Spanky turned in the chair. “Pass the word for coffee.” He grinned. “But tell Juan to send it up. We ain’t got all day.”
A bosun’s pipe squealed down on the fo’c’sle, calling the boatswain’s mates to report, and Matt stiffened.
“Chief Jeek,” Spanky explained softly. Already a bosun’s mate, Jeek had been chief of Walker’s Special Air Division, handling the lone PB-1B “Nancy” observation floatplane she carried. Now he was chief of the starboard division and in line to succeed Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray. Nobody, Jeek in particular, thought he could ever replace Gray. The Chief Bosun of the Navy, or “Super Bosun” as he’d been called, had been a font of wisdom and an irresistible force of nature. Now he was dead, and his loss left far more than an empty slot that needed filling. He’d been like a father to Matt and many others in various important ways, and his death had torn a hole in Captain Reddy’s—and by extension, Walker’s—heart. “Only the second or third ’Cat I ever heard learn to blow one o’ those things,” Spanky continued mildly. “Don’t know how he does it, with his lips split like that.” He paused, gauging Matt’s reaction. “He’ll make a good bosun.”
“Sure.”
Spanky nodded uncomfortably, then snorted. “Gives me the creeps, though. There’s no doubt who his role model was, and I nearly jumped outta my skin the first time I heard him!”
“Best role model in the Navy,” Matt said simply, and Spanky nodded.
“You said it, Skipper.”
Lieutenant Tab-At, Walker’s engineering officer, chose that moment to storm into the pilothouse. She’d clearly been aiming for Spanky but hesitated when she saw Matt. He waved her forward. “Beg to report,” she practically hissed behind sharp, clenched teeth. Her gray-furred ears were back, and her eyes flashed behind furiously blinking lids like an enraged Morse lamp. Her tail swished so rapidly from side to side beneath her kilt that it was almost a blur.
“Spit it out, Tabby,” Spanky invited gruffly, hoping her anger wasn’t directed at him. He loved Tabby like a daughter—mostly—but her feelings for him were more . . . straightforward. That could be a strain on both of them at times.
“That . . . idiot mouse is still not reported aboard!” she seethed. Matt saw Spanky’s relief and knew what he was thinking: All is well. Tabby’s mad at Isak Reuben, not me.
“Chief Reuben was wounded in the fighting for the Celestial Palace,” Matt pointed out. He didn’t add that the squirrely little guy was a genuine hero—again—having actually killed the Grik Celestial Mother himself. Granted, he’d done it by default, being the last one able after the rest of the party had fallen wounded or dead along the way. Even the mighty Dennis Silva had lost too much blood to reach the objective. Of the three who did, Irvin Laumer had been killed, and Lawrence, Silva’s Grik-like Sa’aaran friend, had been too hurt to raise a weapon. That left Isak.
“He ain’t hurt,” Tabby countered, slipping further from the English-Lemurian patois that had evolved in the Navy, and much of the Allied military in general. That happened to a lot of ’Cats when they were mad. “Just little skaatches,” she continued darkly. “He been m’lingerin’ all this time, while there so much repairs!”
Matt did find it odd that Isak hadn’t returned to his precious boilers as fast as he could. Maybe he was using his new hero status to push more of the vile cigarettes he and his half brother, Gilbert Yeager, (and a Baalkpan ’Cat named Pepper) had “perfected” from the awful tobacco indigenous to Java. He’d met only limited success with that, since the things were still pretty revolting, and most who used the waxy, yellowish weed—human or Lemurian—preferred to chew it, flavored with a kind of molasses. “What repairs are left, before the ship’s ready to get underway?” Matt asked. Tabby looked at him and blinked, distracted from her rant.
“We get underway immediately, Cap-i-taan,” she assured him. “The holes are patched, and the ship’s not leaking much more than usual. EMs’re still wiring in the new main junction box in the aft engine room, but the generator overhaul’s done.” She made a very human shrug. “There’s still a lotta topside damage, and Mr. Saan-di-son says the port torpedo mount might not get fixed. It’s shot full’a holes. Maybe we get tubes four an’ six working, but number two’s a sieve.”
“If everything’s shipshape, what do you need that little creep Isak for?” Spanky asked, genuinely curious.
