Crusade

by Taylor Anderson

  Because of her arrival, even with all the preparations under way, thousands of people were on hand to witness her slow approach to the dock. The contents of the radio message detailing the events of the night had rapidly spread. There was no reason to conceal the fact that Nerracca and most of the people aboard her were lost. It would have been a greater shock to the morale of the defenders if they’d known nothing until Walker came in alone. The one thing that mitigated against total despair was the obvious fact that Walker had put up a hell of a fight and had saved as many as she could. So strong was the Lemurian faith in the old destroyer’s power, they felt sure if Walker looked this bad, surely Amagi was in much worse condition—if she had in fact survived. Most of them couldn’t conceive of the difference between the two ships’ relative size and power, and Walker’s daring, vengeful counterattack had been duly reported as well. It was still a somber crowd that waited to greet the survivors.

  Finally, a sharp, congratulatory toot! toot! and a cloud of steam issued from Mahan’s repaired whistle and the trancelike immobility of the crowd was broken. Dockworkers shouldered their way through and positioned themselves to catch lines thrown by destroyermen on the ship. Up close, Walker looked even worse and the smoke and steam that rose from her aft stacks resembled nothing so much as an exhausted gasp. Gangplanks were rigged and the stunned survivors began to disembark. Some were met by family or acquaintances who had already arrived on Humfra-Dar. Big Sal was in the bay but hadn’t yet reached the dock. No one aboard her would have any idea what had taken place. Walker flew only a cryptic signal as she churned past her lumbering old friend. “Glad to see you. Must off-load passengers before we sink.”

  Most of the survivors weren’t met by anyone. They just wandered around in small, confused groups as though in a daze. Most were females or younglings who’d lost everything they ever knew. They’d suffered the trauma of leaving their homes and had nearly been killed at sea. Many of their loved ones were dead. Now they were cast on the shores of an unknown, alien land. Fortunately, someone in a position of authority had their wits about them, and squads of troops were detailed to gently take the refugees in hand. With as little fuss as possible, they were led away. At the urging of officers, the crowd began to disperse and return to their now even more insistent chores. When a lane was cleared, the wounded were carried ashore. There were quite a few.

  Matt watched from the port bridgewing while Sandra supervised below. Beside her still was Queen Maraan, giving support and encouragement to the injured—no matter where they were from. Matt’s admiration for the Orphan Queen had grown even greater than before. He knew she was a strong and respected leader to the people of B’mbaado, but she’d also shown herself to be wise and compassionate to her former Aryaalan enemies and strangers as well. He was certain she’d be a major unifying figure and a force to be reckoned with in the events that were to come. Beside him stood Chack, watching as well. The young Lemurian was tired but surprisingly alert after spending virtually the entire night in the crow’s nest. Matt nodded toward the queen.

  “Go give them a hand if you want,” he said with a small smile. “Or you can hit the rack. It’s your choice.”

  “If it makes no difference to you, Cap-i-taan, I will help the ladies.” He grinned.

  “That’s fine, but be back aboard by the first watch. We’ve got a hell of a mess and the Chief’s going to need your help. Try to get some sleep between now and then. It’s going to be a busy night.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.” Chack saluted him and bailed down the ladder. Matt shook his head. Very carefully, he tried to stretch. Not long before they opened Baalkpan Bay, he’d finally convinced Sandra to remove the rigid strapping that held his arm immobilized. He felt no pain at all from his ribs and the wound through his shoulder had healed remarkably well. That seemed to be the case with every patient treated with the infection-fighting goo. Sandra knew where it came from now—fermented polta fruit that was further processed in some seemingly mystical way—but she still didn’t know what made it work and she yearned for a microscope to study it with. Matt didn’t care what the stuff was so long as it worked and he was eager to get his considerably atrophied arm back in service. He stretched a little farther, tensing the muscles, and tried to raise the arm from his side. Salvos of pain shot in all directions, and with a wince he let the arm drop. The pain lingered, throbbing with heat, but as it began to subside, he tried again.

