Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  He hated sailing off on what he almost considered a personal lark right when the big show to clobber the Grik fleet at Madras and relieve General Alden seemed about to commence. He’d missed the greatest naval battle of the war while overseeing Donaghey’s refit at Andaman. But he was realistic enough to know the war had passed his ship by and she’d be hopelessly outclassed in the kind of battles it had spawned. His ship and crew were better armed than ever, but her main battery still consisted of 18-pounders. She had thirty now, and could easily smash any ordinary Grik ship she ran into, but was no match for the ironclad monsters now constituting the main Grik battle line. She’d have to be careful if her probing brought her in contact with those. But with any kind of wind, she could easily outrun anything the Grik were known to have. There lay her main advantage; with her extreme hull and a clean bottom, only Walker herself—and maybe the rebuilt Mahan—were faster. Greg had heard of the PTs of the new “Mosquito fleet,” and they were supposed to be fast, but they’d never been intended to cross the broad, hostile seas on their own. He hoped they’d justify Captain Reddy’s faith in them, but they’d have to be brought to the fight. There were things in this sea that could gulp them like top-water lures.

  He snorted. There’s things out there that can eat Donaghey! he thought, but one of his ship’s upgrades had been a crude, active sonar, developed by Mr. Riggs, Ronson, and Fairchild. It ran off a wind generator that charged a high-yield capacitor and periodically sent a torturous bolt of sound into the depths ahead. This had been proven to discourage the largest, most dangerous sea creatures. It had no apparent effect on the giant sharks like the one that sank the second Revenge, but that fish had been drawn to the new ship’s bright, spinning screw. Donaghey didn’t have one of those, and all new ship’s propellers were preoxidized now. That had been a bitter lesson.

  Captain Bekiaa-Sab-At, commander of Donaghey’s Marine contingent, which constituted a quarter of the crew, joined Greg by the rail. Tagging along was Lieutenant (jg) Wendel “Smitty” Smith, Donaghey’s young but balding gunnery officer.

  “Afternoon, Bekiaa, Smitty,” Greg greeted them.

  “Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett,” Bekiaa replied, and saluted.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” Garrett said with a smile. “And even if you did, once a day is enough!”

  “But we’re outside.”

  “Sure, but . . .” Garrett blinked consternation in the Lemurian way. “Skip it. Just once a day, though, okay?” Bekiaa nodded. Greg knew she was glad to be at sea after the hell she’d been through, but he also knew she’d brought more than a few ghosts aboard. She’d been wound pretty tight. He looked at Smitty. “How’s gunnery shaping up?” Donaghey had a large number of veterans from herself, Tolson, and Revenge. Though originally from different ships, all had fought together at the Sand Spit and formed one crew almost seamlessly. The gun’s crews were no exception.

  “I like the new fire-control system. We still have to train the guns by eye, but with good ranges and electric primers, we’ll get more rounds on target. Commodore Ellis was right; it works. I just wish we could do more live practice.”

  Greg nodded. “I know. Me too. We’ve got plenty of powder and shot now, but who knows when we’ll get resupplied? We could be on our own a long, long time.”

  “Yes, sir. And I guess it shouldn’t really matter that much. The range finder in the main top and the tables of elevation have taken a lot of the guesswork out of it.”

  “True.”

  Bekiaa was staring forward, squinting hard. “Those islands we’re making for those ‘Chaagos.’ Do you really think they’ll be there? We’re a long way from nothing. I bet nobody’s ever sailed these seas since the Mi-Anaaka got pushed off Madagaas-car before the beginning of time.”

  “They’re not so much islands as an atoll,” Greg corrected. “The biggest lump is Diego Garcia, though the chart just has a little D there. Used to be a French coconut plantation or something, and was barely big enough for a little Brit outpost on our world. As to whether they’ll be where they were on our charts . . .” He shrugged. “Who knows. They could be bigger, smaller, or not there at all. I just know the Skipper asked us to find ’em if they’re there. Any kind of waypoint between Ceylon and the heart of the Grik Empire, no matter how small, would be mighty handy for prepositioning fuel and supplies. As for us being the first to sail these seas since God knows when, you may be right,” Greg agreed. “But that could be a good thing, because chances are if they are there, the Grik would’ve never found ’em. Why should they? Like you said, there’s an awful lot of nothing out here.”

