Jim Ellis pinched the bridge of his nose and clenched his eyes shut when the roar of the PBY reached them from the bay. Lieutenant Mallory was departing on a belated scout and Matt swiveled his head and watched the battered flying boat skip across the choppy morning wavelets and claw its way into the sky.
“You drank too much seep,” he accused good-naturedly, turning back to look at the gate. Many figures were atop the wall above it, but there had been no response to their hails.
“No,” Ellis denied, “but I guess I drank enough.” He nodded toward the gate before them. “And I repeat, what now? If they won’t even talk to us . . .”
Matt snorted. His wounds were healing, thanks to the mysterious paste, but the pain was pretty severe and he had to guard against a tendency to snap. On the slope before them, Lord Rolak continued to pace back and forth, haranguing the inhabitants of the city to send somebody out to talk. “I guess we’re just going to have to make them.” He turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who stood nearby with his hands behind his back. “Mr. Shinya, have Chack carry a message to Lord Rolak to deliver. Tell him to instruct them to clear an area around the gate if they don’t want to be killed.”
Shinya nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain. Chack!” The new commander of the Second Marines ran to join them and Shinya passed on Matt’s instructions. With his dented helmet on his head and rifle slung muzzle down, Chack hurried to where Rolak stood, radiating impotent rage. Matt noted with interest that Queen Maraan’s gaze never left the burly Lemurian bosun’s mate.
“What are you going to do?” Keje asked, stepping closer. Unlike Jim Ellis’s, his head seemed much better after last night.
“I’m going to blow the gate in,” Matt answered stonily, gesturing at the two fieldpieces in the center of the line, directly opposite the entrance to the city.
“But if any inside are killed . . .” Keje began. Regardless of his own frustration, the idea of killing other Lemurians came hard to the High Chief of Salissa.
Matt turned to face him. “We can’t leave Aryaal to threaten our rear, or our allies.” He nodded toward Queen Maraan. “If we have to storm that city—and we will if they force us—there’s no telling how many will die. My hope is if we knock down that gate it’ll show them how vulnerable they are to our guns and maybe we can talk sense into them.”
“But surely they saw the effect of the guns against the Grik?”
“Sure, but they’re pointed at them now, and my guess is they don’t think we’ll do it.”
“Cap-i-taan Reddy speaks truth,” said the B’mbaadan queen through an interpreter they’d assigned her. “They know sea folk do not war among their own race.” She grinned predatorily. “But we did not think you would fight the Grik either. If you ‘knock down’ that gate, they will wonder what else they were wrong about. In any event, they know I would have no qualms taking my army inside!”
When Rolak delivered his ultimatum there was, again, no response. The sentries atop the wall above the gate did surreptitiously ease away from it, however. Matt lowered his binoculars.
“Damn,” he muttered after twenty minutes passed. “If we wait any longer, they’ll start to go back. Mr. Shinya? Proceed.” A moment later the two guns in the center of the line fired almost simultaneously. At a range of only a little over two hundred yards, it was impossible to miss. With a thunderclap roar and a billowing rush of white smoke, the guns leaped back and the brief, ripping-sheet sound of two solid shots was drowned by their impacts on the heavy wooden gate. The effect was spectacular. One shot struck near the center, blowing a large jagged hole and sending splinters in all directions. The second struck near the top hinge on the right-hand gate and it slowly toppled inward, tearing the bottom hinge as it fell. There was a muted scream from within.
“Again!” Matt commanded, his lips set in a hard line. The second two shots obliterated the left-hand gate. “Mr. Shinya! The Second Marines will advance!”
“Second Marines! Forward . . . march!”
