Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Mr. Riggs explained it to me when I was in Baalkpan,” Saan-Kakja interjected. “He was . . . frustrated with me, I think, but he likened electricity to the gaas-o-leen fuel for the ‘Naan-cee’ engines—and others now. Generating it is like refining the gaas-o-leen, while the wires carry it to the lights and machines like fuel lines—somehow—even though there is no hole. Changing or regulating the . . .” She paused, remembering. “The vol-taage,” she said triumphantly, “is like metering the fuel to a machine engine, so only just enough can reach it. This . . . comparison helped me understand, though I remain unsure why two wires are needed. This ground, or dead, wire still confuses me.” She smiled. “We Mi-Anaaka—Lemurians—understand machines. We are good with machines. This machinelike explanation was good for me.” She peered at Meksnaak. “And elec-tricity is not invisible when it gets loose—or touches the dead wire somehow! It is like the lightning in the sky when that happens, so it is clearly running in the wires!”

  “Huh,” Gray said, getting in the spirit of the analogy. “Think of the ground wire as the igniter that lights the fuel inside the electric motor—or in the lightbulb! It acts like the ground when lightning strikes!”

  Saan-Kakja smiled at him. The expression didn’t extend across her face—’Cats didn’t have near the range of facial movement as humans, but her exotic eyes twinkled. “Thank you, Mr. Gray!”

  A broad inlet of the bay snaked up past the building, and a variety of interesting boats floated beside a pier. The small, two-seat PB-1B “Nancy” flying boats of one of Maa-ni-la’s several patrol wings rested on wheeled trucks on a broad ramp by the water. Nancys were good little planes and had become the backbone of the Allied air arm. They looked like miniature PBY Catalinas, since that’s what inspired their lines, but they’d proven themselves effective at many roles, from reconnaissance to dive bombing.

  “Building our own ‘bony blimps’ now?” Gray asked, looking up at the building as they exited the carriage.

  Saan-Kakja sneeze-chuckled. “That would be nuts,” she said. “I have not seen the Grik zeppel-ins, but individually they are no match for any of our flying machines—now we have learned they are armed, and how to avoid their weapons. Cap-i-taan Tikker’s report was most informative.”

  “Trouble is, they apparently don’t come individually, but in swarms,” Gray countered, “and I don’t like these suicide glider bombs they’re usin’ at all.”

  “True,” Saan-Kakja agreed, turning more serious. “But the notion of two such massive machines bumping into each other high in the sky . . . it amused me. No, I would show you other things.” She paused, looking at Matt, then glanced at his cane. “If you are sure you are up to it?”

  “I’m fine,” Matt replied. “Besides, I can’t wait to greet our guests when they get here.” He glanced at his watch—always vaguely surprised to find it still working after all it had been through. “They should be along pretty soon.”

  Busaa remained with Meksnaak at the carriage. Meksnaak complained he couldn’t breathe in the great building, but was also making his point that he didn’t intend to associate with electricity any more than he had to. Besides, even though he hadn’t brought it up, he remained somewhat affronted by what he considered the uncivilized tactics used by Walker’s team to win the baseball game. The rest of them entered the massive structure through a small door beside a pair of huge ones designed to roll aside. Matt had some idea of what they were here to see. He’d been told of the project headed by a former POW who’d survived Mizuki Maru, before the hellish ship was altered into a Q ship and sent against her former escort; the destroyer Hidoiame. That mission, commanded by Sato Okada, had failed, resulting in the loss of Mizuki Maru with all hands. But it was likely she’d landed some licks first, which possibly saved Walker in the long run. In any event, the forty-odd survivors of the ship’s original cargo of mistreated prisoners had joined the Allied cause in various capacities and were beginning to make their presence felt. Carpenter’s Mate Third Class Winston “Winny” Rominger was one.

