Matt slowly let out a breath. “Damage report?”
“That last hit tore hell out of the guinea pullman,” Reynolds said, referring to the crew’s berthing space situated above the propellers. “Lots of refugee casualties in there.” He paused. “There’s some flooding in aft general storage and the steering engine room . . . There’s people in there too.”
Matt was staring aft at the amidships deckhouse. He couldn’t see much in the darkness except for the occasional white T-shirt and hat dashing through the smoke that still poured from under it. “What about the hit amidships?” he asked.
The talker nodded. “The Chief says there were a lot of ’Cats hunkered under the deckhouse. He has no idea how many bought it. The galley’s a wreck, but Lanier made it okay.” Reynolds blinked. “He was in the head. Mertz and the cat-monkey mess attendant are both wounded.” The talker paused again, listening. “Oh, goddamn!” he exclaimed in an indignant voice. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain.”
“What else?”
“Those Jap bastards got the Coke machine!”
Matt almost laughed. The last of their Cokes had been gone for weeks—all except one that was stashed in his own quarters. He doubted he’d ever drink it. The machine itself had remained a source of pride to the crew, in a strange, black-humor sort of way. They may have been lost on a hostile, alien—other—earth, but by God, the Coke machine still worked. The men would take that news disproportionately hard. Compared to the other sacrifices he’d seen that night, the destruction of the Coke machine seemed pretty ridiculous. He had to maintain appearances, however.
“Well, let’s just hope it was worth it. I think the Japs would trade a dozen Coke machines for the hole we put in their guts.”
He looked back at the distant ship. There was a fire aboard her now and it might have been his imagination or even just wishful thinking, but it seemed she was listing to starboard. He wanted more than anything to stay, to see for sure if they’d banished this particular demon once and for all. But deep down in his heart, he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. One more fish would have done the job. He was certain of that. He should have let Sandison alter them all. He shook his head. Another mistake. One thing was sure, however. Whether Amagi sank or not, Walker had hurt her badly. The sparks from her stack had come from a boiler, one that was burning coal, so they were bound to have slowed her down, at least. And maybe, just maybe, they had managed to kill whoever it was who was responsible for what she’d done to Nerracca.
“Take that, you son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath. Then he raised his voice. “Helm. Make your course zero two zero. We’ve still got to get through the lizards and I’d just as soon we didn’t run into any if you don’t mind.” He turned to Reynolds. “We’ll have the searchlights on just as soon as we’re sure we’re out of Amagi’s range. The main battery won’t fire on any lizards we see unless they give us no choice. We have to conserve ammunition.” He finally walked over and sat in his chair. “Besides,” he added quietly, “we’ve got a lot of shook-up folks on board. It’s probably time we gave them a break.”
He rubbed his eyes and spoke once more: “Help Clancy compose a full report of tonight’s action, Mr. Reynolds, and transmit it to Baalkpan. Then tell Lieutenant Mallory I want him in the air as soon as it’s light enough to fly. Give Amagi’s current position and tell Ben to see if she’s still afloat or not, and what she’s doing if she is. But whatever he does, he will stay out of range of her antiaircraft weapons. Make sure he understands that’s an order.”
At almost dawn, but long before Matt would have personally considered it “light enough to fly,” the loud engines of the big flying-boat droned by overhead in the darkness. He had Radioman Clancy send Ben the additional instruction to check on Aracca. Walker had steamed past her a little before three in the morning and flashed a brief account of the battle. Aracca’s High Chief, Ramik-Sa-Ar, was Tassat’s father and most of the people on the two Homes were related. Matt hated to break the news like that, but he had little choice. With her heavy load of survivors aboard, Walker was taking more water than her pumps could keep up with. Aracca was far enough ahead of the Grik that she should be safe from pursuit, but Matt wanted Ben to make sure.
Tsalka glared across the water as Kurokawa’s launch returned to his ship. “You know, General, I grow increasingly weary of that creature.”
