When all that would occur depended largely on reports from Jumbo’s Pat-Squad 22, Bekiaa-Sa-At, and now Courtney Bradford, with the Armies of the Republic of Real People. The latest word was, the Repubs had begun their offensive but something was screwy with it. Basically, so far, they hadn’t found any Grik. So the newest tweak to the strategy was that the First Fleet Expeditionary Force had to cool its heels and hold its assault until the Repubs were thoroughly “noticed” by the Grik. The enemy was already massed at Sofesshk, so the Repubs had to be the first diversion. Nobody was happy about that, but it made the most sense. The only consolation was that it couldn’t take the Grik too long to discover they’d been invaded. . . . Could it?
Behind Madras was a string of new fast transports, again, basically Scott class steam frigates built lighter and beamier to accommodate I’Joorka’s 1st North Borno. Part of Rolak’s I Corps, Major Simon “Simy” Gutfeld’s 3rd Marines had embarked aboard Santy Cat and Arracca and her auxiliaries in case Tassanna and Russ Chappelle wound up needing troops for any reason, including low-risk, irresistible opportunities to cause mischief for the enemy. The 1st North Borno would occupy the camps the 3rd Marines left behind.
At the moment, however, nearly every human or Lemurian in sight of the anchorage was focused on USS Tarakaan Island as she slowly flooded down, almost two weeks to the day since she’d taken Walker aboard. Water flooded into the repair basin, swirling, scouring, retreating in waves topped with floating wood debris, pumicelike torch slag, and oily, multihued tendrils. More water poured in as the SPD settled lower. Then, starting on Tarakaan Island and spreading to ships nearby, a great cheer mounted and echoed in the anchorage. Observers farther away couldn’t see anything but knew what it meant and joined the tumult. USS Walker was afloat.
A cable had already been secured to Walker’s baby sister, USS James Ellis, the tops of her funnels hazed with smoke. Slowly, the new DD took up the slack. The cheers redoubled and steam whistles sounded when Walker’s freshly painted fantail probed the harbor. Her aft deckhouse, dominated by the dual-purpose 4″-50, was crowded with ’Cats, mostly “yard dogs” (and the irony of that term, once explained, remained a source of hilarity throughout the fleet) who were waving and cheering back. Spanky was there, trying to look severe as ’Cats capered around the auxiliary conn, but even he leaked a grin now and then. Soon Ellie had eased Walker entirely out of the repair bay and, so close to each other for the very first time, they looked virtually identical from a distance—even down to the bold, white 163 painted on both their bows. This because the campaign against Zanzibar might require Ellie to impersonate Walker, as Mahan had once done. Maybe not, but they wanted to be ready. Presently, however, the two ships, stern to stern, resembled a mirror image.
Walker slipped the tow cable and it slithered wetly up between Ellie’s depth-charge racks, where ’Cat sailors coiled it down as it ran off the steam winch. Slowly at first, but gathering speed, Ellie moved away with another resounding blast from her horn. Smoke was already streaming downwind from Walker’s funnels as well, her hot heart beating again. Water foamed around her propeller guards and she twisted nimbly away from Tarakaan Island. Smoke chuffed insistently and she swung around toward a place at the pier that Jarrik-Fas’s USS Tassat had just cleared. Once there, she’d begin taking on more fuel, provisions, and ammunition from stockpiles unloaded from the SPD as soon as she’d arrived. Later that day she’d steam out of the harbor, theoretically ready to fight, but the purpose would be to make some high-speed runs and put her through her paces to see what they might’ve missed. No one had any illusions that she was as good as new; there simply hadn’t been time for a complete refit, and a close inspection would reveal that her plates, newly riveted in many places, were still dented and washboarded beneath the thick, fresh paint. Few of her once-sharp angles remained quite as crisp as they’d been, and despite all their efforts, she still leaked a little. Small streams of water were already starting to spurt from her sides as bilge pumps sucked it from below. But a great deal had been accomplished in the little time they had. She’d never be good as new, but hopefully, the repairs had made her good enough to face what lay ahead. Almost immediately, as soon as Walker was clear, Tassat began creeping toward the open stern of the SPD, anxious to begin her own repairs.
