“Yeah,” Matt agreed softly. “And a probably hostile battleship on the loose. I’d really like to know more about those guys”—his expression hardened—“and why their sub attacked us. They may not want an ‘open confrontation,’ with the Republic, but sinking Respite Island sure kicked one off with us, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Might’ve been an accident,” Spanky muttered doubtfully. “Somebody misunderstood orders and got trigger-happy, or something.”
“Either way, they’ll have some explaining to do if we run into them here,” Matt said, a little surprised by the hubris that a few primitive torpedoes and a sound powerplant inspired in him—and in everyone else, judging by the sounds of agreement he heard. They feel it too, he realized. After all we’ve been through, what’s an old French battleship to us? He snorted and glanced at his watch again. The sky was much brighter now. “Call the special air detail, and stand by to launch our plane,” he said. “Slow to one-third.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Minnie cried.
“One-turd, aye!” answered the ’Cat called “Poot”—for other reasons—at the lee helm and bells clashed. Tabby returned the signal a moment later, and the roar of the blower aft of the bridge and the vibrating rumble of the engines and shafts began to fade. Chief Quartermaster “Paddy” Rosen, always at the big brass wheel when Walker’s crew was at GQ, muttered something about “turds in the pilothouse” to the ’Cat, whose tail went rigid with embarrassment—again. Regardless how he tried, he always had trouble with “th” sounds. He could do them; he simply forgot. A lot.
The catapult just forward of the aft deckhouse was rigged out thirty degrees to port, its forward section folded down and secured. The engine of the PB-1B Nancy floatplane perched atop it had already been run up—customary whenever GQ was sounded. Now, the observer propped it again, and it roared to life once more. Matt always liked to watch the plane take off, and now he stepped to the port bridgewing, staring aft. The little “Nancys,” so reminiscent of the PBY Catalina that had inspired their lines, even down to the blue-and-white paint scheme and the white star in a darker blue roundel with a red dot in the center, had been the workhorses of the Allied air arm. And the single, four-cylinder, Wright-Gypsy–type engine mounted in a pusher configuration had been so successful that they used it for many other applications. Matt knew that Nancys were finally bordering on obsolescent, with all the rapid advances being made, but they remained the most ubiquitous aircraft in the Allied inventory, by far, and were likely to remain so for some time to come.
He saw Chief Jeek, no longer in direct charge of the Special Air Division, hovering behind its new chief and watching what he did. The new chief’s tail occasionally swished fretfully under the scrutiny, despite all he could do to control it. Matt smiled nostalgically, remembering how Gray had so often “supervised” other chiefs in the past as he firmly formed them for their duties, his mere presence—and total silence, when possible—lending the authority the new petty officer would need to lead. Almost grudgingly, Matt decided that Jeek would make a fine bosun.
“En-sin Laar-Baa-Ra requests permission to launch,” Minnie called.
“Very well,” Matt replied. “Tell him to be careful and try not to be seen if he can help it.”
In moments, the Nancy’s engine revved up to full power, and the impulse charge in the catapult fired with a swirl of white smoke and flung the plane over the side and into the air. Matt watched a moment longer as it swept out over the water, gaining speed, and then clawed for altitude. Still smiling slightly, he stepped back into the pilothouse, unconsciously checking the compass binnacle in front of the big brass wheel. Paddy Rosen smiled back at him, probably relieved that his skipper’s weeks-long sour mood seemed better that day.
“Secure from general quarters,” Matt said. “All ahead . . . standard,” he added instead of his customary “two-thirds,” which would just earn Poot more ribbing later whether he said it right or not. “Set condition three.” Condition III meant that half the crew would stay at their battle stations, and it had been Walker’s default steaming condition ever since she came to this strange world, except when she was secured to a dock.
“Captain Reddy,” Doocy Meek said, approaching to stand beside him as Matt stared through binoculars, hoping for his first view of the Seychelles. They were supposed to be rocky, but that was all he knew. A broad cluster of tiny-to-intermediate islands scattered across a clear, brightening sea. But he didn’t know what else to expect. Things were always different here, it seemed. The sea was clear enough that the lookout should quickly spot shoaling water, at least. Water depth was always in his mind, and it particularly haunted him now.