General Esshk hissed agreement. “I begin to understand why those who joined us in the Great Hunt in the past have ultimately fallen prey themselves. If they were as grasping and unpleasant as that one”—he gestured at the retreating boat—“it is no wonder the Hij of old turned them out and hunted them to extinction.” Tsalka agreed, but he knew there was more to it than that. Despite the Ancient Way, that whoever hunts together may partake of the meal, he knew it was difficult for any predator to share its prey. The tail-less, almost toothless Hij he had just endured was not one he would care to dine beside.
“Their iron ship is damaged again and it will move even slower now,” Tsalka mused. “But it is still wondrously powerful. I heard the tales of how it destroyed our Uul before it joined the hunt. Last night, I saw how it did so. Magnificent!”
“Most impressive,” Esshk hedged. “But to strike from such a distance! Where is the challenge . . . the sport in that? It is the hunt that counts. The harvest is secondary.”
Tsalka looked at him with his slitted yellow eyes. “Indeed. But it is not very sporting when the prey consumes the hunter. This prey has teeth! I do not desire another catastrophe such as befell our hunters at the walled city. Such a thing has never happened before and it will not happen again. The Celestial Mother would not be pleased and neither would I.” He gazed at the lumbering iron monstrosity. Black smoke belched from its middle as it burned the coal that somehow pushed it along. There was other smoke still, from the wound it suffered last night, and Tsalka perceived a slight list. Despite its amazing power, the Tree Prey had friends who could damage it. The thought gave him pause. They had damaged a thing that multiple vigorous assaults by his own race did not scratch. Insufferable as the Hij leader of the iron ship folk might be, Tsalka was beginning to suspect that he was right about one thing: the Grik needed them, and might need them very much if the Grand Swarm was to meet with success. The thought rankled, and yet it might be true. The Tree Prey had grown into Worthy Prey in their own right, but with friends such as they had . . . the slow iron ship of the new hunters might have to make the difference.
Initially, as was customary, the new hunters had been treated with proper disdain. That was appropriate, since they were the newest hunters in the pack. But things had changed. The prey fought well. They had flying things to help them, as well as an iron ship of their own. Much as he disliked the idea, Tsalka admitted it was probably wise to heed the council of a creature—however distasteful—who knew how to counter such things. For the first time, that morning he had actually paid attention to what the iron ship leader had to write.
“You and I are Hij, General Esshk,” he said. “We can look back upon the Uul-life with fondness and nostalgia. That was our time for the hunt to be sport. That time is past. I joined the Swarm because I was bored and there has not been a Grand Swarm in my lifetime. I wanted to see it for myself. Although I appreciate your courtesy, command is yours, of course. But I flatter myself that my advice may have some value.”
General Esshk bowed low and hissed respectfully. “Your wisdom is renowned, Lord Regent. As always, I crave your counsel.”
“Very well then. We must look to the welfare of our Uul. They are our children, General, and they will do what we ask of them. But we may need to protect them from their own exuberance. I do not think there has ever been a hunt quite like this before, and to avoid learning too much about what the Tree Prey and their friends know about thwarting the hunter, I would not hesitate to strike them from farther than I can see, if I could. We must use the iron ship to our utmost advantage because I suspect there will be very litt
le sport to this hunt in the end.”
“We both already agree on that, so what is your counsel?”
“Only this: that we postpone this hunt. We should return to the Walled City—Aryaal, I believe? There we should repair the iron ship and summon more Uul. We will gather our strength and when we advance it will be with all our might, at the head of a Swarm such as the world has never seen!”
Captain Hisashi Kurokawa was in a towering rage when he returned from his visit aboard the painfully bright, white-painted ship, and he was seething when he stormed onto the bridge. For quite some time, as much as possible, the bridge watch stood silent, fearing that any sound or voice would draw the captain’s wrath. He had already had last night’s lookouts arrested and put in irons. They should have seen the American destroyer and had their searchlights on her sooner. Now his ship was even further crippled. With the flooding of another fireroom and the certain destruction of two more boilers, Amagi would be even slower than before. He tried to explain to the stupid lizards that his ship had to have proper repairs, that she couldn’t continue to steam all over the place with half her insides open to the sea. If he could just fix her, she would be faster than any ship afloat.
