“What can we do to increase our prestige among those monsters?” Kurokawa asked, waving toward the endless fleet beyond the glass windows of the bridge and returning Okada’s thoughts to the unusual conversation.
“Show ourselves to be even more vicious and contemptible than they are, I suspect,” Sato said bitterly. The captain considered his words.
“You may not be mistaken. We must put ourselves forward in battle, Commander Okada. Their commander must see our power for himself !” He clenched his fists at his side in frustration. “Which we cannot do if we are so slow!”
Sato tried to avert his captain’s mounting rage by changing the subject. “At least now we know the source of the radio transmissions we detected. Not two ships, but a single ship and a plane. The American flying-boat was unexpected.”
“Yes. It did a great deal of damage before it flew away.” Kurokawa’s features reddened. “If our antiaircraft defenses had been better prepared, we could have shot it down and we would not be having this conversation! The Grik would have certainly seen our worth!”
Sato quickly diverted the captain from attacking another part of the crew. “But the enemy ship did much more damage. I understand one of the Grik commanders was killed and his ship destroyed. The survivors of the raid on Surabaya were right about the cannons.”
“So it would seem.” Kurokawa hesitated. “The Grik will see Amagi’s worth if they face many more of those.” He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. For the first time, Sato thought he saw nervousness behind the captain’s eyes. “Soon I must cross to the ‘flagship.’ ”
Sato waited a moment before he spoke. “Must you take Captain Kaufman with you this time? He might be even more valuable to us now, and each time he is in the presence of those creatures, he . . . slips . . . a little more.”„
Kurokawa regarded him with a hard gaze. “Pity for the enemy, Commander Okada?”
Sato’s expression hardened as well. “Empathy for an officer who saw his crew eaten by our ‘allies,’ Captain Kurokawa. Even the Grik spoke highly of his bravery, after a fashion. He did not surrender; he was overwhelmed.”
Kurokawa waved his hand dismissively. “I do not care. I can write English,” he said distastefully, “as most naval officers once had to. Speak to him, though. Find out why he said nothing about a flying-boat. If he knew of it and did not speak, I want him to regret it deeply!” He smiled. “Perhaps we will return him to his former masters, eh?”
Sato shuddered, and once more changed the subject. He was getting good at maneuvering the conversation to keep his commander’s temper in check. “Will you tell the Grik your assumptions based on all the radio traffic we intercepted? Before the enemy resumed transmitting in code?”
Kurokawa looked at him. “Of course. It is valuable information and they will see it as such.” He smiled. “That we’ve somehow divined it will surely raise us in their estimation.”
Sato took a deep breath and glanced around at the other men on the bridge. He knew they were straining to hear, but doubted they could understand much. In spite of that, he spoke barely above a whisper. “Before we reveal that we can send and receive messages over long distances, let alone where we think the American base might be, would it not be best to speak to the Americans first?”
Kurokawa’s eyes bulged and he screamed, “You would speak to the enemy?!”
Sato forced his voice to remain calm and low. “Captain, please! Let me speak!” he said. “First, would it not be best to conceal the technology of radio from . . . our ‘allies’ as long as we can? Once they know of its existence, we will have irretrievably lost an advantage. They will want its secrets and we will have difficulty withholding them.”
Taken aback, Kurokawa lowered his voice. “But what good is it to keep the secret? We have no one to talk to!”
“That may not always be the case! Besides, we have two aircraft of our own. The spotting planes! They have radios!”
Amagi had lost one of her spotting planes in the battle that brought her here—ironically when a Japanese dive bomber went out of control and crashed directly atop her amidships ten-inch turret, destroying it as well as the plane and catapult on top of it. But she still had two planes left. Both were obsolete, short-range biplanes. Nakajima Type 95 E8Ns, to be precise. They were single-engine affairs and carried one huge float under the fuselage and a couple of smaller ones under the wings. They were good, reliable, low-maintenance airplanes with all-metal structures covered by fabric. The two-man crew sat in individual open cockpits where they would never have to worry about being too comfortable to keep their eyes open. Perfect for observation planes. Probably the best kind of planes they could have right now, since they were so simple. But they were certainly not fighters.
