“Kari!” came an urgent, imaginary whisper from the gloom. “Kari!” the voice repeated, and she stirred. It can’t be, she thought. I am going mad. That sounded like . . . Fred . . . but that is impossible. He has already gone insane, absorbed by the evil of this terrible land. Tortured into accepting the vile faith of our captors, he has entered the service of the demon Don Hernan himself! The shock and betrayal she felt that one time he visited her had torn her soul. Fred Reynolds had become her closest friend—and he had thrown her away.
“Kari, damn it! We don’t have much time! Wake up! Snap out of it! We have to get out of here!” The lock clattered like a bell against the iron hasp.
“It is open, Lieutenant,” came another oddly familiar voice, “but I don’t know if we can get her out if she does not aid us. Perhaps she is too far gone, after all.”
“No!” the first voice insisted. It was Fred! Kari struggled to rise from the filth.
“Are you really here?” she croaked. “Is it really you? Who”—she coughed—“who is that with you?”
“We have met before, ah, Ensign Kari-Faask,” a man replied. “I told you once that you have friends, and you do. So does Mr. Reynolds. It has taken much longer to arrange this escape than we had hoped, but the time has come—and we must hurry!”
“Escape?” Kari asked, amazed.
“Yeah. C’mon, Kari. We gotta go! There’re horses waiting outside the wall that borders the plaza.”
“Horses?”
“Yeah, ah, like paalkas—sorta. They had ’em in the Empire. Remember?”
Kari started moving toward the cage door, but paused. “You were converted! Turned! You became the tool of Don Hernan!”
A black, strangely haunted chuckle sounded in the gloom. “Yeah, that’s what that sick bastard thought. I ought to be an actor! Won’t he be surprised? Listen, honey. I’ll tell you all about it later, but we have to blow this joint!”
Honey?
Suddenly, Kari could no longer resist. Nothing made sense, but Fred was here. He would sort everything out. She collapsed.
“Damn.” She heard the strange, familiar voice again as she slipped toward the darkness. “She’s passed out. We’ll have to carry her.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” Fred said bitterly. “Look at her! Those bastards!”
“You are weak yourself,” observed the voice. “Can you manage?”
“I’ll carry her on my head, if I have to,” Fred swore, “but just who are these folks that are waiting for us?”
“Never fear,” the voice replied cryptically. “They will never harm her. You, they might kill, but never her.”
Kari heard nothing more as her thoughts swirled away.
Baalkpan
April 3, 1944
The Saanga River Ferry north of Baalkpan was one of the most advanced outposts of civilization short of the very first Allied oil fields farther upriver. It was relatively new, and used primarily to transport hunters, workers, and light cargo upstream or across the river to the wild and still vaguely explored frontier. It was on the frontier in many respects, and was the only work of Lemurians or men visible on the landing hacked from the dense jungle around it. A broad, well-patrolled avenue connected it to the curing yards, processing plants, and other industries that supported the city and expanding shipyard, but those were several miles distant, and the illusion of utmost isolation prevailed.
The landing was unusually crowded today, however, as the Corps of Discovery and Diplomacy—or, as Silva irreverently called it, the Codd— prepared to set out at last. Lemurians heaved crates of supplies to the ferry from carts drawn by paalkas that squeaked nervously at the unfamiliar smells the foreign beasts didn’t know. Lawrence directed his fellow Sa’aarans—and the few “tame” Grik attached to his contingent. The Sa’aarans would serve as scouts and pickets and were combat loaded and dressed in their camouflage battle dress. The half-dozen Grik would be unarmed porters. They seemed slavishly devoted to their new masters, but they were still Grik. It was impossible to be comfortable around them, and they had sufficient natural weapons to defend themselves. Their presence on the trip was an experiment and even they seemed to realize they had something to prove. In any event, for now, everyone worked together to get the expedition underway.
“For the record,” Dennis Silva muttered to Ensign Abel Cook, as he threw a crate of ammunition for his massive new cartridge-converted Doom Stomper on his shoulder, “I think we should’ve called off this jaunt, at least for now.”
Cook looked at him. “Chairman Adar remains insistent. And besides . . . why?”
Dennis shrugged, and the crate on his shoulder rustled metallically. “’Cause you can’t go without me, and with the mess in the west, a fella of my . . . powers . . . why, such as me, oughta be there, savin’ General Aalden’s ass.”
