"Electra, one of the Brit destroyers, made a torpedo attack alone, to distract the Japs from finishing Exeter. She was flying the biggest flag I ever saw . . ." Taking off his hat, he passed his hand over his head and stared at the lights on the water, remembering. "I guess every Jap ship in the line concentrated on her. All we saw was waterspouts, then steam and smoke . . . then nothing." He shook his head with sad amazement. "It was getting dark and I guess Doorman'd had enough. We charged in and launched torpedoes while the cruisers turned away, but nobody got a single hit."
He shrugged. "We did break the Jap formation, though, and Doorman got away. You got to give him credit for guts. As soon as we gave them the slip, Doorman went looking for the transports again. We didn't. We were out of torpedoes and nearly out of fuel, and our engines were finished after running thirty knots all through the fight. Binford ordered us back to Surabaya."
The launch's engine could be heard again as it shoved off to return to the dock and await another load.
"Doorman wasn't an idiot. I didn't like the way they put him in charge, but his biggest problem was he never knew what he was up against, never knew what he was facing or even where the enemy was. Now I know how he must've felt. We don't know what we're facing either, and like I said when we first helped Big Sal . . ." He stopped and looked at her. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad we did! These people, Keje, Adar, Chack, even Nakja-Mur, they're good people. They've helped us and deserve our help in return. I just didn't feel right getting the men involved in a war we know nothing about. The Grik are bad news, maybe even worse than the Japs.
They need to be defeated and, however it happened, we're here now, and we'll never be safe until they are. We've had it pretty easy so far, but there has to be more to the Grik than these little two- or three-ship task forces.
Somehow, we've got to find out!"
"How?"
He grinned at her. "I don't know, but I'm working on it. Any ideas?"
Sandra smiled. She suddenly knew he would never have shown such vulnerability with anyone else on the ship. He wouldn't have spoken of any of this. What did that mean? "What happened to Doorman?" she asked. Matt's grin vanished.
"He ran into the Japs again that night. DeRuyter and Java were sunk.
Exeter and Encounter made it back to Surabaya—where you came on the stage. Houston and Perth got slaughtered trying to make it through the Sunda Strait."
"All because they didn't know what they were up against." She looked speculatively at the PBY floating nearby. "But now we have air cover and the enemy doesn't."
He followed her gaze. "Well, yeah, but unless we can make more fuel for it, it won't be much help. That's not out of the question, and we're going to try. Mallory says it'll burn gasoline, which we should be able to do, but it needs high-octane stuff. I don't know squat about that, but Bradford does and as soon as we have a decent reserve for the ship, he's going to try to sort it out." He shrugged and looked at the Catalina like one might a worn-out horse, wondering if it had the stamina for a few more miles or not. "Of course, parts to keep it in the air are even more impossible than the things we need for the ship."
"How much fuel does it have?" Sandra asked. "Enough to look for Mahan?"
When Matt answered, his voice was without inflection. It was a habit she'd noticed he used when he'd agonized over a decision and come to one he didn't like. "Maybe. But fuel's not really the issue. We tanked her up, and we have enough in drums on the ship to fill her again. But even if we had all the fuel in the world, I can't send anyone up in that thing unless Walker's close behind. Not unless I have to. Riggs thinks he can fix its radio, and that might make a difference. Until then, I won't chance stranding somebody. It might also be different if we had some idea where Mahan is, but we don't. `West of Sumatra' a few weeks ago is too damn vague to risk men's lives. For all we know, she's sunk . . . or the Grik have her already." He sighed. "My conscience tells me to chase her as soon as we have the fuel; she's my responsibility. But Walker's my responsibility too, and I won't risk her on another wild-goose chase until we know the other team's lineup. Mahan and our friends'll have to wait—they'd understand."
"Do Mr. Mallory and Mr. Brister understand?" she asked. "I know they're pretty hot to look."
He set his jaw. "It doesn't matter if they understand. It's my responsibility."
"It does matter. They feel like they left them too. I think you should talk to them. Explain." She hesitated, and bit her lip before she spoke again. "Weren't you just criticizing the Dutch for being too timid with their planes?"
