Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “So you came looking for us, sight unseen, to join our alliance against the Grik. How’d you know we’re not as bad as they are?”

  “Do you eat your enemies?” Inquisitor Choon asked. “Do you have territorial ambitions beyond perhaps the lands you take from the Grik? Your own alliance is a collection of disparate races. Do you treat any as if they are inferior to you?”

  “No!” Greg and Lieutenant Saama-Kera chorused.

  “Then we are natural allies against a common, terrible enemy that threatens us both. My cea-saar, or kaiser, Nig-Taak, is a hereditary ruler, but like the ancient leaders of Rome, is bound by the will of the senate. He is not . . . emperaator. Not so much different from your own Chairman Adar, I gather.”

  Greg blinked. He’d mentioned Adar during the course of their discussion, but Choon was quick. He must’ve pieced the rest together from what he’d overheard, or what Miyata told him.

  “Well, I’ve got some leeway for negotiations, considering my mission, and I guess we’d have found your republic eventually when we rounded the cape of Africa—which we still mean to do—so hopefully I’ll talk to your Nig-Taak myself. I can’t confirm any full-blown alliance here and now, but I’ll send a message home and find out how much cooperation they’ll allow.”

  “You can do that?” Choon asked.

  “Sure. We send it in code.”

  “But won’t the enemy hear? Might he not, uh, tri-aangulate our position? Fear of that has restrained us from transmitting in the past.”

  “I guess they might,” Greg conceded. “We really don’t know what the Japs or Grik can do in that respect.”

  “You say there is a great battle underway for India,” Miyata asked, speaking for the first time, and everyone looked at him. “Kurokawa does have communications gear, though I doubt he has shared it with the Grik. He might hear, but I do not think he can judge distance or direction. Even if he can, there will be too much chatter for him to isolate us, I think. We have been listening.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course,” Choon confirmed. “We always listen, and we hear many things. We cannot decipher your code, but we know the difference between it and the one the Jaaps use.” He nodded at Greg’s questioning look. “Yes, the Jaaps communicate sometimes. We also hear . . . other things we cannot identify. But Lieutenant Miyata is probably right that your transmissions should not endanger us”—he looked at the two natives, still peering around, apparently oblivious to the conversation—“and, possibly more important, the people of this island. We must protect them at all costs. They are the oldest link to our heritage, and from what I gather of their . . . vaguely different language, they have remained the most unchanged from the days of the great exodus itself. We have much to learn from them.”

  “Okay, I’ll compose a message and shoot it off,” Garrett said. “See what we can come up with.” He turned back to Miyata. “That leaves us with your Jap, I guess.” He addressed Toryu directly. “I’ve heard your story and understand why you defected. Hell, the only thing I don’t understand is why all your people haven’t run. You’ve warned these folks about what the Grik mean to do, and that’s swell. But what can you give me?”

  Miyata bowed his head. “I have been to the Grik shipyards and know where they are. I have even been to Madagascar, to the palace of the great, fat Grik mother herself, though I have not seen the creature. I know the defenses and population centers there. Would that be of help?”

  Garrett stared, then collected himself. “Why, it just might, as a matter of fact. I’ll pass that along too, and see what Captain Reddy has to say.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  ////// Adar’s Great Hall

  Baalkpan

  April 24, 1944

  “A most interesting development,” Adar observed, handing the message form to Commander Herring, who held it close to read. It wasn’t lost on anyone that Steve Riggs had given it to Captain Reddy first, as soon as he, Sandra, Courtney, Chack, and Chief Gray arrived in the War Room. It was a small gesture and wouldn’t have even been noticed before, but Matt didn’t like the way “factions” seemed to be developing at the highest levels of the Alliance. He saw Alan Letts frown, probably for the same reason. Matt had finally talked Alan into returning to his duties, and Adar had been effusive in his apologies. The ’Cat really did think of Alan and his wife and daughter as the children he’d never had, and once Alan was convinced of that, he forgave Adar’s attempt to protect his conscience. But as a condition for returning to the Great Hall, he’d demanded a promise that it would never happen again. Adar contritely agreed. “These inhabitants of the island, this ‘Diego Gaar-cia,’ or ‘Laa-laanti,’ as they apparently call it, are of particular interest,” he continued. “That they survived, isolated, on that tiny speck of land so long, beyond reach of any of our kind, is astonishing.”