  “Ahh!”

  Deciding to delay his therapy a little longer, he looked back down at the dock. A procession of Guardsmen dressed in the colors of Nakja-Mur’s clan had arrived and Nakja-Mur himself was ascending the gangway with Alan Letts and Jim Ellis. Despite the mess and the chaos on deck, Chief Gray managed to assemble a side party to receive them and the sound of his bosun’s pipe twittered from below. A few moments later, the two men and the rotund Lemurian leader were admitted to the bridge. Out in the open air, salutes were exchanged and Jim and Alan extended their hands in heartfelt relief. To Matt’s surprise, Nakja-Mur enveloped him in a crushing embrace.

  “Ah!” Matt said again, clenching his eyes shut.

  “I am so glad you and your ship did not die!” the High Chief exclaimed in much improved English. He was oblivious to the pain he’d accidentally caused.

  “Me too,” Matt agreed, once he could trust his voice. “Nerracca wasn’t so lucky.”

  Nakja-Mur nodded grimly. “A terrible thing. I am deeply grieved and angered by its loss. As I am for Revenge.” Matt remembered that almost the entire crew of Revenge had come from Baalkpan.

  “Revenge died well, Nakja-Mur,” he said quietly. “She destroyed hundreds of the enemy. The families of her people can be proud.”

  “They are,” the High Chief confirmed. “As am I. But pride is mixed with sorrow.”

  “Of course.”

  Nakja-Mur gestured at the pier where the last of the wounded were being taken away. “You saved many from Nerracca.”

  “As many as we could. Tassat is a hero. He’s the one that made it possible, by sending them over in the gri-kakka boats. When all was lost, it was his daughter herself who cut the cable that doomed her father but saved everyone else. A hell of a thing.”

  Nakja-Mur nodded. “Indeed. She and all her people will be welcome in my clan if they desire. They will probably go back to Aracca, but . . . they are welcome.” He stopped for a moment but then looked up into Matt’s eyes. It was time to get to the point. “Do you think you destroyed the iron ship of the enemy?” he asked urgently. Of course, by asking the question, Nakja-Mur confirmed Matt’s fear as he looked again at the empty pier where the PBY should have been tied several hours before. So it hadn’t just been moved ashore for repairs.

  “Well, in that respect, it seems we have good news and bad,” Matt hedged.

  “I must know.” The Lemurian pressed him. “Did you destroy that terrible ship?”

  Matt finally exhaled and shook his head. “No,” he said at last and watched the humans’ faces fall. Nakja-Mur only blinked. “We got in a damn good lick and she wasn’t in good shape to start with—but Ben’s last report had her listing but afloat and under way.”

  Letts shook his head. “And it’s not just the Japs. There’s still tens of thousands of those damn lizards coming right at us. It’s going to be tough with or without the Japs.”

  “We must have a council tonight,” Nakja-Mur declared distractedly. “By then, with your Maall-orry’s help, we will know exactly what we face, as well as when the blow will fall.”

  “No,” Matt said. “That’s more of the bad news—as well as the good.” He gestured toward the empty pier. “It looks like the plane didn’t make it. The last word we had was that Amagi, as well as the entire enemy fleet, has turned around and is headed for Aryaal. Signalman Palmer speculated it was damage to Amagi that influenced them to delay their attack, so at least we bought a little time. How much is anybody’s guess.” His voice became even grimmer. “Without the plane, it’ll be ha
rder to figure out.” He looked at Jim and offered a brittle smile. “Right back where we started. Outnumbered, and no air cover.”

  “How can you be sure the plane is lost?” whispered Nakja-Mur, devastated.

  “It should have beaten us here by two or three hours at least, and there hasn’t been any radio contact since right after what I told you.” He paused. “If you still want a meeting tonight, that’s fine, but”—he gestured around at the ship—“I’ve got a lot of work to do between now and then. I’ll see you tonight, Nakja-Mur.”

  “And I respectfully recommend,” added Jim Ellis, “that we continue to prepare as if, as far as we know, they’re coming straight on.”