Matt smiled, acknowledging the hit, but shook his head. "It's not the same. That plane is precious, beat up as it is. But I will risk it if I have to, and I'm pretty sure I will. But only in coordination with the ship. If I learned anything from Admiral Doorman—or the whole experience of the Asiatic Fleet—it was to never ride a tricycle in front of a steamroller with your eyes closed. Are the Grik a steamroller?" He shrugged. "The 'cats make 'em sound scary enough—and they are scary—but if all they have in the Java Sea is a dozen ships—" He grinned. "Ten now—maybe they're the tricycle and we don't have anything to worry about." He held his fingers apart. "We were that close to maybe finding out today. Just a few gallons of fuel might have set our minds at ease. Now . . ." He paused. "Unlike Admiral Doorman, I don't intend to chase shadows or hang ourselves out in the breeze until—" He stopped, and a strange expression crossed his face. "Until they come to us . . ." He grinned. "Or maybe I will!"
"What?"
"Just an idea. I'll tell you later." He gestured at the arriving launch, and one of the men clambered onto the dock. He seemed surprised to see the captain. "Are you ready to go back to the ship, Skipper?"
Matt glanced at Sandra. She shook her head.
"Not just yet."
Another man climbed from the boat, cursing. It was Tony Scott, trying to get farther from the water—at least until the next load forced him to cross it again. The two destroyermen stayed discreetly out of earshot.
"You're not using them up," Sandra said in a quiet voice. "The men, I mean. The world—this world, the one we left—it doesn't matter. The world uses them up despite anything you do. If you're not careful, you can use yourself up. You love your men. They know it and so do I." She looked up at him and, for a moment, he saw the lights of the city shining in her eyes. "And we all love you for it. That and other things." He swallowed, trying to remain impassive. What did she mean by that?
"We love you because we know you'll do whatever you can to keep us safe. But we also know we're at war. No matter what else has changed, that hasn't, and sometimes you have to risk the thing you love to keep it safe."
She nodded toward the ship. "They know that, and they know because you're the man you are, you'll risk them if you have to." She sighed. "When we have fuel, we could just leave. We could go to the Philippines, or Australia. Maybe find fuel there. Eventually get to Hawaii, or even the West Coast. Maybe there aren't any Grik there. Maybe there's something just as bad, but what if there's not? We'd be `safe,' but what then? We need friends if we're going to survive, and we've been lucky and made some. They happen to be in a fight for their lives. Besides being the best way to keep us safe, in the long run, helping them is the right thing to do. Your men understand that, Captain Reddy, and I bet if you put it to a vote, most would choose to stay. They know they might die. Life on a destroyer's dangerous work. They could have died `back home' any day of the week, a thousand different ways, before the war even started. So the best way you can ensure that most won't die is to continue doing your job the best you know how. And when the time comes, fight your ship! Don't worry about what you can't control—just fight to win!" She grinned then, her small teeth flashing. "And quit feeling guilty for getting us into this mess!
It was an accomplishment, not a failure!"
"I, ah, how . . . ?"
Her grin became a gentle smile. "I live only two doors down, `doors' being thin green curtains, and you talk in your
sleep."
He cleared his throat and looked in the direction of the sailors near the launch.
"No, not bad," she assured him. "But I know you blame yourself for everything from Marvaney's death to losing Mahan." Her smile faded.
"That has to stop. If you don't start getting some rest while you sleep, you will start making mistakes."
He nodded at her. "I'll try. And thanks, Lieutenant."
She gave him a stern look. "You call the other officers by their first names in informal situations, why not me?"
"Well, because . . ."
"Because I'm a woman? I'm also your friend. At least I hope so. I think Keje even still thinks I'm your wife! Don't you think we could use first names, at least when no one's watching?"
Matt felt his cheeks burn, but nodded. He wondered how slippery a slope that would prove to be. "Okay . . . Sandra. But only when nobody's watching." His voice was quite serious as he spoke. "I'm sure you must know why."
Of course she knew why, and as she suspected, it was duty that kept him distant. Duty to his men. She felt a thrill to realize he really was interested in her, but also a deep sadness that the situation prevented them from acknowledging it. She forced a smile.
