Kurokawa had not been pleased by Esshk’s summary order, not that he cared anything for Miyata and the others, but at the time, he was in no position to refuse. Yet another slight that Esshk will one day regret! he promised himself.
“I… cannot say, General of the Sea,” Fukui answered his question.
Kurokawa shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. “It is of no consequence at present, but do get word to me, however you must, if you hear the voices again and are able to make sense of them.”
“Of course, General of the Sea.”
The conference continued into the early afternoon, while Kurokawa listened to reports, made comments, and occasionally harangued the speakers, but with only a shadow of his old venom. As much as it sickened him, he knew he needed to coddle these men for now, and in dealing so long with the Grik, he’d learned to hide his true thoughts well. At last, he stood abruptly, quickly followed by the other men.
“Soon,” he said, “within days, the Great Fleet we have built for the Grik vermin will move at last, and I- we! — will crush the enemy that invests India! It is the same enemy, my people, who brought us to this world and marooned us here! Again we will face the Americans, our natural enemy, and the Grik will face theirs: the Americans’ ape-man lackeys! In that, if nothing else, we share a common cause! It is still the Americans-and now their puppets too-who stand between us and our destiny. And only by destroying them utterly shall we achieve it!”
CHAPTER 8
Respite Island
March 3, 1944
Sandra woke slowly, savoring the soft, clean sheets that felt so smooth against her skin, and the large, firm mattress she sprawled upon. She’d always been a sprawler, and the tiny, claustrophobic berths she’d slept in for most of the past two years had been excruciating, despite her small size. Golden sunshine streamed through the open, curtained windows and a steady, cool breeze circulated in the bedroom of the surprisingly luxurious little bungalow. For just a moment, she was disoriented. Her eyes opened wider when she saw the dark hair and firmly muscled back of the man still sleeping beside her, and it all came flooding back: the hurried, awkward, glorious wedding; the boisterous reception that followed; the carriage ride to the secluded beachfront bungalow; and the night of gentle, soaring, laughing, whirlwind… electric passion that followed. She smiled, utterly content. They’d waited a long time, and sometimes she’d despaired that last night would never come, but it had been worth the wait, and more.
Matt lay on his side, taking only a small portion of the bed. He’s far more accustomed to tiny beds than I am, she reflected. He’s… economical in many ways; in tastes and often in words, but he’s extravagant in all the things that matter, she realized. He’d proven many times that his love for her knew no bounds, and he was maybe a little too generous of himself for his own good as far as his ship, crew, and cause were concerned. She gloried in the former, and had learned to accept the latter. That was part of the deal she’d made to have him, and she was wise enough to know he couldn’t-wouldn’t-ever change in that respect. As much as it worried her, she also loved him for it. It was why he was who he was.
She focused on the numerous white or purple puckered scars on his back. She remembered when he got most of them. The big, ugly one across his left shoulder blade had come from a Grik spear at Aryaal and had nearly killed him. Clusters of smaller scars had not been serious, mostly caused by tiny fragments of steel or glass she’d plucked from just under the skin. There was a long, jagged, older scar across his lower back, and she traced it softly with her finger, wondering what had caused it. She’d seen it before, of course, but it predated their acquaintance, and she’d forgotten about it. Suddenly, how he got it-like so many other things about him she didn’t know-became vitally important to her, and she cuddled up to him, molding her body to his.
“That can get you in a lot of trouble,” he warned in a pleasant, muzzy tone. She chuckled huskily.
“ That kind of trouble I can handle, sailor,” she said.
“Well, never say I didn’t warn you,” he said, mock serious, rolling over to embrace her.
“Wait!” She giggled. “We barely know each other!”
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I’m serious! I want to know everything… like, where’d you get that scar on your lower back?”
“I was bitten by a whale!” he said, clasping her close and kissing her.
“Tell me!” she insisted, and he paused.
“Right now?” He looked at her. “You’re serious!”
“Sure, I am! We’re married now. I want to know.”
