“Maybe he’s got a head cold,” Spanky quipped, and Matt blinked mild amusement in the Lemurian way.
“Could be. Well, we’ll either cure him or make him worse. Tell Tassat we’ll both crank up the volume and hammer him hard.” He grinned at Herring. “Which might really hack him off. Mountain fish have a temper. We’ll ready the Y guns and have the main battery stand by for surface action if the fish comes up. Pass the word to Mr. Campeti.”
“Aa-spect change!” Minnie trilled. “Sound says the con-taact moves away, goes deeper! It still not in any hurry, though.”
Spanky’s brow furrowed, and he motioned at the chartroom with his head. Walker’s chartroom served multiple functions. It was the sound room as well as the captain’s sea cabin where he kept an uncomfortable cot. Matt nodded, and they stepped around to the starboard side of the structure to peer through the hatch.
“Whatcha got, Wally?” he asked Wallace Fairchild, Walker’s chief sonarman. He was one of the few men aboard who still had almost the same job he’d started with. His duties had expanded, of course, and he was most responsible for all the advances they’d made in “AMFDIC,” or anti–mountain fish countermeasures.
“I still got him,” Wally muttered under his dark mustache, eyes intent on the squiggly screen.
“Well, what’s he doing?” Spanky demanded, impatient. He was a mechanical genius, but electricity in general, and sophisticated equipment like Fairchild’s in particular might as well have been voodoo as far as he was concerned.
“He’s turned away, going deep, but we’re gaining fast.” Big as they were, a mountain fish in full flight—or charge—could sprint at eighteen to twenty knots for a short distance. He frowned.
“What’s the matter?” Matt asked.
“Well, sir, it’s hard to say. Everything about this contact is just, well, screwy.”
“Screwy, how?”
“Mountain fish are big, sir,” Wally said, excitement rising in his voice. “They bounce back a helluva signal, but its, well, kinda . . . diffused. Sorta . . . mushy, sir, if you know what I mean.”
“Mushy,” Spanky grated. “Because they’re meat instead of metal?”
“Not exactly, sir, though I can see why you’d think that. Actually, the sound pulse doesn’t bounce back off the animal, but the air inside it. Mountain fish carry around a lot of air, in their lungs and air bladders, I guess. Sorta like trim tanks or something.”
Matt was nodding. “So what’s different about this one?” he asked, a strange prickling sensation climbing his back.
“It’s a . . . harder contact, I think. It’s fading now”—he pointed at the screen—“but I think that’s because it’s deeper, going under a layer, I bet.”
“Harder? Like a sub?” Matt asked. The air in a sub wasn’t diffused.
Wally screwed up his face. “Well, maybe . . . But where would a sub come from? Besides”—he pointed again—“no matter what kind of return we got, it’s too big to be any sub I ever saw. It may not be the biggest mountain fish, but it’s too big to be a sub.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, sir. But I’m not sure a mountain fish can’t make a hard return like that either.” He shrugged. “Beats me. And whatever it is, it’s fading.” He stared at the screen and turned a large dial back and forth. “Gone, sir.”
“Gone,” Spanky grunted. “Like a fish would.”
“A slow, hard fish,” Matt said softly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fairchild,” Matt said briskly, turning out of the charthouse. “Let me know immediately if it comes back.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Matt and Spanky stepped back into the pilothouse. “Minnie, instruct Tassat that we’ll circle here for a while before returning to our patrol stations. Secure from general quarters, but maintain condition three.”
“Is everything all right, Captain?” Herring asked.
Matt nodded slightly. “Sure. As far as I know. Oh, Minnie? Please inform Salissa that we investigated an . . . indeterminate contact, but we’re going to stay on our toes for a while. Extend my regrets to the admiral and my wife that I’ll be unable to dine with them this evening.”
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan.”
