“Absurd.”
“Perhaps. But there is also the issue of his secondary commander of land forces, Lew-ten-aant Shin-yaa.”
“Shin-yaa is a ‘Jaap,’ I believe they call them, is he not?”
“Indeed. An enemy, yet they trust him; rely heavily upon him, in fact. Shin-yaa is of the same race, or clan, controlling Amagi, and he recognizes the evil she aids—represents—but he cannot believe all the beings aboard her have become evil as well. He is . . . conflicted, to say the least. It tortures him that his own people assist the Grik and did what they did to Nerracca. Yet, like us, the idea of fighting his own people tortures him just as much.”
“But it is not the same! Hu-maans are much more warlike than we; they are more like the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans in that respect. . . . Oh.”
“Precisely. To them, belonging to the same species does not keep them from killing others of different clans, or races within that species. And among the Jaap clan, the ties that bind them together seem even closer than those that bind the Amer-i-caans. The Amer-i-caans have much freer will to decide for themselves what is right and what is not. Among the Jaap clan, that decision is taken by a leader and imposed upon all others, regardless of what they might personally think.”
“I see,” murmured Nakja-Mur. “Do you think Shin-yaa can be trusted? Will he aid his clan against n fashioned with the ears in mind. Some, like Chack, insisted on wearing the round “doughboy” helmets of the Americans and managed to do so—uncomfortably—by wearing them at a jaunty angle that allowed one ear to stick out to the side and the other to protrude inside the crown. It worked, after a fashion, and the American helmets certainly provided more protection in battle than anything else the ’Cats had ever put on their heads. But Courtney didn’t have even that excuse. He looked ridiculous and didn’t care, and that was part of his charm. Or maybe he did care, and did it anyway. He and Captain Reddy had once discussed how important amusement was to morale, and sometimes, just by being himself, Courtney Bradford was very good for morale. Like now.
As entertaining as the eccentric Australian could be, he was also profoundly valuable—besides his knowledge of oil-bearing strata. He could be highly annoying, and the word “eccentric” wasn’t really quite descriptive enough, but despite his amateur “naturalist” status, he was also the closest thing to a physical scientist they had. His specialty—if it could be said he had one—was comparative anatomy, and he’d provided many important insights into the flora and fauna they’d encountered. The Lemurians were always more than happy to tell them everything they could, but this information, of course, came from some of the very creatures he was intent on studying. In addition, he was the quintessential “Jack of all trades, master of none,” but in his case, that was often a real asset. True, he didn’t know everything about, well, anything, but he did know at least something about quite a lot, and that was more than anyone else could say.
Silva was darkly certain that when the captain found out he’d allowed Bradford to tag along, there’d be hell to pay, and with that realization came another: he cared. For Dennis’s entire life, particularly since he joined the Navy, he’d always lived for the moment and damn the consequences. He was acting chief of the Ordnance Division, now that Campeti was Walker’s acting gunnery officer, but with his skill and experience he should have been one long ago. He just never cared before, and didn’t want the responsibility. Now everyone was having new responsibilities thrust upon them whether they wanted them or not, and most had risen to the challenge. His old boss, Lieutenant Garrett, would soon have a command of his own. Alan Letts, once an undermotivated supply officer, had risen to the position of Captain Reddy’s chief of staff. Bernie Sandison was still Walker’s torpedo officer (not that she much needed one), but he was also in charge of developing “special weapons.” Sergeant Alden, formerly of the ill-fated USS Houston’s Marine contingent, was now “general of the armies.” Chief Gray had been elevated to something else, still ill-defined. Maybe “super chief” described it best. Even the Mice had evolved beyond the simple firemen they still longed to be. He glanced at Bradford, who’d changed his appearance, perhaps, but remained essentially the same person. In all the ways that counted, Dennis suspected he himself may have changed more than anyone.
