Slowly, the flight climbed. All the planes bobbled a little in the unruly air, but the formation held together. Tikker scanned ahead, below, above, and even behind, but the early-afternoon sun was too bright to stare in that direction for long. The west coast of Borno lay before them, but the blue-green shore would make it difficult for them to pick out Mark Leedom’s blue-painted Nancy. “No signal yet?” Tikker asked unnecessarily.
“From Leedom’s plane? No, sir,” Cisco replied.
Well, that was good, Tikker guessed. If Leedom had engine trouble, Nurse McCoy would have sent
something
. She didn’t know the code, but she’d been instructed to transmit a single long blast if they ran into trouble. Tikker hated the idea that anyone might ever be forced down in the unexplored jungles of Borno. The thought frightened him even more than the prospect of setting down on rough seas. “So. Wherever they are, they’re still airborne.”
“That would figure.”
“Then they’re either still ahead of us—” Tikker abruptly had to grab the stick more firmly and fight for control against a surge of sudden turbulence as a blue and white shape flashed down in front of him. For just an instant he was frightened and confused, but he already knew what had happened. “Or above and behind us!” he grated bitterly. Looking around, he saw that his flight’s formation had disintegrated like a flock of akka birds. When he looked down, he recognized what could only be Leedom’s Nancy pulling out of its steep dive and beginning to rise once more. “Send for the flight to reform on me,” he said irritably. “Now that we’ve ‘found’ Lieutenant Leedom, we’ll return to the task force and begin our other exercise.” He shook his head and allowed a grin to sweep away his annoyance. “I guess Lieutenant Leedom fancies himself a ‘pursuit’ pilot, even if all he has to pursue are his friends. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Captain Tikker, Ensign Cisco, Lieutenant Leedom, and Nurse Lieutenant McCoy appeared, as ordered, at the door to the admiral’s quarters directly below the bridge. Marine Captain Risa-Sab-At awaited them in the passageway, grinning hugely. Without a word, she knocked on the door and ushered them inside. The “admiral’s quarters” were Keje’s personal staterooms, and served the same purpose now as his larger Great Hall had once done. Many of the same intricate tapestries that had survived decorated these walls, and if the space wasn’t as expansive as before, there was still plenty of room for quite a large gathering, and the furnishings were far more decorative than any human carrier had probably ever boasted. Keje stood as they entered, along with Atlaan-Fas,
Salissa
’s nominal captain, and Atlaan’s executive officer, Lieutenant Newman. They were indoors, so no one saluted, but there was an unspoken exchange of respect.
“Welcome aboard, Lieuten-aant McCoy!” Keje said. “I have missed you. The youngling is well?”
“Very well,” Kathy replied.
“Excellent! I wish I could see it!”
Newman grinned. “Human babies aren’t nearly as cute as ’Cat babies,” he said. “They always look a little like grub-worms.”
“Nonsense!” Kathy protested. “Allison is utterly precious!”
“I’m certain of it,” Keje declared. “Please be seated, all of you.” The stools in the stateroom were all quite ornate, even Keje’s. His favorite stool having been taken permanently to the bridge, he considered it pointless to try to “replace” it here. “Nurse McCoy,” he began when all were comfortable, “I presume you are now prepared to begin your duties as chief medical officer? Excellent. I apologize for the uncomfortable necessity of flying you out to join us.”
“No apology necessary.” She glanced at Leedom. “It was quite exhilarating.”
“Yes. Well, I’d like to hear about that before we’re finished.” Keje turned to Tikker. “It would seem Mr. Leedom surprised your flight quite badly.”
“Indeed,” Tikker replied, “and that lends further credence to what Major Maallory has been saying. He has always wanted the Air Corps, Naval and otherwise, to be prepared for pursuit activities. Right now, we’re not. We’re not armed for it in any way, and we haven’t practiced pursuit tactics to any real extent. Mr. Leedom graphically demonstrated how devastating that unpreparedness might someday prove.”
“But the Grik, and even the Imperials, don’t have any airplanes!” Atlaan protested. “Practicing against threats that do not exist is dangerous and possibly wasteful of pilots and machines.”