CHAPTER 8
////// TFG-2
USS Donaghey (DDS-2)
Indian (Western) Ocean
Captain of Marines Bekiaa-Sab-At leaned on USS Donaghey’s port fo’c’sle rail, staring down at the foaming sea beneath the bows as the ship slanted south-southwest across a choppy gray sea. But Bekiaa didn’t see the froth, or feel the stiff, salty breeze. Instead, at that moment, she stood on the southern slope of North Hill once again. The chaotic white foam had become the urgent billow of cannon smoke, and the marching waves were a relentless tide of Grik warriors surging, hacking, swarming, against the meager defenses and precious lives atop the otherwise insignificant little hill.
As always, when this memory, this . . . reality . . . swept her back to that other time and place, her pulse thundered, and her heart hammered at her breastbone, her stomach clenched with dread, the bile of hopeless anguish rose in her throat—and she was afraid. The fear actually stunned her. She’d been in desperate combat many times, often when the likely outcome appeared very bleak indeed, but she’d never truly been afraid. Even stranger, even as she relived that awful moment when she realized, for the very first time, they’d never break this Grik charge no matter how savagely they mauled it, a detached, analytical fragment of her mind recognized she hadn’t been afraid, not like this, at the moment she’d returned to. It was later, when the enormity of the concept of disciplined Grik finally registered, that she knew that she and every member of Colonel Flynn’s scratch division surrounded on North Hill were doomed. Worse, that . . . other self who’d been there, miraculously survived, and reported to the “self” she’d since become, understood that despite all the horror and trauma she’d endured since, it was that earlier moment, not even decisive in itself, that summoned and focused all her dread. Somehow her mind and memory had arranged it so that the Bekiaa who stood on Donaghey’s fo’c’sle now associated that particular instant with the birth of a fatalistic realization: that the extermination of her beloved comrades in Flynn’s Rangers had come to represent the Alliance as a whole. It had become the moment she began to fear the war itself—and everything she loved—was lost.
To most aboard Donaghey, Bekiaa was almost a legend. She’d fought the slimy Grik-toads at Chill-chaap until both sides apparently decided it was better to be friends—particularly the kind of friends that never saw each other again. She’d fought alongside Captain Garrett on the Sand Spit when Donaghey was driven ashore on Ceylon. And, of course, she was one of only a handful to survive the slaughter of Flynn’s Rangers beyond the Rocky Gap in Indiaa. She’d recovered from the wounds she suffered there by wandering the trenches of Alden’s Perimeter sniping enemy officers, or Hij, until Greg Garrett requested her by name to command his Marines on this expedition.
A few on the ship, particularly some of her Marines, thought Bekiaa was mad. She knew she wasn’t. True madness was very rare among Lemurians and poorly understood, so she could see how people might be confused. Usually, madness drove Mi-Anakka to suicide, and she had no desire to take her own life. She wasn’t even “controlled mad” like Saak-Fas had been. He’d been the mate of Keje’s daughter, Selass, and after a period of captivity among the Grik, he’d certainly wanted to die, but he’d managed to make his death matter in the end. Bekiaa knew she was perfectly sane, because she didn’t want to die at all. She’d gladly accept death, if it came to her while she was killing many Grik, but most people she knew would make that trade. There was a difference.
“Good day to you, Cap-i-taan Bekiaa-Sab-At,” came a pleasant voice beside her. Bekiaa started, surprised, and a little disoriented by her sudden return to the present. She blinked embar
rassment at the strange Lemurian who’d joined her. “Good afternoon, Inquisitor Choon,” she said hastily. She still didn’t know if she should salute Kon-Choon or not, and didn’t really know what to think of him or any of his people, human, Lemurian—or whatever else might reside in his land. Choon was odd enough. He had sharp features beneath a slightly mottled, stone-colored fur. Surprisingly large eyes, even for a Lemurian, protruded from his face. Most striking of all was that the eyes were pale blue, like some humans she knew, but never before had she met any Mi-Anakka with eyes like that. He spoke well enough, but she wondered if his ancestors had been from some tribe that never made it as far eastward as her own. She glanced at the brindled fur on her arm, so common among the Sab-Ats. Many of Choon’s Mi-Anakka comrades they’d met at Diego Garciaa were colored just like any other People she knew, but none were brindled. It interested her.
