Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “That’s what they call us,” Anson agreed with a smile. “We’ve been fighting them since the day we met, and even briefly conquered their capital—their old capital—but there were always so many of them and we had so little real advantage other than training, discipline, and our artillery, of course. Eventually, we abandoned our gains and retreated north, where we could reestablish our country and extend their lines of supply. We’ve remained at war with the Dominion from that day to this, but as we grew stronger, they focused elsewhere.”

  “The Empire?”

  Anson nodded. “You would expect us to be natural allies, but the Empire has always been weak on land and we didn’t trust them. So corrupt!” He looked doubtfully at Fred. “They truly have changed?”

  Fred nodded. “It wasn’t painless either.”

  “Hmm. In any event, we’ve watched them a very long time, but I doubt they know of us. We claim nothing west of a range of mountains in what was once called the Great American Desert, but we know they claim everything east of their colonies, in the same way the British always did such things.”

  Fred didn’t ask how Anson knew that, but assumed “his” Americans had spies in Saint Francis. It made sense, and nobody would suspect them.

  “We have no quarrel with the Empire and would like to keep it that way, but conflicting territorial claims can be provocative, and our disputes with the Doms—and others—are quite enough to keep us occupied at present.”

  “Others?”

  Anson shook his head sadly. “Let it suffice for now that our United States are not so vast as you might remember, and we’ve other frontiers of our own. Our grandfathers were lucky to carve out what they did and still retain their national identity.”

  Why is Anson still so vague? Fred wondered. Does he fear some of his country’s other enemies might prove more attractive allies, to the Imperials, at least? Or are they even more frightening than the Doms—or Grik? Or is it just that his United States is so small and weak that he couldn’t, wouldn’t admit it?

  “So,” Kari said, “you tell us this, knowing we will tell our people if we reach them. What made you reveal so much at last?”

  Anson shrugged. “We three have become friends, I hope. Perhaps it’s time that all our people did. The Dominion is genuinely evil, and I’m prepared to recommend to my people that we seize this chance, any chance, to aid in its destruction!”

  “But if we split up, with no way of contacting each other, how can we ever work together?” Fred asked, but Anson smiled. “I haven’t made any recent reports, but the last I sent, even before we rescued Kari, implied that I would seek this understanding—if I was comfortable about what I learned of you. And if I live for the next few days, my superiors will know my opinion quite swiftly, I assure you. Your superiors will know what mine decide somewhat longer after that, but it won’t take months.”

  “I get it,” Fred muttered. “Don’t call us; we’ll call you.”

  “Something like that.” Anson stood in his stirrups. “One last thing,” he warned, pointing westward. “Do you see those islands out there? Little but vague, black shapes in this light.”

  “I see them,” Kari said.

  “They’re not islands,” Anson told them.

  “My God, they’re mountain fish!” Fred exclaimed.

  “Is that what you call them? Appropriate as anything, I suppose. In any event, even after you escape El Corazon, you must get past them. We believe they gather here with their young, on both sides of the strait, after giving birth somewhere else. You should be safe, since they do little here but feed off the things the strait carries into their mouths, but beware. The cows barely move, replenishing their bodies, but the young can be inquisitive. A small boat may attract their attention.” He paused for a long moment, staring at them both in the gloom, while Fred and Kari absorbed this latest obstacle. Finally, he held out a hand. “God bless you both,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll meet again someday.” He grinned. “I would dearly love a ride in one of your flying machines!” With that, he turned his horse and vanished back into the jungle.

  CHAPTER

  27

  ////// USS Walker

  Andaman Sea

  May 12, 1944

  U SS Walker and her odd little squadron approached Andaman Island from the southeast. They’d spent two days at Aryaal, where Surabaya should’ve been, refueling and “tightening bolts,” as Spanky called it, on the collection of rebuilt and refitted ships. It was the first time Matt had been there since it started coming back to life, and he’d been amazed by how much had been done. B’mbaado City was alive again as well, but most of the island across the water had reverted to the wild, and Aryaal remained the focus of industry and restoration. It was interesting to him that it took their current, terrible war to erase the enmity between Aryaal and B’mbaado, and with the acknowledged rulers of both places, General Lord Muln-Rolak and General Queen Protector Safir Maraan as devoted to one another as father and daughter, the two city-states had practically merged. Both rulers were currently trapped within Alden’s Perimeter beyond Madras, however, and the yard workers at Aryaal had surged aboard Walker, Mahan, and S-19 to perform whatever work needed to get the three ships off to relieve their beloved leaders.