He hated the thought of letting the captain down, but felt a moral imperative to avenge the death of Tony Scott—someone he’d barely known before the Squall. He couldn’t shake a sense of protectiveness toward all those who remained. He continued to act like the same Dennis Silva everyone expected to see: careless, fearless, irreverent, happy-go-lucky, perhaps even a touch psychotic. Outwardly, except for some new scars and a luxuriant blond beard, he remained the same. But now he did care, and that was a big change indeed.
They’d seen plenty of larger piles: the stupid, domesticated “brontosarries” the Lemurians used as beasts of burden created much more mass, but the droppings of the strictly herbivorous sauropods more closely resembled titanic cow-flops. The object they were studying so intently was clearly a giant, compacted turd, manufactured by an equally giant carnivore. A “super lizard,” to be precise.
Bradford hated the term “super lizard,” and insisted the creatures were unquestionably allosaurs, relatively unchanged from specimens in the fossil record. Also, unlike most other “dinosaurs” they’d seen throughout what should have been the Dutch East Indies, super lizards were not stunted in size. If anything, they were bigger than their prehistoric cousins. Fortunately, there weren’t many of them, and they seemed highly territorial. When, rarely, one was killed, it was often quite a while before another took its place. They were ambush hunters that positioned themselves along game trails and the odd clearing. Bradford said they were built for speed, but they hunted lazy, Silva thought. That was probably how this one got Tony. Just snatched him up when he came ambling along the cut. Fresh anger surged within him, and he stood and brushed damp earth from his knee.
The voices of the work detail diminished as it slogged on toward the well, leaving them behind. Silva turned to a gap-toothed ’Cat with silver-streaked fur. He had no clan, and he was known simply as the Hunter. All ’Cats wore as little as they could get away with, but the Hunter wore nothing but a necklace and a quiver of large crossbow bolts. The massive crossbow he carried, and the super lizard claws clacking on the thong around his neck, seemed to establish his bona fides. “That not you friend,” the Hunter said simply, referring to the spoor. “See thick black hairs? They from . . . I think you call ‘rhino-pig’?”
“Rhino-pigs” were rhinoceros-size creatures, one of the few large mammals indigenous to this Borneo, and looked remarkably like massive razorbacks. They were extremely prolific and dangerous omnivores with thick, protective cases, and savage tusks protruding a foot or more from powerful jaws. They also sported a formidable horn on top of their heads. Regardless of the challenge, they were the Hunter’s principal prey due to their succulent, fat-marbled flesh. Evidently, in spite of their horn, they were also the preferred prey of super lizards.
“How long?” Silva asked.
“Not long. He hear big group, loud walking. He go.”
“Afraid of large groups?” Stites asked hopefully. The Hunter’s grin spread.
“He no hungry enough for all. He waste good hunting place.”
“Waste—”
Silva interrupted. “Where’d he go?”
The Hunter pointed toward a cramped trail disappearing into the jungle.
“You’re kidding,” Stites grumped. “I thought these things were big?”
“Well . . . how many of these things have you killed, anyway?”
The Hunter paused briefly, and fingered his necklace. “Only one,” he answered quietly.
“How come you know so much about ’em, then?” Stites’s tone was skeptical.
The Hunter considered before making his reply. “With you magic weapons, maybe you not fear ‘super lizard,’ as you call him, but to slay even one with this”�
��he motioned with the crossbow—“I learn as much as I can about him. Also, even while I hunt other beasts, he always hunt me. I survive him long time, so maybe I learn much.” He grinned hugely at Stites’s expression. “Enough? We see.”
“Then what brings you along?” Bradford inquired, visibly perplexed. “We cannot pay you.”
The Hunter blinked pragmatically before turning back to the trail. “If he gone, this place be safer hunting for short time. Maybe long time. The Great Nakja-Mur reward me for meat I bring. . . .”
“Oh.”