Captain Reddy had the conn and was personally steering his ship to the pier, his hands feeling the living machinery through the familiar burnished brass of the wheel. As always, he was amazed by the people’s enthusiasm for his old destroyer. Well, she’s damn sure earned it, he thought, surviving when no one thought it possible, time and again, and performing what must seem like martial miracles to many watching. He deeply appreciated their gratitude and approval, but knew better than anyone how truly miraculous some of those victories had been. And they’ll expect more, he thought, from Walker . . . and me. It isn’t fair, but it’s true. All I can do is pray that, critical as this old ship’s been to the survival of the Alliance and the new nation it spawned, she—and I—are no longer indispensable. Neither of us’ll last forever, and I don’t want all we’ve done—and lost—to be for nothing.
And it won’t be, he consoled himself. I have a lot of responsibility, but I’m not necessary to the degree Alan Letts, Adar, Saan-Kakja, Rebecca McDonald, even Keje and Courtney Bradford have become. Not anymore. I’m not even essential to the continuation of the American Navy Clan. There might be some rough patches if I buy it, but it’ll go on. The traditions we’ve established with so much blood’ll see to that. He did wonder how his ship, or whatever battle killed him, might fare if he was lost, but the thought of Spanky gave him peace of mind. Spanky’s a diminutive, gnarled red oak who naturally inspires confidence and obedience, loyalty and respect. He might have little interest in the big picture beyond the ship, but he can fight her as well as I ever have, and knows every rivet in her. If something happens to me, Matt thought, Walker and her people will be in good hands.
It never occurred to him, of course, that all of that—while possibly even true—would never have been the case if his example hadn’t formed the Alliance, the Union, his Clan—even Spanky and the rest—in the first place.
“How does she feel, Skipper?” asked Bernie Sandison, Walker’s torpedo officer, tipping his hat up on his dark hair. Even this early, sweat was trickling down his temples.
Matt forced the grim thoughts from his mind and managed a cheerful tone. “Pretty good, as a matter of fact. A lot of the shaft vibration’s gone, and the rudder responds like it should again. We’ll know better when she stretches her legs. Minnie?” he called behind him to the tiny Lemurian bridge talker. Min-Sakir didn’t really look like Minnie Mouse, except for size, maybe, but her voice was just as small, and that was what earned her nickname long ago. She was a good talker who kept her cool, and her little voice inspired a measure of amusement that seemed to help others do the same in times of stress. “Anything from Tabby yet?”
“She on her way up now.”
“Dead slow ahead,” Matt called to his first officer, Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen. Rosen was technically the OOD, but just as Matt had taken the wheel, Rosen stood by the lee helm, the engine order telegraph.
“Dead slow ahead, aye,” Rosen replied, moving the levers on both sides of the EOT to the desired position amid a clash of bells. Almost instantly, the bells rang again and the pointers matched. “Tabby’s girls are on the ball.” Rosen grinned. Most of Walker’s snipes were female now, Lemurians and former Imperials. Spanky’s early objections to any female aboard, let alone in “his” engineering spaces, had long ago given way to grudging acceptance. And engineering was Tabby and Isak’s concern now. Tabby had seen the trouble many females of both species had in the deck divisions, where stature and physical strength were often more important, and had been the driving force behind the change. “Broads’re plenty strong, an’ can take the heat,” she’d explained. As far as anyone could tell, Isak Reuben—not
much bigger than Tabby, and one of the few males still in her division—didn’t care one way or another.
Chief Jeek’s bosun’s call squealed on the fo’c’sle, echoed by whistles aft, and ’Cats gathered with lines in their hands. “Dead slow astern,” Matt said, turning the wheel as the ship nosed toward the dock where line handlers waited. Slowly, the old destroyer quivered to a near stop, barely inching forward as her screws reversed. “All stop,” he finally said, and moments later, the sailors on the fo’c’sle tossed their lines. “Secure the engines,” Matt instructed, “but we’ll keep the steam pressure up to break the boilers in, and I want to go for a run in two hours.” He stepped away from the wheel and smiled, noting that Tabby had joined them. “Mr. Rosen, you have the deck again.”
“Ay, ay, sir. I have the deck.”
“So,” Matt asked Tabby. “What do you think?”
The gray-furred ’Cat shrugged noncommittally. “Is okay, I guess. Ever-thing seems good, but anybody can putter aroun’ a pond like we just done. We’ll see better later.”