  Winny hurried over himself as soon as they stepped into the giant building. He was tall, with jet-black hair and a big, bushy mustache. He was still thin, and bags showed under his eyes in the uneven electric lighting illuminating the cavernous structure. Matt realized there were a lot of electrical machines inside as well, more than he’d seen in one place on this world before. It was probably much the same in Baalkpan now. He’d been away a while. Motors whirred and rumbled, and sharp cutters and serrated blades blew wood chips all over the place. A fine haze of dust swirled in the shifting air, blown by big fans that roared like Walker’s blower. Hundreds of dusty ’Cats and ex-pat female “Impies” operated the machines, heaved taglines on prefabricated structures suspended from hoists like those on the hangar decks of the great carriers, or weaved their way purposefully from place to place.

  Matt caught Gray staring at a particularly well-endowed woman pulling on a line, her perfect, naked breasts swaying mesmerizingly with the effort. She wore nothing but a skimpy breechcloth. Lemurians considered clothing ornamental or occupational and wore as little as they could when working. The formerly virtually enslaved human women felt the same. Matt doubted he’d ever grow comfortable with that, but he’d become somewhat desensitized. Of course, he was married now too. Gray wasn’t—and the older man was currently considerably flustered by the attentions of an exotically beautiful young woman named Diania. Diania, now officially a steward’s mate, was Sandra’s friend and, increasingly, secretary. Gray had also been teaching her to fight, with and without weapons, and she was considered part of the Captain’s Guard now as well. Young enough to be his granddaughter, Diania had a serious crush on the old Bosun and it was growing clear that Gray was . . . not entirely himself . . . around the girl either.

  Matt coughed at him, and Gray blinked. The air smelled of wood, glue, and solvents, and Matt was glad to see more fans mounted high in the walls, providing ventilation. His gaze narrowed and focused on the purpose of the impressive facility. “There they are,” he said, feeling almost surprised. Beyond the closest construction was a long, staggered, double row of amazingly familiar hulls in various stages of completion.

  “Yes, sir,” said Winny, his hand extended. Matt looked at it a moment before taking it. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rominger,” he said, smiling. “I got distracted.” They had to speak loudly over the racket.

  “He might’a been expectin’ a salute too,” Gray jabbed.

  Matt shook his head. “No, Boats, I wasn’t. Mr. Rominger’s elected not to join our Navy, and that’s entirely up to him and everybody else who was in his . . . situation.” He grinned. “Besides, we’re indoors!”

  “Uh, no offense, Captain Reddy,” Winny interjected, “none meant at all . . . but I joined the old Navy, and that didn’t turn out too well for me.” His expression grew haunted. “We did our best, even after we ran out of boats. But the brass made us surrender to the Japs.” He shook his head and stared at the floor. “They weren’t even on Mindanao yet,” he added harshly. “We should’ve kept fighting, even if they killed us in the end. It would’ve been better than what happened. And a lot of fellas died anyhow.” He looked Matt in the eye. “No, sir. I know the score here and I support your Navy and what you’re doing, but I’d just as soon fight this war as a civilian.”

  Matt nodded seriously. “That’s your decision. But nobody’ll ever get an order to surrender to the Grik or Doms, Mr. Rominger, not from me or anybody.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Matt gestured at the hulls with his cane and started forward. “You were in MTB Squadron Five, correct?”

  “Ron-Five, yes, sir,” answered Winny as the group moved toward the closest hull. This one wasn’t planked yet and the framework was impressive in its simplicity.

  “Well, you’ve certainly captured the lines of your old PT boats.”

  “Yes, sir,” Winny agreed. “They’re not as big; only fifty feet, but the planing-type hull design’
s essentially the same, with the same diagonally planked, layered construction—a lot like those giant ’Cat Homes and the new flattops.”

  Matt scratched his chin. “I thought PTs were made of plywood.”

  Winny chuckled. “So many folks always said that, putting them down, that everybody thought it was true.” He shrugged. “We kind of took pride in it after a while, everybody thinking we fought in plywood boats. I guess there’s really not much difference when you get down to it, but we did a lot of good with what we had.”

  “What are the specs?” Gray asked.

  “Fifty feet, like I said, with a sixteen-foot beam. Not quite just a smaller-scale version. We still need the width for the torpedoes.”

  “Just two tubes?”