For the rest of the morning they crept carefully along, the Hunter in the lead, sometimes on all fours, tail twitching tensely behind him. Occasionally he paused, studying the ground disturbance in the dense carpet of decaying leaves and brush. Sometimes he motioned them to silence and listened, perfectly still, often for a considerable time. Silva grew certain that the ’Cat was using his nose as much as his ears. Ultimately, almost reluctantly it seemed, he’d move on. During one such respite, he gathered the eight others around him and spoke in a whisper that seemed almost a shout. Strangely, for once there were no raucous cries or any of the other sounds they’d grown accustomed to. Their quarry had passed recently indeed.
“We close,” he hissed. “He pass this way soon ago. He know we come; he search for place to spring trap.” The others, even Dennis, looked nervously around. “No, not here. He need more space. Maybe be clearing close ahead. He be there.”
The jungle slowly came back to life, and even at their careful pace, the expected clearing soon appeared. It was much bigger than they’d expected, perhaps a hundred yards wide and longer than they could tell from where they stood. Blackened stumps, and new, fresh leaves testified to a recent lightning fire. They squinted for a moment in the dazzling sunlight, accustomed to the gloom of the trail, but the sun soon passed behind a cloud. The midafternoon showers—so common this time of year—awaited only the inevitable buildup. A dull, distant grumble of thunder echoed in the clearing. Silva unslung the BAR and raised it to the ready.
“No,” pronounced the Hunter. “He not be so near opening. As I say, he want get us all. That need more room, I think. We go down main trail through burn. Where trail pass near jungle on either side, that where he strike.”
“Are you suggesting he’ll employ a strategy?” questioned Bradford, amazed.
“You ask, ‘he plan this?’ I let you judge. Super lizard is greatest hunter on all Borno. He not stupid.” He looked meaningfully at Silva’s BAR. “I not stupid. You magic weapons kill er so slowly, but with increasing speed, Silva got his “stately collapse.” It almost fell on top of him. The earth shuddered as the monster toppled lifelessly to the ground amid the sharp crackle of its own breaking bones. The riddled head struck less than six feet from where Dennis stood, and he was festooned with a splatter of gore and snot.
Silva almost fell to his knees, but somehow managed to keep his feet. Angrily slamming the cutlass back in its scabbard—to hide his shaking hands—he whirled and faced a grinning Paul Stites, as the gunner’s mate rushed to him.
“What the hell’d you do that for?” he yelled, his voice filled with indignant wrath. “Goddamn it, I was just gettin’ to the good part! What’s the matter with you?” Yanking his cutlass back out, he stomped over to the head until he stared down at its remaining, unblinking eye. The thing seemed dead, but its abdomen still heaved weakly, and bloody bubbles oozed from its nostrils. He touched the eye with the sharp tip of his blade, pushing until the orb popped and a viscous fluid welled forth. The creature didn’t stir.
“That’s for chasin’ us all over kingdom come and scarin’ these poor cat-monkeys half to death,” he said. Then he drove the blade deeper, feeling with the point. Finally he shoved it in almost to the hilt, and the ragged breathing abruptly stopped.
“That’s for Tony Scott,” he muttered darkly. “That’s for killin’ my friend.”
“Wish we had a camera,” Stites said languidly, slowly exhaling a blue cloud of smoke.
“Who cares about cameras; just gimme a damn bullet, will ya?” Silva pleaded. He and Stites were lounging on top of the dead monster, sharing a carefully hoarded cigarette, while Bradford—quite recovered—scampered around the beast, pacing its length and talking excitedly with the Hunter, who’d appeared in the cut soon after the shooting died away.
“Why?”
“Because I want one, damn it!” He sighed. “Look, shithead, I shot myself dry, see? I’m totally out of ammo! Right now that gives me the creeps like I never had before. So just shut up and give me a bullet, before I beat you to death!”
Stites smirked and opened his bolt, then stared into his own magazine well in horror. Frantically slapping his pockets with increased panic brought no satisfaction. “Jeez, Dennis! I’m empty too!”