“Hmm?” he said. “Lieutenant Meek.” He lowered his glasses. “What can I do for you?”
Meek took a deep breath. “Just glad we’ve finally heard from the Republic,” the older man said. “From home.”
“Me too. And not just because we need them in the fight, although it’s a relief they’re still with us, even with the delay.” He shrugged. “And a delay now doesn’t seem quite as frightening as it did.”
“All the same,” Meek assured, “our Caesar—kaiser—whichever you prefer, will not dawdle. He’ll make every effort to get back on schedule as quickly as he can and perhaps, with communications established, his offensive can be better coordinated with your effort—when it comes.”
“I was just thinking that.”
“I’m thinkin’ what it’ll mean if we really do find a sizable collection of Griks in the Seychelles,” Spanky interjected. “Their ships’ve been leadin’ us here like bread crumbs.”
“We’ll see,” Matt said. “They’ve had time to gather a lot, if they started quick enough, and they’re getting better at the ‘indirect approach’ to things.” He shook his head. “We’ll see,” he repeated. “Be nice to have ’em pinned down, though, one way or another.”
They talked of various things as the watch progressed, drinking more of Juan’s “coffee” and discussing what the Republic would bring to the war. Meek had never been comfortable holding back, but now he didn’t have to anymore. An addendum to the message addressed to “all officers of the Republic in communication with officers of the Grand Alliance” finally gave him complete freedom to tell Captain Reddy whatever he wanted to know. Commander Simon Herring appeared on the bridge with Greg Garrett’s full report, forwarded by Inquisitor Choon, and began pumping Meek for things of interest to him that Matt hadn’t even thought of, such as the role of the Gentaa in Republic society. It was an interesting, diverting conversation that passed the time as the distant islands gradually came into view from the pilothouse. And all the while, whatever they did, everyone was anxiously waiting to hear what the scout plane would report. When it finally came, it was by voice in Lemurian, and Ed Palmer called the bridge. Minnie listened for a moment before turning to Matt with a grin. “We got ’em, sur. Ensign Laar sends that there’s Grik Indiaa-men gathered ’round several islands, maybe a couple hundred of ’em. Plenty for a big army o’ Griks!”
“Heavies?”
“He thinks twelve o’ the big iron-claad baattle-waagons, an’ as many o’ their cruisers. Maybe more at farther islands.”
Matt nodded. They’d discovered that the cruisers were probably even more dangerous than the battleships in a close surface action, but were more vulnerable to air attack. “Any idea how many warriors?” he asked. Counting Grik was extremely difficult from the air. They didn’t use squad tents and shelter halves like the Allies. If they used shelters at all, they were often haphazardly rigged flies with as many Grik crammed under them as could squeeze in. Halik’s army was an exception to that, but the only one they’d seen.
“Laar not get close enough for that without orders. You still want him to not get seen?”
Matt considered. They’d found a big force, plenty big enough to be a threat to Grik City, and with unimpeded access from the west
and points north, it was liable to grow bigger. It was already much larger than he had any intention of tackling alone. This had to be the main Grik effort, building in a place that Esshk would think they’d consider an unlikely threat. That part of his plan had already worked, since they hadn’t really expected to find anything in the Seychelles.
Now I’m trying to shrink Esshk’s head, Matt realized wryly. I guess I have to, but it’s hard enough figuring out what makes people tick. He cleared his throat. “Helm, left standard rudder. Make your course two eight zero. We won’t get any closer just now. Have Ensign Laar probe northwest—carefully—and then return to the ship for recovery. This to Admiral Keje: We seem to have found where the Grik are staging their major effort. Leave Jarrik and two DDs to keep the Comoros Islands bottled up, and proceed north with your remaining battlegroup to rendezvous with us here. If the Grik don’t move, we’ll wait for Santa Catalina and Arracca’s battlegroup to arrive, and we’ll destroy them together.”