  “It is indeed, Mr. Chairman,” Courtney Bradford gushed. “Why, just think of it! If they’ve preserved any rites and traditions of your ancient homeland, not to mention anything resembling a pre-exodus history of your people . . . I simply can’t wait to meet them!”

  “Nor can I,” Adar agreed in a strange tone. “Nor can I wait to meet these representatives of this ‘Republic’ from southern Africaa.” He blinked rapidly in a way reminiscent of the old, enthusiastic Adar Matt remembered. “They too may have preserved a chronicle older than ours.” He looked at Matt. “Despite what you call the historicaal inconsistencies with your own past, that Cap-i-taan Gaarrett described.”

  “Those ‘inconsistencies’ may provide the ultimate clue to complete my theory regarding how we got here in the first place,” Courtney enthused. “I may almost have an answer at last!”

  Sandra looked at him curiously, but before Courtney could divert the meeting with a distracting, if likely fascinating, dissertation, Matt interrupted. “Maybe most important is that we have new allies we never knew about, and that this Miyata guy has intelligence on the target for our raid.”

  “If the Jap bastard can be trusted,” Gray grumped.

  Matt looked at him and nodded gravely. “If,” he agreed.

  “We’ll have to evaluate that when we meet him,” Herring said, “but the circumstances of his arrival among these . . . southern folk seem to weigh in his favor.”

  Matt raised his eyebrows. Did Herring just give a Jap the benefit of the doubt? He shook his head. “Yeah, well, when we meet him. First things first. When do we leave for Andaman? Time’s running out for Pete. Spanky says Walker can be ready for sea in two days. It’ll be a tighter squeeze for Mahan and S-Nineteen, but Laumer and Brister say they’ll be ready one way or another. The torpedoes?” He shrugged. “Bernie says they’re as good as he can make ’em, and since we don’t have time to test them properly from ships at speed, his word’ll have to do. He and his whole torpedo division will be along, so if something occurs to him, he’ll be there to sort it out.”

  “What does that leave?” Adar asked.

  “The transports for Chack’s Brigade and the PTs. The PTs arrived in a powered dry dock, Respite Island, just like Garrett says they need for this big steamer he found. We should send it and Chack to Diego immediately.”

  “But if they use the dry dock for the ship, how will we move the PTs, Skipper?” Gray asked.

  “If they can patch her up quick enough, we won’t have to worry about it. If they can’t, we’ll stow ’em on Big Sal, as originally planned.” He looked at Adar. “If for some reason Big Sal can’t come—after we sort out Madras—we might just have to do without them, unless we can tow a dry dock from Andaman.”

  Adar blinked concern. “With the offensive to recapture Maa-draas about to begin, we cannot count on having any spare dry docks in that theater. I am inclined to agree we should send what we can to the little island immediately, but I have been considering a fundamental alteration to your plan, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

  Everyone was surprised by that. As much as Adar wanted to assume all strategic responsibi
lity, it never occurred to anyone that he’d try, or even want, to meddle in an operation he’d already consented to.

  “Mr. Chairman?”

  “Yes. I have given this much thought, and believe I have devised a . . . compromise straa-ti-gee that will not only accomplish the ends you seek, but will ensure our victory at Maa-draas.” He sighed. “It will also leave my own heart and soul at greater peace at last.” He stared hard at Matt, his silvery eyes intense in the lamplight. “As Commander in Chief of all Allied Forces, you, Cap-i-taan Reddy, will not just ‘pass by’ Madras on your way to Mada-gaas-car, awaiting Salissa’s opportunity to accompany you. You will command the battle for Maa-draas, aboard your . . . singularly inspirational ship. With Salissa, Arracca, Baalkpan Bay, Santa Catalina, Mahaan, S-Nineteen, and all the warships accompanying them, there can be no outcome but victory!” He glanced at Herring. “According to all reports, in addition to our common Grik enemy, we will face this vile Kurokawa, your own hated foe. He is the root of all Grik initiative, all their advances that have cost us so dear, and must be stopped. I would prefer that you should be there for that.” Adar blinked determination. “This is no great change from what we have already decided, but now, after the battle—the victory—we will take Salissa and any additional assets you might desire to participate in your raid.” He blinked compassion at Chack. “Including further infantry forces, perhaps commanded by our dear General Queen Protector Safir Maraan?”

