Destroyermen its-1

by Taylor Anderson

  "They're ready, Captain."

  "All stations manned and ready, sir," supplied the talker.

  Matt brought his binoculars to his eyes. The haze in the strait was still thick, but it was thinning rapidly under the combined assault of the fully risen sun and a freshening breeze. Even on the bridge they could see a large dark shape, and it did appear larger than Amagi. Matt knew then that all their toil, sacrifice, and suffering, the gallantry and heroism of his fine crew, had been for nothing. Whatever lay ahead could only be a very large Japanese ship, and as soon as it saw them they would die. His only plan was to gain the attention of the enemy, fire Walker's last torpedoes and run like hell under a cloud of smoke back in the direction of Surabaya. Maybe they could distract it from Mahan and the other destroyer would escape.

  The talker asked the lookout to repeat himself. "Captain?" he said hesitantly. "Vernon says he's a little above the haze now and he can see a fair amount of the target, which is also above the haze. He says it ain't no Jap warship he ever saw. It ain't nothin' he ever heard of."

  "Explain!" snapped Matt. Every eye in the pilothouse was fixed upon the talker.

  "Sir, he says it's got sails."

  All binoculars were instantly in use as the bridge crew scrutinized the apparition more closely. Sails. Whatever it was, it was huge and it had sails. Lieutenant Garrett's voice came over the comm, calling out range estimates and instructing his gun crews. "Range six four five oh. Bearing two five oh. Speed fo—four knots? Captain, I have a solution. Request permission to commence firing."

  Captain Reddy tore his gaze from the ship that was rapidly resolving into something . . . remarkable, and strode to the intercom himself. "Negative, Mr. Garrett. I repeat, negative! Hold your fire. Continue to track the target, but hold your fire!" He looked at Sandison. "You too, Bernie." He returned to stand beside his chair and raised his binoculars again. Wind rushed in through the empty window frames and threatened to take his hat, but he didn't even notice. It was a ship, all right. Bigger than a battleship. Bigger than a carrier. Hell, it was bigger than anything he'd ever seen. And rising high in the air, at least three or four hundred feet, were three huge tripods that each supported enormous semi-rigid sails much like those of a junk, but bigger than any junk's that were ever conceived. "Engines slow to two-thirds. Left ten degrees rudder. Let's see what we have here."

  The great ship was threading the channel—with evident care, considering its size—on a heading taking it into the Java Sea. There was silence on Walker's bridge as she drew closer and details became more defined.

  Matt didn't even notice Sandra Tucker and Mr. Bradford join him to gape at the leviathan. It was double-ended, sharp at bow and stern, and looked like a gargantuan version of the old Federal ironclad Monitor, except the straight up-and-down sides reared a hundred feet above the sea. Instead of a turret, there were three large structures with multiple levels, like wedding cakes, forming the foundations for the great tripod masts. In a sense, they looked like the pagoda-style superstructures distinctive of Japanese warships, except they were larger and were, like the rest of the huge ship, evidently made of wood. Bright-colored tarps and awnings were spread everywhere, creating a festive air, and from what he could see of the deck from his low perspective, the space between the structures was covered with pavilion-like arrangements of brightly striped and embroidered canvas.

  The ship was easily a thousand feet long, but most outlandish of all were the hundreds of creatures lining the rails and in the rigging and leaning out windows in the "pagodas" to stare right back at them.

  "Bring us alongside, Mr. Scott." Matt's voice sounded small, and he cleared his throat, hoping for a more authoritative tone. "No closer than a hundred yards. Slow to one-third." He glanced at the talker. "Try to raise Mahan and tell her to hold her horses." Perhaps they'd repaired her radio. Jim was optimistic.

  "Sir!" cried Sandison. "What about the Japs? Won't they hear us transmit?"

  An explosive giggle escaped Tony Scott, but he managed to compose himself. Matt let out a breath he must have been holding and gestured out the windows with his chin. He smiled hesitantly. "Mr. Sandison, I don't believe there are any Japs. Not anymore."

  The chattering voices grew progressively quieter as the strange vessel approached. Excited exclamations and panicky activity all but ceased. Chack and Risa were on the catwalk above the gardens that ran around the ship.