  Mahan needed the most care. The trip from Baalkpan had been her and S-19’s “shakedown” cruise, and a lot had been shaken loose on both. Mahan’s new bow and hull shape were sound enough, even if she didn’t like the swells as much, but her two remaining boilers were shaken up by the rough ride, and her engines acted a little unhappy. The yard workers spent all day and night putting her to rights. S-19 had performed surprisingly well considering how squat and ugly she was. Laumer had redesigned her to look something like the sleek torpedo boats of old, but he hadn’t quite pulled it off, and she slammed through the waves more than riding over them. Considerably lighter even with her additions, she’d easily made the roughly eighteen knots the squadron averaged from Baalkpan, however. She leaked though, at least in her new upper works, where her enlarged crew’s berthing spaces were. Those structures had been bolted on, and at Aryaal, the seams were repacked and the bolts retightened. Neither Mahan nor S-19 reported any other serious problems during their transit of the Malacca Strait or a somewhat tumultuous Andaman Sea, and Matt had watched with a critical eye the two strange ships steaming alongside Walker. They did look strange. Mahan was shorter by about forty feet and had only two boilers and two stacks. Her new bridge structure—looking just like her old one—was built directly onto the forward part of her amidships gun platform. She was several hundred tons lighter, so her speed wasn’t much affected, but she couldn’t carry as much fuel either. Hopefully, having only two boilers would even that out. What couldn’t even out was the fact that with four 4-inch-50s, two triple-tube torpedo mounts, and a scout-plane catapult aft, just like Walker’s, Mahan still needed nearly as large a crew as she ever had, and there wasn’t as much space to put them.

  S-19, or, maybe more appropriately now, STB-19 really did hark back to the old turn-of-the-century torpedo boats. She had a flush deck with a spray shield forward of her four-inch-fifty gun. Behind that, a tall foremast that could supposedly support a sail if necessary ended beneath a skinny crow’s nest for a lookout that resembled a bucket on top of a pole. Next was an enclosed pilothouse in the center of an elevated flying bridge, and a single, thin exhaust funnel for her diesels was just behind it. Aft was another tall mast and Walker’s old three-inch antiaircraft gun on a slightly elevated platform. That was it, except for a few gooseneck vents for the new berthing spaces. Laumer had done everything he could to keep his boat’s profile as low and light as possible, and Matt had to admit she made a much better torpedo boat than he’d ever thought she would. He frankly doubted she’d be as effective as the purpose-built PTs Saan-Kakja had built in Maa-ni-la, but they were already headed southwest, toward Diego, aboard the SPD (self-propelled dry dock) Respite Island. And S-19 does have that deck gun, he reminded himself,
and sonar and a far greater range. And, apparently, she could go anywhere Walker could. He might have to change his opinion of her.

  “What are your thoughts?” asked Adar, joining him by his captain’s chair in Walker’s pilothouse. Matt smiled. “Just pondering our little squadron, Mr. Chairman,” he replied. “It’s nice to be steaming with Mahan again, such as she is. The yard apes in Baalkpan did a swell job on her.” He hesitated, glancing at the distant coast of Andaman. “I’m also worried we’ve got too many precious eggs in one basket again.” The stampede of veteran destroyermen, ’Cat and human, who’d vied for billets on the three ships had been like a VFW reunion, and almost no one had been refused. The result was a severe shakeup in the Allied command staff, not to mention the family atmosphere aboard Walker.