  “Yes, sir. The whole reason for keeping them smaller and lighter is so they can be carried by a ship—a flattop, or maybe a dedicated tender. The internal combustion engine works, or ICE house, is building monster versions of Nancy engines—six cylinders instead of four; something they were fooling with for bigger planes, but they were too heavy for the horsepower. They’ll work for us, though, and with a pair of ’em we ought to get twenty-five knots or better. Maybe thirty. You may have seen some of the small boats outside. Scale models. Anyway, even with only two engines and two torpedoes, they’re going to suck gas. We’ll have to take them where they’re going to fight.”

  “Not to mention they’ll be vulnerable to heavy seas and . . . well, sea monsters.”

  “Not to mention, sir.”

  Matt gazed at the line of boats. “How long until they’re operational?”

  “I’m hoping to have the first squadron ready in four months.”

  Matt shook his head. “Too long. I want a dozen ready to go in one month.”

  Winny gaped. “But . . . it’ll take more than a week for the paint to cure!”

  Matt looked at Saan-Kakja with a grin. “I want twelve of these PTs finished and ready for transshipment to Baalkpan in one month, Your Excellency.”

  Saan-Kakja blinked tentatively. She’d been a little afraid Matt would think she was wasting time and materials on the little boats—especially when their enemies were building such monsters now.

  “You approve?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “But . . .” Winny interjected, “even if we finish them, we’ll have to train crews. Hell, we haven’t even started building torpedo tubes yet!”

  “They have in Baalkpan,” Matt countered. “We’ll mate them up there. Send Bernie Sandison any specific requirements you think they’ll have. I want those boats, Mr. Rominger.”

  “For the operation you outlined for Adar?” Sandra asked.

  “Yeah. If we can get these PTs Mr. Rominger’s so kindly provided, all the heavy stuff building in Baalkpan can go to Keje—or Jim Ellis in First Fleet. Adar isn’t sold on my little ‘sideshow,’ as Commander Herring calls it.” He frowned.

  Saan-Kakja snorted. “I do not like that man!”

  “So you’ve said,” Matt said wryly. “But Adar’s in charge. He was right about that; somebody’s got to be in charge of everything, and he’s the guy.” Matt admired Adar tremendously and considered him a truly remarkable Lemurian. Once a simple high sky priest on Salissa Home, Adar was now High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance. Matt knew real efforts were underway to transform at least part of the Grand Alliance into a united nation consisting of land settlements and even the massive seagoing Homes. If the Empire of the New Britain Isles and other allies were not yet interested in joining, quite a few were, and the result was something akin to the United States under the old Articles of Confederation, in which the member states were politically united but retained more independence than was probably ideal. At least as far as the war effort was concerned. Fortunately, the main members—Baalkpan and the Fil-pin Lands, represented by Adar and Saan-Kakja—shared the vision of a united nation, even if they didn’t always agree on priorities, and most of the other allies were willing to follow their lead. “Letting First Fleet have all the heavy stuff should make it easier for Adar to swallow my sideshow,” Matt continued, “and maybe let Keje bring Big Sal along. Keje wants to go, and we need Salissa for her aircraft.” He pointed at the closest wooden hull. “Now we need her to carry them too.”

  Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar was Matt’s oldest Lemurian friend, and resembled nothing more than a short, powerful, rust-colored bear. His Salissa Home had been an immense, sail-powered, seagoing city before the war, but had been converted to a steam-driven aircraft carrier. He was CINCWEST, but had been forced to retire to Andaman Island with a battered flagship and a fleet that couldn’t, at present, challenge the monstrous new Grik warships. He didn’t want to abandon First Fleet, but he loved the idea of Matt’s current scheme and desperately wanted to participate.

  “But . . .” Winny tried to protest again. “Who’ve you got with PT experience? Who’ll command your squadron?”

  Matt looked at him. “Are you volunteering for my Navy, Mr. Rominger?”

  The carriage driver entered and stood before Saan-Kakja. “The great plane approaches. You instructed me to inform you.”

  Saan-Kakja looked at Sandra. “Our guest has arrived!”

