The captain, with some reservations of his own, Spanky suspected, decreed that strict equality of the sexes would be observed at all times with regard to the new personnel. The Lemurians themselves made no distinctions in tasks or duties between the sexes, the sole exception, of course, being maternity. The captain told him that unless they wanted to offend their allies in a very fundamental way, they would do the same. Fine. Half-nude female monkey-cats capering around on deck with the rest of the apes was no concern of his, but this was the goddamn boiler room! Tempers—and passions!—ran high down here in the heat, and the presence of any female of any species only served, in his view, to highlight the frustrations they all felt in that regard.
What made things even worse, if that was possible, was if you could get past the soot-gray fur and long catlike ears, the feline face and clawed paws and feet . . . yeah, well, and the tail too, Tab-At was kind of cute. As soon as that thought registered in Spanky’s mind, he realized everyone else in engineering—with the possible curious exception of the Mice—had undoubtedly already thought it, particularly after the much-speculated-upon possible affair between Silva and Risa-Sab-At. He determined then that everyone in his division at least, regardless of the heat, would By God wear clothes. If Gray wanted to let them run around on deck with nothing but a skirt, that was his lookout. But not down here!
Spanky had hoped, with a guilty twinge, his decision would make Tab-At strike for a berth in the deck division; there was no question she’d be more uncomfortable. No such luck. The next time he saw her she was wearing a T-shirt that, to his horror, actually accentuated her breasts by concealing the fur, which made them appear even more human! Someone had even gone so far as to give her a pair of trousers with a hole in the seat for her tail. He’d never required that—since a ’Cat’s tail made breeches impractical. He realized he was being mocked and finally gave up.
That didn’t mean he had to like it, and as he looked at her now, standing with the Mice as they monitored the feed water and the fuel flow, he saw her watching him. She didn’t look away like the others, and he didn’t sense abashed worshipfulness either. Nor did he detect any hostility over his persecution of her. She wore . . . a look of amused triumph. He sighed, and then grinned at her. She at least knew he didn’t know everything.
Matt sat on one of Keje’s humble wooden stools in Big Sal’s Great Hall. With the exception of Keje, Lieutenant Tucker, and himself, everyone—including Courtney Bradford—lounged comfortably on the overstuffed pillows in a loose group around the ubiquitous table near the base of the great tree that dominated the ornate compartment. Larry Dowden, the only one not seated, stood near a hastily drawn map supported on the table so all could see. Matt shifted uncomfortably on the hard stool and wished, once again, he’d brought a chair of his own. He could’ve used one of the cushions, he supposed, but that would have made him feel even less at ease. He noted with arched-brow amusement that Lieutenant Mallory felt no similar reservations. The exhausted aviator was sprawled on a particularly deep and soft cushion and seemed to be having difficulty staying awake.
It had been a long day for Ben and his crew. They’d flown out of Baalkpan early that morning to make a final aerial observation of the objective. For the first time, Mallory was allowed to fly directly over the city—and the enemy forces. His observations weren’t reassuring. Almost forty Grik ships were now in the bay before Surabaya and they’d dispatched a sizable landing force. Unlike Baalkpan, the defenders had a sturdy wall all around their city, with what appeared to be formidable defenses. But the Grik army was more than large enough to encircle most of the settlement. The only exception to complete investiture was a stretch of waterfront and a portion of the bay between the city and the island of Madura, about three miles from the mainland. A large assemblage of native small craft was concentrated in the passage, and another fortification, as yet unengaged, was constructed on the point of land on the island closest to Surabaya. A dense cloud of smoke from burning buildings—probably set alight by what everyone was calling Grik Fire—hung over everything, and Mallory couldn’t see much detail. But this time there was no question whether the Grik saw the PBY.