“You’re right, and we will. In the meantime, I’m going ashore. I’joorka’s First North Borno is coming in. General Alden, Chack, Silva, and Lawrence are waiting to meet them, but I’d kind of like to see ’em for myself.” He shook his head. “A regiment half made up of people who look like Grik—on our side. It’s bound to be interesting, and I want to see what I’joorka’s like. Pass the word . . . Oh, there you are, Mr. McFarlane,” he said, seeing Spanky climb the metal stairs aft. “You can come along.”
Pam Cross, Walker’s surgeon, joined Matt and Spanky as they tromped down the gangway as soon as it slid out the entry port on the quarterdeck. Matt started to ask what the pretty, dark-haired girl from Brooklyn needed ashore, but bit his lip. When duty allowed, Pam could come and go as she pleased, and it was well-known that she was helplessly, probably stupidly, in love with Dennis Silva. Knowing exactly where he’d be, for once, she was going along. Silva’s only been aboard one time since we came to Mahe on Santa Catalina, Matt reflected, and then only to help tie the ship’s guns back into the director after they were relined and reinstalled. Granted, he’s been busy scheming with Chack and helping get his Raiders ready, but except for a brief reunion at Grik City, he’s been away from Pam a very long time. She’s probably annoyed that now they’re so close to each other again, he seems to be avoiding her. He considered. Then again, I’m not sure Silva’s just avoiding Pam. He’s just as devoted to Walker as anyone. Probably more than most. She’s the only home he’s ever had. But he’s been aboard only once since Chief Gray was killed.
In a way, he understood. He could certainly sympathize with Silva’s loss; he felt it every day himself. And now it had been magnified a hundredfold by his fear and uncertainty regarding Sandra’s fate. But he couldn’t let it overwhelm him or even look like it might. Each day was a struggle to stay calm, focused, even positive, for the sake of the hands. Pretending to be cheerful would be impossible, and he’d never pull it off. His crew knew him too well. But he must never let his inner turmoil influence him or those around him again. That’s probably how Silva feels, he realized. Gray was more a father to him than anyone, and Silva knows he . . . left things for him: his hat, pistol, his chief’s coin. It isn’t much, but Silva can’t afford to break down any more than I can, and if he spends too much time aboard, those things—and the memories—will draw him to them.
Matt, Spanky, and Pam continued along the bright, fresh-cut dock, gathering generals Alden and Rolak as they walked. “So,” Pete Alden asked, “what do you think of your repairs?”
Matt pursed his lips. “I’m as happy as I can be, I guess, given where we are, the time we had, and what we had to start with,” he qualified. “The guys on Tara did a helluva job. They stopped most of her leaks, replacing about two thousand rivets—”
“Damn rivets,” Spanky grumbled. “Nothin’ but trouble with ’em from the start. Sorry, Skipper,” he apologized, realizing he’d spoken aloud, interrupting.
“No, you’re right. There’s always been something different about the iron that accelerates corrosion. Particularly when they’re used to refasten the ship’s original plates.” Matt smiled grimly. “And all the beatings haven’t helped.”
“She’ll be in better shape to dish it out now,” Spanky said, trying to be optimistic. “Her guns’re like new, for one thing. The liners are softer than the ones she came with and won’t last as long, but, God willing, they won’t have to. Right now, the rifling’s fresh and crisp. Won’t be near as many fliers,” he assured. “And I’m glad to have the new quadruple-torpedo mounts. They’re a tight fit alongside the aft ’stack, but we’re only two fish shy, per side, of the six we used to have. And Bernie says the new fish’re better too. Swears the Mark Sixes are a big improvement over the Fours. They’ve got their own little turbines and can run thirty knots. Longer range too, though Bernie thinks six thousand yards is more realistic than the ten thousand Baalkpan Nav-Ord claims.”