  CHAPTER

  2

  T he mighty PB-5 Maa-ni-la “Clipper” circled above its new primary support facility half a mile down the long dock and began its lumbering descent. The aircraft looked a little bizarre. The hull lines of a PBY were still apparent, as was the wing shape, but the hull was deeper and the wing was attached directly to the top of the fuselage. Four Wright Gipsy–type motors were positioned in an even row on top of the wing, elevated by fragile-looking mounts. Five and even six engines had been attempted, but the increased thrust didn’t justify the greater weight and fuel consumption. Air-cooled radials powered the new, dedicated pursuit ships, or P-1 Mosquito Hawks everybody was calling “Fleashooters,” and were already being tried as well. It was hoped their greater power-to-weight ratio would make a good match for the larger planes. The color scheme was the same as the Nancys—blue and white—but this Clipper wasn’t a Navy plane, so there were no “Amer-i-caan” roundels on the wings.

  Matt, Sandra, Gray, Busaa, Meksnaak, and Saan-Kakja made the short trip in the carriage and joined the crowd that always gathered to watch the plane touch down on the water. It was a remarkably graceful maneuver for such a large, ungainly aircraft, particularly one whose pilots were doubtless very tired after their long flight. The plane looked tired too, and its wood and fabric wings seemed to sag with exhaustion as it rumbled to a stop on the calm inlet. Ponderously, it turned for the dock and motored toward a jutting pier where line handlers waited. Quickly and professionally, they secured the plane, and the engines muttered to a stop. A hatch opened on the side of the hull, and the passengers began disembarking.

  “There he is!” Saan-Kakja said with undisguised glee as the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist” Courtney Bradford stepped awkwardly on the dock. He looked unsteady, but quickly covered his balding red pate with a wide sombrero. It hadn’t been long since Matt and Sandra saw him, but Saan-Kakja hadn’t seen him in many months. Courtney was an . . . interesting man; a little odd and absentminded, but still the closest thing they had to a real scientist. His insatiable curiosity, wealth of knowledge, and unconventional approach to discovery had been the driving force behind many of their advances. He had a knack for looking at various sides of any issue, and though thoughtless at times, he was never deliberately offensive. This combination made him a good choice for Minister of Science, as well as the Alliance’s Plenipotentiary at Large. He’d been in the Empire of the New Britain Isles since first contact was made there, and he’d negotiated important treaties and reforms. Most recently, he’d served as a critical advisor to the new Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald, after the despicable plot that murdered her parents and savaged the Imperial government. Matt was glad to have Courtney back, but things in the Emp
ire remained less than perfectly stable, and he wasn’t sure his return wasn’t premature.

  Seeing them standing there, Courtney visibly straightened and tromped up the dock. He had a lot of baggage—enough to reduce the plane’s passenger capacity by half—but he carried only what looked like a cage draped with a bright cloth. The rest of his belongings, mostly odd specimens from the east, would be offloaded and sent to Saan-Kakja’s Great Hall. Puffing up before them, Courtney swept off his strange hat, set his package down, and threw them all a sketchy salute. Then he grinned hugely and advanced to embrace the diminutive high chief.

  “Hello, hello! I’m so glad to see you all!” He hugged Saan-Kakja tightly and winked over her head at Meksnaak’s disapproving glare. “And how are you, my dear?” he asked, stepping back to gaze at Saan-Kakja. “I’ve missed you so!”

  “I am well, and better now you are here!” Saan-Kakja replied happily. “How are you, and how is my sister Rebecca?” High chiefs on land or sea always referred to their peers as brother or sister—unless they were actual cousins, which wasn’t unusual. In this case, Saan-Kakja actually felt sisterly affection for the Governor-Empress of the New Britain Isles.

  Courtney’s smile faded. “I’m fine, as you can see. And our dear Empress Becky has borne her sad burdens bravely, but I’m concerned for her.” He embraced Sandra next, and gave her a hearty kiss. “That’s for the blushing bride, of course—and my, haven’t you turned a pretty shade?” He released her and shook Matt’s hand. “Much improved, I see, Captain Reddy! I’m glad to see you standing on your own two feet! I say, my heart nearly stopped when I heard of your dreadful wound!”