CHAPTER
12
////// Maa-ni-la Navy Yard
Fil-pin Lands
April 11, 1944
O nce again, USS Walker looked almost new. Her fresh, light gray and glossy black paint was dazzling in the bright morning sun, and not a single streak of orange rust marred her tightly riveted sides. Her white number, 163, bordered in black, stood tall and bold at her bows, with smaller versions at the fantail behind her propeller guards. Her brass bell and whistle were polished to a painful glow, and she had a full complement of boats aboard. She had a full crew as well, eager replacements for the lost or reassigned, who couldn’t believe their good fortune to be assigned to the legendary ship. They’d be up to speed fairly quickly. All were Navy, and though still technologically advanced in some respects—on this world, at least—Walker was no longer the almost magical marvel she’d been.
She might look new, but she’s not, Matt thought somberly, striding up the long gangway from the dock where thousands of Maa-ni-los watched and cheered. He was still using his cane, but the sound of the crowd made him straighten and try not to lean on it much. The diminutive High Chief Saan-Kakja paced him on one side, and Sandra walked on the other. The cheering’s mostly for them, he assured himself, and that made him feel better. Adulation made him feel uncomfortable and a little dishonest. He’d screwed up an awful lot and gotten a lot of good people killed. He didn’t deserve acclaim. Besides, even if he’d always done everything exactly right, he was still just doing his job. It’s the ship and crew they’re cheering, not me, he finally decided. If any of it’s for me, it’s only because I’m about to take her back to the fight. Walker wasn’t new, though. He couldn’t fool himself over that. She was probably in better shape than she’d been when they came to this world, maybe even better than she’d been for a decade before the Old War even started, but despite all the new, there remained an awful lot of old—and it was so very tired. It was like they’d put a new roof and fresh paint on an old, rotten house. It might look swell, but the trembling bones could only barely stand the weight of it all.
He grimaced and scolded himself for his dark thoughts. It wasn’t that bad! Somewhere on the world she came from, if the war they left still raged, some of her sisters doubtless still toiled without anything like the loving care that had been lavished on USS Walker. His eyes swept aft. There’s a prime example! Walker had a Nancy scout plane once again, only now they didn’t have to lower it into the sea to launch it. They didn’t even have to stop! The ship had been equipped with the new catapult they’d been putting on almost everything with room for one. It was a little thing, sturdy and directional, and would kick the plane off the ship with an impulse charge, like a torpedo. They still had to stop to recover the plane, but that was okay. Of course, Matt’s ship was supposed to get two of her triple torpedo mounts back when she made Baalkpan, and he was very excited about that.
Bosun’s pipes twittered as he, his wife, Sandra, and Saan-Kakja reached the end of the gangplank to be met by many of his crew—his friends, damn it!—holding salutes. Matt saluted the Stars and Stripes, streaming from the short mainmast aft, then saluted the OOD, Sonny Campeti. “Request permission to come aboard.”
“Permission granted.” Campeti grinned. Saan-Kakja and Sandra came aboard in the same manner, and all were met with enthusiasm. It struck Matt that he’d seen many of these men and ’Cats, almost on a daily basis, but this was different. Their ship was ready for sea again, and with his official return, she was back in the war.
“Welcome home, Skipper,” McFarlane said.
“Thanks, Spanky. Hello, Mr. Gray,” he said to the Super Bosun, then grinned at his female Lemurian engineering officer. “Lieutenant Tabby.” Unconsciously, he looked for Chack, who always reverted to what he considered his “permanent” status as bosun’s mate aboard the ship he considered his Home. He quickly remembered with a pang that the remarkable young ’Cat had already sailed west with the Imperial Major Jindal and the transports carrying their mixed commandos. Chack was a fine bosun’s mate, but a truly gifted Marine. He’d join the battalions they’d been training here with those his sister, Risa, had raised in Baalkpan. Together they’d form the backbone of Matt’s landing force—the 1st Raider Brigade—if his plan went forward. He looked at Bashear. “Assemble the divisions on the fo’c’sle, Chief.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
A short time later, about two-thirds of the crew was gathered, port and starboard between the bow and pilothouse, flanking the glistening number one, four-inch gun.
