Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  He was quickly introduced to other people he’d never met. Adar’s staff had grown dramatically and there were far too many new ’Cats to remember after only one meeting. There were new humans as well; half a dozen men who’d survived their ordeal aboard Mizuki Maru and actively joined the cause. One was a former Filipino scout who’d become a captain in Chack’s commando outfit. Others had assignments reflecting past ratings, or preservice occupations. Another man Matt didn’t know appeared behind the others.

  “I must present Commander Simon Herring, Minister of Straa-tee-gic Intelligence!” Adar announced. “After a somewhat—you say ‘bumpy,’ I think? After a bumpy start, he has made great strides helping us . . . sort things out.”

  There was a briefly awkward moment while Matt and Herring looked one another over, clearly sizing each other up. They were of similar height and build—or would be once Herring completely filled out again. Matt got the distinct impression Herring expected him to salute him, but the man finally simply stuck out his hand. Matt took it, but noticed some disapproving stares.

  “Mr. Herring,” he said neutrally, “glad to have you aboard.”

  Herring smiled, but his eyes narrowed. Inwardly, Matt sighed. He’d hoped the reports were exaggerated, but Herring didn’t make a good first impression. Still, he couldn’t be quite the martinet he seemed. Could he? Adar was too good a judge of character. There was no question they’d all have a lot to say to each other when they got down to business.

  Matt looked at Adar and waved at two very odd ships secured to the fitting-out pier a short distance away. He grinned hugely. “My God. I never expected to see Mahan again! And the other’s obviously S-Nineteen—but Mr. Laumer’s done a lot to her!”

  Adar beamed. “Mahan is nearer ready for sea, but both will soon make great contributions, I believe . . . with their torpedoes!”

  “So the torps really work?”

  “They do! Mr. Saan-di-son can make you a better report, but I believe you will be pleased!”

  “Bernie?” Matt asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sandison answered. “They work. The range is pretty short, maybe a couple thousand yards before they get weird sometimes . . . but, they by God go off when they hit! Two of Walker’s triple mounts have been completely rebuilt and are ready to go back aboard as soon as you’re ready for them.”

  “I’m ready now,” Matt said eagerly. “We’ll put them where numbers one and two used to be. We haven’t, uh, added anything there.” Not only were there armored tubs for twin 25-millimeter guns where the numbers three and four mounts had been, but the new Nancy catapult was nestled between them.

  “We’ve also got the old number four gun ready to reinstall, if you want her,” Riggs said.

  Matt shook his head. “You know, this may sound weird, but I kind of like the dual-purpose nature of that four-seven Jap gun on the aft deckhouse. I think I’ll keep it.”

  Bernie and Letts looked at each other. “Well, uh, maybe we forgot to mention we built a dual-purpose mount for old number four. It sits a little higher, so the CG does too, but it shoots the same four-inch-fifty as all your other guns, and you can tie her directly back into the gun director.”

  “Is that so?” Matt asked, impressed. “Well, unless you managed to bring the old three-incher back to life and want us to wag it around too, we should be okay, weight-wise. We’ve got the catapult to consider now, but Nancys aren’t heavy—and the twenty-fives don’t weigh near what the old torpedo mounts did.”

  “We fixed the three-incher,” said Brister, “but we already put it on Laumer’s boat, aft.” He pointed.

  “Well, there it is,” Matt said, nodding. He was thrilled to see Mahan riding there, looking almost new, if a little weird, but he was frankly disappointed Laumer hadn’t come up with something better for S-19 than a torpedo boat. He had other—better—torpedo boats from Maa-ni-la now.

  “I’ll be derned,” he finished. He gestured toward the two vessels. “Chairman Adar? Can we take a minute to have a look at them?”

  “Of course!” Adar agreed. “The reception at the Great Hall cannot begin without us, after all. Besides, I spend so much time in the War Room. Outside air will do me good.”

