Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  “Civil war,” growled Rolak through Adar. “Warriors came out during the night, warriors loyal to me. They told of fighting throughout the city and . . . horrible deeds.” He cast down his eyes. “It seems that by trying to save my city’s honor, I may have caused its destruction. None have come out since morning, though, and I don’t know what’s happening now. My best guess is that the king’s loyalists have retaken control of the main gate.”

  “What happened?” Matt asked gently.

  Lord Rolak sighed. “As you know, when Fet-Alcas refused to allow us to strike the enemy rear, as we agreed, my forces and those of Queen Maraan swept north through the city and came out through the north gate. We had to fight to get out even there. Apparently, word spread of the specifics of the disagreement and many were appalled not only by the king’s treachery but also by the fact that they had been deprived of participating in such a great battle. I know it may be hard for some of you to understand, but to watch such a fight from behind stout walls and do nothing, regardless of the honor at stake, would be difficult for Aryaalans to bear. Fet-Alcas has never been a popular king. He assumed the throne upon the death of his brother, who was popular and widely respected. Even, I think, in B’mbaado.”

  Safir Maraan nodded. “Tac-Alcas was a worthy opponent,” she agreed without reluctance. “We warred with him often and he was difficult, difficult, but my father respected his courage, as well as his honor. As did I. Tac-Alcas would never have betrayed us as his brother did.”

  “In any event,” Rolak continued, “there were already factions, political ones, long before the Grik came.” He spoke the word “political” with a sneer. “I suspect most of those who actually supported me and my decision to come to your aid managed to make it out during the night. Any fighting still under way is probably between the king and other factions within the nobility that, like skuggiks drawn to carrion, have seen an opportunity. I imagine my return would be as unwelcome to any of them as it would be to the king.”

  “We must talk to them, nevertheless. Whoever’s in charge,” Matt observed.

  “Indeed. Many of my warriors who would wish to join you still have families within those walls. None of them are bound by my friendship with you, although most will consider themselves so. I will storm the city myself, if necessary, to get their families out.”

  “Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” Sandra said in a fervent tone.

  Heads nodded in unison and Matt cleared his throat. “Well. That’s pretty much how things sit, I believe. The way I see it, we have, almost in spite of ourselves, won a major victory here. It was costlier than it should have been and we’re not in as good a shape as we’d hoped to be at this point. But that doesn’t change the ultimate strategy of our campaign. We’ve got to keep up the pressure and move against Singapore as quickly as possible. The intelligence we gained from the captured charts suggests the enemy has only an outpost there so far. While we can presume that the force we destroyed here probably at least stopped off at Singapore, there’s no indication in the charts that they dropped off any sizable force. That being said, I expect that’s probably where the ships that escaped the battle in the bay retreated to, but they left their troops behind. With the addition of Queen Maraan’s troops, and those of Lord Rolak, we should have sufficient forces to evict them—if we act before they reinforce.” He looked at the gathered faces and wished again that he had some inkling of their thoughts. “Therefore, our priorities are these: first, bring the B’mbaadan and Aryaalan troops up to speed as quickly as possible.” Matt let his gaze rest on Queen Maraan and Lord Rolak in turn. “That’s going to take considerable cooperation from both of you. Your people are proud warriors and they may resist training in the new tactics, particularly since their instructors will be ‘mere’ sea folk.”

  “They won’t resist,” Queen Maraan assured him. “Not after yesterday.”

  Matt hoped she was right and he tried to hide his skepticism. He knew how difficult it had been for Europe to accept the lessons of modern war that Americans learned during their own Civil War. “Second, I want every felucca in the fleet either transporting supplies from Baalkpan or scouting the coastlines for any further incursions by the enemy. If they’ve established other outposts—at Tjilatjap, for example—we must know about it immediately. We’ll also reconnoiter toward Singapore. Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar will assemble a small squadron of the fastest craft around Revenge for that purpose.” He looked at Rick. “Don’t push too hard. They have to expect us to check them out, but I don’t want them to expect an attack.”