Cook chuckled. “I thought you said you were out of the battle-winning business and would now allow others a share of fame. Besides, Walker will be here soon for her refit, and you should be back in time to join her when it’s complete. That was the plan, as I remember.”
Silva frowned. “Yeah, but who knows if that’s still the plan. Plans are highly overrated, if you ask me. Besides”—he lowered his voice—“why’s ever’body so mum about Walker, anyway? The scuttlebutt is she got into it with that Hoodoo-y-yamy an’ popped her bubble. Couldn’t report it herself ’cause she took some hits and lost her comm gear, but a Fil-pin DD met up with her an’ passed the word she was headin’ in to Manilly with some new holes—an’ some wounded.”
Cook shook his head. “That’s more than I have heard,” he said with a trace of concern, “and I have learned to respect this scuttlebutt phenomenon.”
Silva nodded seriously, then stiffened, looking down the road to Baalkpan. Another cart was approaching in the distance. But closer, a tall form was walking toward them. “Why, if it ain’t Gunny Horn!” he hooted as the black-bearded China Marine approached.
Horn grinned strangely as he neared, backpack and weapons slung, apparently effortlessly, over his still somewhat skinny shoulder. He’d clearly piled a lot of weight back on, but he had a way to go to match Silva’s powerful form.
“Been looking for you, you diabolical squid,” Horn said menacingly.
“An’ I been here, easy to find,” Silva challenged. Lawrence and Brassey had joined Silva, and Lawrence bristled at the hint of hostility. Who is this man? Ensign Cook was also alarmed. He was already nervous, as the expedition’s titular leader, and they hadn’t even started out yet. Now it looked like his two biggest men were about to have at each other.
Horn stopped in front of Dennis and laid his burden on the ground. “Not as easy to find as you should have been.”
Silva shrugged. “Hey, I’m a busy man! Mr. Sandison’s had me jumpin’ up and down an’ flappin’ my arms over in Ordnance, and Mr. Letts has had me figgerin’ up ever’thing we might ever need to pull this stunt. Then, once in a while, Mr. Cook needs me for somethin!”
Noticing Cook for the first time, Horn saluted the boy. “Good morning, sir!”
“Good morning, ah, Gunnery Sergeant Horn,” Cook replied.
Silva snapped his fingers. “That’s right, you two already met.” He looked at the old Lemurian sergeant Moe, who’d also stepped closer. “Been trompin’ around out in the brush, learnin’ the primordial ropes of the neighborhood. Hey! See any super lizards?”
Moe shook his head. “No super lizards,” he said. “We kill some rhino pigs, though.”
“Hmm. So Gunny Horn here really don’t know what he’s getting himself into then,” Silva said. He looked at the man. “Maybe you oughta stay here, learn how to be a Marine on this world and kill Griks. You could take up knittin’ or croquet.”
“In honest, you don’t know what you get in to, Si’va,” Moe quipped, then shrugged. “Me neither. I rather stay here.”
“I’ve been cooped up in one place too long,” Horn grumbled. “I’d like to stretch my legs. From what
I hear, there’ll be plenty of Grik to kill when we get back.”
There was still a palpable tension between the two men. Finally, Silva revealed his gap-tooth grin. “Well? You still got it, Gunny?”
Horn grinned back and fished his dog tags from around his neck. “Japs would’ve taken it if I had it in a suitable, jewel-encrusted gold setting.” The tags slid down the chain, and Horn displayed a human tooth.
“Ha!” Silva barked.
“Is that . . . yours?” Cook asked, amazed.
“Yep. Gunny Horn . . . extracted it for me one night in Shanghai!”
“Saved your useless life!”
“I misremember the details,” Silva grudged. “Last time I ever went ashore with Dean Laney, though, I’ll tell you that!”
“Laney,” Horn spat. “Of all the really useless bastards to show up here—”
“So . . . you two are friends?” Cook ventured hesitantly, wondering what on earth had required Horn to—apparently—knock Silva’s tooth out to (evidently) save his life.
“Hell no!” Dennis said, indignant. “He’s a Marine!” He looked seriously at Horn. “But I won’t never worry about my back in a fight with him around.” He reached over and ruffled Lawrence’s crest.
“Sto’ that!” Lawrence yelped.