She forced a friendly grin despite her Marine’s pride being chastened that Choon had managed to sneak up on her so easily. She knew Captain Garrett wanted to make a good impression on their new . . . acquaintances from the southern African Republic of Real People.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” Choon said as if reading her mind, and she wondered briefly if he had. He was the Royal “Inquisitor” for his “Kaiser,” Nig-Taak, after all. Supposedly, his title meant he was head of the Republic’s equivalent to the Office of Strategic Intelligence that Commander Herring had established in Baalkpan . . . but did that mean it was more or less likely he could actually read minds? She shuddered at the thought. “I saw you here,” he continued, “and this is the first opportunity I have had to compliment you on the professionalism and bearing of your Maa-rines when you parade them on deck in the mornings.”
“Thank you, sir,” Bekiaa said. She commanded sixty Marines on Donaghey, all of whom had other duties alongside the rest of the two hundred officers and enlisted personnel aboard, when they weren’t training or at drill. Most were qualified to man the ship’s guns, but some made passable topmen, or “wing runners.” The rest performed duties ’Cats considered appropriate for “Body of Home” clans, though the human term “deck ape” was gaining universal acceptance. Donaghey had no “snipe,” or engineering division. She was the sole survivor of three ships in her class, considered “first generation” frigates, or “DDs,” that had been built on this world, and relied entirely on the wind in her sails for propulsion. She was small compared to the latest sail/steam hybrids as well, measuring only 168 by 33 feet, and armed with 18-pounders—the lightest guns left on any DD. She had twenty-four of them, though, all tied into the latest—if still primitive by Walker’s standards—fire control system. She had the same sonar set as any DD in the West, powered by wind or gasoline generators, and carried a battery of Y guns and a depth-charge rack—all essential for her semisolitary voyage through such a hostile sea. Finally, her stunningly successful hull shape and sail plan meant not only was she uniquely qualified for her long-range mission, but she remained the fastest ship in the Navy with a kind wind, other than the new PTs assembling at Diego—and USS Walker herself.
“I am most impressed by the close-quarters combat drill your Maa-rines perform,” Choon continued, blinking genuine admiration. “Our legions know the bayonet, but hardly the sword or shield. We have had breech-loading firearms longer than you, I understand.”
Bekiaa nodded. She’d seen the single shot, “bolt action” rifles some of Choon’s people carried, and understood they’d had the things for at least a decade. They looked unnecessarily complicated compared to the Allin-Silva breech-loading conversions of the muzzle-loading Baalkpan Arsenal rifled muskets her Marines used. “Yes, we have only recently taken that step.” Her smile faded. “But against the Grik, a cutlass”—she patted the guard of the Baalkpan-made copy of the 1917 Navy pattern at her belt—“remains a most handy tool, I assure you. And after once discarding our shields, my Maa-rines, at least, will not do so again,” she added tonelessly.
“You have your reasons, I’m sure,” Choon granted. “You have much greater experience against the Grik than we. I meant no offense, I merely observe—and speculate perhaps.” He lowered his ears in self-deprecation. “I speculate quite a bit. It is my primary occupation, after all.” He blinked an expression Bekiaa didn’t know. “Your Colonel Chack-Sab-At, commanding the brigade gathering at the strange island where we met your people, as well as our ancient, mutual kin . . . Colonel Chack is your cousin, is he not? There is a slight resemblance.” Bekiaa nodded with a genuine smile. “I thought so. Obviously a most formidable warrior, as are you, I’m sure. In any event, his ‘Raider Brigade,’ destined to assault Mada-gaas-car itself, trains much the same. I hope he will instruct”—he blinked annoyance—“that they will allow him to instruct the few legionaries we brought with us aboard the War Palace, so they might teach your Grik fighting ways to others of our people.”