  Chack reacted as if he’d been slapped, and his tail twitched excitedly, despite his obvious attempts to still it.

  “With this augmented force,” Adar continued, “we will proceed to join those already sent to Diego Gaar-cia. From there, we will advance on our ancient homeland in strength.” He grinned with a savagery Matt had never seen him use. “You will have your raid, Cap-i-taan Reddy, but I want no pinprick there. I want to strike the Grik with a hideous dread that will churn the marrow of their bones! Am I perfectly clear about that?”

  Matt nodded, inspired by Adar’s sudden passion. He smiled. “Absolutely, Mr. Chairman.”

  “I like it!” Gray said. “No more damn pussyfootin’ around!” All seemed satisfied, even Sandra. All except Commander Herring, who was looking at Adar with a slight frown.

  “‘We,’ Mr. Chairman?” he asked.

  “Indeed,” Adar said in a tone that brooked no argument. “We. As Mr. Letts once argued for himself, it is high time that I should go to the ‘pointy end’ for a time. And if this campaign proceeds as I hope, the Heavens above could not keep me away.”

  “But, Mr. Chairman!” Herring protested. “You can’t leave! The Constitutional Congress has finally convened, with representatives of all the Western Homes, at least, to determine what, if any, united government will rule this . . . well, country you’ve made! Ambassador Forester has just agreed to represent the Empire of the New Britain Isles! He’s only committed to observe, but—”

  Adar shook his head. “It has become my fondest dream that our Grand Alliance might one day be united into a great nation”—he looked at Matt—“perhaps like your own United States.” He smiled. “United Homes?” He shook his head. “But it will not be a nation of Mi-Anaaka or hu-maans only, or even just folk like Lawrence and his Sa’aarans. It will be, if it comes to pass, a nation of ‘People,’ of every race. Commander Alan Letts is far more knowledgeable about building nations than I, and his organizational skills will be essential to control the chaos that is sure to engulf the Congress.”

  It was Alan’s turn to stare, stunned. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t speak.

  Adar turned to the others. “I have already decided. This is a fight I must join, if only to beseech the Heavens to make it decisive. Mr. Letts will represent Baalkpan, his Home, at the Congress in my stead.” He looked at Matt. “May he also speak as your representative? On behalf of the Amer-i-caan Navy clan?”

  Matt looked at Letts, whose eyes were wide as he took a step back, shaking his head.

  “You bet, Mr. Chairman,” he said with a smile. “And I’ll be happy to have you along when we stomp Kurokawa—and his damn Grik roaches. All the way to Madagascar.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  ////// Wilds of Borno

  “W hatcha thinkin’ about?” Dennis Silva asked, dropping to the damp mulch beside Ensign Abel Cook. Water dripped constantly from the dense canopy in the aftermath of the daily deluge, and Silva removed his helmet and slicked back his sodden hair. Nothing could repair the wild appearance his beard had achieved, and like them all, his clothing had begun to rot off. What remained of the “Corps of Discovery” and its native Khonashi guides had stopped for a brief, unusual rest, and the majority of Abel’s command was making the most of it. Many were already asleep where they’d dropped their packs. The Khonashis themselves were suddenly very busy, however, grooming themselves and each other, and cleaning their weapons and gear. Abel nodded at them and snorted.

  “I assume we must be near their home at last, and they want to look their best when we arrive.”