Silva was grimly quiet a moment, considering the long trek back to the refinery and the boat. Suddenly he brightened. “Hey, Mr. Bradford!” Courtney paused his examination and looked inquiringly at him. He had every reason to be well disposed toward the big gunner’s mate. After all, he’d gotten quite close to the monstrous creature and witnessed all sorts of movement before it was killed. Silva only hoped Bradford could protect him from the worst of his captain’s wrath. “You got plenty of bullets left, right?”
Bradford sheepishly hefted the Krag. “Indeed. I’m certain I fired several times, there at the end, but somehow I still have as many rounds as I set out with. Strange.”
“Musta had some extras an’ thumbed ’em in without thinkin’. t="1em">
“Nothing. Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third.”
“Right standard rudder, all ahead one-third,” Kutas replied. “Recommend course two seven five.”
“Make it so. Reynolds, get the sea and anchor detail out of the rain and pass the word for the bosun and exec to join me on the bridge. Spanky too.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
To Sandra Tucker, standing on the old fitting-out pier, the new, light gray paint covering the battered old destroyer couldn’t hide her many defects, but it did quickly blend with the driving rain. She felt a lump the size of her fist tighten in her chest as the ship grew ever more wraithlike and ethereal, and she wondered if she’d ever see it again. If she’d ever see Matthew Reddy again. She said a quick, fervent prayer for the ship and all those aboard her—and one in particular. With a sigh, she turned and melted into the throng and made her way through the dripping, awning-covered bazaar, back to her own duties at the hospital.
Lieutenant Larry Dowden, Walker’s executive officer, reached the bridge first, water running from the brim of his hat. Dowden was of average height and spare, but the young towheaded officer from Tennessee had stepped into his new job with energy and professionalism. He’d been a good choice to replace Lieutenant Ellis, Matt reflected once again, tossing him the towel. Soon afterward, Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray clomped up the metal ladder and joined them.
“Mornin’, Skipper.” He didn’t salute because technically, as soon as he stepped out of the rain, he was no longer “outdoors.”
Gray was a bear of a man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station before the war, but had since trimmed back down and muscled up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on all the activity and adventure they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d always demonstrated a clear—indeed, profound—understanding of the practical; that had perhaps been the very definition of his duty as Walker’s senior noncommissioned officer. Unlike many in the Navy who had the rank without the skill, Gray had the skill in sufficient measure to apply it beyond the insular world of Walker’s deck. As Spanky could, when it came to anything mechanical, Gray brought absolute moral authority to any discussion regarding what people were capable of, and his uncannily accurate assessments now included Lemurians as well.
“Mornin’, Boats.”
“I ran into Juan on the way up here and he said he’d be along directly,” Gray said, referring to Juan
Marcos, the Filipino mess attendant who had, for all intents and purposes, become Matt’s personal steward. It was never discussed, and it certainly wasn’t official, but that was how it wound up. Juan had seen to that. “He’s bringin’ coffee,” Gray added ominously, but with an entirely innocent expression—quite an accomplishment for him. Matt grimaced. Juan wasn’t good with coffee, never had been. Somehow he couldn’t destroy the stuff that passed for coffee here as thoroughly as he had the “real” stuff, but it still wasn’t exactly good.
“Maybe . . .”
Walker would’ve spent the war towin’ targets . . . or bein’ one, and most of her crew wouldn’t have been good for much else either. After that last big fight with Amagi, when we got sucked up by the Squall, none of that mattered anymore.”
A stormy frown creased Gray’s face. “I hate the Japs for what they done to us, and I hope wherever ‘home’ is, our boys are kickin’ hell out of ’em. But we wouldn’t have been helpin’ much, even if we were alive. Back there, Walker wouldn’t have made any difference.” His frown shifted into an expression of determination. “In this world, in this fight against those damn Griks, she has made a difference, and so have all her people. With God’s help, maybe she will again.”
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