As a solid rectangular block, the veteran unit stepped forward toward the gap made by the guns. Matt was suddenly struck by how eerie it was to see such a mass of troops move with such precision without even the beat of a drum to keep the cadence. The regiment had been whittled down to only three hundred now, but they weren’t like any warriors that had ever approached those gates before. They were a battle-hardened killing machine. Matt also knew that none of the Marines now marching toward Aryaal wanted to fight fellow Lemurians. They would, though, if it came to that. He was certain. He just hoped his bluff wouldn’t be called—because it wasn’t one. Most of those present thought it was, probably even Keje, and he didn’t know how they would react if fighting actually began. Just in case, he’d detailed Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred as the follow-on force. Unlike the Marines, the Orphan Queen’s guard had been reinforced from across the water and actually had six hundred members. Also unlike the Marines, they’d seen their dreams come true when the gates of Aryaal fell. There was no question that they would fight, and the Aryaalans had to know it.
Chack strode ahead of the Marine regiment as it approached the gate with his Krag at port arms. The long bayonet he had been given was fixed, and behind him the Marines formed their shield wall, with spears bristling from it. After what the Arylaans had seen that force do just a day before, this reorganized, grim, and fresh-looking block of warriors must have been a horrifying sight to the dazed and deafened defenders. Not quite halfway there, Chack called his troops to halt when a group of Aryaalans hurried out. They were waving a white flag—just as Rolak had been instructing them to do all morning if they wanted to talk.
Matt lowered his binoculars again with the beginnings of a relieved grin.
“Would you have let them go on?” Keje asked quietly.
Matt looked at him. “For what we have before us? Yes. The stakes are too high.”
Keje nodded sadly. “That is what I thought.”
“Would you have tried to stop me?”
“No. As you said, the stakes are too high. We must win. I just hope we do not destroy ourselves to accomplish the victory.”
Matt nodded his understanding, and together they went forward to treat with the Aryaalans.
“So. Fet-Alcas is dead,” noted Safir Maraan with some satisfaction.
“Why is it only now they are telling us this?”
Bradford grunted. “Evidently there were . . . irregularities surrounding his demise. Prince Rasik has of course assumed the throne, and they would have us believe that everything, even the delay in speaking to us after the battle, was caused by confusion while they hunted the murderous conspirators.”
Matt shook his head. “Sounds awfully Byzantine to me—or Soviet.”
Courtney Bradford laughed out loud. “I don’t believe we need look to Uncle Joe Stalin for examples of a dirty and complicated rise to power. Our own shared English history is replete enough with those, Captain.”
Matt smiled. “I’m Irish American, with a fair measure of Scot. O’Roddy—Reddy—you know.”
“Hmm.”
They were aboard Walker, in the wardroom again, and it was full as usual. They were engaged in an informal discussion of the situation, but nearly every faction was represented, except the Aryaalans, so whatever they decided would have the effect of policy. Nearly two weeks had passed since they blew down the north gate of the city, and in that time Matt had spent precious little time on his ship. He was glad to be home. Revenge had sailed with a small squadron of feluccas to scout the enemy and Mallory flew every other day, either probing north toward Singapore or carrying news and people between Aryaal and Baalkpan. So far there was no sign that the Grik intended to renew their offensive. The ragtag remnants of their fleet had gone to ground at Singapore, but no other forces had joined them there. Given everyone’s reluctance—the Grik included—to cross the menacingly deep water of the Indian Ocean, it seemed unlikely the enemy would use any other avenue of approach.
Sergeant Alden came to hel
p Shinya integrate the B’mbaadan forces into the AEF. His envy of the Japanese officer regarding his role in the battle had been palpable. He managed to contain it, however, and the burgeoning friendship between the tough Marine and the former enemy lieutenant wasn’t in danger. Alden was gone again, but the news from “home” was welcome, and good for the most part. The Baalkpan defenses were strengthening every day and the cottage arms industry was beginning to flourish. Matt knew Walker missed all the people they’d left in Baalkpan, Letts most of all, but he was glad the fair-skinned supply officer was there. Letts, Alden, and Brister, together with Karen Theimer, had been working miracles. Besides, with the dame famine still under way, keeping Letts’s and Theimer’s affair out of the local eye was certainly prudent—even now that they had two more nurses for the guys to ogle. It was one less latch on the pressure cooker. Some tension still existed regarding Silva and Risa’s apparently ongoing trans-species relationship and there was little doubt now that they had one. But it now seemed more platonic than anything and few really took it seriously anymore. They were clearly great friends, and ever since captain’s mast they hadn’t been as blatant about “it” anymore either, whatever “it” was. Both were popular characters—not to mention dangerous—and as long as they maintained a semblance of dignity their “friendship” was ignored beyond the mild humor it inspired. Mostly. Occasionally there were still words.