  The High Chief blinked agreement. “We all have much to prepare.” He turned to go, but then looked back at Matt. “I am very glad you did not die, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

  “I think he kind of missed you, Skipper,” Letts said when Nakja-Mur had gone. “I know I sure as hell did!”

  They all glanced down the ladder to see Lieutenant Sandison clomping up the rungs. His clothes and hands were covered with grease and he’d smeared some across his nose. When he looked up and saw the officers gathered above him, his expression became apprehensive.

  “What is it, Mr. Sandison?” Matt asked, his eyebrow arched at Bernie’s apparent mood.

  “Uh, final report on the condemned torpedoes, Captain.”

  “So soon?” Matt wasn’t being sarcastic. He was genuinely surprised that the torpedo officer had come up with an answer so fast now that he was working on it again. Bernie visibly flinched. He did think the captain was being sarcastic. What’s more, he thought he had every right to be.

  “Well, sir, you may remember there were two of them,” he temporized. Matt nodded.

  “I believe I remember that number being mentioned,” he said.

  “And that they were submarine torpedoes . . .”

  Matt nodded again, making a “come on” gesture with his hand. The fact they were submarine torpedoes didn’t really matter. The MK-14s were virtually identical to the MK-15s designed for destroyer use, except they were shorter and had a shorter range. They were even identical down to the fact that they had all the exact same problems. They could still be used in Walker’s launchers, however. “Get on with it, Mr. Sandison.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. Well, one of them is totally wrecked. The one they pulled out of the side of that Dutch freighter. That’s the one that had me looking at the exploders. Maybe we can use it for a pattern someday, for parts, but it’s done for. It’s just too badly damaged to repair.”

  “That’s pretty much what you told me before,” said Matt a little impatiently. “I assume you have news about the other torpedo?” Sandison nodded his head, looking miserable. “Well? What’s the matter with it?”

  “Nothing.” He took half a step back.

  “Nothing?!”

  “Yes, sir. Nothing, as far as Lieutenant Shinya and I can tell. We’ve been all over that thing and we just can’t find anything wrong with it.” He held up his greasy hands.

  “If there’s nothing wrong with it, why would it have been condemned? Especially the way everybody was screaming for torpedoes?”

  “Well, Captain, I got to thinking . . . maybe it wasn’t really condemned.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Ellis interrupted. “Of course it was condemned! I was there when we swiped them, remember? They both had tags—”

  Sandison shook his head. “No, sir, they didn’t both have tags. This one didn’t. That’s why we never could figure out where to start looking for a problem.”

  “But—” Ellis stopped. “Then why was it in there with a bunch of condemned torpedoes?”

  Sandison took a deep breath and then let it out. “Because it’s old. It’s not a MK-14 submarine torpedo; it’s an MK-10!”

  “What diff—” Alan Letts slapped his forehead. “Of course!” He turned to Captain Reddy. “The MK-10 is an S-Boat torpedo—an old S-Boat torpedo! The newer fish won’t fit in the oldest subs we have—” He corrected himself, “I mean had. So they gathered up all the MK-10s to save them just for the older boats. They probably wound up with one running loose in Surabaya and stuck it with the rejects!”

  Sandison was nodding. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Matt looked at him. “There’s nothing wrong with it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We can use it?”

  “Yes, sir. MK-10s are slow, but they bloody well work. They don’t have any damn MK-6 exploders!”

  Matt shook his head and closed his eyes, then opened them again and looked at nothing in particular. “We sure could’ve used it last night!”

  “Yes, sir,” Sandison agreed, miserable.

  Matt patted him on the shoulder. “Not your fault.” He glanced aft. “Thank Lieutenant Shinya for his assistance, but ask him to report to Mr. Alden to resume his primary duty of helping train Lemurian troops. We’re going to need all we can get.” He maneuvered Sandison slightly aside. “Please do discuss our . . . concerns about Mr. Shinya with Mr. Alden.”

  “Certainly, Captain.”