Kurokawa still seethed constantly over the loss of their much more capable plane, the Aichi Type Zero E13A1 that had been turned into flaming confetti along with quite a lot of other very useful equipment, weapons, ammunition, and fuel—Kurokawa didn’t consider the men—when the crippled plane smashed into his ship. Okada mourned every scratch Amagi suffered and every life she lost, but practically speaking, under the circumstances, he’d trade the Type Zero for the Type 95s any day.
“True, but we have hardly any fuel for them,” the captain snapped bitterly. He waved his hand. “Enough for a few short flights. Most of our reserve was destroyed by the Americans’ cowardly torpedo attack . . . And That Imbecile Who Crashed Into My Ship!” The entire bridge watch tensed for a moment, waiting to see if the captain’s loud imprecations toward the dead pilot would manage to snare anyone else. Remarkably, they sometimes did.
“But the Americans obviously do have aviation fuel—and probably fuel oil as well!” Okada interjected. “It should have been easy for them to get. Is that not why we were intent on conquering the Dutch East Indies in the first place?”
“We shall still!” roared the captain and Sato recoiled. “What would you have me do? Beg the Americans for fuel?!” Kurokawa seethed. “The situation may have changed somewhat, but I still have my orders! To assist in the capture of the Emperor’s objective!”
Sato couldn’t stop himself. “But, Captain, the Emperor is not here! Assisting the Grik in their objective would not, I think, please His Majesty! They are . . . hideous barbarians! Inhuman monsters! The Americans at least are people!” He lowered his voice, hoping the captain wouldn’t explode. He desperately wanted to crack Kurokawa’s apparently maniacal shell.
“I think we should speak to them—before we help the Grik wipe them out! I must tell you, Captain, I fear this course we’ve embarked upon is without honor! It’s not of the Way! I implore you, sir, let us detach ourselves from this unwholesome alliance! We could tell the Grik we’ve had another breakdown—they would surely believe that—and when we have only a few escorts, we could easily break away!”
Sato braced himself for the hurricane of rage that was sure to follow his outburst. Instead, Kurokawa only stared at him, his expression cold as ice. “Commander Okada. Your suggestion regarding the radio is well taken. I will endeavor to relate our suspicions about the enemy base without disclosing that secret. But hear me! The Empire of Japan is at war with the United States of America, and that war will be prosecuted whenever and wherever our forces meet! I have no illusions that the Grik are our friends, but they are not our enemies either. I will use their assistance to achieve our ultimate objective, and that objective is the destruction of any American or allied force within the Malay Barrier. Is that understood?” Sato could only nod. “Good,” continued Kurokawa in a mounting voice, “because according to this Kaufman, the Grik have already destroyed one of the destroyers that crippled my ship and that leaves only one for me! I will have that ship if I have to chase it around the world! Is that understood? I will capture it or send it to the bottom. It makes no difference to me. That is what my orders prescribe and my honor demands! And if you utter one more suggestion that I should treat with the enemies of the Emperor, I will have you
executed for treason!”
With that, Captain Kurokawa spun on his heel and exited the bridge. Sato Okada could only stare after him, shaking with frustration and terror.
Captain David Kaufman, U.S. Army Air Corps, sat on an inverted bucket in a darkened compartment somewhere deep in the Japanese ship. He had nothing to read, nothing to do with his hands. Nothing at all to divert his mind during the endless hours of solitude between the infrequent visits of his captors. It was dank and stuffy and smelled of old paint and oily machinery. The deck beneath his feet vibrated slightly and there was a dull roar from the engines, although he didn’t know if he was forward or aft of the engineering spaces. If he hadn’t already been out of his mind, the sensory deprivation and boredom would certainly have done the trick. All he could do was sit on the bucket, alone, and relive the horrible memories of the events that brought him to this place.