  “Deck there,” came a cry from the masthead. “Sineaa signals ‘sail’ off her staar-board bow!”

  “What the hell?” Greg muttered. “How far?” he demanded loudly, crossing to starboard and raising his Imperial telescope.

  “Seven mile. Small sail.”

  Greg adjusted the telescope but saw nothing but the haze on the water.

  “I go up?” Bekiaa asked. “See what I make of it?”

  “Not yet. We’ll wait a bit. A small sail way out here, I doubt any of us would know what to make of it.”

  Half an hour later, with signals flashing between the two ships and even Garrett able to see the sail from deck with his telescope, the consensus formed that it was a lateen-rigged fishing boat of some kind. That didn’t make much sense either, until the masthead called down that he’d spied land.

  “I’ll be,” Greg said. “An almost-perfect landfall on a place we weren’t even sure was there! And that explains the fishing boat too. Must be natives.” He frowned. “But what kind?” He paced back and forth, deep in thought. Sammy had joined the trio and seemed just as concerned.

  “What if they is Grik?”

  “Not much point in worrying about it. Lookout!” Greg shouted, “What’s the boat doing now?”

  “It seen us. It hightailing to land.”

  “Sing out the instant you see any other ships!”

  “Ay, ay!” came the reply.

  Greg looked at Sammy. “Make our course two one zero, and signal Sineaa to do the same. We’ll come down on the north side of the atoll. We don’t have any charts of the thing itself, and I doubt it would look the same if we did. Leadsmen to the bow. We’ll take soundings.”

  More fishing boats were sighted as Donaghey and her consort drew closer, and the shout “No bottom with this line” came back periodically from the fo’c’sle. All the boats fled at the sight of them, making straight for the northwest edge of what was growing in view to become a much larger island than Greg had expected to find. It looked pretty flat, though, and was covered in a dense jungle of odd-looking trees.

  “Have Sineaa take in her courses, and we’ll adjust speed accordingly,” Greg ordered, staring through his glass. “Looks like they’ve got some kind of anchorage those boats scampered to. Let’s have a look at it.”

  Another hour crept by as Sammy shouted into the rigging to shorten or adjust the sails and slow their approach according to Greg’s directions. As a precaution, Greg had his ship cleared for action. Rounding a small island lying off the coast of the larger one, they glimpsed a broad channel, maybe half a mile wide, that the little boats were still ducking into. Suddenly Bekiaa saw something else, just as the lookout reported it. “Cap-i-taan Gaarrett!” she cried.

  “Holy moly,” Smitty muttered, seeing it too. Everyone seemed to spot the stunning object at once, and it was no wonder; it was huge. The thing had been partially hidden even to the lookouts by the tall trees on the smaller island, but there, in the narrow gap between them, lay a very large iron-hulled ship with two tall funnels, leaning perhaps twenty degrees to starboard.

  “Oh my God,” Garrett murmured, and an unacceptable number of the crew surged to the port rail to gawk.

  “Twenny faddoms,” came the delayed report from forward, “an’ comin’ up!”

  “Stand by the anchor!” Greg shouted distractedly, still staring at th
e big ship. The Lemurian bosun collected himself and roared at the crew to get back where they belonged.

  “She been here a while,” said Sammy when he found his voice. “She looks sunk, with that list, and she’s low at the head too.”

  “A while,” Greg agreed, “but not that long. She’s rusty, but her paint isn’t that old.”

  “Weird paint,” Bekiaa observed. “That’s a ship of human people,” she said with certainty, “but I never seen one painted that colorful before.”

