“And that is?”
“You went aboard Ellie and saw how she was framed . . .”
“Sure, the same as us, but like all ’Cat designs, they diagonally reinforced her between the frames with riveted angle stringers.” Matt looked at Jeek. “You want to do that here?”
“Ay, sur,” Jeek replied, tilting his chief’s hat back on his head. “It’ll work,” he urged, “but we gotta peel some decks an’ plates off her. Them stringers’ll give us more thaan twice the st’ucture to rivet to. Make her daamn strong again!”
“How long?”
“Maybe . . . a month,” Spanky answered tentatively for Jeek.
“That’s too long,” Matt stated definitively. “We can’t stay here that long.” He paused. “Tara can’t, and neither can I.” He looked at the deck. “I know we’ve got fine people on the scene, perfectly capable of doing everything that can be done without me holding their hand, but . . . I need to be there, where our people are fighting.” He shrugged helplessly and looked up. “I don’t suppose Tara could carry Walker down to Mahe?”
Spanky looked horrified. “I can’t imagine any way to secure her well enough to ride down to Mahe in Tara’s repair bay. If we hit anything but perfect weather, she’ll fall off her blocks like the poor old Stewart did in Surabaya. That’d wreck her.” He shook his head. “And if we hit really rough weather, with Walker floppin’ around, she’d probably wreck Tara too. Besides, we’d have the same problem after we got her there. The whole reason to take Tara is to load her up with troops and equipment. Can’t do that with Walker in her. Here or there.”
“What’s the answer, then?” Matt asked, a hint of near desperation in his voice. He could hardly bear to just abandon his ship. He would if he absolutely must; he wouldn’t let the invasion languish, or what was left of TF Bottle Cap die, solely for the sake of preserving one old ship, no matter what she meant to the Alliance—and him—but there had to be a better way.
Judging by Spanky’s concerned, thoughtful expression, he felt the same. “Give me just one more week,” he said at last. “We’ll drill out the rivets, get Tara to lift the plates off the deck and sides, and set ’em ashore. We’ll go low first, set the stringers below the waterline and replate up to that. Then Tara can wash us out of her belly and scram. Have Ellie come back and escort her down. You can go with her. We’ll finish up the rest of the work on Walker here, alongside the dock.”
“How are you going to do that with Tara gone?”
Spanky shrugged. “Our people can do it themselves if we get one of Kurokawa’s cranes up and running.” They’d already pulled a lot of machinery, parts, and tools off of Zanzibar and sent them to Mahe, but the cranes had been left behind. Their boilers, at least those they could easily salvage, were gone.
Matt zeroed in on that. “What about power?” he asked.
“We’ll take one of the replacement boilers out of Tara or fix one of the busted ones here. Hell, between me and Tabby and that squirrel Isak, we can, by God, make a boiler if we have to. Our engineering plant’s in good shape and none of the snipes’ve had anything to do for a while. Most are on liberty.”
Despite how much work remained, it was all in a relatively confined area and too many people would just get in the way. About half the crew was on extended shore leave. They’ve earned it, Matt thought, but God knows what they find to do. If Silva was here, he’d be off hunting Japs or Grik, even after I told everyone to leave them alone. Especially since they seem too busy hunting each other—and staying away from us—to make a nuisance of themselves. Then again, he’d heard that the Japanese had built a kind of officers’ club, and it, as well as Kurokawa’s HQ, had survived pretty much intact. And Kurokawa had some kind of wine-making going on. They’ve probably built a still by now, making seep from polta fruit—or alcohol from who knows what else they’ve found. He couldn’t pretend to be upset about that. They had earned a break, and there’d been few opportunities for any real liberty on this world. Hmm, he considered. Then again, there’s probably quite a bit of conjugal visitation going on as well. And there are a lot of female ’Cats and Impie women on Tara. They go ashore too. . . .
Spanky seemed to be following his line of thought. “The shore patrol pretty much leaves ’em alone. Just protects ’em from incursions by the former inhabitants, keeps ’em from hurtin’ themselves, and makes sure they’re back aboard when they’re supposed to be.”
“That’s fine,” Matt said, “but you’ll need all hands to make your scheme work.” He realized belatedly that he’d just effectively endorsed Spanky’s plan. He hoped he wasn’t grasping at straws. Walker was more than just a ship to many, but she also represented a disproportionate concentration of the most highly trained veteran sailors in the American Navy Clan. Savoie needed experienced hands of all sorts, as did the new construction back home. It made no sense to let them languish here if Walker couldn’t be quickly repaired.