“Cause he b’longs here,” Tabby stated simply, as if that explained everything. Spanky looked at Matt and arched his eyebrows.
“Okay,” Matt told Tabby. “Give Bernie all the help on the tubes you can spare. I really like having torpedoes.” He paused, considering. “And go ahead and round up anybody in the hospital that the docs will cut loose, including Chief Reuben.” He looked at Spanky. “Walker may need to get underway soon, and you might have to take her out—if you feel up to it.”
Spanky nodded. “Just say the word. I’m a little gimpy, but how much running do I need to do?” He smiled strangely. “I kind of saw this coming, you know. After you came down on Adar about our little fiasco”—he waved at the brightening bay—“and how he needs to stick to the big picture. I figured you’d have to take more of the planning load on land as well as sea.” He grinned. “Put some of that Academy history degree to work!”
Matt smiled self-consciously. “I hope not, Spanky. I think I proved at Aryaal that I’m not much good at planning big battles on land. But just as I reminded Adar that he’s chairman of the Grand Alliance—and this new nation they’ve cooked up—I’m still commander of all Allied forces, not just the Navy. General Safir Maraan’s a great leader and a wildcat in a fight, but she’s also proven she can be a bit . . . impulsive.” He considered. “She’s had time to think about things, and I’ll see how she is at the meeting. Worst case, I’ll hang around to keep an eye on things until Generals Alden and Rolak get here from Madras.” Both of them knew he’d hate that, and they hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
A Lemurian mess attendant finally arrived with the coffeepot, but Matt waved it away. “I’d better get going,” he said, glancing at his watch again. “Better coffee on Big Sal anyway,” he added softly, for Spanky alone.
Chief Jeek and a hastily assembled side party piped Matt over the side, bringing Chief Gray—and the dream he died in—firmly back to mind, and Matt strode quickly down the dock to the waiting motor launch with a grim expression on his face. The morning sky was bright and clear, but a stiff breeze had sprung up, making him clutch his hat to his head. The launch took him, swaying and burbling on the choppy water, out to Big Sal. Ordinary whistles piped him aboard after he ascended the long stairway up the great ship’s side to the hangar deck above.
“Captain Reddy, good morning, sir!” greeted Commander “Sandy” Newman, Salissa’s executive officer. Matt managed a smile. Newman had been a Seaman 2nd on Walker when he came to this world, but was assigned here because he’d spent the better part of an enlistment aboard the Lexington. That made him one of their few “experts” on carriers. The few who’ve survived, from Walker, Mahan, and S-19, have done okay for themselves, Matt told himself with a jolt of bitter sarcasm he immediately regretted.
“Morning, Commander. Is the gang all here?”
“Mostly, sir. If you’ll follow me?”
There was quite a spread laid out for breakfast in “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar’s expansive quarters. The space wasn’t nearly as large as his old “Great Hall,” which would’ve been sufficient for a basketball game, but it was still bigger than any flag officer’s quarters Matt had ever seen. The common area alone was bigger than the wardroom on a battleship. Back when the bear-shaped, rust-furred Lemurian shared simple breakfasts of akka egg with Adar and USNRS Salissa (CV-1) had been merely one of many monstrous “Homes” that remained almost perpetually at sea, they’d usually eaten alone at a small rickety table. Now nearly every meal was an event, accompanied by a strategy session around a massive, or
nately carved table that would comfortably seat two dozen. And the gray-furred Adar was no longer High Sky Priest for Salissa alone, but of Baalkpan as well. Even more important to most individuals other than himself, he was also chairman of the Grand Alliance—or whatever the Alliance was becoming in his absence—and High Chief of Baalkpan itself.
Adar sat at the head of the table, and Matt was ushered to a seat across from Keje. The two exchanged grins, but Matt’s was a little forced. He was disappointed that Sandra wasn’t there. He understood her absence, but he missed her very much. Soon, he’d miss her even more if he got his way, he realized once again. Probably just as well she’s not here to argue, he thought with a twinge of shame. He glanced at Adar and noted the chairman’s reserved blinking. Adar was still uncomfortable about the . . . discussion they’d had after the battle for Grik City, when Matt pointedly accused that Adar’s operational meddling had probably cost a lot of extra lives. Matt still wasn’t entirely sure, but he believed Adar had taken the criticism to heart in a healthy way. He’d definitely taken great pains to make sure they were “all on the same page,” ever since, and that was something.