The “War Palace” was actually SMS Amerika, an old ocean liner, of all things. She’d been fitted with a few guns and commissioned as a commerce raider for the Imperial German Navy during an earlier war than the one Walker had been fighting. At least that was what Bekiaa understood. Amerika had also been swept to this world in much the same way as Walker, apparently, but she, her German crew, and mostly British prisoners had found a home with the Republic of Real People, who’d garishly decorated and painted the old ship. Her people technologically contributed to that society just as Walker had done for Bekiaa’s folk. Since it was protected from the Grik by an uncomfortably cooler climate, however, the technological transformation of the Republic had not been nearly as urgent—or unsettling—as at Baalkpan and elsewhere.
“We’ll do the same when we reach your home, if you like,” Bekiaa offered.
“If there is time,” Choon said, “I hope that you may.” He looked at the sea ahead. “If there is time.”
One of Bekiaa’s Marines scampered up and slammed to attention, her tail rigid behind her. “Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett’s compimimps, an’ would the two ob you care to join him on the quarterdeck?”
Bekiaa looked at Choon.
“Of course,” Choon said, looking back at Bekiaa. “Shall we?”
* * *
“Wind’s getting weird,” Lieutenant Wendel “Smitty” Smith grouched, wiping his prematurely bald head with a rag. He was Donaghey’s gunnery officer, and he’d just reported that all the ship’s guns were doubly secured in case things got frisky.
“It’s boxing the compass,” Captain Greg Garrett agreed. He was tall and dark haired, and the gangliness of youth remained to a degree, but his soft Tennessee drawl was far more assured than it once was. His body could only mature so fast, but the man had long since been made. He glanced at Donaghey’s consort, USS Sineaa (DE-48), pounding along companionably, if a little less comfortably, about a mile to leeward. Sineaa was a “razeed” Grik Indiaman, captured at Singapore. With the same rig as Donaghey and her hull cut down to the gun deck, the smaller, lighter ship was almost as fast as Greg’s. She carried only twelve guns, however, and the stores in her hold were her primary purpose.
Greg looked back at his gunnery officer. He liked the guy, and knew he had plenty of guts. He’d started out as Walker’s gunnery officer himself, before becoming what many considered the premier “frigate skipper” in the Alliance, and he fully approved of Smitty’s precautions. He’d likewise just directed that the fore and main topsails be reefed. “I wish the wind would figure out what it’s going to do,” he added.
“We may not approve of its decision,” said Lieutenant Saama-Kera, Greg’s exec. He was blinking concern at the darkening sky. “Sammy” wasn’t a Sky Priest or “Salig Maastir” as most American Navy execs had been at first. He was a master sailor, who could read the weather as well as any Sky Priest, and was very nearly as good a navigator—considering he hadn’t studied the Heavens since birth, as true Sky Priests were expected to do. “We have little to go on regarding the weather in this region,” he
continued. “Though a few hints from my . . . ancestral cousins on Diego Garciaa describe some of the storms approaching from this direction as extreme.” He glanced at Garrett. “They did not name them such, but they do bring the strakka to mind.”
Greg nodded with a frown. Strakkas were cyclones, but the different conditions on this world often spun them up into monsters that defied comparison to any hurricane or typhoon Greg Garrett had heard of. He hoped Sammy had misunderstood the “aboriginal” Lemurians of Diego. That was possible, since their once-common language had changed significantly over time. Some believed they must retain a culture most similar to what all Lemurians shared before the ancient exodus from Madagascar, due to their isolation, but Greg wasn’t so sure. The language of the southern African ’Cats who’d made it there aboard Amerika wasn’t much different from that spoken by Mi-Anakka from Jaava to the Fil-pin Lands, and as far south as the Great South Isle. If anything, Greg figured the people on Diego—also smaller than other Lemurians—had probably regressed culturally as well as physically. It was possible they retained myths, legends, even actual accounts of what it had been like where they came from so long ago, stories otherwise lost. Maybe Courtney Bradford or Adar—or somebody else—would sort all that out someday, but that wasn’t Greg’s problem. His mission was to scout some of the islands his old world charts said existed east of Madagascar to discover whether the Grik had any presence there, report his findings, then proceed to the Republic of Real People with Inquisitor Choon. Beyond that? He could continue his expedition of discovery into the Atlantic at his discretion.
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