One “relationship” Matt thoroughly approved of seemed to be flourishing as well. He looked at Queen Maraan with a puzzled expression. “Queen Protector, I just realized you spoke to us in English.”
“Yes,” she confirmed with a toothy grin and a series of blinks that indicated pleasure. “I spoke . . . Did well?”
“You sure did,” Jim Ellis confirmed.
She looked across the table at the commander of the Second Marines. “Chack teach,” she explained.
“Well. Yes.” Matt arched an eyebrow at the young Lemurian. “He’s a remarkable fellow.”
“Re-maak-able,” said the queen, testing the word.
“The question is,” Jim said, returning to the subject, “how long are we going to let Rasik yank our chain? They stopped us from taking them down when they waved the white flag, but nothing’s really changed.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Matt disagreed. “I haven’t really wanted to push things since we’re not ready to move yet. But Rasik’s announcement that he was king included assurances that Rolak’s people were free to leave. He also swore undying loyalty to the cause we’re fighting for—”
“Which we know is a lie,” interrupted Chief Gray harshly. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain.”
“No, you’re right, Chief. I’m pretty sure it’s a lie. But what can he do? Their little civil war about wiped out the last core of solid warriors in the city. He’s in no shape to cause much trouble now even if we do leave him behind. I doubt he’d even be much of a threat to the ‘old men and boys’ militia Queen Maraan has proposed leaving to defend B’mbaado. Lord Rolak’s troops are the only viable Aryaalan infantry left and they could probably retake the city on their own—especially with the new training they’ve had. Rasik doesn’t want them back. They’re solidly in our corner and they hate him as much as they did his dad. I’m pretty sure he’ll make good on letting their families out. Right now he thinks he needs the security of being their ‘Protector.’ ”
“That’s not what I mean, Captain. He’s been ‘protecting’ our friends long enough.”
“I know, but I don’t think we have much to worry about from him for the time being. I hope I’m not underestimating him, but I imagine he’ll be too busy sewing up his power base for the foreseeable future to spend much time causing us trouble.”
“So, when do we move, Skipper?” Garrett asked from the far end of the green table.
“Spanky says he’ll be ready to pull our damaged screw in a couple of days. If it works, he hopes to get Mahan’s off by the end of the week and then Mahan will leave immediately.” He turned to Jim Ellis again. “You ready for sea?”
“Just say the word, Skipper.”
“Good. Then if all goes right, we should be ready to resume the offensive in three weeks. I’ll want increased recon, of course, and that’ll give us plenty of time to finish training up the troops as well. When we move on Singapore, I want to land on it like an avalanche.”
“I sure hate to miss it,” Ellis grumped. “Seems like Walker’s always doing the heavy lifting and Mahan gets a pass.”
“You call what you went through a pass?” Matt asked derisively. “You were lucky to survive.”
“Sure,” Jim responded defensively, “but she hasn’t been much help in this fight. I haven’t either.”
“Don’t worry about it. Get her fixed up and she’ll get her chance. Alden took a set of prints back with him and they’re going to cast a new screw in Baalkpan.” Matt grinned. “He also said there’re more volunteers for the ‘U.S. Navy’ than he could shake a stick at. It won’t take long to bring her complement up.”
Ellis nodded with a strange expression on his face. He was still not used to that idea. The Asiatic Fleet had a long tradition of employing native auxiliaries to fill out its crews—mostly on the China Station—but “native” had meant something else entirely back then. From what he’d seen, Walker’s new destroyermen were more competent than the Chinese coolies he remembered, and a hell of a lot more loyal.