But they just stood there and stared at him as he wrote his demands. Acted as if the inconvenience of his ship’s damage was his fault! He had suggested that if some of the red ships of their lower class had been screening him, the torpedo wouldn’t have gotten through, but that got a stony response. Finally he left, half convinced that he would open fire on the Grik leader’s ship as soon as he returned to his own. He still yearned to do so, but there were more than two hundred other Grik ships close by. If he gave in to the impulse to destroy their leaders, surely the others would swarm his ship. Not only would that ruin all his plans, but he would certainly be killed. No, the time would come. For now, he would content himself with finding fault with those who were at his mercy. Commander Okada had the watch, just as he did last night when they were damaged. He would start with him.
“Captain?” came a tentative voice from the bridgewing lookout’s position.
“Yes, what is it?” he snapped.
“A signal from the Grik flagship.” Like all their technical writing, the Grik used English for their signal flags. Kurokawa assumed there was some connection to the ships they built, since they looked very eighteenth-century British. Regardless, using English to communicate with the monsters was convenient, even if it rankled.
“Well, what does it say?” he snarled impatiently.
“Ah . . . the fleet will come about and join our ‘brethren’ who have already surely taken the Walled City. There, we will refit and repair all our ships and wait for more hunters to join the Swarm.”
“So,” grumped Kurokawa, “they listened after all.” His mood brightened perceptibly. “Helmsman, bring us about.” He smirked. “And do be careful not to smash any of our ‘allies.’ ”
The next hour was awkward for Okada because the captain never left the bridge. He almost never stayed that long, and most of the watch was nervous to the point of distraction—particularly when Kurokawa stepped near their station. But the entire fleet had changed its course, and despite the fact that the damage to Amagi was probably responsible, the captain acted like he had achieved some sort of victory.
“Captain!” a talker suddenly blurted nervously. “The lookout reports sighting the American flying-boat, almost directly overhead!”
Kurokawa and Okada both raced out onto the bridgewing with their binoculars. Sure enough, floating lazily above, droning motors lost in the cacophony of Amagi’s abused machinery, was the PBY Catalina.
“Damn them!” shouted Kurokawa. He looked around. “Why isn’t anyone shooting at them?”
“They are out of range. If you want to waste ammunition to no effect—for all to see—we certainly can.”
Kurokawa’s gaze slashed at Okada. Then he raised his binoculars toward the Grik flagship. Some of the “officers” were clearly staring at the plane—the damn things had phenomenal eyes—and some were looking right back at him.
“Commander Okada,” he said in a menacing tone, “we must destroy that plane.”
Okada was incredulous. “But . . . how?”
“We will use one of our planes, of course.”
“But, Captain! Those planes are some of our most precious assets and we only have enough fuel for a couple of flights. Also, as you yourself pointed out, they are not fighters, they are spotting planes. They are lightly armed, and I’m not even sure they are fast enough to catch the American plane.”
Kurokawa’s round face regarded Okada without expression. “You, Commander, will choose a flight crew for the fastest of the two planes, if there is any difference. You will have it only half filled with fuel since it needn’t go far. That should improve its speed and will save fuel as well. You will then tell the crew that they will destroy the American plane or they need not return. Finally, if they are not in the air in ten minutes, they will be shot.” He snorted. “Remember, our ‘allies’ are watching.”
All Okada could do as he raced aft was mutter, “Madness!” under his breath.
“There they are!” Tikker shouted excitedly long before Ben Mallory could see anything but water and sky. By the time the leading edge of the enemy armada was visible to the pilot, Tikker already had an answer to one of their questions. The Grik had turned around. “They go home!” he shouted with glee.