“The Imperials don’t have airplanes
yet
,” Tikker conceded. “Now that they know they are possible, I bet they will someday. They are not my immediate concern, however. We have no idea what the Grik may have by now. We know they have
one
airplane, the observation plane that bombed Baalkpan. We know from Commander Okada that it was damaged, but we haven’t recovered it at Aryaal or Sing-aa-pore. They have taken it with them, somewhere. Even if they aren’t copying it as we speak, all they have to do is fix it, and it can sweep every plane we have from the sky. It is faster and, unlike our own planes, armed.” Tikker glanced at Leedom. “I now believe we must be prepared to meet
it
someday, if nothing else.”
Atlaan was silent and Keje grunted. “I see your point,” he said. “We must consider some sort of air-to-air armament for our aircraft, and yes, our pilots must at least practice a little of what to do if they are attacked in the sky. ‘Evasive maneuvers,’ I think you called them. Very well. You and our new ‘pursuit pilot extraordinaire’ will formulate tactics and begin integrating them into the training flights.” Keje’s voice lightened. “At least we know the dive-bombing tactics you have been working on are effective!”
Tikker cringed. He’d expected a chewing-out over the exercise his flight performed just before they set down in
Salissa
’s lee. Keje sounded pleased, in a way, but Tikker knew the admiral enjoyed irony and he might fly into a rage at any moment. “Uh, well, yes, Aahd-mah-raal. They do seem to work well, at least against ... unsuspecting targets.”
Keje and even Atlaan laughed out loud. It was a strange sound to humans, but all those present had learned that what sounded like a hacking cough to them was the height of mirth for a Lemurian.
“Unsuspecting!” Keje managed at last. “I actually
Told
them to expect an attack from the air! I wanted them somewhat prepared so they could practice some ‘evasive maneuvers’ of their own! Trust me, you are not the only one who has sleep-terrors of Grik aircraft, or torpedoes or other unrevealed capabilities!” He barked another laugh. “Cap-i-taan Cablaas-Rag-Laan of USS
Scott
actually
complained
to me regarding the successfulness of your attack!”
Tikker cringed again. Evidently, Keje wasn’t mad at him; most of his people enjoyed practical jokes, but he hadn’t meant to make enemies of the new steam frigate captains! And
Scott
had actually dodged a few of their “bombs”! What must Captain Mescus-Ricum of USS
Kas-Ra-Ar
think of him? His ship hadn’t escaped a single hit!
Captain Atlaan produced a creditable imitation of the slightly imperious commander of
Scott
. “Aahd-mah-raal, I must protest! An exercise is all well and good, but have you any idea how messy a large, putrid, flasher fish can be when it strikes my clean new deck from such a height at such a speed? ” Keje and Atlaan roared again, joined by Risa and Newman.
“It was just like that,” Newman said. “It came over wireless, but you could still almost hear the indignation!”
“Wha—what was your reply, Aahd-mah-raal?” Tikker asked, and Keje’s tone became more serious.
“I told him that bombs make a far bigger mess than rotten fish, and that he might try a little harder, in the future, to avoid them. I had intended to tell you not to use fish again because I suppose someone might be injured if struck, but I have changed my mind. For the next few days, you will bomb the frigates with rotten fish unmercifully, until you can’t hit them anymore, understood?”
“Aye, aye, Aahd-mah-raal.”
The room sobered and Keje nodded to Newman, who stood and uncovered a map on the wall. “Now, gentlemen—and ladies. That brings us to another issue. This task force is still some distance away from . . . well, we’ve been calling it ‘First Fleet’ because like as not, we’ll have more than one before this is over. Anyway, First Fleet, for various reasons, is going to hit Rangoon”—he pointed—“here, in a couple of days. Commodore Ellis now believes it essential that we remove this possible threat to our forward-most base on Andaman. For the same reasons he made that decision, Admiral Keje now agrees as well. The thing is, we want in on the scrape. Commodore Ellis is the man on the spot, and he and General Alden will run the show, but this will be a good opportunity for our pilots to rack up some combat experience before we move against Ceylon.”
“I thought it was our intention to keep this ship and our aircraft secret from the enemy as long as possible,” Tikker said.
“It is,” said Newman, “and everyone’s pretty sure we can operate against Rangoon and still accomplish that. Nothing’s getting in or out of there by sea, and if they try to send a message overland, we hope to have Ceylon long before it could arrive.”
Tikker looked at Leedom and scratched his ear around the hole with the highly polished 7.7-millimeter cartridge case thrust through it. The hole and the ornament were souvenirs of his first “solo” flight, and also served as a reminder of just how incredibly lucky he’d been. His was a risky job by definition, but he preferred that his risks be as calculated as possible nowadays.