"Yes, Matthew. I understand."
Right then, the look on her face, the tone of her voice—he might have kissed her in spite of everything, to hell with the consequences. If Silva hadn't intervened. More precisely, if the growing calamity of the spectacle that Silva was generating hadn't done so.
A rampaging super lizard would have seemed sedate compared to his arrival. He was literally wearing half of Dowden's "flying" shore patrol.
Even as they watched, one of Dowden's men—Fred Reynolds—went "flying" dangerously close to the edge of the pier. On second glance, he wouldn't have fallen, since he was chained to Silva's wrist.
"Lemme go!" he roared. "Where'd you take my girl? I'm in the mood for luuuve!"
"Oh, my God."
Not to be outdone by his predecessors, Dennis began singing as the men wrestled him closer to the captain: "I joined the Nay-vee to see the world! And what did I see? I saw the sea! I'm not . . . I won't? . . . I don't get seasick, but I'm awful sick of seeeaa!" He vomited on Reynolds, who was lying at his feet. "Archg! Sorry, boy . . ." He looked wildly around.
"Where's my girl? My lady love! I ain't through dancin' yet!" He proceeded into an astonishingly graceful waltz—for a drunk with two men hanging on him and another chained to his arm. He stopped suddenly, as though surprised at himself, and hooted: "I'm a Grammaw!" Then he saw the captain. He came to swaying, exaggerated attention and saluted, dragging poor Reynolds to his feet. "Eav-nin', Skipper! Lootenit Tucker!"
"Mr. Silva." Matt nodded. "You seem . . . true to form."
"Aye, aye, sir! Cheap seep! Hell, it's free!" He belched loudly.
"Are you ready to return to the ship? Peacefully?"
Silva blinked, looking around. "Hell, no! These bastards has . . . adducted . . . obstructed . . . swiped me from my wife!"
"What? What? Mr. Dowden, what's the meaning of this?" Before Larry could even begin to explain, there came a shriek from the darkness.
"Si-vaa!" Two brindled shapes ran toward them, one ahead of the other. The first, obviously female, leaped on the gunner's mate and, combined with his other passengers, nearly knocked him down at last. Matt thought she was attacking him until she wrapped her arms around his neck and started licking his face.
"There's my darlin' angel!" he cooed.
The other brindled shape caught up and slammed to attention, but even in the dark, it was clear that Chack-Sab-At was quivering with rage.
"What the hell's going on here!" Matt bellowed. "Silva, what have you done?"
"Cap-i-taan!" said Chack, "that's my sister, Risa. She is unwell. That giant . . . creature has intoxicated her and . . ."
"He mate? He marry me!" Risa squealed happily. "He Sab-At clan now!"
"Never!" seethed Chack. Sandra's hand now covered her mouth in earnest, but Matt couldn't tell if she was hiding shock or laughter.
"My God, Silva, I swear! If you've done anything to damage our relationship with these people, or if you forced . . . God! Are you insane? I'll hang you!"
"Skipper, I'll swear on a Bible or Marvaney's record stack—whatever you say—"
"You lie!" shouted Chack.
"He no lie!" Risa purred. "Nobody mad but silly Chack. People no mad. People no . . . embarrassed? By mate! Si-vaa love Risa!"
The shore party, those that could, eased away. Chack's ears were back and his tail swished like a cobra. He looked about to strike. Matt was preparing another volcanic response when Sandra tugged his sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked sharply at her and was incredulous when he saw her nod.
"We'll get to the bottom of this," he promised darkly. "Mr. Chack, please escort your sister to her Home. At the very least, she seems . . . indisposed."
"But . . . Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan."
"What about my weddin' night?" Silva moaned, and Matt turned to him.
"My orders were that all personnel be back aboard by 0100. Since you had no special permission, you may not stay ashore to . . . consummate your `marriage,' nor may you do so on my ship! USS Walker is not a honeymoon barge!" He paused. There was one way to find out if Sandra was right. "Tomorrow I'll speak to Keje and Nakja-Mur and discover what further process, if any, is required to finalize your and Risa's . . . nuptials.