  They squeezed through to the railing for a better view. The thing was close now, less than a hundred tails distant. Though small compared to Home, it was longer than any Grik ship ever seen, although maybe not as wide. There was a single tall mast toward the front and a much shorter one at the back, but neither carried a wing of any sort! It had checked its mad dash and now matched their speed, moving parallel to their course. The white froth it threw aside as it dashed through the waves diminished to a whisker.

  No wings—and yet it moved effortlessly in any direction, regardless of the wind! As it kept station off their beam, Chack had the impression it was going as slow as it possibly could and strained to surge ahead against some invisible bond. Four tall pipes, or vents, towered from the middle, and occasional wisps of smoke curled away. Perhaps the pipes were wings? He couldn't see how. If so, must they light fires in them to make them work? When he first saw it, there was much smoke and it went very fast. Now it was slow, but there was little smoke. Perhaps. He felt a twinge of superstitious dread. Fire was another thing the People feared, and only the cookers and lighters were allowed to use it. All it would take was one careless moment and all of Home might be consumed. To harness fire and use it so made him feel uneasy. The thing boasted few colors, except for a tattered, striped cloth that fluttered at the back. Other than that, it was dull, like a stormy sky, with brownish streaks and smudges here and there. It also looked like it had been bitten by a mountain fish, as there were holes, large and small, all over.

  Chack's thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the Guards, who arrayed themselves along the railing every five tails or so, pushing spectators away. Most hadn't bothered to don their light armor, but all had their axes and crossbows, which they strung when they took their positions.

  Chack felt a twinge of guilt. He was in the reserve Guard, as was every able-bodied person on Home. But he hadn't even thought to arm himself, so anxious was he to get a look at the stranger. He thought about fetching his weapons now, and even started to leave, when the chattering grew louder again. He squeezed back through the people that packed the rails. Risa grasped his arm. "They are not Grik!" she shouted over the growing clamor. "Not Grik!"

  He blinked rapidly in surprise and stared back across the water. He'd been so preoccupied by the strange vessel, as had everyone, that he'd failed to notice there were people on it. Well, not People, of course, but not Grik.

  "What are they?" Risa asked, barely heard.

  "What the hell are they?" Matt said softly, barely aloud.

  "They look like monkeys! Or cats! Or . . . hell, what are they?!" blurted Sandison.

  "Quite like lemurs, I should think," said Bradford in an excited tone, "although they do have a strong feline aspect as well."

  "I don't know what a lemur is, or a feline neither. They look like catmonkeys to me," grumbled Scott.

  "Silence on the bridge!" Matt said softly but forcefully. "Tend your helm, Mr. Scott."

  Keje-Fris-Ar stepped to the rail, surrounded by his personal guards, and waited for Adar, the High Sky Priest, to join him. Keje was short, even by the standards of the People, and he tended toward a mild plumpness common among the Body of Home folk. His arms were massive, however, as they'd been since his youth, when he'd been the greatest lance hurler in living memory. In his fortieth season, he was still among the best. When the People hunted the great gri-kakka, or "lizard fish," for its flesh and the oil from its fat, he still often found a place in the boats. His short fur was reddish brown, now salted with white, but his eyes—a much darker reddish brown—sparkled with yo
uthful curiosity, along with a natural concern. As he gazed at the amazing visitor, one of his clansmen-guards dressed him in his war tunic, made of gri-kakka skin and covered with highly polished and beautifully chased copper plates. At his side was his scota, a long, broad-bladed sword used primarily for hacking gri-kakka fat but also a formidable weapon in his practiced hand.

  Adar arrived, shouldering gently but firmly through the gathered people. His long purple robe hung from his tall, thin frame and billowed as a gust of wind breathed softly across them. On each shoulder was an embroidered silver star, much the same color as his pelt, which was the badge of his office. He stared intently at the unbelievable ship, but more specifically at the creatures upon it in their outlandish white, blue, and light brown garments. Creatures doing nothing more threatening than staring back at them. They were bizarre, to be sure, and taller even than he. They had virtually no fur at all, just little tufts on their heads covered by strange hats. A few had fur on their faces, but not very many. The most shocking difference, however, at least at a glance, was that the beings had no tails. At all.