“We take this . . . Sin-Po-Ar . . . war end?” asked the Orphan Queen.
Matt sadly shook his head. “No, Queen Protector. It won’t even be the beginning of the end,” he said, quoting Churchill. “But it’ll be the end of the beginning.”
“My God!” exclaimed Bradford. “I wonder what dear Winston would think to hear his words used in this context?”
“I bet he’d find it appropriate,” Matt responded thoughtfully. “And pretty familiar too—except I don’t really believe the Krauts eat their prisoners.”
“Ready to go!” announced Spanky over the intercom at the auxiliary conn on top of the aft deckhouse. His voice was more gruff than usual with repressed tension as he watched the slack go out of the cables that trailed past the propeller guards. A vicious squall had marched across the bay late that morning, threatening to delay the operation. It passed quickly enough, however, leaving the sky bright and clear and the water almost dead calm. Now the only thing marring the otherwise perfect Java day was the customary oppressive heat and humidity—and, of course, the critical nature of the task at hand. Walker and Mahan had maneuvered into the middle, deepest part of the bay. Now they were poised stern to stern with lines trailing down to Walker’s port side shaft support and across to Mahan, where they were carefully secured to the propeller they planned to pluck. The low angle was necessary so they would pull the screw straight off, without putting an upward bind on the shafts—not only so the screw would come off easier, but to avoid warping either of the shafts themselves. They needed the deep water so when the propeller came off, it wouldn’t plunge down and damage itself on the bottom of the bay. The “practice run” had been a success. That was when they used a reverse arrangement to pull Walker’s useless propeller the day before.
Spanky spared an unusual sympathetic glance at Dean Laney, who stood beside the starboard depth-charge rack, shivering, in shock most likely. He was black and blue with bruises, and Silva, just as uncharacteristically, had draped him in a blanket as soon as he came out of the suit. They’d hoped to use a welded-steel cage to lower the machinist into the sea, but there was one problem they just couldn’t solve. It had to be tight enough to keep out the smaller flashies, but still let Laney work through it to secure the cables and remove the huge nuts that held the screw in place. Ultimately, they resorted to the ancient technique of passing one of Big Sal’s coarse, heavy sails under the hull of the ship and securing it tightly wherever it came in contact. This created a flashy-free pocket for Laney to work. Captain Reddy told them sailing ships had often used the same st
rategy in shark-infested waters to make repairs, or just to have a place to swim or bathe in safety. It worked like a charm—until the swarming predators figured out something was inside the pocket.
It may have been noise or movement, but even though they sensed nothing edible, they began bumping aggressively against the bulging canvas with their hard, bony heads. Often, of necessity, Laney was right behind it and they very nearly beat him to death. Somehow he managed to finish the job in spite of the pain and terror. Spanky cringed to think what would have happened if any of the blows had broken the skin. Even through his suit, enough blood would have entered the water to drive the damn things nuts.
Now Spanky stood, watching intently as the lines Laney had secured grew taut. Captain Reddy himself stood at the auxiliary conning station, looking over his injured left shoulder with his right hand on the wheel. Now was the critical moment. If the maneuver wasn’t performed or the current judged just right, the cables might foul the rudder or the other, turning, screw. Besides that, they had to pull straight back. Spanky squinted hard. The line looked good to him.
“Let her buck, Skipper.”
Matt nodded, his face a mask of concentration. “Starboard ahead slow,” he said to Dowden, who relayed the command to the engine-room throttle station. Almost imperceptibly at first, the distance between the ships began to grow and Matt carefully adjusted the wheel to counteract the thrust of the single screw. Then, in a rush, the cables went completely taut and began to strain against the anchored ship astern. Walker’s fantail rose high enough that the prop wash from the starboard screw flashed white on the surface and all forward motion came to a stop. A deep, tired groan emanated from the ship as she strained against her sister.
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