“’Specially with ol’ Larry along,” he placated his Grik-like friend. “Won’t be much for me to do but see the sights, er”—he laughed at Horn’s expression—“what was it? Chase butterflies!”
“Chasing butterflies is against the rules.” Horn grinned back.
“Except along Soochow Creek,” Silva agreed, mock serious, and both men exploded in laughter.
Utterly mystified, and wondering if he ever would—or wanted to—hear the tale Silva and Horn shared, Cook glanced at the cart that should be bringing the last of their supplies. “Oh no!” he breathed when he saw the cart’s lone passenger hop down. Nurse Lieutenant Pam Cross wore a light, linenlike smock and trousers of the nearly universal tie-dyed camouflage adopted from the Sa’aarans. She reached up and grabbed a medical pack and a Blitzer Bug submachine gun off the cart and carried them over to the suddenly speechless group.
“What’re you dopes gawkin’ at?” she demanded.
“Why . . . you, I s’pose,” Silva said evenly. “Just weren’t expectin’ you to show up here, all dressed up like you thought you was goin’ with us.”
“This outfit needs a doc,” Pam said simply, defiantly. “I’m it.” She handed Cook a sheet of rough paper. “Adar’s orders.”
“Bullshit,” Silva said more harshly. “We’re headed off to make contact with them Injun jungle lizards—which might be hostile as hell—through some of the scariest country we know of on this screwed-up world! This ain’t no trip fer—”
“For what?” Pam demanded. She gestured at some of the female Lemurian troops loading gear on the ferry. “For dames? I don’t think you can really stand there an’ say that, you big jerk. The dame famine’s over.”
“Wull . . . what about Colonel Mallory? Ain’t you two a item? What’ll he say?”
“He left,” Pam said harshly, “just like you have a dozen times. He doesn’t own me,” she snapped ironically, and Silva winced. “Nobody can tell me what I can or can’t do anymore, except a superior officer—an’ I damn sure outrank you. Adar said I could go, an’ so did Mr. Letts. We ain’t short o’ doctors anymore neither.”
“You outrank me, Lieutenant,” Abel Cook observed as neutrally as possible.
Pam shook her head. “I’m medical officer. You command the expedition.”
Without thinking about it, Cook looked at Silva. He might be in command, but everyone, including Adar, knew who was in charge. After a long moment, Silva shrugged, his one eye narrowed to a slit. “Suit yerself, doll,” he grunted, and turned to carry his ammo crate to the ferry. “Let’s get this circus on the road,” he growled over his shoulder.
Maa-ni-la
April 3, 1944
“By the Heavens above,” Saan-Kakja murmured in sick sorrow as USS Walker (DD-163) crept closer to the Navy dock at the Advanced Training Center on Maara-vella. “How often can that poor ship sustain such damage and survive?” she pleaded.
Chack-Sab-At stood beside her, summoned from some training exercises his special Marines had been undergoing. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Isak Rueben was there as well, with the floating dry dock Walker’s escorting frigate had summoned, and Ambassador Lord Forester had accompanied Saan-Kakja from Maa-ni-la. Also present were General Ansik-Talaa of the new Fil-pin Scouts, Colonel Busaa of the coastal artillery, and quite a few troops and medical personnel who’d rushed down from the hospital and barracks in the booming military town.
Walker was low by the head and had a decided list to port. Gaping holes yawned wide just behind her tall, dingy, half-submerged number, and on the fo’c’sle just forward of the bridge. The bridge structure itself looked warped and disheveled, and the canvas on the rail around the fire-control platform was shredded. Water streamed from within the ship in solid torrents and splashed alongside, and more water ran from temporary hoses attached to auxiliary pumps and coursed along the deck. The forward funnel looked like a ruptured pipe, and the aft funnel was even worse. Smoke streamed only from number two, so the boilers in the aft fireroom had to be cold. The main blower behind the bridge still rumbled, but with an exhausted, hurting gasp. The whole ship looked diseased with rust.
Yet Walker still lived, and her torn battle flag streamed to leeward on the stiff breeze off the nearby mountains. ’Cats in whites stood on the leaning fo’c’sle with lines in their hands, contrasting sharply with the rust, smoke stains, and faded gray paint. The number one gun—all the ship’s guns, Saan-Kakja now saw—were clean and trained fore and aft, and men and Lemurians were on the bridgewing, amidships deckhouse, and fire-blackened aft deckhouse. It was from there, Chack finally told her, that the ship was being conned.