  “Understood, Captain.”

  “I also want the wounded out.” He looked speculatively at his battle line commanders. “We should move them aboard a Home. Decide among yourselves which one it’ll be.” Matt had no doubt they would choose Fristar. Even now it was clear that the High Chiefs of the other Homes were avoiding Anai-Sa. His Home had lagged throughout the Battle of the Bay and had shown no initiative with her fire the following day. Adar told him that he doubted she’d fired a dozen times—as if Anai-Sa was hoarding his ammunition. “Whoever it is,” Matt continued, “must deliver the wounded and return here as quickly as possible with as many more warriors as Baalkpan can spare.” He took a deep breath. “Finally, we have to resolve the situation in Aryaal. I hope we can do that peacefully, but when we move on Singapore, I expect we’ll be taking as many B’mbaadan warriors as Her Highness can spare from her island’s defenses.” He looked at Queen Maraan and blinked a question. She nodded slowly in reply. He had no idea if she was reluctant or merely contemplative. “Since we can’t afford to leave a sizable force here to secure our lines of supply and communication—or to protect B’mbaado from an opportunistic Fet-Alcas trying to reunite his people against a common enemy—we must ensure that we aren’t leaving a hostile presence in our rear.”

  There was considerable murmuring over that, as he’d expected. The sea folk harbored absolutely no moral qualms over battling the hated Grik to extinction, but the idea of fighting other Lemurians—no matter who they were—was anathema. It was what had always set them apart, in their view, from the people of Surabaya. He let them continue to talk among themselves a few moments more, but then silenced them. “Mr. Shinya, the Second Marines and half the remaining artillery will deploy in front of the north gate, and the rest of our forces will guard the barricade in case old Fet-Alcas starts feeling adventurous.” He looked at the others.

  “If there’s nothing else, we all have a lot to do over the next couple of weeks. That’s all the time we can spare, so make the most of it. If any of you have questions, I’ll be back ashore tonight”—he stopped, and his eyes became hooded and his voice grew quiet—“for the funeral. Right now, I’m going back to my ship.”

  The meeting broke up and the attendees drifted off, some talking excitedly among themselves, others silent. Matt summoned his reserves and stood up from the stool once more, casting an impatient glance at Sandra when she tried to help. She shook her head and stayed back, but the displeasure was clear on her face.

  “I want you out of here as quickly as possible, Jim. How soon can you get under way?”

  Ellis visibly calculated how long it would take to accomplish the necessary preparations. “A week or two, Captain . . . I think.” He assumed a troubled expression. “But I’m not sure how we’re going to manage the propeller trade. That might slow things down.”

  Matt nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry to do this to you, but it can’t be helped. Mahan can’t steam any faster on two engines than she can on one. We’ll fix that as soon as we can, but right now we need at least one of our ships to be fast.” He grinned. “At least by local standards.”

  They began walking slowly toward the dock at a pace set unobtrusively by Sandra to minimize any chance of the captain stressing his wounds. Chief Gray hobbled along on his crutches, joined by Chack and Lord Rolak, a respectful distance behind. With so much to do, Matt flatly refused to return to his hospital bed, but no on
e was about to let him run around on his own. They reached the dock and waited for Walker to complete a wide, easy turn out in the bay that would eventually bring her alongside the pier. After a long silence in which each of them stared at the slender, light-gray ship with different and sometimes conflicting thoughts and emotions, Jim Ellis cleared his throat.

  “Captain?” he said. “Matt?”

  Matt arched an eyebrow and looked at his former executive officer. Jim was his friend, but even so, the number of times he’d addressed him by his first name could be counted on the fingers of one hand. In the past, he’d done it only when he wanted to speak to him as a friend and not as a subordinate officer. “There’s something I’ve got to say. I wanted to, night before last, after the battle in the bay, but everything moved so quickly and besides”—he shrugged and gestured at the destroyer, which had completed her turn and was slowly approaching the dock—“I was just so glad to see you and that old ’can, the last thing I wanted to do was argue.” He frowned. “But that was before yesterday.” He glanced at Sandra for support and then looked to see if anyone else was in earshot. There was a general commotion and bustle all around, but the only ones close enough to hear were Gray, Rolak, and Chack.„ Currently, however, the Bosun and Matt’s new . . . whatever he was . . . were deep in discussion, with Chack translating for them. He sighed.