“That’s okay.” Spanky grinned. “They’re probably bored to tears by now, anyway. Only so much drunken debauchery any sailor can take.” Matt coughed sarcastically, but Spanky’s expression turned serious. “And there’s not a man or ’Cat who wouldn’t trade their liberty for a year if it meant getting this old girl back in the fight.”
Matt hadn’t thought of that, but he suspected it was true. He knew what the thought of leaving her was doing to him, but to her crew, her people, she was home. The majority of the few original destroyermen aboard had probably hated her once. He had himself, to a degree, wishing for a more modern, capable command. That had changed profoundly. And her predominantly Lemurian crew had always loved her in their peculiar way, which was closer to affection for a community, an extended family, or a beloved hometown. They came and went over time, of course, often promoted and transferred to other ships, other Homes, and some had been given commands of their own. But Walker would always be special to them, even more than to the Alliance in general. And as flagship of the American Navy Clan, she was practically the capital of their state in the Union, as such things were reckoned. No, Matt realized. No one will lightly abandon her, and they might not be good for much elsewhere if they did. And they certainly won’t complain about the work, compared to the alternative.
The deck in the forward berthing space thudded behind them and Sonny Campeti, Walker’s gunnery officer, hurried in. He had a perplexed, almost . . . stunned look on his bearded face. “Captain, XO, there’s something you need to see.”
“What is it?” Matt demanded.
“It’s . . . Please, sir, just come look for yourself, sir. You won’t believe it if I tell you. I saw it and still don’t believe it myself!”
Matt and Spanky looked at each other, blinking. “Okay, Mr. Campeti. After you.”
From Walker’s deck, nestled low in Tarakaan Island’s repair bay, they couldn’t see what had Sonny so ruffled, so they mounted the brow and strode up to Tara herself. The excited jabbering of workers paused as they passed, and Matt looked at them curiously. They wore expressions or blinked emotions similar to Campeti’s. Finally, standing near one of the DP 4″-50 tubs flanking Tara’s forward starboard crane, they looked at the northwest entrance to what Silva had dubbed Lizard Ass Bay. There, beneath swirling lizardbirds and the gray smoke rising from her aft funnel, was a sight none of them had ever expected to see: USS Mahan, DD-102, had arrived.
“Well, I will be damned!” Spanky blurted, just as Tabby raced up the brow to join them. She never went ashore to “play,” still nursing what even she must finally realize was a hopeless love for Spanky. No one doubted that Spanky loved her too, but not like that, and their relationship remained complicated. In any event, the lightning speed of the scuttlebutt must’ve reached her in the aft engine room just as quickly as Matt and Spanky were informed.
“Is thaat . . . ?” she began, gasping.
“Apparently so,” Matt confirmed. There was no mistaking Mahan’s
distinctive outline, which had been truncated not once but twice in combat on this world. Her forward third had literally ceased to exist when Jim Ellis rammed her into Amagi and detonated a load of depth charges rolled into her bow at the height of the Battle of Baalkpan. She sank but was later raised, and had a new bow built and a new bridge structure attached to the front of her amidships deckhouse. That shortened her by the length of her forward fireroom, and she had only two tacks and boilers now, but she’d retained the same combat power as her sister—if not her speed. Then, during the night action ending Second Madraas, somebody’s torpedo—they’d assumed it was a wild one from Walker, but Matt now suspected it came from a League submarine—blew her new bow off. That time, Walker towed her in, but she’d been all but abandoned, considered too far gone to justify the effort to fix her again.
Apparently, someone on the scene disagreed. She obviously had a third bow now, and was seaworthy enough for the long voyage here. Matt shook his head, still unbelieving. The last they’d officially heard, she remained in Madraas with little more than a caretaker crew aboard. She had finally been moved into one of the unpowered floating dry docks, but she was there only because, with the logistical demands of First Fleet, no ships large enough to tow it to Mahe or back to Andamaan could be spared. Matt remembered there’d been rumors that Mahan’s caretakers were doing a bit more than just keeping her pumps going and killing vermin as they crept aboard, but this . . . “Did you know?” Matt asked Spanky, incredulous.