  After everyone returned to their duties, Matt found himself alone on the starboard bridgewing, staring out across the busy bay. He glanced at his watch. He’d tried not to allow himself to hope the PBY might still make it. If it lost an engine and Ben was flying very carefully it could conceivably arrive hours late. But no matter how he stacked it, he just couldn’t justify the amount of time that had passed.

  “Don’t give up,” came a soft voice beside him. He turned to see Sandra standing there, folding her bloody apron. She looked exhausted.

  “On the plane? I’m afraid there’s not much choice.”

  “I wouldn’t write them off just yet, but that’s not what I mean. I mean don’t give up on what you’ve started here; this ‘crusade’ of yours to save the Lemurians—and, incidentally, us—from the creatures of whatever species that could do what was done to Nerracca last night.” She sighed and looked at him almost apologetically. “I admit, at first I was skeptical we could accomplish much and afraid that we’d bitten off more than we could chew—especially after the Battle of Aryaal. But then I saw something happen. In spite of all the blood and suffering, or maybe even because of it, all these disparate peoples began to come together, to fight for a common cause. And all that happened because of you.” She shrugged. “So we won a few battles by the skin of our teeth. So we lost a campaign. So we got kicked out and thousands of people died! Think about it: we saved many thousands more people than we lost—than would have been saved if we’d never acted.” She paused, looking at him. Searching. “Eventually, the Grik and Amagi will come here. We will have prepared as best we can and the biggest, most horrifying battle ever waged on this entire planet will take place. And you know what? We’re going to win! We’ll win because we’ll have an army of many cultures fighting for a common ideal, an army that’s been trained to win. We’ll win because of the memory of Aryaal and Baalkpan burning on the horizon, and we know the alternative to victory. And we’ll win because of what happened to Nerracca. People, Lemurians, will remember, and they’ll rally to that!” She glanced around and saw no one looking, then raised both hands and put them on his shoulders. “And we’ll win because you’ll be leading us.” Her voice was intent. “You have to believe that!”

  He smiled at her wistfully. “I believe almost every single thing you just said, except for one thing: I’m not as sure as you are that we’ll win.” Sandra seemed thoughtful for a moment, as if considering his words, then looked at him with a strange expression.

  “The same ‘not sure’ the PBY will return? More? Less?”

  “I’m a little more sure than that.” His voice lowered. “Sandra, the plane is lost.”

  “Sure?”

  He was becoming a little annoyed, and was about to say, “Sure,” when he saw the impish look on her face. Then his gunnery-damaged hearing caught it too—about the same time the other h
uman destroyermen did, and he realized that even Sandra had been relying on the excited reactions of Lemurian crewfolk on the fo’c’sle. The bells on both ships began to ring and the whistles blew. What had been rather somber destroyermen and dockworkers now leaned on the rails and shouted or waved their hats in the air. They could see the plane now, out over the bay. It was running on only one engine, but they’d seen that the day it first arrived. Something was different this time, though.

  “Pipe down!” bellowed the Bosun loud enough for the crews of both ships to hear. He leaned over the side. “Stow that crap and get some men in Scott’s launch!” Gray caught himself and looked up at the captain. Matt nodded, making it official. From now on, the big launch would be named after Walker’s former coxswain. Everyone had learned of his death as soon as they tied up and many were deeply saddened by the loss. The news came as yet another blow after the last few days they’d endured. Sandra took it hard; he’d saved her life. But, oddly, Silva seemed the most affected. Everyone knew the two men were friends, but as soon as Nurse Cross was seen telling him the news, he disappeared entirely.

  The PBY labored as close to its usual landing area near the pier as it could get, but apparently exhausted, it seemed to give up. The plane’s nose was a little high, and the tail of the boat-hull dragged on the water until the plane just stalled, and with a thundering boom, pancaked almost to a stop on the mercifully calm water. It was as close to a controlled crash as the plane and its crew could probably survive. The exuberance of a moment before turned to a collective horror at the condition of the plane, and dread over the condition of the crew.