He started to speak, then paused. After all this time, they really didn’t know a lot about each other. They knew all the things that mattered, of course, but almost nothing about each other’s lives before they met. He shrugged. “I fell off a horse on a barbed-wire fence when I was fourteen.”
“That’s it?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a Boy Scout?”
“No.”
Sandra laughed. “You’re terrible!”
“Absolutely.” Matt brushed back her hair and smiled. “I’ll tell you something else, now that we’re married. You’ve got to quit looking at me-that way you do-when you think I’m about to pull some nutty stunt that’ll get me hurt. You know which look I mean! I’ve always been a sucker for big-eyed, pretty girls, and when they stick out their lip and squirt tears at me…” His smile faded slightly. “It makes it a lot harder to do what I have to do.”
“I do not ‘squirt’ tears at you!” she denied. “My arguments against your sometimes very foolish behavior are based on reason and practical concerns!”
“And when I don’t see ‘reason,’ you resort to anger. When that doesn’t work, you hammer me with the Look.”
Sandra frowned, creating a face much like the one he’d described but without the tears. “Reason should be enough,” she said at last, as if surprised it wasn’t. “Reason and anger work with everyone else, but not you! You’re too damn stubborn!” She sighed. “So maybe the tears come with frustration because I love you, you big dope! I don’t make them come-you do!”
“So… no deal?” he asked with such a pitiful tone and solemn expression that she burst into a fit of giggling. She struck him with her pillow-which disrupted the bedding in a pleasantly revealing way-and Matt embraced her again.
“Look,” he said, softly laughing, his hand gliding across her skin. “I’m sorry I brought it up. You’re right, though. We have a lot to talk about. I’ll tell you every little thing you want to know about me: every scar, every hobby, even my favorite ice cream. We’ve both got in-laws… somewhere… we don’t know anything about! I want to hear all about that privileged childhood you said you had, about every scraped knee, and even your favorite color… but later. We don’t have an awful lot of time together-like this,” he reminded gently. “I respectfully suggest we make the most of it.”
They did.
The Bosun slogged through the sand, breathing hard, and stepped up on the porch of the servants’ bungalow where Diania was staying and where Juan joined her during the day to prepare meals and such for the newlyweds, or in case Matt and Sandra wanted them for any reason. Both stewards had, for all intents and purposes, insisted. Even so, there was considerable distance between the two structures, and Gray wasn’t too happy about that. He didn’t like it whenever the Skipper-or Sandra-didn’t have anybody around to protect them. Captain Reddy had specifically prohibited a guard detail this time, however, and Gray could even understand. The location of the honeymoon was supposed to be a secret, and he doubted any Company sore losers would find them in the short time they had. He supposed somebody might have followed him out from the ship… but he doubted it. Why would they? Who here would know that he was an overprotective mother hen?
Besides, he reassured himself as he glanced surreptitiously at the other bungalow, even with just one leg, Juan’s got plenty of guts, and he can s
hoot. He hesitated before going inside, stomping the sand off his shoes. Okay, that’s all true. So why am I here? Was it just because he was overprotective, or did he have another reason to leave the ship when he had so much work to do?
Suddenly, the lightly built door swung open in his face and Diania confronted him, surprised. She’d ditched the goofy dress, he saw, and was back in dungarees and T-shirt. He gulped at the… glaring effect of the transformation.
“Why, g’marnin’, Mr. Gray!” the girl said a little nervously. “I hared a tarrible stampin’, an’ thought the island was a-tremble.”
“It was just me, uh… Miss Diania,” Gray stammered.
Diania was stunned. The Bosun had never actually addressed her before, other than to give her summary commands. She’d heard him refer to her as “that damn woman” a time or two, which set her apart from the other female humans aboard only in that he called them “that other damn woman” or “those other damn women.” At best, he might refer to them occupationally, like the “water-tender broad,” or something like that. Diania had to admit it hurt her feelings, because she rather admired the Super Bosun, and everyone else treated her much better than she’d ever been treated before. The thing was, she knew he didn’t resent her for being a woman suddenly elevated from her obligated status, like an Imperial man might. He just resented her for being a woman on his ship. She hadn’t understood at all until Lady Sandra explained the metaphor of old dogs and new tricks, and described the way things used to be in the Bosun’s “old” Navy.