  Most looked back with as much apparent astonishment as the People displayed. Others evidently communicated with one another in some animated, alien fashion. Generally, though, their reaction to the meeting seemed to mirror that of the People. There was no fear in his voice when he spoke to his leader and lifelong friend. "Tail-less mariners," he said quietly. "How very strange indeed. Could it possibly be?" He shook his head. "Demons from the East, most likely."

  Keje glanced at him and blinked questioningly. "The Scrolls speak of demons from the East? Specifically? The People are harried sufficiently by demons from every other direction. These must be distinguished demons indeed."

  Adar allowed the slightest smile to appear on his perpetually stoic face. "Not specifically. Not in the Scrolls. But there is wisdom passed down among the Sky Priests that is not always written, my Brother."

  Keje huffed. He noticed that some had seen the exchange and several blinked with alarm. He heard the word "demons" whispered and saw the effect ripple down the rail, fore and aft. He huffed again, in annoyance. "Watch your tongue, my gloomy friend. No one doubts I rule the minds and bodies of all the People of Home, but your words carry weight in their hearts." He gestured at the thing that lingered with such unnerving precision and spoke louder. "They're not Grik. They're very strange folk, but they haven't attacked. I doubt they can. I see no weapons. No swords, axes, or crossbows at all. Their Home is very fast. If our Home was as fast, we would not need weapons either!" He laughed.

  He watched as his words quickly spread to counteract the unease that Adar's comment had inspired. Adar inclined his head and lowered his ears in respect.

  "You are wise, Keje-Fris-Ar. That's why you are High Chief of all the clans of Home, and I am merely a humble servant of the Heavens." The sarcasm was thick, but those nearby recognized the customary banter between their two leaders, and the mood lightened still more.

  "I wonder what we should do?" Adar whispered in his ear.

  "If they do nothing," Keje whispered back, "I will continue to stare at them. It has worked very well so far."

  Captain Reddy moved onto the bridgewing, closely followed by Sandra and Courtney Bradford. He saw Gray standing with the number one gun crew on the foredeck, his hands behind his back. He too was looking at the huge ship, but by the expression he wore, he might have been watching an empty San Miguel bottle bobbing alongside in Cavite. The gun crew traded nervous glances, but they had themselves under control. The Bosun's presence probably helped, and Matt was certain that Gray had stationed himself there to hearten or intimidate the crew—whichever was required—in case the gun was needed.

  Cigarette smoke wafted back from the gun crew, however, and Matt was amused that Gray had, at least momentarily, relaxed the prohibition against smoking on duty. With a start, he saw a cigarette dangling from the Chief 's lips as well. He looked aft and saw that the transgression was universal. Even the unflappable Dennis Silva struck a light to a smoke with slightly trembling hands. The big gunner's mate never smoked. He preferred chewing tobacco, because there were no sanctions for safety reasons—as long as he remembered to spit over the side. Sandra Tucker seemed in a state of shock. She said nothing, but her expression of amazement was even more profound than when they had seen the creatures on land. He didn't recall exactly when she'd come onto the bridge, but he realized he didn't object to her presence. Courtney Bradford merely stood, beaming with joy and mumbling to himself.

  Matt didn't know how he felt. Shocked, amazed, even terrified perhaps. Not surprised, strangely, that a new impossible thing had occurred, just that it manifested itself in such a way. He felt a bizarre sense of relief, in fact, knowing with complete certainty that nothing was certain anymore. Nothing. At least now he could plan accordingly. He looked once more at the creatures staring back. He knew what a lemur was—Bradford wasn't far off the mark. Crude as it was, neither was "monkey-cat." They had tails like monkeys, he could clearly see, and they were furred in a wide variety of colors. Their faces did look very feline, though, and just like cats, he couldn't tell what they were thinking. All was silent, fore and aft, when he finally spoke.

  "Any word from Mahan?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Very well. Mr. Scott, right full rudder. All ahead two-thirds. Let's see if we can pick up her trail." Even over the rising whine of the blowers, Matt heard the chattering exclamations of the creatures when Walker surged ahead. On impulse, he raised his hand palm outward and waved at the inscrutable faces.