  Greg cocked his head to match the list. “It is pretty weird,” he agreed. “She looks like a passenger liner—deserted too, thank God—you see she’s got at least a couple of big deck guns? Anyway, I’d say she’s about the same vintage as Santa Catalina, so she’s old, but the last time I saw a paint job like that, it was on a Subic taxi!” He felt a chill. “Hey, it’s hard to tell, but does that look like a dragon—or a big lizard—painted down her side?”

  “Yeah,” said Smitty. “I guess that leaves me wonderin’ where she came from, how’d she get here, and did somebody paint all that shit on her before or after?”

  “Where and how? Same as us, I guess. Who her final passengers were is the biggie.”

  Greg’s two ships had crept far enough forward to pass beyond the hulk’s leaning bow. “Yikes. Not completely abandoned, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett!” Bekiaa warned, pointing. A rough pier had been constructed along the big ship’s port side, and it was packed with suddenly staring workers, apparently involved in removing cargo from large hatches in the sloping hull. More figures were in boats—some also standing and pointing now—that were rowing heavy cargoes through the mild, protected surf toward shore. Many tents and huts had been erected there, and a considerable heap of crates and other large objects had been gathered under protective coverings. Greg and everyone else who had them were staring intently through their glasses.

  “Fi’ faaddoms!” came the cry from forward. “Busted coral!”

  “Well,” Greg said at last, lowering his telescope and slamming it shut, “whoever they are, they’re not Grik. Look like humans and ’Cats—like us! I wonder how the hell they got together way out here?” He snorted. “Guess we’ll find out. Nobody’s pointing guns at us, and I don’t see any batteries at the mouth of that lagoon.”

  “What’re we gonna do?” Sammy asked.

  “Signal Sineaa to ‘wear ship,’ and stand off while we get to the bottom of this. We’ll heave to, if you please. Stand by to drop the hook.”

  * * *

  The afternoon was wearing on by the time someone “over there” apparently decided what to do. A boat that looked appropriate for the grounded steamer—aside from its own bizarre paint job—set off from shore with an equally bizarre collection of passengers. Some, both ’Cats and humans, wore coats and hats, and a couple had shiny breastplates and helmets. A couple of the ’Cats were entirely naked and, at a glance, looked even shorter than the norm. None appeared armed. The squalls that had loomed nearer all day took that opportunity to catch them at last, and long, dark tendrils of rain beat down on the open boat as it approached. Greg and those gathered with him to receive their guests got drenched as well, and it was amid this annoying but somewhat amusing circumstance that the momentous meeting occurred.

  “I say,” shouted a voice from below as the boat touched Donaghey’s side, and an oarsman leaped up with a pike and hooked on. “Judging by your flag, you’re the very bloody Americans we were off to meet! What luck, that?” The voice came from a grinning, bearded, light-haired man in one of the breastplates. “You are the ones fighting the . . . I guess you call ’em Grik, right?”

  “We’re at war with the Grik,” Lieutenant Saama-Kera confirmed, but he was blinking annoyance at what he considered a scandalous breach of protocol.

  “Bloody amazing!” the voice sounded back. “Our chap said he recognized your pretty ship . . . but ye do have more . . . an’ some a bit bigger, I hope?”

  “What chap?” Greg demanded suspiciously.

  “Our Jappo there,” he nodded at a dark-haired young man seated nearby. “His name’s Leftenant Miyata, formerly of a monstrous great battle cruiser named Amagi. I understand you once made her acquaintance?”

  “We sank her, if that’s what you mean,” Greg replied, staring hard at Miyata. This was getting weirder and weirder.

  “Aye! You’re the right blokes, all right!”

  A man in a dark coat and graying black beard snapped at the talker in what Greg thought was German, of all things!

  “Right. Sorry. No sense yapping back an’ forth in the rain like dogs across a fence. May we come aboard? You have my word we’re friendly as can be, and, odd as it may sound, we’re already on the same side!”

  Greg blinked. “Then . . . by all means, come aboard,” he replied.

  One by one, the occupants hopped across and clambered up the side. All but the naked ’Cats gained the deck in the traditional way, saluting the flag and the officers they met. The two ’Cats, some kind of natives, Greg had to assume, stared around, amazed by the ship and the large number of taller but clearly related Lemurians aboard. Greg listened while the German introduced himself and the others.