Even as he gave the order, something nagged at Matt. It seemed like a reasonable strategy, just as did the one he was already crediting to First General Esshk and hoping to thwart. To retake Madagascar, the enemy had to mass, and this was the first successful example of that they’d seen. But their reconnaissance was stretched very thin, and for the first time they were in the enemy’s own backyard where he had an entire continent to draw on—and hide things. He rubbed his neck, deciding he’d gone from one extreme to the other—from giving the Grik too little to too much credit for imagination. The Grik are assembling an invasion here, in a more thoughtful place than usual, and when it’s ready, it’ll attack—if we don’t destroy it first. It’s as simple as that.
CHAPTER 18
////// Zanzibar
“Tatsuma has been sighted, Lord, approaching the harbor mouth under the flag of the Celestial Mother,” Signal Lieutenant Fukui reported, his tone wary. Hisashi Kurokawa sat in his spacious, almost elegant office in the headquarters complex that had been erected, well concealed from the air, near the harbor. He looked up at Fukui from behind a finely crafted desk that had been fashioned by one of his men who’d apprenticed under a master cabinetmaker, and frowned. On the desk were the plans of a new class of ship he desperately wanted to build, instead of merely continuing to convert some of the crude Grik dreadnaughts for a more pressing purpose. Some of those were already complete, but he still distrusted their engineering plants—and the improvements they’d made to their watertight integrity had been—he frowned deeper—“stopgap” at best. Even so, his attention had not been as much on the plans as upon the conversations Muriname reported having with the German pilot—and what they implied.
“You no longer salute me, Fukui?” he barked.
The lieutenant braced to attention and performed his most perfect salute. Kurokawa allowed him to stand rigid for a moment before touching his own brow and waving at the man. “Now,” he said, “what was it you were gibbering about?”
“Tatsuma, Lord! She has been spotted approaching the harbor, flying the red banner!”
Another flare of irritation swept through Kurokawa, one born of indignation. Tatsuma was his own personal yacht, a double-ended side-wheel steamer he’d been forced to leave behind when he led the Grik Grand Fleet against Madras. He seethed to think the Grik now controlled her. Then he stood suddenly, his mind racing. She must bear an emissary from General Esshk! “Where are our visitors from the League?” he demanded.
“Most are still in the quarters we provided them. They sleep quite late. Some are inspecting our munitions factory, and the German pilot remains at the airfield.”
“None are near the harbor?”
“No, Lord.”
“Make sure that none approach it. Double their guards. If any question why, tell them a Grik worker has lost its mind.” He waved in the air. “Say it violently attacked someone. They should believe that. And since we can’t tell one Grik from another, we must protect them more carefully until the dangerous one is discovered. In the meantime, direct Tatsuma to dock beyond the shipyard where the conversions are underway. That should conceal her. What time was my meeting with Captain Gravois?”
“Fifteen hundred hours, Lord.” It was 0900 now.
“Very well. I will meet Tatsuma myself, with a company of our most loyal guards. Tell them that we do not know whether Tatsuma brings loyal representatives or mutineers like General Halik. They must not hesitate if we tell them to kill everyone aboard!”
“Of course, Lord.”
“I think I should like to hear what our old allies have to say before I meet with the new ones again,” Kurokawa murmured.
• • •
“First General Esshk politely inquires whether we still live, and if so, are we yet prepared to resume the hunt against our common enemy,” Kurokawa said wryly to Muriname as the two approached the conference room in the jungle near the barracks set aside for the visitors. As usual, a strong guard contingent accompanied them. “Madagascar has fallen, and the Celestial Mother is slain,” he added almost wonderingly. “General Esshk has retreated to the continent and prepares to retake the island, but the Americans and their ape-man lackeys are on Madagascar in strength sufficient to concern him—and me. They may scout far enough northward to discover us here. That might be . . . inconvenient at present.”
“Inconvenient, or an opportunity? Do not forget Fiedler’s warning,” Muriname replied.
“I see no ‘opportunity,’” Kurokawa flashed back. “Only a more urgent need to seek support from that arrogant Frenchman. How can there be an opportunity?”