If only he’d left well enough alone. It was clear from his most recent interrogation that Walker was still afloat. If he hadn’t seized control of Mahan, she’d have rejoined her sister and he would be safe among his own kind. Safe for a while, at least, he corrected. He’d seen the size of the Grik armada when the Japanese “rescued” him from the Grik commander. Even without Amagi, there was no hope for Walker now. He must have been totally out of his mind when the Japanese came. Hunger, terror, and the shock of his circumstances had left him a jibbering wreck. He’d been feverish when he arrived in Colombo and he’d almost thought he imagined Amagi in the bay, but when he saw the Japanese officers from where he was chained, naked, at the base of Tsalka’s throne, he was sure the madness had entirely overwhelmed him. After everything else that had happened to him, to see Japs there too . . . He fought like an animal, slashing with his teeth, his fingernails—anything he could use. Either they’d kill him or he’d wake up from his nightmare at last. Knocked unconscious, he was brought aboard Amagi.
As his senses returned, he was given clothes and fed, and for a brief time he clung to his Japanese guards like saviors. They kicked him and cuffed him and treated him worse than an animal, but he didn’t think they’d eat him. For a while, that was enough. Then the questions started. In spite of the fact that they had rescued him from the Grik, a distant sense of propriety made him try to reveal only his name, rank, and serial number. After all, his saviors were still the enemy, weren’t they? His questioners beat him. He was so far gone physically and mentally, and so glad they’d saved him from the Grik, he almost felt that he deserved the torment—felt almost guilty that he wanted to keep things from them. His resistance was short-lived and he told them everything he knew.
Mahan was lost. She must be. Most of her crew had been with him, and then the other Grik ships went after her. Shorthanded as she was, and in her condition, there was no way she could have repelled the thousands that rounded the southern point of Nias and headed toward the anchorage where he left her. Everyone who’d been aboard her was now certainly dead and it was all his fault. His only slight consolation was that Mahan had apparently burned and sunk. At least the lizards hadn’t gotten their hands on her.
He told them everything he knew about Walker too, but he didn’t know enough to satisfy them, so the beatings resumed with even greater vigor than before. He must have almost died. He remembered little of what happened, only that the torture suddenly stopped and there was an officer in the compartment. He passed out. Later, he remembered being carried to his cell and he was even visited by a doctor. Slowly, he healed. The days passed without notice and he managed to keep some idea of the time only by the meals they brought him. Therefore he knew that about a week had passed before he had his first visit by the officer.
Since then the officer had appeared several times, never giving his name, only his rank—commander. But he was solicitous and kind and he was someone to talk to. Twice when he came, they’d blindfolded him and taken him to the Grik. He was terrified that they were giving him back to them, but they only used him to translate messages that the Grik and the Japanese captain passed to one another. He’d learned quite a lot about the situation that way, not that it would do him any good. Besides, he’d been so relieved when they returned him to his cell that he found he forgot much of what he’d translated. Even in spite of his fear, however, Kaufman yearned for the man to come.
With a rasp of gears and a metallic clunk, the hatch swung wide and the compartment was bathed in the light of the passageway. It hurt his eyes and he squinted as a man stepped inside. Another light came on, from a single bulb overhead. A switch in the passageway activated it. The officer said something in Japanese and the hatch was closed and secured. As always, now that they were alone, the officer wrinkled his nose at the stench from the other bucket, in the corner. Kaufman didn’t even notice the smell anymore. Still squinting, he hastily stood.
“Good morning, Captain Kaufman,” said the man in pleasant, if badly accented, English.
“Is it morning?” Kaufman asked eagerly.
“Yes. Just dawn.” Sato paused, watching the nervous twitch that had taken control of the prisoner’s pale, waxy face. That was new. “I have not come to take you to the Grik,” he hastily assured him. “You are well?”
Much of Kaufman’s tension ebbed, but the twitch remained. “I am, thank God. I mean, thank God . . .” He shuddered, and Sato nodded understanding.
“I too am glad,” he muttered. “But I have to ask you a question.”
Kaufman nodded and straightened his shoulders. “Of course.”