  Silva nodded, and Abel looked at him, surprised the big man didn’t comment further. Maybe even Silva was finally worn out? No, Abel realized disgustedly, when Silva started humming to himself while he picked at something on his shoe with a stick! Abel groaned. It was impossible to say how far they’d come in a straight line, since no part of their journey hadn’t gone up, down, or around innumerable obstacles. The confusing, convoluted track I’joorka and his band led them on constituted countless miles, and they’d taken them at a literally killing pace. Three of I’joorka’s warriors had been slain by creatures they probably could’ve avoided or killed if they hadn’t been so exhausted themselves, and a ’Cat Marine had fallen to his death crossing one of the mind-numbingly numerous gorges that snaked and squirmed through the darkest interior of the land. Everyone, even their Grik-like escort, had grown thin and haggard, subsisting largely off things Abel preferred not to contemplate. He still considered himself a naturalist in training, but their pace had made serious studies difficult, and honestly, his enthusiasm had waned. He was still fascinated by many of the creatures of Borno, but he’d developed an intense dislike for the large, frightening insects. There’d been little time for hunting, and I’joorka didn’t allow cooking. As they’d suspected, cooking actually drew predators. As for the bugs, Abel’s most intense scrutiny now involved breaking off the bits he simply wouldn’t eat.

  Most of Abel’s party had been violently sick at some point. The pace they maintained and injunction against fires made it impossible to boil all the water they drank after all. The resulting “scramblin’ screamers,” as Silva dubbed the condition, hadn’t killed anybody—yet. But only time would tell if they’d picked up any toxic parasites. Everyone had eventually recovered to various degrees, but the acute stage of the affliction had made it impossible to maintain one’s dignity, and I’joorka’s people had been amused by the discomfiture of their charges—until Pam Cross silenced their hacking laughter at her expense and sent everyone pelting through the trees with an apparently indiscriminate fusillade from her Blitzer Bug. Abel was reasonably certain the shots had been aimed high. But Pam was treated with the most respectful care by the Khonashis after that.

  It had been a grueling trek in every way, and only Silva and Moe seemed little affected by the water or exertion. Moe had lived in the wild all his life, and Cook suspected Silva had “inoculated” himself against the water at some time past, against standing orders, by drinking it without telling anyone. In any event, just then, Silva was far fitter—and even cheerful—than Abel Cook would’ve preferred.

  “They do appear to be dandyin’ theirselves up,” Silva finally agreed, gazing about. “I’ll be glad to get outa these sticks an’ meet this English-speakin’ honcho o’ theirs.” He chuckled. “At least that’s made our chore o’ gabbin’ with the critters a touch easier.”

  “If all this isn’t just some elaborate scheme to lure us to their home as hostages—or food,” Abel grum
ped.

  Silva laughed. “I’joorka ain’t gonna eat us! Him and his pals are sociable as puppies! Larry’s even glommed on to a little o’ their lingo. He likes ’em. Ain’t that right, Larry, you fuzzy little gecko?” he added as Lawrence approached.

  “I think they’re okay,” Lawrence said seriously, crouching down. “They’re less angry around the ’Cats, in general . . .” He nodded at Moe, who was gumming a piece of jerky. “They still don’t like he, though. They know he’s a hunter.”

  Silva grunted thoughtfully, then tossed his stick and fished out his tobacco pouch to stuff a wad of the yellowish leaves in his mouth. “Mmm.” He looked back at Abel. “Well, anyway, I think they’re square. Hell, one of ’em bought it savin’ that silly damn Pokey, who was laggin’ behind, pickin’ up the brass you dropped shootin’ at that thing that looked like a sport-model skuggik!” He saw Abel’s expression. “Not your fault, Mr. Cook. I’da shot it too. Nothin’ the size of a turkey deserves that many teeth. How was we s’posed to know they run in swarms like that?”

  “I should’ve known,” Abel said with a frown. “I believe they are skuggiks of a sort and they, like most scavengers, congregate together.” He didn’t mention he’d shot the thing because it just suddenly appeared in front of him and scared him very badly.

  “Well, I’joorka wasn’t pissed at you or us. Just warned us not to be shootin’ at them things unless we was willin’ to get ’em all. Took it pretty well, actually, an’ even seemed pleased ol’ Pokey was okay. Really, if it was anybody’s fault, it was mine,” Silva admitted, “for lettin’ us get as strung out as we were at the time. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since we got on this world, it’s that lone wolfin’ it ain’t such a good idea. Folks have to stick together.”