“Good morning,” Matt said, gazing down the lines. Most of those gathered were Lemurians now, but all wore the same white uniforms—except the ’Cats wore kilts instead of trousers. They’d revert to T-shirts (or no shirt at all) and dungaree kilts later, but right now they looked as sharp as any crew he’d ever seen, despite the fur. “Her Excellency Saan-Kakja would like to say a few words. Your Excellency?”
“Thank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” Saan-Kakja said, looking down the same ranks with her mesmerizing eyes. “My friends,” she said warmly, “this ship has suffered sorely in the course of this terrible war. My people have done their best to help you make her whole again. This was our pleasure and honor. Some of you have suffered sorely as well.” She shook her head sadly. “Our dear Lady Sandra and the remarkable medical establishment she founded have done their best to heal you, but the rest of us can do little to make you whole beyond assuring you of the love, respect, and appreciation of all the Fil-pin Lands.” She paused. “For some of your shipmates, no medicine, regardless how devoted, or repair, regardless how skilled, could suffice. They have gone to the Heavens to watch over us and await the happy day when we are reunited there. We will miss them, but their work here is done. You prepare now to continue that work, to rejoin the fight, and I am confident you will, as always, make a disproportionate contribution.” She blinked a combination of admiration and sadness. “It always seems to fall to Walker and you to level the scales against our enemies, and this has been a terrible burden.” Her tail swished restlessly. “I wish I could come with you. I meant to return to the war in the West long ago, but now the war in the East holds me here. But even if I cannot be with you myself, many of my people will join you soon. Even as we send ships east, we continue sending warriors west.” She smiled at Captain Reddy. “And we already sent a dozen of the torpedo boats ahead, aboard our newest dry-dock Home, that should arrive at Baalkpan about the same time as you.” Dry-dock Homes were the newest thing. Both steam powered and lightly armed for defense, they could move themselves where they were needed. They couldn’t accommodate a Home or carrier, but could facilitate repairs to any two or more other ships in the Navy. “I hope this new ‘mosquito fleet,’ as I have heard it called, will complement Walker’s ‘disproportionate’ feats at her side!” Saan-Kakja added. She spread her arms wide, symbolically embracing them all. “May the Maker of All Things protect you, and accept you in His loving embrace when the time comes for you to join Him in the Heavens above!” She turned away, suddenly blinking rapidly.
Matt cleared his throat. “That’s about it,” he said. “We’ll set course for Baalkpan, where we’ll get our torpedo tubes back—and more important, torpedoes to stick in them! There’ll be a lot of work, but many of you who hail from Baalkpan have been gone a very long time. There should be ample opportunity for liberty.” He smiled at the excited blinking and tail swishing. “After that, I’m sure it comes as no surprise that we’ll be steaming into action again. I can’t tell you where, since we’re still working that out, but I promise we’ll be headed west, to kick the absolute hell out of the Grik!”
Cheers thundered on the ship and on the dock alongside. The war in the East, against the Dominion, was grimly necessary, but not necessarily popular. Most Lemurians couldn’t grasp that humans could be just as bad and potentially even more dangerous than the Grik Ancient Enemy. Walker’s crew knew better, but were glad to rejoin the old fight. Everyone knew how
dire the situation was in the West and ached to help. Even more than that, the war against the Grik—with all its rabid violence and barbarity—was so much simpler to understand. It was cleaner from a standpoint of definition, if not execution. Many sensed there were new, growing tensions over how best to proceed, but there was little chance the outright factionalism and treachery that plagued the effort against the Doms could ever take root and flourish.
Matt allowed the celebration to dwindle of its own accord, and shared the satisfaction around him. Finally, he turned to Chief Bashear. “Set the watch, if you please. Make all preparations for getting underway.”
* * *
“I thought we agreed on the rules,” Matt said a little sheepishly to Sandra that evening as they stood together on the starboard bridgewing. The sun was setting behind gold-red streaks of cloud off the starboard bow, and the pink-topped, purple sea folded neatly aside from Walker’s sleek hull. Maa-ni-la Bay was far astern, and the old destroyer was loping south-southwest on two boilers at twenty knots.