  Matt asked Chief Gray and Bernie to go tell Spanky to move the ship where the torpedo tubes and new/old gun awaited her, then dismiss all but an anchor watch for a long-deserved liberty.

  “Meet us back here when you’re done, all of you.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Gray said, stressing the word.

  Together, the rest of them excused themselves from the understanding crowd and moved down the dock to stand alongside Mahan’s abbreviated form. Matt couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. The last time he’d seen Walker’s sister, she was charging Amagi through a hail of metal and towering splashes—before she blew herself up and sank to the bottom of Baalkpan Bay.

  “A hell of a thing,” he muttered, turning to Adar. “Where’re you sending her?”

  “I do not yet know.”

  “I want her,” Matt said simply.

  “You want her?” Herring suddenly blurted, incredulous. “Just like that?”

  Matt turned to him. “Yeah, just like that. She’s mine, and if I want her, I can damn well have her!”

  “My friends!” Adar interceded. “We must certainly discuss warlike matters, but this is a day of joy. We will hash things out tomorrow. Today, tonight, let us celebrate—and be glad we are all together again.”

  * * *

  The welcoming party was a splendid affair, much like the one thrown by the great Nakja-Mur when Walker first arrived with a damaged Salissa Home—back before the war. They enjoyed the traditional grand march up through the heart of the bazaar, where they were greeted by hearty cheering instead of the reserved curiosity that once prevailed. All the way to Adar’s Great Hall, Matt, Sandra, Courtney, Gray, and most of Walker’s officers, and a little more than half her crew, smiled, waved, exchanged embraces, and accepted colorful bouquets pressed on them, until they couldn’t hold any more. If anything, this party was even bigger than any Matt had seen, and since the populace suffered no anxiety over the arrival—or odd appearance—of the human visitors this time, the atmosphere of goodwill was universal. Baalkpan was very glad to see USS Walker again.

  The reunion at the Great Hall was more complete than at the dock. There were many more familiar faces and people Matt was glad to see, and he was amazed by how big Alan and Karen Letts’s daughter, Allison Verdia, had grown. He didn’t see Herring again that night, and managed to forget all about him and enjoy himself and his wife at this, their first social event as a married couple at their adopted home. They danced to familiar but very strangely performed music, taken from sheet music or the many platters still with Marvaney’s old phonograph at the Busted Screw. They even attempted some Lemurian tunes, amid a great deal of laughter. The merriment seemed universal, and at one point, Matt was stunned to see Gray dancing very stiffly and formally with Miss Diania! Courtney drank too much, and he and Ambassador Forester wound up in a very bizarre singing contest in which victory was apparently achieved by whoever could carry a tune the longest without stopping to breathe. Few of Walker’s crew stayed very long, preferring the company of mates and sweethearts they’d left behind or old shipmates down at the Screw. Some doubtless visited the newly established brothel nearby. Confident Spanky and the SPs would deal with things if their long-suffering crew got out of hand, Matt and Sandra left the Great Hall fairly early and were led to their house by one of Adar’s youngling aides. They’d never laid eyes on the charming cottage, elevated in the Lemurian fashion, but were assured it was theirs. Inside there was little decoration. It had been left for them to make their own. There was furniture, though, and on the broad bed commissioned expressly for them, they spent their first night together at home.

  CHAPTER

  16

  ////// Adar’s Great Hall

  Baalkpan

  April 17, 1944

  M att str
ode into the war room with Sandra, Spanky, Chief Gray, and Chack. Courtney followed along as well, but his heart—and head—weren’t in it. Gone were the days when the war room consisted of a kind of desk in a small office. This chamber was nearly as big as Nakja-Mur’s personal quarters had once been. There to meet them were Adar, of course, Alan Letts, Bernie Sandison, Steve Riggs, Ambassador Forester, a number of Lemurians, and an Aussie seaman named Henry Stokes whom they’d met the night before. Also there, on the other side of Adar from Letts, was Herring. It was a relatively small gathering—probably appropriate under the circumstances—since this wasn’t a meeting for details but big ideas.