“What did ye call me?” she asked, almost breathlessly.
“Well… Miss Diania, I guess,” Gray growled in a more normal tone. “We ain’t on the ship, and neither of us is on the watch bill, so we ain’t really on duty. ’Sides, this is kinda like me showin’ up at your off-base housin’. I got manners.” He looked around. “Where’s that little Flip on a stick?”
Diania collected herself. “Ah, ye mean Mr. Marcos? He took coffee yonder ta the Captain an’ Lady Sandra.” With a small smile, she pointed at the strange tracks in the sand. “He was very insistent that the Captain’d never forgive ’im if he neglected that duty.”
Gray grimaced. “Jeez. That’s a helluva way to bring the newlyweds back down to earth!”
Diania chuckled warily. She didn’t drink coffee and had taken Juan’s statement as fact. She took a breath. “So, ah, what brings ye here?”
Gray waved his hand. “Oh, I was ashore, roundin’ up a few lost sheep after the shindig last night, and then I had to make personal sure that maniac Silva got on the damn plane-and stayed on it this time! Skipper’s orders.” He shook his head. “Wasn’t really such a chore once I found the big lug, and then he went peaceably enough… not that he was in any shape to make a fuss!”
“Where was he?” Diania asked, boldly she thought. She was amazed that she was actually carrying on a conversation with the terrible Bosun.
“Hidin’. At least he thought he was. He must’ve picked his spot while he was… less devious than usual. And besides, Chack ratted him out.” Gray didn’t mention that he’d finally found Dennis Silva curled up and passed out inside an overturned barrel in the… sailor’s recreational district, and that he and Chack had rolled the barrel almost three hundred yards down to the dock. His sea bag was already awaiting him there, but they had to hose the insensible giant down before the “Clipper” pilot would let him aboard the plane. Gray shrugged. “Anyway, so then I thought I’d wander out here and check on things.”
Diania steeled herself. “Then ye must stay fer yer breakfast,” she said as firmly as she could. “I’m about makin’ it, anyway… as soon as Mr. Marcos returns ta oversee me skills. One more mouth’ll make no difference, an’… I’ve so many questions about the Navy life!”
Gray looked at the exotic, dark-skinned girl- She is just a girl, damn it! — and scratched the white stubble on his chin.
“Well, I s’pose the fellas on the ship can make do without me for a little longer. Thanks.”
CHAPTER 9
Imperial Port City of Saint Francis
North American Colonies
Imperial Commodore and newly appointed CINCEAST (Commander in Chief-East) of the Grand Alliance Harvey Jenks stood on Achilles’ quarterdeck, gazing about at the small fleet preparing to get underway. The North American sun that bathed him with its rays was unusually warm for the latitude at this time of year, making for a beautiful day that displayed his ships, the city, and the strange land beyond to best effect. If not for his lingering frustration over the endless series of delays that postponed this movement for so long, he would probably be utterly charmed. Instead, there had been weeks of ship repairs, organizing, arming, and properly training the… hotheaded colonial levy, and streamlining the local bureaucracy (in the aftermath of more high-level treason!) so his force could be properly supplied and victualed… The list had been endless. As it was, his chest still roiled with an impatient anxiety that threatened to plague him all the way to the Enchanted Isles. The fact that most of the delays hadn’t really been anyone’s fault did little to mitigate his concern that they might already be too late to relieve the beleaguered garrison at that strategic place.
Many of the delays may have been unavoidable, but there was plenty of blame for the haste they retarded. The Dominion had indeed attacked the Enchanted Isles, just as Admiral McClain predicted, though not in sufficient force to justify his diversion of the greater part of his fleet in that direction, leaving Jenks, Captain Reddy and his USS Walker, and only a handful of ships to face the bulk of the Dom fleet and invasion force all alone. The result was a vicious battle, and the narrowest of victories.