  "Upon my word!" Bradford exclaimed when the gesture was hesitantly returned by a few of the creatures as Walker peeled away.

  "Unusual," commented Adar as the strange ship receded with magical swiftness. "Not only did they not attack, but that one gave the Sign of the Empty Hand. That's encouraging, at least." The Sign of the Empty Hand was a common greeting among the People, to show they held no weapons.

  "Perhaps it was just shielding its tiny eyes from the sun." The crowd began to disperse, chattering excitedly. "Despite what I said, I don't think they were helpless. What was that long thing on the front of their ship if not a weapon? And there were three others just like it. I think they must be weapons."

  "That possibility did not escape me, lord," Adar whispered back. "But if they were weapons, they did not use them, did they? Never before have we met others than our own kind that did not attack. I, for one, find that encouraging."

  Keje huffed noncommittally. "I find it encouraging when I do not encounter strange beings that move faster than any Home ever has—and do not even have wings—before I have eaten my morning meal. Join me while I do, and we will talk more of what we've seen."

  Virtually every surviving officer had gravitated to the crowded pilothouse. The petty officers, warrants, and division chiefs were there too, or gathered aft by the ladder behind the bridge. None abandoned their posts without proper relief, and all stations were manned, but nearly everyone who was responsible for other men had come. They hadn't discussed it, hadn't planned it in any way. It was as though they instinctively knew it was time to go to the captain and hear what he had to say. Matt wasn't surprised. He wasn't worried about mutiny, but he knew a threshold had been reached. The men had been through hell even before everything became so strange. When it had, they took it in stride, determined to carry on to the end. Only there was no end. Somehow, for some unknowable reason, nothing was the same anymore—and if Matt had learned anything about his destroyermen, it was that they didn't welcome change.

  As he looked at them standing respectfully but expectantly nearby, he reflected that this might actually be harder on some because they were Asiatic Fleet. Many had been on the same ship, on the same station, and with the same shipmates for years. One of the fundamental characteristics of the Asiatic Fleet had been that nothing ever changed. Some would call it ossified; the ancient ships and obsolete equipment certainly supporte
d that, but an all-pervading, decades-long routine had been established and until the War, there'd been no reason to disrupt it. The men with Filipino wives had expected to serve their time and retire in the Philippines, where they'd grown accustomed to the routine of life. The War destroyed that life, but they'd fallen back on the routine of the Navy and their duty. Many hoped that by doing their duty, they could restore everything to the way it had been before. Now even that hope was gone. All that remained was their ship, their duty, and each other. That would have to be enough. For now, that was all they had.

  They'd gathered to hear what he had to say. To draw strength and purpose from one that they hoped—since the Navy thought he was smart enough to lead them—would be smart enough to figure out what to do. Matt didn't know what to do, as far as the "bigger picture" was concerned, and it was no use pretending he did. Inwardly, he was at least as scared as they were. But he had faith in these rough men, and to cross this threshold and move beyond it he knew he must appeal to their strengths—their independence and their industry. More than anyone else in the Navy, they were accustomed to surviving on the fringe. If anyone could do it, they could—if they stuck together. Only then could they protect their most immediate, most comforting routine of all: their life on USS Walker. With that as a foundation, they could meet the bigger challenge together.

  "Shipwide," he said, wondering what he would say.

  "Now hear this!" he began, repeating the preparatory phrase that would have been used for any ordinary general announcement. He turned with the microphone in his hand and stared out the windows forward, past the fo'c'sle, into the far distance where the hazy sky met the sea.

  "A few of you may have noticed some strange goings-on." He smiled wryly and waited for the nervous laughter to die, then continued in a serious tone. "I don't know more than any of you about what's happened. When I find out, I'll tell you. That's a promise. I won't lie to you, though. The situation's grim. We're a beat-up tin can that's been through a hell of a fight. We have limited stores, ammunition, and fuel." He paused for emphasis, then hammered it home. "And I can't tell you where, or from whom, we can resupply. My immediate plan is to collect Mahan and then begin searching for a source to fill our needs. Once we do, we can worry about the big picture and decide what to do next. That's the bad news."