried back in frustration, gesturing over the side.
“Course it’s gonna get away, the way that stripy-assed idiot strikin’ for QM’s steerin’ the ship!” Gray bellowed with an almost pleading glance back up at the captain. “But if it wants to get away that bad, you gotta let it go! We’ve got a springline on it an’ it won’t get plumb away. But you secure it to the ship and it’s liable to part—or worse!” He closed his eyes. “When I look again, you better be outa my sight! Go secure your twitchy tail to a signal halyard an’ hoist your stupid ass to the foremast yard!” He opened one eye to find the dumbfounded ’Cat just staring at him. He sighed. “Too many newies,” he lamented. “Too many old hands got sent off to Mahan, right when we need ’em most.” He whirled. “You! Gyrene! What was your name?”
“Lance Corporal Miles, Bosun. Ian Miles,” answered a tall, thin man with dark hair. Gray remembered Miles’s name perfectly well, but wasn’t impressed. He’d been with Commander Herring in the Philippines, along with Gunny Horn, but he acted like that still meant something. Horn had slipped into the role of Silva’s chief minion, an association he’d obviously been comfortable with in a previous life, but if that didn’t necessarily recommend him, it made him useful. Miles struck Gray as a slacker, with no intention of truly becoming part of Walker’s company. Gray took that personally. Also, despite Herring’s apparent conversion to the cause and his sincere desire to become a “real” destroyerman, Lance Corporal Miles maintained an oddly confidential relationship with him that Commander Herring didn’t seem to discourage. Maybe that was normal, after all they’d been through together, but Gray suspected Miles was milking it. He didn’t reflect on his own close friendships with officers, and indeed the very highest ranking leaders of the Grand Alliance. He always kept that in perspective, and diligently ensured that it never interfered with the chain of command.
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