“They’re not even rules; they’re actual regulations!” Sandra said with a smile.
“Might as well be divine commandments,” Matt agreed, but he wasn’t smiling. “They’re my regulations, Sandra. I can’t just set them aside as I like. I have to follow them more closely than anyone else.”
“It’s a stupid rule,” Sandra said.
“Regulation.”
“Okay, it’s a stupid regulation that married—‘mated’—personnel can’t serve on the same ship.”
“Maybe. Maybe here it is.” He sighed. “It’s weird enough to me—still—just having women . . . any female aboard. But with a good third of the crew being female of one sort or another, I can’t really complain, huh?”
“Especially when that third is a good third,” Sandra said, reemphasizing Matt’s words.
He nodded. “Still,” he said, “we are married, yet here you are.”
“I’m your doctor!” Sandra retorted. “And since I couldn’t fly to Baalkpan, with the Clippers being diverted east with freight for Second Fleet, Walker was the ‘fastest available’ transport!”
Matt rolled his eyes. “Sure, and that’s the angle we used. It’s even a good angle, since you’re still the ship’s surgeon too. But this is it. You’re off the ship when we get to Baalkpan, and no arguments.”
Sandra’s jaw tensed. “Okay. But I’ll just hop another one going the same way. If you get to pull the stunt you want, you’re going to need me.” Her voice softened. “A lot of guys—’Cats—will.”
“No! Don’t you get it? I love you, and I don’t want you there. It’s going to be dangerous, damn it!”
Sandra actually burst out laughing. “God forbid I should expose myself to actual danger!” she managed, and Matt’s face heated. He looked into the pilothouse and saw Chief Quartermaster Rosen, who had the deck and the conn, piously pretending he hadn’t heard a word. He’s better at that than Norm was, Matt thought with a stab of pain. Norman Kutas had survived many wounds, but his turn finally came. The Lemurian at the big brass wheel was new, but he was pretty good too—even if he was staring a little too studiously into the pelorus. The other watch standers were all Lemurians and kept their faces inscrutable—usually easy, since they could form few facial expressions.
“Okay, so you’re a daredevil,” he conceded. “That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Sandra reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand in the deepening gloom. “I’m not, though. A daredevil, I mean. I get scared. I’m scared for you all the time.” She shrugged. “But it’s war, and bad things happen. Bad things have happened to both of us and everyone we know. The only way to stop that is to win the war.” She smiled ironically. “And, unfortunately, that’s inherently dangerous.” She looked at him. “I’ll follow your silly regulations. I said I would, didn’t I? And it was one of the rules we agreed on. But if Adar lets you do what you want, I’m going along. I’ll be on another ship, but I’m going.”
* * *
Spanky found Tabby sitting on a stool near the throttle station in the forward engine room. It was loud in there with the creaking hull; rumbling turbines; and deep, vibrant rush of steam through freshly painted pipes. There were other noises too. The whir of generators and pumps, the rattle of deckplates, a mumbling whine from the reduction-gear housing. Then there was the roar of the shaft itself. Over everything, Tabby didn’t hear him cycle through from the aft fireroom, and didn’t notice his arrival. It suddenly dawned on Spanky that he’d never seen Tabby like that before—just sitting there, not busily doing . . . anything. The sight disturbed him, not least because she hadn’t been expecting him, and like days of old when she gloried in driving him nuts, she wasn’t wearing a shirt in the sweltering heat.
He had two simultaneous reactions. The first came from the part of him that loved Tabby like a daughter—or something. He noticed that even slick with foamy sweat, Tabby’s steam scars had almost vanished beneath her light gray fur. He was glad. Even by human standards, Tabby looked like a pinup in a cat suit, as had been remarked many times, and he was happy to see her blemishes fade. But even scarred, her shapely breasts and slim figure had always been far too—human—for comfort. This recognition led Spanky immediately to his second reaction, one he was all too familiar with from the old days when Tabby deliberately tried to get his goat: profound embarrassment. His secret physical attraction to the ’Cat mortified him, even at the height of the “dame famine,” when so few human females were known to exist. And the fact that Tabby loved him in a much less complicated way than he’d come to care for her made it even worse. Spanky kind of had a girl in Maa-ni-la now, an ex-pat Impie who’d fled the onetime virtual enslavement of women in the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and he’d learned to disregard his deeper feelings for Tabby. But seeing her like this always made him very uncomfortable indeed.