Matt disliked allowing the plane to be seen by the enemy, but they had to know what they faced. Perhaps the unnatural thundering apparition that swooped low overhead had unnerved the Grik, Matt consoled himself. In order to avoid doing the same to the Aryaalans, Mallory’s crew had dropped hundreds of “pamphlets” over the defenders’ main position. These pamphlets consisted of light wooden shakes etched with a Lemurian phrase that said: “Your brothers to the north will aid you. We bring powerful friends. Do not fear.” It was all they could do to assure the defenders help was on the way. With his mission complete, Mallory returned to join the task force. Tomorrow, he would fly back to Baalkpan, since they dared not risk the plane in the fight to come. Once there, he’d stay in radio contact with Walker.
Sandra Tucker sat primly at Matt’s side, also on one of the stools, and showed no discomfort whatsoever. He wondered what she was thinking. He’d come to rely more and more on her intuition as time went by, but he had to admit he also just liked having her around. They’d evolved an unspoken understanding after they declared their love for one another. Aboard ship, a wall of strict propriety always stood between them in spite of their mutual attraction. They thought they hid it well. But sometimes when they were alone, a more . . . comfortable . . . familiarity existed between them. They both felt compelled to restrict any further exploration of their feelings, and Matt felt almost guilty that they shared as much as they did when the rest of the men had no prospects at all . . . unless you believed Silva and Risa really . . . He shook his head. Perhaps someday they’d find more people; even the Lemurian legends hinted at the possibility, but right now there was a war to fight. Terrible as it was, at least it had released some of the pressure-cooker tension caused by the “dame famine.”
In the meantime, for the sake of the men, Matt and Sandra must control their passions. That didn’t mean Matt intended to ignore her excellent insight. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: “What do you think of that Anai-Sa?” he asked, referring to the High Chief of the Fristar Home. The black-furred Lemurian had arrived at the conference late, as usual, and now sat hunched on a cushion in sulky disdain while the rest of the attendees finished the refreshments that were a prerequisite to any council.
“I think he only volunteered so he could get the cannons that were promised to the Homes that take part in the campaign,” she whispered back. “I don’t trust him. I hope you don’t have to rely on him for a critical assignment.”
Matt nodded. Anai-Sa had been the most outspoken proponent of just packing up and sailing off, but to possess the power of the guns was a mighty incentive to hypocrisy. “Do you have any less vague impressions about our other commanders?” he asked with heavy irony.
A quiet chuckle escaped her, but she nodded. “They seem pretty solid for the most part. You know you can count on Rick, on Revenge, and Keje, of course.” She paused, considering. “I really like Ramic-Sa-Ar of Aracca and Tassat-Ay-Aracca of Nerracca.”
“They’re father and son, aren’t they?” Matt asked, referring to the pair of Lemurians who sat close together talking animatedly among themselves. There was certainly a strong resemblance. The younger one seemed a virtual replica of the older.
“Yes,” she confirmed, “and Tassat is actually younger than Anai, even though you could hardly tell by the way they act.” She sniffed. “As far as Geran-Eras of Humfra-Dar, it’s hard to say.” She was referring to the only female High Chief present. “She’s been a vocal supporter of the expedition from the start,” Sandra continued. “You may even remember her showing rather . . . energetic approval of your plan?”
Matt did remember then, and cringed. Even Lemurian females had surprising upper body strength, and Geran-Eras had actually embraced him after he made his pitch for the relief of Surabaya. He was sure she’d almost cracked some ribs.
“I think, as your Mr. Silva would say, ‘she has more than one dog in this hunt.’ Adar told me her mate and one of her children were killed in a Grik attack right before they came to Baalkpan. Might’ve even been one of the ships we destroyed, so she really likes you. Also, I imagine she sees this expedition as a chance for revenge. You might need to keep an eye on her.”
Matt nodded soberly and glanced around. The refreshments had been consumed and Keje was looking at him expectantly. “Better get started,” he said to Sandra, and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began aloud. “We have a battle to plan.”