“Yesterday, our . . . the fleet we are a part of was involved in action with an enemy ship . . .” Kaufman tensed again and his expression was one of anguish. “It wasn’t the American destroyer,” Sato mercifully assured him. “It was a captured Grik vessel that the enemy had supplied with cannons. They were most effective. Many Grik ships were destroyed.” He paused and watched to see how Kaufman reacted to that. He wasn’t surprised to see a fragile smile and he had to struggle not to match it. “Regrettably, from an intelligence standpoint, the ship was destroyed. Nothing was recovered, but there is testimony from the survivors on nearby ships that there was one human, perhaps two, on board the enemy ship. We can only conclude they were countrymen of yours.” Sato hesitated when he saw the prisoner’s stricken look. “For that, you have my condolences. What I must ask you, however, is whether or not you were aware of the existence of an American flying-boat?”
Kaufman’s eyes went wide and, if anything, his twitch became more violent. He began scratching the left side of his face unconsciously. “Well, yes, I am . . . I mean, I was. You mean you’ve seen it?” Sato nodded and Captain Kaufman closed his eyes and smiled with genuine relief. “My God. So Mallory made it after all!” He stopped and looked at Commander Okada. “We found it on the beach. The plane, that is. It was shot up and half sunk, but Mallory and a couple other fellas got it flying. The Grik nearly got them! Anyway, I sent it on to Ceylon to bring out an escort for Mahan.” He stopped and his face was stricken. “But he couldn’t have gone to Ceylon . . . could he?”
“Why did you never mention the plane before?”
Kaufman glanced vacantly around. “Nobody asked. I just figured it was lost. The Griks that got after it saw it that day.” He looked imploringly at Sato. “I’m sorry. I would have told you, I swear! I just never thought it was still around!” He sat back down on his bucket and rubbed his twitching face, staring at Sato through his fingers with red-rimmed eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t beat me anymore.”
Sato stared down at the prisoner, sickened. As much with Kaufman as with himself. “You won’t be beaten,” he said. He glanced back at the hatch to make sure it was still dogged. “This plane,” he said, “has a radio.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. “So too does the American destroyer. If I could arrange it so you had access to a radio yourself, could you contact either of them?”
Kaufman looked down at the floor. “I don’t have a codebook,” he said quietly.
“That doesn�
�t matter. If I am able to arrange a radio, you would be able to speak in the clear.”
“What would you want me to say?”
Sato shook his head. “I do not know yet. That would depend on a number of things . . . What I want to know now is can you do it? Do you think they would listen to you?”
“I doubt Reddy would,” he said grimly, and Okada recognized the name of the destroyer’s commander. “I doubt he trusts me. I know he doesn’t like me. Mallory, though . . .”
“Mallory is the pilot of the flying-boat?”
“Yes. At least he was. I think I could talk to him. Maybe he’d talk to Reddy . . .” Kaufman looked up at Sato. “Why?”
“Perhaps no reason. But let us keep this between ourselves.” He waited until he saw Kaufman nod. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”
For a long moment, the aviator didn’t reply. He just stared at Sato with astonished eyes. Finally, he spoke.
“Light. Leave the light on, please.”
Sato nodded. “Anything else?”
Kaufman blinked and looked vaguely around the compartment. “Something to read,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what it is.”
Big Sal left at dawn. Slowly, majestically, the giant wings spread and the sweeps were stowed. Matt watched her go with tired eyes and decidedly mixed emotions. Big Sal or Keje had always been there, somewhere nearby, almost since they came to this world, and he knew he’d miss them and worry about their safety. Aracca Home was being loaded now, and in the distance he saw the first smoke of the fires that would consume B’mbaado City. He realized with regret that he’d never even visited the Orphan Queen’s palace, and now it was being destroyed. At least not all of it would be lost. Several feluccas had been detailed to take away B’mbaado’s greatest treasures. He wished the same could have been done for Aryaal, but Rasik still hoarded them to himself, locked in the royal palace. Matt realized that the vengeance he’d chosen had contributed to that loss, but lives were more important. His conscience wouldn’t suffer much when all was said and done.
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