Spanky wasn’t easily embarrassed, but his normal reaction to the condition was a degree of irritation that could quickly build to a towering, legendary rage even more remarkable because of his slight frame. Chief Gray always said Spanky’s rages could swell him up to twice, three times his real size, like a puffer fish, and that wasn’t far off. Anybody who ever saw him mad would never recognize him otherwise—which had actually come in handy a time or two in old Subic before he jumped the rail into officer’s country and had to become respectable. There was no telling how many bloody-nosed shore patrolmen looked right at him later . . . He shook his head. It was hot, and Tabby wasn’t like that anymore. Besides, engineering was her division now. If she wanted to let female, even human female, snipes run around nude down here, that was her affair.
A throttle ’Cat noticed him and stiffened. Tabby turned and saw him, then quickly turned away, grabbing a T-shirt and pulling it over her head. “Decent” now, she turned and stood. “Comaander McFaarlane!” she said.
Spanky waved her back down, and everyone else in the compartment relaxed. “As you were,” he said automatically. To Tabby’s credit, she didn’t pull her shirt back off, and he grinned. “How’s the plant?” he asked.
“Swell,” Tabby replied, looking at the maze of pipes. “Them Maa-ni-la yard apes—dogs, whatever—did good work, even if we beat ’em in the big game.” She grinned back at him. “No leaks. Everything’s tight.”
Spanky grunted. “Did you report the problems with the gasket material?”
“Yep. The new stuff s’posed to be better.” She shrugged. “We see.”
“Yeah.” He looked around. “Say, have you seen that creepy little twerp Isak back here? He wasn’t in the firerooms. Maybe he fell overboard.”
Tabby hesitated and her grin fled. “I seen him earlier, but it ain’t his watch.”
“So? Since when did that ever make a difference? Him and Gilbert, both of them Mice, which you were one yourself, if I recall, always hung around the engineering spaces on watch or not. What gives?”
Tabby looked down. “I don’t think he likes me no mo
re.”
“What? Why? Because you’re an officer now? He’s the chief, and, squirrelly as he is, if there’s justice in that, I’ll eat my shoe.”
“But is justice!” Tabby defended. “He still knows more than I ever will. He an’ Gilbert taught me! Now I outrank him.”
“Maybe he does know more,” Spanky conceded. “Hell, maybe he knows more than I do, but what good is that if he can’t teach worth a damn?”
“He teach me,” Tabby repeated.
“I think you just picked up more than either of them told you. You didn’t even speak English when you started, remember?” He simmered and put his hands on his skinny hips. “I’ll sort him out. For him to get all puffed up just because you got promoted over him . . .”
Tabby shook her head. “No! No! That’s not why he’s mad at me! He don’t care ’bout that, I think.”
Spanky blinked surprise. “So? What’s he sore about?”
“I . . . I tole him the firerooms stinked.”
Spanky barked a laugh. “So? They do, by God.”
“Yah, but he thowed a fit; said they was still too clean after the refit for him to settle in proper. Said they didn’t look like any workin’ firerooms he ever seen, an’ they was prob’ly just as bad before the refit with a broad in charge.” She shook her head.
“He can’t be mad because you’re a girl,” Spanky muttered. “It’s got to be something else.”
“It is cleaner,” Tabby allowed, “an’ I like it that way.”
“So do I,” Spanky agreed, concentrating, “but I bet that’s what did it. He finally got to come home after a long time away, and it wasn’t like he remembered it. His comfortable, filthy firerooms weren’t like he left them, and it doesn’t feel like home anymore. I guess I get that. It’s still no reason to blame you.” Spanky nodded to himself. “I’ll go talk to him, cheer him up—if he hasn’t already poisoned himself by eating too much of Lanier’s chow.”
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