  Commander Perry Brister, Minister of Defensive and Industrial Works at Baalkpan, had gone to command his old Mahan again, and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear swallowed his pride and took the jump to lieutenant to be Brister’s exec. Sonarman Jeff Brooks had perfected the sonar sets in use by the entire Alliance as its primary AMF-DIC (Anti-Mountain Fish Countermeasures), and stepped in as Mahan’s first lieutenant and quartermaster. Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez became her CEM. Ensign Johnny Parks was engineering officer, and Paul Stites agreed to take over gunnery. Taarba-Kar—“Tabasco”—wouldn’t have to suffer under Lanier’s heel anymore, because he’d gone to Mahan as cook. He’d had Diania to help him settle in too, since Sandra had crossed as Mahan’s surgeon. The two of them, with Adar, would move to Big Sal at Andaman. A lot of Walker’s most experienced Lemurians went to Mahan too, and Matt had mixed feelings about that. He knew Mahan would need them, but he missed them already. He missed Sandra most of all.

  Aboard Walker, Chief Gray seamlessly stepped back into his chief bosun’s shoes, and Silva would do the same with gunnery if he made it to Andaman in time. Isak Rueben would have to get used to being chief engineer, with no buffer between him and Tabby at all. But having lost so many fine destroyermen, Walker got the cream of the latest draft and Matt was confident his own crew would be fine. Bernard Sandison had rejoined, responsible for Walker’s new torpedoes, and was still rewiring the torpedo directors on the bridgewings and mercilessly training new torpedo ’Cats—and women!—to augment the well-drilled crews he’d dispersed between the ships. Matt hadn’t thought of anything for Commander Herring to do, although he seemed competent to stand a bridge watch. Herring had left his assistant, Henry Stokes, back in Baalkpan to continue his snoop work, but he’d brought Lance Corporal Ian Miles along. Miles had been helping Bernie in ordnance, so Spanky assigned him to Campeti. Courtney Bradford was delighted to be back aboard and acted like he’d never left. Matt was seriously concerned with how many critical minds were steaming back into harm’s way, but his most pressing worry was the presence of Adar himself. He mentioned it again, standing next to him, as they drew closer to Andaman.

  Adar waved the objection away. “Alan Letts will make an excellent interim chairman, probably better than I ever could, and he knows much more about this melding of Homes. He still has Mr. Riggs and others to help him, not to mention all the Mi-Anaaka who share the dream.” He shook his head. “And honestly, I am not entirely sure how I feel about that. A true union of the Allied Homes strikes me as a necessary thing, but I do long for the old ways as well.” He sighed. “No, it is time for me to go Home, to Salissa, and share these battles with my brother Keje.” He blinked at Matt. “Besides, if you are right, these campaigns could change the face of the war we fight and I must see that done. The last I saw of this war was the Battle of Baalkpan, and it has changed so much that I do not know it anymore.” He paused. “I remain Chairman of the Grand Alliance and intend to guide the policy—the overall straa-ti-gee of the war, but I learned a great lesson from Mr. Letts. He went to the war and saw it for himself. As a result, he became better at his job.” He blinked firmly. “It is time I did the same.”

  “As long as you think Alan’s up to it,” Matt murmured doubtfully, not because he had reservations about Letts, but because he wasn’t sure how his interim appointment would be received. “And there’s still everyone else—so many irreplaceable guys. . . .”

  Adar looked at him. “Cap-i-taan Reddy,” he said softly, “your people—our people—have performed miracles, and, without exception, have passed on the knowledge of how to do so. The home front, as you call it, will not miss us. It runs itself now, or Mr. Letts does.” He blinked amusement. “You know that most new innovations or improvements are suggested by Mi-Anaaka now? They take what you gave them and look at it from all directions, not burdened by preconceptions. It is maarvelous!”

  Matt nodded. “It is,” he agreed. “And though I’m sure my old crew still has stuff knocking around in their heads that it hasn’t occurred to them to write down or tell anybody about, there’s not really much farther we can take you technologically than we have. Even when my old guys didn’t know how to do something, they told yours what they knew was possible. That’s more than half the fight.” He took a breath. “No, you’re right. None of us are indispensable anymore. It’s just . . . I’ve lost so many of the old guys, it breaks my heart to lose any more, especially to risk so many at once.”

  “We risk much on the campaign you have designed,” Adar allowed, “but we risk all for the war, and we must win it. You are terribly wrong about one thing, however: there remains one indispensable person, without whom I cannot even imagine victory.”

  Matt looked at Adar, surprised, and blinked a question in the Lemurian way.

  “Why, you of course, Cap-i-taan Reddy!”