The same ’Cat steward who took Matt’s hat returned immediately with a cup of coffee. It still wasn’t “right,” but it was infinitely better than what Juan brewed. Other stewards brought food, and conversation dwindled as they ate. It was the Lemurian way not to discuss serious matters over a meal, and Matt heartily approved. Instead of talking, he concentrated on eating—and observing his companions. Lieutenant Colonel Chack-Sab-At sat with his betrothed, General Queen Safir Maraan. Still betrothed? Matt wondered, or have they finally tied the knot? Lemurian mating customs remained mysterious to him and varied considerably from one clan or Home to another. Chack, his blue Marine tunic and kilt over brindled fur contrasting with the white of most of the naval officers, was originally from Big Sal herself, though he considered Walker his true home now. He’d grown up in a society where mating was highly structured as to who could mate with whom, but otherwise amazingly informal. Essentially, weddings were consummated by . . . being consummated, as far as Matt could tell. Safir, with her black fur and silver eyes—and silver-washed cuirass—was from B’mbaado, where things were different. There’d been a genuine aristocracy there, and while the actual ceremony remained quite simple, her wedding would traditionally have been accompanied by a significant celebration.
Matt shook his head and smiled when he caught their eyes. They’d both been through so much, changed so much—as had all Lemurians everywhere in the course of this terrible war. Age-old customs and beliefs had been subverted or outright destroyed by the breakneck industrialization and mobilization of massive armies from previously isolated, insular Homes—and even species! The unavoidable comingling of cultures that accompanied it all had begun the process of creating a new, blended culture, just as surely as Commander Alan Letts was overseeing the creation of a new united nation at his “constitutional congress” in Baalkpan. Who knew how it would all sort out? Everyone, likely including Chack and Safir, was making it up as he went. In spite of everything, Matt had a growing confidence that, with people like Chack and Safir as role models, whatever society emerged from the war—if they could only win it—would make the nation Alan was building a good place to live.
Matt’s gaze swept other faces. There was Major Jindal of the 1st “Chack’s” Raider Brigade, substituting for Chack’s Exec (and sister), Risa. He often unofficially represented the human troops of the Empire of the New Britain Isles at these meetings. (Brevet) Lieutenant Colonel Saachic, from the Filpin Lands, was seated beyond Safir. He commanded the me-naak mounted cavalry in her II Corps, and had come as her aide. Down the table, COFO Jis-Tikkar (Tikker) ate heartily. The highly polished 7.7-millimeter cartridge case thrust through a hole in his sable-furred ear glinted under the “wondrous” incandescent bulbs dangling in their fixtures overhead. Matt caught Captain Jarrik-Fas, of USS Tassat, looking at him, blinking amusement, while he spoke to an Imperial Marine leaning near. He wondered what that was about. Jarrik was one of Keje’s many cousins and looked a lot like him. He had a broader mischievous streak, however, and when Matt blinked questioningly back in the Lemurian fashion, Jarrik merely grinned toothily and the Marine stepped back. At the far end of the table was Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange of SMS Amerika. His superior, Kapitan Von Melhausen, had no desire to leave his ship. He was an old man whose mind tended to wander at the worst possible times. He’d come to realize this himself and had made Lange master of Amerika, for all intents and purposes. Across from him sat Commander Simon Herring, the head of Strategic Intelligence. Of all those present, Matt still had the most difficulty figuring him out. Like a number of others now linked to the Allied cause, Herring had come to this world aboard a Japanese prison ship, and if he hadn’t already been paranoid, his experiences at the hands of the Japanese had made him so. He’d made great strides since his bombastic, even somewhat subversive arrival and had since become a “real” Navy man. He’d also acquitted himself well in the fighting for the palace. After a bumpy start, he seemed to have come around to Matt’s way of thinking in many ways, and had become a true believer in the cause of defeating the Grik. The paranoia—and a few secrets, Matt was sure—still lurked, but that was probably normal and appropriate for a snoop.