  “Good morning Cap-i-taan Reddy!” Adar said pleasantly. “Minister Tucker—or I should say ‘Reddy’ now? I will never grow accustomed to that!” He grinned and nodded at the others. “Gentlemen! I am glad to see you all. I hope you enjoyed yourselves last night. I certainly did! Please make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Thank you, Chairman Adar. That was a swell shindig, and like I told you then, we’re glad to be home.”

  “We are most glad to have you.” Adar looked about, almost at a loss. “So very much has happened since you steamed away to rescue the hostages that terrible Billingsley person took! It is difficult to know where to begin.”

  “With respect, Mr. Chairman,” Matt said, “it’s not like we haven’t been in nearly constant contact. I’m fully aware of the strategic situation. I may not be up on every detail in the works, but going over past events like we’re all just hearing about them will only waste time, and that’s always been a very precious commodity.”

  “Indeed,” Adar nodded. “Well said.”

  “With that in mind,” Matt persisted, “I’m not going to beat around the bush. I sent you my plan for a raid against the Grik, a raid I think will not only divert attention and resources from India, but might well shorten the war. I’m glad you’ve decided to take a more . . . proactive role in the command structure of the Alliance, but I’m not sure why you’re dragging your feet on this.” He took a breath. “In my capacity as Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces, by acclamation, I’m not even sure it’s up to you.”

  “Of course it’s up to us . . . to Chairman Adar!” Herring corrected sharply, discarding his genial mask. He paused and visibly collected himself. “I apologize for the outburst, Captain Reddy, but I’ve studied your actions as CINCAF quite extensively. I consider it part of my job. As a . . . relative newcomer here, I believe I’m able to look at your record more objectively than others, and form a perhaps more realistic assessment of that record than has been the case to date. The greater part of my job is to do everything in my power to pass advice to Chairman Adar that might help him, help us all, win this war as quickly possible. I try to do that with as much . . . disinterested professionalism as I can manage under the circumstances. From that perspective, I must first congratulate you on some impressive tactical successes. Extremely impressive, considering your limited resources—and the relative inexperience you arrived with.”

  Sandra almost seemed to coil to strike, but Matt placed a hand on her shoulder. She, in turn, reluctantly restrained the Bosun when he took a step forward.

  “Strategically, however,” Herring continued, as if oblivious to the sudden tension, “I cannot be so complimentary, and an accounting of the various strategies that have brought us to this point are entirely relevant, I believe.”

  Letts stared hard at the man around Adar, and though Adar didn’t speak, he was blinking displeasure.

  “I mean no disrespect,” Herring quickly added, “but as we go forward, planning our next moves, it only stands to reason that we should objectively examine how successful certain previous strategies have been”—he leaned forward on his stool, regarding Matt—“particularly since they have all originated from the same source.”

  There was a collective gasp.

  “Minister Herring,” Adar said stiffly, “if it remains your intention, even after the assurances you gave, to turn this session into a trial, you may leave now and find other employment! This is the very reason I decreed that I would be the ultimate arbiter of strategic planning. If something goes wrong, I will take the blame. I will not allow you or anyone to insinuate that others—particularly this man—have done other than their absolute best when it comes to the prosecution of the war!”

  “But that’s not my intent at all!” Herring defended. “I have no doubt Captain Reddy, or, indeed, every commander currently in action against our enemies, have done the best they could. I merely think it’s time to inquire whether their ‘best’ is indeed good enough!” Herring paused amid another roar of outrage, but didn’t back down. “Please!” he said. “Let me explain!”

  Oddly, almost every eye turned to Matt instead of Adar. He could feel Sandra quivering with rage beside him and suspected Gray was about to explode, but he’d been expecting this ever since he heard of Herring. He wasn’t sure what motivated the man, and meant to find out—but he was very curious to see what, exactly, had become of the command staff since he’d been away. “Speak your piece, Herring,” he said.