  * * *

  Dennis Silva, Lawrence, Pam Cross, and a big Marine named Arnold Horn, whom Matt had been told to expect, were standing on the dock when Walker crept near with the sunset. Many others were present, but those four stood somewhat apart. Silva and Pam were separated by Lawrence and Horn, and Matt didn’t know what he hoped that meant. Pam Cross would be Walker’s surgeon, but she and Silva had once shared—with Risa-Sab-At, apparently—an epic romance of some sort that remained amusing to some and horrifying to others. But the word now was that Pam hated Silva’s guts. Matt didn’t really care what their current relationship was as long as it didn’t affect his ship. He and Courtney were leaning on the port bridgewing rail, and Matt raised his gaze to encompass all that “Port Blair” at Andaman Island had become. He and Walker had never been this far west in the war. Everything this side of Singapore was new to nearly everyone aboard, as a matter of fact, and all were amazed by what they saw. Unlike anything the Allies had yet constructed, Andaman had become one massive military installation. There were civilians, certainly, and the surrounding hills that sloped down to the bay were planted with crops. That just made sense. But every activity on Andaman Island was focused on defeating the Grik.

  Pipes trilled, and sandaled feet stampeded about the deck. The steel was much too hot to stand on unprotected. “Stand by lines there,” Chief Gray began, then stopped. “Oh, goddamn it!” he roared, glaring accusingly back at the pilothouse. “Fend off, you useless lubbers!” he bellowed back at the detail.

  Herring had the conn and he’d botched the approach. Not badly enough to risk damage, so Matt hadn’t intervened, but enough to embarrass himself. Matt shrugged mentally. Herring wanted to learn, and it was better to be embarrassed learning to handle the ship here than during combat.

  “Oh, look!” Bradford exclaimed. “It’s Lawrence!” He waved his trademark sombrero briskly. “Hello! Hello!”

  “Heave the bowline,” Gray shouted.

  “I’ll take the conn, Mr. Herring,” Matt finally said, stepping back inside the pilothouse.

  “Captain has the conn,” Herring replied with apparent relief.

  “Right full rudder,” Matt stated.

  “Right full rudder, ay,” answered the ’Cat at the big brass wheel. He’d been blinking anxiously, but now he stopped.

  “Starboard ahead one-third.”

  “O
ne-turd, ay!”

  Matt smiled, almost chuckled, but felt the ship twist and groan beneath his feet, and may have heard the churning water push them sideways toward the dock, even over the blower. “All stop,” he commanded.

  “All stop, ay,” repeated the ’Cat. And Matt stepped back out to see. Three heavy lines arced out to the dock, caught by parties of handlers who heaved the ship closer to the dock, then whipped the lines over the cleats.

  “Singled up fore and aft!” the Bosun called up at the bridge.

  “You have the deck, Mr. McFarlane,” Matt said to Spanky, who’d just arrived from aft. “Have the Bosun assemble his side party. The gangplank’s coming aboard, and there’s some fellas down there I’m anxious to see.”

  “I have the deck, Skipper,” Spanky agreed.

  Gray’s side party was already waiting when Matt took the stairs two at a time, and as soon as the gangplank was secure, it rumbled with approaching visitors. Matt glanced aft where Mahan was nosing in, and was anxious to see Sandra too. He turned back just as Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar appeared before him. The reddish brown Lemurian still looked like a bear, but his fur was shot through with a lot more silver than Matt remembered, and even in his white Navy tunic and bright copper armor he considered his dress uniform, Matt could see he’d lost a lot of weight. Matt saluted crisply.

  Keje returned the salute and saluted the Stars and Stripes standing out to leeward on the mainmast, aft. Then before Matt could object or avoid it, Keje embraced him as he’d always done.

  “I have missed you, my brother,” Keje said fervently. “We all have.”

  “I’ve missed you too,” Matt acknowledged truthfully.

  “How is your wound?”

  Matt held out his cane. “I barely need this anymore.”

  “Good! By the Heavens, do we need you!”

  Adar appeared behind him, and he and Keje embraced as well. Then the deck filled with many faces, all happy, and Matt found himself standing in front of Jim Ellis. Jim was a commodore now, but he’d been Matt’s first exec and remained his oldest surviving friend.