There were other officers—the table was full—but Matt caught himself staring at Ensign Nathaniel Hardee. He was a young man—a teenager, really—who ate woodenly and had the uncomfortable look of someone with no idea why he was there. Matt thought the young Englishman, “evacuated” to this world from Java aboard the now permanently lost S-19, had achieved the advanced age of sixteen. Like the slightly older Abel Cook, who’d arrived the same way, Hardee had grown up fast. He’d actually succeeded Lieutenant Irvin Laumer in command of PT-7, after that fine but troubled officer was killed trying to reach the Grik Celestial Mother. Hardee probably didn’t expect to keep the “Seven boat,” and even if he did, he had to be wondering why the master of one of the smallest craft the Alliance considered a warship had been summoned here.
The meal was winding down when a steward opened the door and Courtney Bradford swept in. Courtney, an Australian, had been a petroleum engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist.” He remained a very strange but often extremely valuable man. His eccentricities were—usually—more than matched by his insights and other contributions. Named Minister of Science for the Alliance, he’d been busier in his other role of “plenipotentiary at large” of late, but now seemed determined to make up for lost time. Following him through the doorway was a long-haired, black-bearded man whom Matt had never seen. The stranger was dressed in the same long, belted, tie-dyed camouflage frock now standard battle dress for all members of the Allied armies and Marines, but his nervously darting eyes and intent expression made it clear he was in unfamiliar surroundings. Suddenly, Matt knew who he was; he had been hoping for this meeting for some time, in fact. Trust Mr. Bradford to surprise us—but maybe it’s for the best?
“Oh dear,” Courtney exclaimed, worriedly wiping his balding pate. “You started without us!” he accused.
Keje stood. “You are late, Mr. Braad-furd!” he rumbled good-naturedly.
“Nonsense!” Courtney denied, groping for the large Imperial watch that would’ve rested in his weskit pocket—if he’d been wearing his weskit. His face went blank, then clouded. “If some . . . nautical gentlemen would summon the courtesy to contrive some alarm—fire a gun, perhaps, like civilized folk—to announce that something as momentous as breakfast was about to commence, we shouldn’t all dash about in wild, anticipatory confusion!”
Matt joined the laughter, and stood as well. Courtney frowned and peered over the other diners at the table. “Might there be anything left at all? The merest morsel? I don’t ask for myself, of course”—he glared at Keje, then motioned at his companion—“but Commander . . . um, ‘Will,’ I suppose must suffice, is quite famished, I’m sure!�
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Chack and Major Jindal came around the table, extending their hands in the human fashion. “Will” recognized them, and his expression calmed as they shook.
“My friends,” Chack announced, “this man and his people led my command through the jungle to the Wall of Trees. It is apparent now that had they not done so, the Celestial Palace might not have fallen.”
And as goofed-up as everything else was, we’d have lost the whole battle, most likely, Matt agreed to himself. He stepped forward, offering his hand as well. “We’re in your debt, Commander.”
Will looked down. “Nay. It’s we as awes ye. Ye’s came an run aff the Garieks, an we did little enaw ta halp.” He straightened and looked Matt in the eye. “Mr. Bradford says the Garieks’ll be back, an’ ya’re army’s hartin.’ Gi us—me paple—maskits, an’ we’s’ll halp as we can. He looked around the table. “We’s nae want the Garieks back,” he said with flashing eyes.
“We’ll help each other keep them away, Commander,” Matt promised.
Will grimaced. “Aym nae C’mandar. Jas Will. Anly the cap’n ’as a title.” He cocked his head at Matt. “Ya’re a cap’n tae, ain’t ya? Cap’n Reddy, as ya’ve been dascrabbed.”
“I’m Captain Reddy.” Matt turned and introduced the others in the space, ending with Keje and Adar.
“But ya’re Cap’n Reddy,” Will persisted. “Ya’re the man me cap’n wants ta jayn.” He looked at Chack and Jindal. “An thams.”
Matt glanced at Adar, who’d risen and was speaking softly to Keje. Keje nodded. “Please join us for breakfast, Will,” Keje invited. “And Mr. Braad-furd as well, of course. Please forgive us if we begin our discussion before you finish, but we will return to your case in due time. Meanwhile, enjoy your meal.”
A couple of junior officers vacated their stools so Courtney and “Will” could be served at the table. While that happened, the others returned to their seats.
Straits of Hell Page 5