“I doubt it.” Mallory sighed. “I bet they’re headed for Aryaal. They’ll set up a base there and hit us when they’re ready. Question is, why aren’t they ready now? Do you see any sign of Amagi?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Tikker with disappointment. “There is a large, dark shape farther ahead with smoke rising above it. It seems smoky all over, so maybe it is badly damaged. But we are still too far to tell.”
“There’s nothing for it then. We have to take a closer look.”
“Sure,” said Ed Palmer, standing in his usual place at the rear of the flight deck, “but I’m relieved for Aracca’s sake.”
“You and me both,” sighed Ben. “She might have made it, but if they’d still been coming on even at eight knots . . . Well, Walker’s report about what happened to Nerracca . . .” Everyone nodded. There was no reason to go on.
It was convenient that the PBY had full tanks of oxygen when they found it and Ben had them use some now, so they could get above the antiaircraft weapons. The seals on the masks didn’t work too well because even Ben and Ed had fur on their faces now, but there was plenty of oxygen for the few minutes they would need it. They would barely scratch the surface. There was almost a ten-hour supply. Ben pulled back on the wheel and slightly advanced the throttles. Before long, they were cruising at 18,000 feet—the big plane’s maximum service ceiling. Now the Japanese could shoot at them all they wanted, but the chances they’d hit anything were infinitesimal. Ben was betting they knew that too and wouldn’t want to waste ammo in front of their “friends.”
Ed was back in one of the observation blisters, staring straight down with his binoculars. At over three miles, the visibility wasn’t what he would have liked, but it was good enough. Amagi had been hard hit and she had a distinct list to starboard. Gray smoke from extinguished fires still rose to join the black smoke from her stack. Unfortunately, she was still clearly under way and in no apparent danger of sinking. They’d done all they could and she was still afloat. Ed didn’t think they’d get another “surprise” chance like the one last night, and they were out of torpedoes anyway, weren’t they? There was no way Walker and Mahan, even together, could stop her in a stand-up gunnery duel. They would have to think of something else.
Fortunately, it looked like they were going to have time to do that. Walker had clearly pounded the Grik fleet the night before. Several ships could be seen under tow, while more than a dozen had apparently been abandoned as beyond repair, or unable to make the voyage to Aryaal. A couple didn’t look too bad to Ed. He’d
mark their positions. Maybe they could come out and tow them in. There was no telling how many ships Walker sent to the bottom. Regardless, however many Grik ships the old destroyer sank or damaged the night before, it was an insignificant percentage of the whole. If the Grik had wanted to, they could have come straight on. They would be mauled, but they would probably win. But they weren’t coming on. Just like what they had originally taken to be the “leading edge” of the Grik fleet, Amagi had reversed her course. Like those of the hundreds of sailing ships around her, the battle cruiser’s rather jagged, uneven wake proved she was headed back in the direction of Aryaal.
Perhaps Amagi was the reason they’d stopped! After last night, they might think they had to have her and if that was the case, they might attempt major repairs! That could take a long, long time. There was no question the Grik threat would only grow during that period, but if Walker’s desperate torpedo attack hadn’t destroyed Amagi, it had certainly bought them some time. Time they desperately needed.
Ed relinquished his vantage point to the Lemurian waist gunner and made his way forward. After he relayed his observations and deductions to Ben, he returned to his post at the radio and began signaling Walker with the news. Ben flew on a while longer, taking in the scope of the enemy fleet, then banked the plane until it pointed in an almost due-northerly direction. Once the battle cruiser was safely behind them, he began a slow descent. At 7,000 feet, the Catalina’s most efficient cruising altitude, he leveled off and asked Ed for some coffee. They’d already secured the oxygen masks.
Ed poked his head up between the two seats on the flight deck. “Sure thing. I’ll have some too.” He looked at the sable-furred Lemurian. “How ’bout you?” Tikker just grimaced and shook his head.
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