Standing on Walker’s bridge with his binoculars raised, Matt reflected that his return to Surabaya wasn’t altogether unlike his departure so long ago. Once again, the clouds above the distant city glowed and flickered with the reflected light of fires caused by an enemy bombardment. This time, the spectacle was all the more surreal. Walker’s blowers roared at a pitch consistent with her ten knots, but in spite of that, even at this distance, the loud whump and overpressure of Japanese bombs would have been felt and heard. Instead, only an eerie silence accompanied the distant battle. They’d opened the bay from the east at 0120 and picked their way carefully through the Sapudi Islands, which were scattered haphazardly there. The last time Matt traversed these waters, Walker had had the services of a fat Dutch pilot, and Matt wondered suddenly where the man was now. Had he even survived? He banished the thought. All Walker had this time was a waning crescent moon. Of course, this time there was no minefield either.
As they drew closer, they could discern the stern lanterns of dozens of Grik ships moored in the bay, close to the city. All were ablaze with light and all rode secure at their anchors, never suspecting any threat might descend from the sea. A few, closer in, kept up a continuous desultory bombardment with their catapults, flinging “Grik Fire” bombs toward shore. Sputtering trails of fire arced high in the air and hung seemingly motionless for a moment, then plummeted down near or behind the walls of the defenders. Usually, a red gout of flame mushroomed upward into the sky. The festive, brightly lit ships in the bay provided a stark contrast to the suffering inside the city beyond.
Matt carefully refocused the binoculars dead ahead, watching one Grik ship in particular. Alone among its identical sisters, this one was under plain sail, creeping slowly among its brethren on a light southerly wind. Apparently accepted without fanfare as yet another reinforcement, the ship with the unusual blue glass in its lanterns moved deep into the enemy formation. Matt marked its progress by that blue light that identified it as Revenge.
He stepped onto the bridgewing and glanced aft. The Homes were hanging in there, totally darkened, as was Walker. He could see the occasional flash of white water alongside them as the hundred mighty sweeps propelled each huge ship forward at close to the ten knots Walker was making. He marveled yet again at the strength and determination that took. Fristar was lagging behind the others, leaving a small but growing gap between her and Humfra-Dar, but otherwise his “battle line” was holding together. The shoal of feluccas brought up the rear. He stepped back into the pilothouse and resumed his post beside his chair.
The bridge watch was silent other than an occasional whispered command, and he felt a tension that was different from any he’d sensed since the battle of the Makassar Strait. Like that night, there was fear and tension, but there was also a certain . . . predatory eagerness. A realization that they’d caught their overwhelming enemy with his britches down, coupled with a determination to make him pay. General quarters had been sounded long ago, and all stations were manned and ready except the torpedo director. Sandison’s “torpedo project” to repair the two condemned torpedoes they’d filched from a warehouse in Surabaya was still on hold, and they wouldn’t be using any of the three “definites” tonight. Sandison and his torpedomen had filled out the crews of the numbers one and four guns.
Matt turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who was in quiet conversation with Courtney Bradford. “Assemble your riflemen amidships and hold them as a reserve for any point of contact if the enemy try to board,” Matt instructed. Virtually everyone topside had a rifle handy, but at their stations, the crew was too spread out to mass their small-arms fire. Shinya saluted him with a serious expression and turned to comply with the order. It would be the first time he’d commanded any of the destroyermen in action, and his self-consciousness was evident. He was directly in charge of close defense of the ship and had half a dozen Americans assigned to his reserve. Matt doubted there’d be any friction. Most of the destroyermen still didn’t like him, but his abilities were evident. Some had even begun to consider him just another part of Walker’s increasingly diverse extended family. They never would forgive the Japanese, but Shinya wasn’t just a Jap anymore. Besides, they were all on the same side now. It even seemed as though Dennis Silva kind of liked the former enemy lieutenant, and if Silva would put up with him, the rest of the crew certainly could.
“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Matt cautioned as Shinya departed the bridge.