Isak Rueben took the pipe from his mouth and exhaled a stream of rank smoke that smelled like burning leaves and ammonia. He coughed.
“Just as long as her crew can take it, an’ as often as we got the stuff—an’ the gumption—to patch her back up, Yer Excellentness,” he said with uncharacteristic forcefulness. Saan-Kakja looked at the odd, scrawny man and saw tears on his cheeks.
“You are right, of course,” she agreed firmly, but deep down she still wondered.
The tired old ship was finally secured to the dock, and corps ’Cats streamed up the gangplank as quickly as it was rigged. Soon, Walker’s wounded started coming ashore, helped along or carried on stretchers. Earl Lanier’s stretcher required extra, somewhat sullen bearers, and he waved imperiously as the space alongside the battered ship continued to fill. “Boats” Bashear was still swaddled in bandages, but he strode down the gangway unassisted. There was a sudden commotion aboard Walker as Chief Gray’s distinctive, comforting bellow gathered a side party, and amid a twitter of pipes, another stretcher came down the gangplank with Sandra and Diania anxiously pacing it and Juan Marcos clomping along behind on a crutch that replaced his wooden leg. Saan-Kakja and her party had been staying out of the way, but now they moved forward. Sandra saw them coming, and for just an instant, Saan-Kakja caught the slightest hint of the anguish that lay behind Sandra’s eyes. Rushing forward, the High Chief of all the Fil-pin Lands wrapped her arms around the taller woman and held her in a tight embrace.
“He’s going to be all right,” Sandra managed through the tears of relief and appreciation that began to flow. She sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as those gathering around, but she repeated herself with more certainty. “He’s going to be all right.”
Saan-Kakja looked down at the unconscious man on the stretcher, the man who meant so much to them all—not just because they needed him, but because they loved him.
“I have no doubt,” Saan-Kakja agreed, her mesmerizing, gold and black eyes beginning to fill. “Let us get him to the hospital, and then you mu
st rest and refresh yourself!”
* * *
Matt was dreaming, sort of. He was awash in seep, and the differently refined version of the analgesic, germ-fighting paste that had been used to treat his wounds had left him almost comatose in appearance, but somewhat aware as well. Seep was a popular intoxicant in reasonable doses, but they’d learned it performed much like morphine when used in large amounts. Like the paste, seep also apparently had some antibacterial properties, because it killed off a lot of the good bacteria in one’s innards as well as the bad, and often left heavily dosed patients with a bad case of the “screamers.” He hated that. He also hated the sick, unreal, helpless feeling it gave him.
He felt himself being carried out of the wardroom and heard the Bosun’s pipes. He knew he was being brought ashore and Walker was safe at last. He even heard the voices of Sandra and his friends as they gathered round, and he was pleased, in a kind of disassociated way. But then, for a while, he . . . left.
“You’ve got an awful strange setup around here, Matthew,” Orrin Reddy told him, staring out at the sea. Somehow, Matt was back on New Ireland, and he’d been walking along the rocky, secluded northern coast under the warm sunshine where he’d taken a quick trip to visit his cousin. Orrin! Of all people to find in this goofed-up world! Orrin and a flight of Maaka-Kakja’s Nancys had been helping scour the island of any remaining Grikbirds after the fearsome battles that snatched it back from Dominion control. He’d been conked on the head and wasn’t flying, but he would remain there as long as any of his pilots did.
“It is strange,” Matt agreed, “in a lot of ways.” He grinned. “But not much stranger than finding you here.” Orrin chuckled. He looked good, considering what he’d been through. Matt had been amazed to hear the kid had shown up on this world, and still marveled at the coincidence of it. Orrin had been his favorite cousin, more like the little brother he never had, and they’d been close before his uncle and aunt took Orrin and his five brothers and sisters off to California. That had been in . . . ’thirty-two? Right before Matt entered the Naval Academy. He’d heard Orrin joined the Army Air Corps in ’forty-one and hoped to be assigned to the Philippines, where he and Matt would be close. Orrin even arrived in the Philippines while Matt was still there, but they never had a chance to get together. Either Matt had been on maneuvers or Orrin had been busy with training and readiness exercises. Then, just a few weeks later, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and the Philippines, and Walker was ordered south to Java.
Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen Page 45