  “Skipper, I really don’t think you should let yourself get caught up in any more desperate land battles, and I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d refrain.”

  Both of Matt’s eyebrows rose then, but he managed a chuckle. “I had to be there, Jim. Nakja-Mur and all the High Chiefs put me in overall command. It would have looked pretty lousy if I wasn’t willing to face the same danger as those I was supposed to be leading. Hell, Keje was there.”

  “Keje was there because you were there, and he almost got killed too,” Sandra pointed out.

  “Well, you’re the one who so forcefully assured me I’m not indispensable,” Matt reminded her with a gentle smile.

  “I lied,” she retorted. She wasn’t smiling. Matt’s grin faded and he looked at her intently for a moment. Jim seemed to be considering his words. When he spoke, at first it appeared he was changing the subject.

  “When’s the last time the men got paid?” he asked. Matt blinked at the apparent non sequitur.

  “Before we left the Philippines,” he answered guardedly.

  “What do you suppose would have happened, before the War, if they’d gone that long without pay?”

  Matt made a “what next” gesture, wondering when Jim would get to the point. But instead of Jim, Sandra spoke up. “What he’s trying to say is you are indispensable! After everything that’s happened; the War, the Squall, making an alliance with the Lemurians, and now this battle, Walker and her crew have continued to carry on and follow orders and do what you asked of them regardless of the fact that, besides her, and now Mahan thankfully, the United States Navy doesn’t exist anymore. Not to them. Even the country they fought for is gone. The only thing that’s kept everything together up to now is you. The possibility that the crew might not continue to follow orders never became an issue because you didn’t let it. You just continued ruthlessly on, as you always had, and made it clear you expected everyone else to do the same. The United States is gone, but Walker’s their center, their core, their cause to cling to, and you’re the one who made that happen.” She rubbed her tired eyes. “Do you have any idea how fragile that is?”

  “She’s right, Skipper,” Jim said solemnly. “If anything happened to you, it would probably all fall apart. I’m only beginning to learn what all you’ve managed to accomplish in Balikpapan. I mean, fuel, for Christ’s sake!” He took a deep breath. “I might be able to carry on for a time—at least I hope I could. I kind of doubt it, though. My command experience so far has been less than stellar. Or maybe Dowden or Letts could swing it for a while, or Bradford could keep things going. But if you’re lost, the unique relationship you’ve forged between Walker and the people here would be lost too. What effect would that have on this war against the Grik? Do you think it would even continue?” He waved around, a gesture that encompassed those close by as well as the walls of the city. “Hell, most of these people wouldn’t even talk to each other before you made them. Do you think they still would if you were gone? They see you as an honest, impartial broker. One who’s not caught up in their petty disputes. The way I see it, you’re the glue that’s holding this alliance together, and even adding to it.” Jim grunted in frustration. “Hell, when I got here with Mahan, I couldn’t even get the locals to talk to me.

  “Besides,” he continued, “from a purely selfish perspective, think what it would do to the crew. You’re the last visible vestige of supreme authority they have left to cling to. The last physical connection to the world they’ve lost—to normalcy, I guess, and duty. They still follow your orders because you’re The Captain, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Even here.” Jim looked down at his feet for a moment, and then met Matt’s eyes again. “I like to think I could fill your shoes on the bridge someday, as far as seamanship is concerned. Believe me, I thought about that a lot over the last few months. Then I look at Walker, with her new paint job and fuel oil burning in her boilers and I see . . . guys . . . like Chack over there, filling out her crew. I see a ship that was whipped but has since become the most powerful ship in the world, more than likely.” He sighed. “I compare that to Mahan, which hasn’t done half of what you have since we split up, and she still looks whipped.”