  Simon Herring had been tenser than he seemed, and he gradually appeared to deflate. “I’m not good at this,” he finally admitted, surprising everyone with the confession and his sudden change of tone. “When all is said, I’m really just an analyst and I’ve never been good with people.” He looked at Matt. “I’ve never commanded a ship—much less an entire navy.” He shook his head. “I’ve been to sea only once in my life as a free man. That was when we moved from Shanghai to the Philippines. I flew out from the States. I don’t count my time aboard Mizuki Maru, as a prisoner of war, since I wasn’t even in charge of myself at the time. I was nearly dead, and don’t remember much. If not for those who helped me”—he nodded at Stokes—“I wouldn’t be here.” He turned to Adar. “Now that I am here, despite my initial restraint, I’ve made this cause my own with a conviction that I propose may be difficult for you to understand. I was a staff officer, protected and somewhat arrogant, no doubt, who was captured by the Japanese and made a slave. That was traumatic enough, I assure you, but then came the hellish fever-dream voyage of Mizuki Maru and our arrival in this world.” He shook his head. “After all that, to be here, among friends, safe, well fed, free . . . Can you possibly imagine how precious this land and the Alliance that protects it have become to me?” He looked back at Matt.

  “I admit my current happy condition is largely due to your efforts, and I can’t imagine what it was like to be in your shoes. Nor do I think I could’ve done anything better, frankly.” He frowned. “But might you have? Possibly, and that’s what we must discuss.”

  Matt was taken aback. Herring had a point, and his perspective was much different than his own. Far more different and selfless than he’d suspected. What’s more, he was right. Matt knew he’d made mistakes, lots of them. Most, he had to admit, were driven by the temper he’d nearly lost a few moments before; a temper that had doubtless caused him to make rash decisions on several occasions and might’ve cost more than a few lives. He’d had a hard time coming to terms with that once, and precious, lost faces still crowded his thoughts and often made sleep impossible. If not for Sandra, who understood and was the only one he dared talk to about it, he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d learned to control his temper better, he thought, but he was conscious of the fact that it always lurked somewhere beneath the surface and could take control of him, if he wasn’t very careful.

  At the same time, he was perfectly aware that his temper wasn’t the only cause of many of his mistakes. He had the same fundamental training required of any naval officer, but he’d never had the expanded training or experience to prepare him for the role he’d assumed here. He was a historian and that had helped, but otherwise, he’d been merely a junior skipper of an old and very obsolete destroyer. He’d been winging it since he got here, and knew it. Only luck and the outstanding people he’d had the good fortune to command had made much o
f what they’d accomplished together possible. And the Lemurians, of course. Without their amazing flexibility, courage, forbearance, and ultimately, trust, they’d never have survived long enough to learn, together, what it took to achieve what they had. Apparently, Herring had seen this right off, and in his awkward, brusque, impersonal way, he’d put his finger right on it.

  “Go on,” Matt said softly in the silence that had descended.

  “Well,” Herring continued, “when viewed objectively, one might gain from your strategic decisions that you don’t really want this war to end at all.”

  Matt hadn’t been prepared for that. “What?” he barked, his temper flaring anew, so surprised was he by Herring’s sudden change of tack. “Are you nuts? Jesus, do I want this war over! I’ve lost so many . . .” he gestured at Adar, then all around. “We’ve lost thousands of fine people, people we care for deeply. How dare you say such a thing?”

  “But the war drags on, and more die every day.”

  Matt blinked. “Yeah, and it’s a hell of a thing, but we can’t just snap our fingers and make it stop! Maybe you don’t understand the Grik—or Doms—as well as you think. No matter how hard we hit them, if we let up, they will come for us again. Guaranteed. The only way to be free of them forever is absolute victory!”