“Not long now, I should think,” commented Bradford when they were alone. Matt nodded. He hadn’t really wanted the Australian on the bridge during the action. He would have preferred that Bradford stay in the wardroom with Sandra, but the man had practically insisted. Chief Gray had just as “practically” offered to force him to go below, but the captain allowed him to remain. It was probably better this way. In spite of his peculiar manner, Bradford often made valuable observations, and Matt had to admit it was sometimes refreshing to have a sounding board close at hand who was apart from the official chain of command. It would have been unthinkable for him to ask one of his bridge watch for advice, but since Bradford was a civilian, no one would even raise an eyebrow if he did the same with him. Especially in matters of diplomacy or anthropology. Those were two subjects that, if they were lucky, they might need Bradford’s expertise on that night.
They closed to within two hundred yards of the first Grik ship, and Matt couldn’t believe they’d remained unnoticed, even as darker shapes against the starlit horizon. Of course, he knew nothing about Grik night vision, but their own lights were certainly enough to spoil a human’s, if not a Lemurian’s. Revenge was so far inside the enemy formation now that her distinctive light no longer distinguished her. Could it be that everyone from the ships had gone ashore? Or were they just that arrogant? Certainly Revenge would be challenged soon! Almost as if in answer to his unspoken question, a series of bright flashes erupted from within the enemy fleet, and a moment later the sound of a rolling broadside shattered the fragile quiet of the bay. According to the plan, Revenge was to sail as close as she could to the city, and very ostentatiously attack the enemy within clear view of the defenders. Failing that, she would open fire as soon as she was discovered. Matt had no idea which had occurred, but regardless, her fire was the signal for the rest of the allied force to attack.
“Signal the fleet!”
A bright red flare soared high above from the fire-control platform and exploded, leaving tendrils of fluttering sparks.
“Inform Mr. Garrett he may commence firing all guns under local control,” Matt instructed the talker. “Pointers are to aim at the water-lines and disable as many ships as they can, but make every shot count!” The last was merely repeating what Garrett had already said to his gun crews, but it never hurt to remind them. Soon they’d be able to manufacture simple solid copper projectiles for the four-inch guns that ought to fire accurately enough on top of a charge of black powder, but they were still quite a ways from producing high-explosive rounds, and the war had just begun.
The searchlight above the fire-control platform sprang to life, its brilliant beam lashing the darkness, illuminating the targets ahead. Grotesque figures raced about on the enemy ships, or just stood, staring back at them in blinded shock. The number one gun on the fo’c’sle spoke first, with its door-slamming crack, and a large section amidships of the ship directly ahead of them disin
tegrated when the round exploded. Number two fired immediately after and the shot was rewarded by another explosion close aboard. In the distance, they heard Revenge’s twelve-pounders pouring it on. Behind them, the battle line relentlessly advanced.
Walker’s job was to blow a hole through the Grik anchorage through which the battle line would follow, pounding ships to either side with their massive guns. The primary objective was the “safe” zone between the city and Madura. There, they would land their troops. The secondary objective was to kill Grik and sink their ships. Since the secondary objective was essential to the success of the first, Walker set to with a will.
The night became a hellish maelstrom of explosions and muzzle flashes as Walker slashed through her unsuspecting prey. Tracers arced from machine-gun positions and deluged ships with splinters, lead, and shattered, jagged body parts. The enemy’s very bones became projectiles as more and more shocked and groggy Grik surged from belowdecks, adding themselves to the packed targets. The three-inch gun on the fantail pumped star shells into the sky, casting a weird, ethereal light on the battle below, even further terrifying the enemy. Another Grik ship blew up, then another. One exploded violently, its store of Grik Fire probably going up, and furiously burning debris rained down on other ships anchored nearby, setting them alight as well. The gun crews performed their intricate ballet of death, the pointers and trainers madly spinning their wheels to keep each gun pointed at whatever target the gun captain had designated. Matt saw Dennis Silva, captain of number one, bellowing and capering with glee each time a shot went home. Lemurian shell men scampered back and forth keeping the breech fed while others with leather gloves snatched up the precious, still-hot shell casings and collected them in baskets before they rolled over the side. All the while, they whooped and hollered and shouted encouragement to one another in two different languages.
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