“Still better than the maybe two thousand we could count on from the Mark Fours,” Matt said, thinking more about how the improved torpedoes might stack up against the League’s than against anything the Grik—or Kurokawa—had. Kurokawa’s new aerial torpedoes didn’t explode at the end of their runs, and they’d found one floating near where Baalkpan Bay went down. They were good fish, if small, but their size and resultant fuel capacity probably limited their range to about a thousand yards. That didn’t mean Kurokawa didn’t have bigger, better fish—he’d certainly started with better torpedo technology. They’d probably find out soon enough. But the League definitely had big, heavy, shipborne torps. They’d seen the launchers on Leopardo. The question was, How good were they? The scuttlebutt before their old war was that the Japanese had practically copied the Italian torpedoes. That could be very bad indeed. He shook his head. He couldn’t worry about that now.
“Yeah,” Spanky agreed. “We don’t have as many as I’d like, though. Tara brought some, enough to fill all the tubes of everything we’ve got that can use ’em, plus a few for the PB-5s, I hope. About a dozen spares. The rest went down on one of the ammo ships. We’ll get more,” he encouraged. “Mr.—Chairman Letts’ll make sure of that.”
Matt nodded, certain Alan Letts would do all he could, but he couldn’t perform miracles. It would take time to replace all the torpedoes—and everything else TF Alden lost. He nodded forward, indicating they’d reached the point where Chack, Risa, Lawrence, and Silva were waiting. Silva, with Petey drooping, asleep, over his shoulder like a fuzzy rag, looked uncomfortable at the sight of Pam, but as they often did, his lips were moving as he sang some—usually inappropriate—little song to himself. The fast transports were tying up, and their anxious, seasick, long-confined “cargoes” were lining their rails, practically bursting to get ashore.
“Look at all them weird-lookin’ critters!” Silva said, pointing at the nearest ship, its gangway sliding across to the dock. “Look, Larry! Now you ain’t the only lizard in the Army.” He narrowed his brows. “Which you’re in the Navy, though, so I guess . . .”
“Oh, shut up, you!” Pam snapped. “Not even a ‘hello’ or a ‘howya been’? What a jerk!”
“Hiya, doll,” Dennis said evenly, looking directly at her for the first time. “What call’ve you got to get all rared up at me?”
“Stow it,” Matt said. “You can tear each other’s heads off later. Right now we’ve got company.” He nodded at a large Grik-like form, obviously Major I’joorka, striding down the ramp. The newly promoted Captain Abel Cook, looking much older than his seventeen years, and a short, wiry, dark-haired, dark-skinned man with file-sharpened teeth followed behind him. Cook was familiar to them all, despite his changes, but Matt had never met the Khonashi war captain turned major in the Union Army before. He was bigger than Lawrence, but, like the rest of his party, dressed in the same tie-dyed smock and camo-painted leather armor that was standard i
ssue for all Allied ground forces. The armor wasn’t universally worn by foot soldiers anymore because it interfered with properly shouldering a rifle. Some infantry kept it, with the right shoulder segments removed, because the tough rhino-pig hide came in very handy when things got close. Most officers, cavalry, and artillery still used it.
The feathery fur on I’joorka’s face, arms, and legs was dark rust streaked almost black, more similar to the color of Keje-Fris-Ar’s pelt than Lawrence’s orange-and-brown tiger stripes. And his head was bigger, the teeth in his jaws more intimidating. At the bottom of the gangway, he straightened to his full height, his feathery tail brushing the dock, and saluted with his companions.
“’Ajor I’joorka, ’Urst North ’Orno, regorting to duty, sir!”
Everyone returned the salute, and I’joorka smiled in that rather frightening way his people had, revealing far too many teeth perfectly designed for tearing flesh. “You know Ca’tain Cook,” he continued, “and the other is Lieutenant N’shoosh. Ca’tain Rassey is join us soon. He’s in another transtort.” He gestured toward one of the other ships tying up. I’joorka’s English was interesting. Where Lawrence often omitted sounds he couldn’t make, I’joorka made free use of substitutes.
“Glad to have you, Major,” Matt greeted him sincerely. “I believe you know Lieutenant Cross, Chief Silva, and Lawrence?”
“Yes. I know they all good,” he agreed, nodding with apparent pleasure at the three. “Us kill lotsa Jaaphs together.”
Matt motioned to Pete, then Chack and Risa. “This is General Alden, commander of all Allied armies and Marines, but your immediate superior for the coming operation is Colonel Chack-Sab-At. His sister, Major Risa, and the Imperial Major Jindal, command two regiments of his First Raider Brigade. The First North Borno will join that brigade as its third regiment.”
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