“Hell no!”
Ed Palmer joined them, along with Chief Jeek, Pack Rat, Paddy Rosen, even Min-Sakir “Minnie.” And now Sandra approached, followed by Diania and a herd of Tara’s human and Lemurian medical personnel and crew. Matt spun to Ed. “Did you pick up anything about this by wireless? Radio?” he demanded.
“No, sir, I swear!” Ed squinted at the approaching ship as she made her turn, less than a mile away. One of the Lemurian 4″-50 gunners handed him an Imperial telescope. “She’s hoisted a signal,” Ed informed them.
“What’s it say?” Sandra asked.
Ed snorted. “It says, ‘Don’t shoot. It’s really me.’” The crowd exploded into amazed laughter.
* * *
* * *
When Mahan was secured alongside USS Tarakaan Island, two Lemurians and a dark-skinned woman clambered aboard, all in whites. They saluted Tara’s flag and then the SPD’s ’Cat OOD, who’d rushed to meet them, his tail whipping with excitement. Matt was even more amazed to see that the most senior of the three, a yellow-and-tan-striped female Lemurian, was a lieutenant (jg). The other two were ensigns. The ranking ’Cat cleared her throat. “Lieu-ten-aant jaay gee Tiaa-Baari an’ ensigns Toos-Ay-Chil an’ Sonyaa request permission to come aboard.” The OOD blinked helplessly at Matt, who shrugged and nodded. “Permission graanted,” the Lemurian managed. Toos was a gruff-looking older ’Cat with dark brown fur. His name indicated he was originally from Chill-Chaap. If so, he was one of a few former residents alive and must’ve been traveling when the Grik hit there. The Impie gal, for that’s clearly what Sonya was, was no taller than the Lemurians and looked a lot like Diania. Not as pretty, but they could’ve been sisters. The three turned to Matt, braced to attention, and saluted once more.
Matt returned the gesture almost absently, staring at them. Then he looked down at Mahan. Up close, she looked pretty rough, only half-painted and streaked with rust. And the new bow looked a little crude—but in a sturdy sort of way. Otherwise, however, she appeared ready to fight. There was a brand-new DP 4″-50 on the fo’c’sle, and Mahan’s other original guns were trained fore and aft behind the bridge and on the aft deckhouse. Undamaged 25-mm tubs flanked the catapult aft, though there was no plane. And the portside torpedo tubes—at least—were loaded.
Matt frowned, noting again that only one boiler was lit. He turned his gaze back to Tiaa-Baari. “What the hell are you doing here, and how did you do it?”
“Sur,” Tiaa said, rigid as a statue, tail hanging motionless, almost straight down. “We had the bow built, onshore, for a while. Before we ever got in dry dock. There really waasn’t much else wrong with her, ’cept maybe the number-one boiler . . . an’ thaat could’a been fixed if we haad the people an’ parts. Coulda been here way sooner with just a little support from Gener-aal Linnaa-Fas-Ra.”
Linnaa commanded VI Corps in Indiaa, which was supposed to be preparing to move south and join the rest of the expeditionary force at Mahe. There were security issues in Indiaa; Halik wasn’t too long gone, and there were lots of dangerous predators there. But Linnaa and his troops weren’t doing any fighting. The only ones actively employed were Colonel Enaak’s 5th Maa-ni-la Cavalry and Dalibor Svec’s Czech Legion—and they weren’t even in Indiaa anymore. They were still shadowing Halik’s army as it rampaged through Persia, killing other Grik. Still, Linnaa constantly made excuses for his delays, and Matt recalled that his most valid one had involved a severe shortage of escorts for his transports—a role Mahan might’ve filled if she’d been repaired more quickly. Matt’s expression darkened. And it was Linnaa himself who’d assured them for so long that Mahan couldn’t be repaired. . . .
Tiaa misunderstood his expression. “I’m sorry if we did wrong, but we joined the Navy Claan to fight. Mahaan was made to fight. We were doing nothing at Madraas.”
Matt smiled and nodded at the ship. “Not nothing, obviously. But if Linnaa wasn’t helping, was actually trying to prevent your coming, how’d you manage it? And”—he looked quizzically at Ed Palmer—“why didn’t somebody let us know you were coming?”