  “I am Kapitan Leutnant Becker Lange, executive officer of the armed auxiliary cruiser SMS Amerika, which you currently see so indisposed.” He frowned. “Our real kapitan of over thirty years is equally indisposed at present, so I have temporarily assumed operational command of this expedition. The talkative fellow here is Leutnant Doocy Meek. Our history is . . . complex.” He gestured at a Lemurian in a dark, sodden cloak that covered ornate armor and a red leather kilt. “This is Inquisitor Kon-Choon, chief intelligence officer to His Most Excellent Highness Nig-Taak, Kaiser of the Republic of Real People. As Herr Meek said, our Japanese friend is Leutnant Toryu Miyata. It was his arrival that hastened us in your direction, seeking alliance against our common enemy.”

  Garrett swallowed, but nodded at the two shorter ’Cats. “Who’re these guys?”

  “We do not know their names,” the Lemurian . . . snoop said with a very strange accent. “They have been assigned to us by the other natives of this island as observers, we think. They are not hostile, and though curious about us, they are afraid as well. They have generally avoided us, and we have tried not to inconvenience them, since we were forced to seek refuge here.”

  “When your ship sank?”

  “She ain’t sunk,” Doocy said in his clear British accent. “The bloody tide’s out, an’ she’s sittin’ on her admittedly leaky bum. She floats after a fashion at high tide. We’re lucky we found this place, an’ this is as far as we dared bring her without attemptin’ repairs. Her shaft alleys in particular have turned to sponges. The storms off the cape worked her hard!”

  Garrett held up his hand. “Wait! Storms at the cape, republics, Grik, Japs, pygmy Lemurians . . .” He paused. “Look. I’m sorry. I’m Commander Greg Garrett, United States Navy, serving the Grand Alliance of all the powers united beneath or beside the Banner of the Trees.” He quickly named his officers. “Welcome aboard USS Donaghey,” he added, then glanced at Sammy. “Signal Sineaa to join us and anchor. I’ll want her officers’ thoughts.” He turned his gaze back to their visitors. “In the meantime, let’s get out of the rain and see if we can sort this out.”

  They crowded down in the wardroom forward of the officers’ quarters. Provided with cups of steaming monkey joe—the ersatz Lemurian coffee—and towels to dry themselves, Greg Garrett began to piece together the story of the island, the Republic of Real People, and SMS Amerika.

  Probably like the island they’d found, the earliest inhabitants of the republic were Lemurians who’d wound up there after their ancient exodus from the Grik. They were later joined by Chinese explorers, Ptolemaic Egyptians, black Africans, and eventually Romans. All arrived from the sea, but it wasn’t clear whether that was where their original crossover occurred, since some hadn’t been sure themselves. The most jarring information Garrett learned was that t
he Romans appeared around the tenth century! He wasn’t much of a historian, not even close to Captain Reddy, who claimed to only be an amateur despite his academy degree, but even he knew there was something very wrong with tenth-century Romans! He shook his head. Let the Skipper and Mr. Bradford figure that out! In any event, it was into this interesting mix of cultures that Becker Lange, Doocy Meek, and the mixed crew and prisoners of war aboard Seiner Majestät Schiff Amerika were adopted, apparently during the last war, before the United States got involved. That helped, since nobody but Miyata remembered Americans as enemies.

  Garrett looked out the stern windows at the great ship and frowned, considering all her problems. She was certainly big, measuring nearly 670 feet and displacing about forty thousand tons. She was armed with two 4.1-inch rapid-firing guns and six Maxims, and had been designed to make twenty knots. She burned coal and that might be awkward, but she had plenty aboard to get her to Andaman if they could patch her leaks. She’d make a fine addition to the Allied fleet. Becker said she could carry three thousand passengers and crew—or a larger number of troops—and that could be handy too, but Greg wasn’t sure if she’d fit in one of the floating dry docks at Andaman, and a dry dock was what she desperately needed.