“The American position on Madagascar must be tenuous, their supply lines vulnerable, Lord. Taking the place must have shot their bolt, and seems to me an act of desperation. If General Esshk can destroy them or drive them away . . .”
“Their power to resist us might be broken at last, without selling ourselves to these strange foreigners,” Kurokawa finished for him.
“That is what I was thinking. You . . . did not kill the Grik emissaries?”
“No. I merely confined them to Tatsuma—for now. Under guard.”
“Good. It may benefit us to renew a dialogue with General Esshk.”
Kurokawa glanced at Muriname, calculating. “You may be right about this ‘opportunity’ after all, General of the Sky. I appreciate your insights regarding this.”
Muriname gulped, hoping Kurokawa wouldn’t begin to consider him a threat. It was rarely wise to disagree with, or even reveal one’s inner thoughts to Kurokawa.
“And the current situation is intolerable,” Kurokawa continued. “The ‘League’ that professes such concern for our well-being tells us almost nothing. If not for your and Iguri’s conversations with one discontented man . . . And even what we do know is maddeningly incomplete!”
“We can’t press Fiedler too hard,” Muriname stressed. “He wouldn’t have told us as much as he has if he did not think that Gravois would surely have disclosed some of the most basic details by now. His relative isolation from his comrades has benefited us. How else would we know even what we do?”
Over time, Fiedler had revealed that the League controlled the Mediterranean, a fair percentage of North Africa, and had a toehold in Italy, France, and Spain. Incorporating people—and other “beings”—already present, they’d spent nearly six years consolidating their position and carefully, systematically, spying on potential rivals. Only now had they begun to take an active role in subverting those perceived rivals before they became more formidable. He’d confirmed that the Human-Lemurian Alliance in the Pacific and Indian oceans concerned them due to their rapid advancement, and they considered the Grik a potentially even greater threat due to their numbers, and frankly, their fearsome nature. From that, and the paucity of further information, Muriname had deduced that the League’s primary strategy in the region was to keep the Grik and the Allies focused on each other for now. It
followed that, though the strangers professed to want Kurokawa’s people to “win,” all they really wanted was to keep everybody fighting one another as long as possible so no one would gain the strength to challenge the League.
“On reflection, the German’s ‘isolation’ and his willingness to speak now strikes me as somewhat too convenient,” Kurokawa growled as they reached the conference room. “How do we know that he hasn’t told us exactly what he was instructed to?” Muriname said nothing. That hadn’t even occurred to him.
“The time has come, General of the Sky, to prod these fools into declaring their true intent, one way or another. With the Americans so close and the Grik on their heels, we must have the help this ‘League’ has promised, or be rid of them at once.”
Two Japanese guards opened the doors to the heavy wooden structure. Long, gunportlike coverings had been left raised down the length of the building for ventilation, and other guards insured that no one approached close enough to hear the conversations inside. Muriname joined Gravois, Rizzo, and de Luca at the table, wondering where the Spanish officer was. Kurokawa strode to the end of the table, slapping his leg with the garish, Grik-made riding crop he so often carried—and that made his agitation so apparent when it came.
“I have had enough,” he declared, softly at first, but his voice began to rise. “You have been here quite long enough to learn all you care to know about us, but still reveal precious little about yourselves. You speak of support, friendship, and common cause, but remain infuriatingly vague about what those things mean to you. You crow about how much you know about our enemies and say you want to ‘help’ us, but you do not tell us how or why.” His face turned red. “I believe that is because you fear us, and do not mean to help at all! You fear us and our enemies, and would prefer that we destroy each other so you never have to face us, either one.” He paused, taking in their astonished expressions, but saw nothing to make him think he was wrong. “I am not blind,” he snarled. “I have sources of my own and know where you come from; what you are. I also know that though you may be strong at home, you are weak in this sea—a sea now infested with forces of the Americans and their ape-man lackeys not so very far from here. Madagascar has fallen, and the Americans are there! Surely you have confirmed that by now yourselves, yet you said nothing! I can only conclude that the endless, useless chatter that we engage in day after day is designed to distract us, and you only mean to support us with meaningless words, to keep us in a fight you are too weak to make!”
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