  “We were lucky,” Matt murmured.

  “Maybe so, but that wasn’t all.” Jim stopped and rubbed his temples, but when he spoke again his expression was pained. “I don’t know if I could’ve stopped Kaufman or not. It never dawned on me that he’d try to take over the ship. Then, when he did, I never thought anyone would obey him, but they did. After what Mahan went through, it was hard to blame them, I guess. He sounded like he knew what he was doing when nobody else did, even me. But I’ve seen what happens when chaos and fear set in and a ship loses all sense of purpose and hope. I don’t want to see it again.”

  Spanky McFarlane stood on Walker’s fantail, hands on his skinny hips, peering down through the portside propeller-guard tubing at the water below. Occasionally, small waves lapped against it and disrupted the almost perfect, wine-bottle blue-green clarity of the bay. That itself would prove to somebody who just woke up that this wasn’t the cloudy, oily, Surabaya/Madura Bay they remembered. Through the occasional ripples, the sandy bottom was visible about thirty feet below, and between it and the surface, the growth-encrusted propeller shaft and support protruded far out beyond the line of the deck on which McFarlane stood. The only thing glaringly wrong with the view was the decidedly queer appearance of the now two-bladed screw. That, and the malevolent silvery shapes that glided and darted hopefully about.

  McFarlane was surrounded by half a dozen helpers, snipes and deck-apes together. All stared at the water as if it were fresh molten lava oozing from the ocean floor. The most persistent shark had never received as much attention as the smaller but infinitely more numerous “flashies” did. A short distance away, so close the ’guards almost touched, floated Mahan, with a similar assembly peering at the water between them with identical expressions. Noisy sounds of difficult labor and coarse shouts echoed from the other ship as repair parties worked to make her seaworthy, but on Walker—just a few yards away—men and Lemurians almost tiptoed around, ridiculously making as little noise as they possibly could. The Skipper was asleep and the titanic racket from the ship alongside had no bearing on their stealthy efforts. If somebody woke the captain, it wasn’t going to be any of them.

  Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney looked from the water to Spanky’s hard, solemn face with wide eyes. “I ain’t goin’ down there, boss!” he said, with just a trace of panic.

  McFarlane never even took his eyes off the damaged propeller. “If I say you’re goin’, you’re g
oin’, Laney. Even if I have to throw your worthless ass in.” Nobody even mentioned that Laney had fifty pounds on the engineering officer. If Spanky wanted Laney in the water, one way or another, Laney would wind up in the water. “You and Donaghey are the only ones qualified in the diving gear ’sides me, and I’m too important to go. If we can’t figure out a better way to get this done, we won’t have any choice.”

  Wisely making no comment on Spanky’s perception of his own importance compared to how Laney rated his, the machinist’s mate tried sweet reason instead. “Why can’t we just flood her down forward? Then we can take it off from a raft.”

  Spanky shook his head. “Won’t work. I already thought of that. We’d have to sink the whole forward part of the ship plumb to the bottom to get those screws out of the water.” Laney looked at him with an expression that seemed to ask, “So?” Spanky sighed.

  Dennis Silva had joined him at the rail. The big gunner’s mate spat in the water and watched as the white bubbles dissipated.

  “Why not see what a grenade’ll do? A stick of dynamite works pretty good in a lake.”

  Spanky looked at him and opened his mouth. Then he closed it. “Go get one.”

  Silva grinned. “Campeti don’t just leave ’em in baskets outside his door.”

  “Tell him I said you could have one.” Silva’s sheepish expression gave him pause. “Shit. How many times have you told Campeti somebody said you could have a grenade? Never mind, I don’t want to know.” He took out his notepad and scribbled something on it. Then he tore out the sheet and handed it to Silva, who glanced at what he’d written.

  Sonny: Give Silva a grenade.

  I swear to God it’s for me.

  You can ask me later, or bring it yourself.

  To the fantail.

  Spanky

  “Looks like a po-eem,” Silva said, admiringly.