Perhaps a joint ceremony?"
He was rewarded by a marked widening of Silva's surprisingly sober eyes. Getting even with Chack was one thing, but he wouldn't enjoy the consequences of including his captain in the joke.
"Nighty night, sugar-lips!" Silva said, and gave Risa a kiss, which she returned with evident relish.
God, I hope it isa joke! Matt thought with a shudder.
After Chack stiffly led his sister away and a suddenly docile Silva was carried to the ship, Matt removed his hat and rubbed his eyes. "Jesus!"
Sandra laughed. "Is this the way it always was with these guys, back in the Philippines?"
"No! Well, yeah, but . . . yeah." He smiled.
"I told Chack to watch his back." Sandra chuckled. "I wonder when he'll figure it out?"
"I wonder if it's over!"
"You don't think he really . . . ?" Sandra gasped.
"If we're not surrounded by angry 'cats with torches in the morning, I'm going to pretend it never happened. But I guarantee Silva won't have the last laugh!" For a moment, the pier was empty again, but the electric tension between them was damped. Just as well.
Sandra cleared her throat. "Earlier, you said you had an idea. What was it?"
"What? Oh. Well, let me see if I can put my thoughts back together!"
CHAPTER 7
What, then, would you have us do? How do we defeat them if the Ancient Ones could not?" The speaker was the High Chief of one of the great Homes. Seven of the huge vessels now floated in Baalkpan Bay, and all their chiefs, as well as a large number of senior "officers," were present in Nakja-Mur's Great Hall for this long-awaited council. There were even representatives from several smaller "land colonies." Gatherings on such a scale were rare, usually happening no more than once or twice a decade, and there was no official mechanism for summoning one.
As far as Matt could tell, it might be as simple as shouted words from passing fishermen: "Big meeting at Baalkpan. Come if you want." Without better communications, that was probably exactly how it happened.
Great Gatherings were usually occasions for festivities, games, trade, and socialization. They were also times for crowded, prosperous Homes to branch off. To build new Homes and form new clans. It was a time that the People on their solitary wandering Homes looked forward to with pleasure and anticipation, wondering where and when the next would be held. But this one was different. All were aware of the seriousness of the growing threat, and those present, at least, seemed willing and even eager to discuss their next move. Few agreed what that mov
e should be, however.
The Lemurian who'd spoken was Anai-Sa, High Chief of Fristar, one of the Homes that had been in Baalkpan Bay since before Walker arrived.
He seemed young for his rank, with a jet-black pelt and a spray of white whiskers surrounding his face. His green eyes were intent. Besides his heavily embroidered kilt, he wore only a multitude of shimmering golden hoops around his neck and upper arms. His people were "far rangers" who rarely entered these waters. Their "territory" was most often the South China Sea, but Grik pressure had pushed them south. He was also the most outspoken of the "why don't we just sail off where there are no Grik" crowd.
Keje spoke in reply. "I would have you hear the words of Cap-i-taan Reddy of the Amer-i-caans, and High Chief of Waa-kur. He is High Chief of an independent clan and has as much right to speak as anyone here.
More, to my thinking, since he saved my Home from the Grik. The Amer-i-caans have helped us prepare for this time with no concern for personal gain." Keje stood before the silent group, looking out among them. He said nothing about Walker's brief sortie two weeks before that destroyed two more Grik ships. All were aware of it, even if they hadn't been there yet, and boasting sometimes detracts from self-evident truth. Besides, the last thing Matt wanted was everyone thinking Walker would save them all.
As Keje suspected, there were murmurs of protest. Not because the humans weren't People, but because their ship was so small and sparsely populated. Would they grant "Home" status to fishing boats too?
Keje squared his shoulders and placed his hand upon the scota at his side. "I declare Cap-i-taan Reddy is my Brother as surely as any High Chief, and I offer combat to anyone saying he does not deserve to speak."
These last words came in a growl.
There was some very unusual body language in response to this threat, and some glanced to see Nakja-Mur's reaction. He merely stared at Keje's back across steepled claws with his elbows on his knees.
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