Tiaa blinked rapidly. “We haave no raa-dio, no wireless. An’ as for the other.” She hesitated. “Gener-aal Linnaa may still not know we’re gone.”
“Really? My God!” Sandra exclaimed. “Is he that far out of touch?”
“The scuttlebutt is, he never goes outa thaat paalace Kurokaa-wa occupied when he was there, so yeah. His staaff says all he does is gripe about the new Union, and figger out ways to draag his tail.”
“Daamn Sulaarans!” Pack Rat snarled. “Always yaankin’ ever’body’s tails!”
“That’s enough,” Sandra scolded. “There are plenty of honorable Sularans. Many are fighting alongside us. Some are aboard Walker.”
“Them ain’t the ones I’m daamnin’,” Pack Rat said, sulking. “It’s the high-ups like Linnaa, always thowin’ wrenches in the works!”
“So,” Matt said, looking appraisingly at Tiaa and her comrades. “You just . . . snuck out, and people back in Madras are covering for you.”
“Ay, sur.” Tiaa blinked pleadingly. “I know—maybe—it waasn’t right, but . . . did we do right?”
Matt barked a laugh. “You certainly did.” He turned to Palmer. “Chairman Adar was always soft on Linnaa, for political reasons, but this is beyond the pale. I doubt Chairman Letts will be as forgiving. Draft a dispatch for immediate transmission to Madras; copy Chairman Letts.” He paused, considering. “And the Madras Navy Yard, attention the commander of the Marine contingent there.”
“Sure, Skipper. What’ll I say?”
“General Linnaa is to be relieved and arrested at once and charged with conduct detrimental to the war effort. We’ll add specifics later. In the meantime, his XO will assume command. He’ll get Sixth Corps moving as fast as he can, or he’ll be replaced. Make sure the Marine commander understands that.”
“But, sur,” Tiaa said. “The CO of the Maa-reen contingent is a lieu-ten-aant!”
Matt grinned. “Then he might wind up a corps commander if he can’t find somebody who’ll get Sixth Corps off its ass. Now”—he nodded at Mahan—“I want to see what you did. Especially how you fixed the bow. We have a few structural issues to deal with ourselves,” he added ironically. “And maybe you have some engineering problems?”
“Ay, sur.”
Matt turned to Tabby. “Find Isak and join us on Mahan. Maybe between everybody, we c
an sort this all out.”
Two hours later, Matt, Sandra, Tabby, Isak, Tiaa, and Sonya were in Mahan’s wardroom, drinking iced tea. Spanky was drinking the vile Lemurian coffee—none of the real stuff had made it out of theater yet—and spitting Aryaalan tobacco juice in a cuspidor made from a 4″-50 shell on the deck beside his stool. All the ’Cats were smoking PIG-cigs, to Isak’s satisfaction, and Matt was thankful when Diania, present as Sandra’s assistant, opened all the portholes, letting the acrid fumes escape. To no one’s surprise, Ensign Sonya had been presented as Mahan’s acting engineering officer, and she was seated between Isak and Tabby. Ensign Toos had gone over to Walker to inspect her damage and make any suggestion he could. He’d once been a shipwright, building the enormous seagoing Homes in Baalkpan, giving him a talent for robust structural engineering. He’d even participated in Walker’s first rebuild. Unlike most Lemurians, he’d quickly embraced the advantages of steel construction and been instrumental in designing Mahan’s repairs.
“So,” Matt began, “Mahan’s hull is obviously sound.” (“Sound” was an understatement. There was still no armor—that would’ve made her too heavy forward—but after examining how the new bow was framed and attached, no one doubted she was stronger than she’d ever been.) “But what’s the story in engineering?”
Tabby blew smoke out of her very feline nose, something that always jarred Matt’s sensibilities. “Her boilers are shot, both of ’em. They need an overhaul, baad,” she said.
“Shot?” Sandra pressed.
“It’s the goddamn tubes, mostly. They’re crap, just like ours were,” Isak snapped in his reedy voice. He lowered his gaze. “S’cuse me talkin’ like a damn deck ape, Lady Sandra.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. Governor Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald had bestowed the title upon her, along with a knighthood for her husband, but since few really understood the significance and so many already called Matt “sir,” it was her title that had slowly grown in use throughout the Alliance. Discouraging everyone who used it had grown more tedious than accepting it. Especially now that even Walker’s oldest hands were using it too.
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