McClain then compounded his error by sending most of his ships home, instead of securing the isles he believed must have already fallen when he heard of the battle south of Saint Francis-then coming here himself! Jenks already knew this war had spiraled beyond their experience and even comprehension-the reports of the fighting for New Ireland proved that-and he’d seen the unprecedented nature of the war in the west, against the Grik, firsthand. He bitterly understood that compared with the experience the Americans and Lemurians had amassed, his people were literally amateurs. But there could be no excuse for the lethargy, vacillation, and incompetence High Admiral McClain had demonstrated. Jenks had relieved him on sight and sent him home as well. In retrospect, he supposed he could have been hanged for that, but the Governor-Emperor endorsed his decision, and approved his elevation to CINCEAST.
Jenks caught himself absently twisting his braided “Imperial” mustache again, and snatched his hand away and grasped it with the other behind his back. Won’t do for the lads to see me so restless, he chided himself once more. His force was bound to rendezvous with a much larger one designated TF Maaka-Kakja, built around the massive new aircraft carrier it was named for. Once together, the combined force, with all its ships, aircraft, and troops would again constitute Second Fleet, and he, like his counterpart Keje-Fris-Ar in the west, would assume overall command. It was a daunting prospect. He was sure the fleet would be sufficient to relieve the isles-if they still held! — and then they could take the war to the Doms at last. He yearned for that more than he had anything in his life. He’d seen the terrible Grik and understood why Captain Reddy had to return to that front, aside from the repairs Walker needed. But the Doms had shown themselves to be just as terrible as the Grik, and perhaps even more inhuman- because they were human!
He wasn’t sure what they’d do if they found the Enchanted Isles had fallen. The almost-certain annihilation of the garrison was bad enough, but they desperately needed those islands as a staging area at the end of unprecedented, almost unimaginably long lines of supply. Only once they were secure could they control the sea and air around them, and perhaps other islands, and amass the vast armies and war material required to end the Dom menace forever. We will take them back! That is what we will do! He promised himself. Brevet General Tamatsu Shinya would command his ground forces, assist
ed by Jenks’s old Marine lieutenant-now colonel-Blair, and some well-seasoned Lemurian officers. All had extensive combat experience, and Captain Reddy trusted Shinya completely. They would take the islands back; they had no choice. But it would be costly and another delay that could have been avoided!
Standing there, he tried to will the ponderous preparations of his fleet to greater speed so they could get to sea at last. Only nineteen ships of the now thirty-odd in port were raising steam, beginning to move. Some had to remain behind to protect Saint Francis, after all. He wasn’t surprised to see that USS Mertz and USS Tindal, the Fil-pin-built frigates-or DDs, as they called themselves-had already weighed their anchors and were jockeying near his own Achilles. The two “American” ships had been badly mauled in the battle but quickly restored to order. He grimaced, remembering they’d replenished their savaged crews with female volunteers!
“Up and down!” came the cry from forward, relayed back to the raised, bridge-shaped “quarterdeck” control station between the large amidships paddle boxes.
“Very well,” Jenks replied. Despite his new position as CINCEAST, he still personally commanded his ship. At least for now. Lieutenant Grimsley would take over once they joined the rest of the fleet. “Helm, Quartermaster, maintain position with the engines until the anchor is secure!”
“Aye, sir!” the two men chorused, the quartermaster’s hands grasping a pair of handles attached to either side of a device almost exactly like the Americans’ engine-room telegraph. It is odd, mused Jenks, how form follows function across so vast a gulf!
The other ships of the small fleet eventually signaled their readiness and with Achilles in the lead they slowly steamed past the fortress island, through the mouth of the bay and into the wide sea beyond.
TF Maaka-Kakja
East Pacific 130 Longitude
N Equatorial Current
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