“Sounds okay,” he said guardedly. “We need to know what they will expect of us, and how big an effort we should make.”
“As of now,” Keje said, “they don’t
expect
anything from us. Commodore Ellis has made the request, and I told him I wanted to discuss it with you before I agree. Schedules will have to be revised to coordinate our participation, but that participation ought to be advantageous to all concerned, I should think. Commodore Ellis might have to delay his attack until we get within range of your aircraft, but he should agree that a full-scale aerial assault by our entire wing can accomplish numerous objectives. First, I feel certain that such an attack would have a disastrous effect on enemy morale, and General Alden could take advantage of that and control the battle with far fewer casualties. Second, of course, I believe the wing should inflict a substantial number of casualties itself. Finally, and Captain Reddy would certainly appreciate this, I’m sure, your timely observations of the battlefield from the air should help General Alden shape his battle with much greater certainty.”
“The entire wing?” Atlaan asked softly.
“Yes. Captain Tikker needs to practice organizing such an assault, just as much as the fliers need to practice making one, and this seems the best, least risky way to do it.” Keje regarded Tikker once more. “What is the farthest distance you feel comfortable striking from with such a force?”
“We need to keep everyone together,” Tikker said, “which means the first to take off will be burning fuel until the last ships join them.” He shook his head. “That is too long. We should probably attack in two waves.”
Mark Leedom was nodding. “That makes sense. If the first ships only have to wait for the last ships in that wave, each wave should have a couple of hours’ flying time to reach the target, hang around long enough to find somebody to bomb, and still make it back to the ship. I’m assuming this ship will be a little closer by then?”
“Of course,” Keje assured. “Possibly by as many as fifty miles or so.”
Tikker was silent a moment, then sighed. “Well, as I said, it sounds okay. Fifty miles is a nice buffer as well. Coordinate the timing with Commodore Ellis based on those numbers, and I’m as confident as I can be that
Salissa
’s first action as an aircraft carrier will be a success. Remember, though, we are all new at this, and no matter how well we plan or how carefully we prepare; regardless of how good our pilots are, or how well made their aircraft, I fear some lives will be lost.”
“You suspect the Grik may have developed some defense against aircraft?” Risa asked, speaking for the first time.
“No,” Tikker answered. “Not yet, and if so, not at Rangoon. Honestly, I don’t much fear we will lose many planes and pilots in action ... yet. I am more concerned about our own inexperience and ignorance.” He shrugged and looked around at the others. “Bear in mind that all of us, even our human Americans—our ‘original’ destroyermen—have no real experience with this kind of war. We still, essentially, make it up as we go.”
CHAPTER 9
Eastern Sea
W
hen
Walker
sounded her “drowning goose” general quarters alarm for predawn battle stations, Matt was surprised to hear the thunder of drums on the ships nearby, sending their own crews to action stations. He remembered that Jenks had expressed interest in the practice several times. Evidently, Matt’s explanation that they did it because dawn was a dangerous time of day when enemy ships—and in their “old” war, submarines in particular—might see their silhouette before they saw the enemy, had made eminent sense to the Imperial commodore. It looked like Jenks was beginning to institute the practice among all the ships of his command. That was certainly for the good—if they all became true allies someday. Matt realized, however, that he might have given away a serious advantage if the Empire and Alliance ever found themselves on opposite sides. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. Right now, they had the same cause and they needed their friends to be prepared
That morning, instead of standing down into a morning routine, Matt gave the order to “make all preparations for getting underway.” Sparks began to rise from nearby stacks, and black and gray smoke curled into the air as
Walker
and the “squadron,” consisting of
Achilles
,
Icarus
, and
Ulysses
, raised steam and prepared to pull their hooks. Their immediate destination was an old Imperial outpost—probably the first. Jenks said the island, called Respite, was the first hospitable place his ancestors had encountered on their voyage to the East, and it was there they’d rested, victualed, and taken on fresh water before continuing in search of the most remote place they could find. Some few had stayed, tired of the seemingly endless journey, and Respite had been almost constantly inhabited ever since. Over time, it became the regional capital of all the surrounding islands and until recently, the western frontier of the Empire. It had been to one of the newer, slightly more northwestern outposts under Respite’s jurisdiction that Rebecca’s one-armed protector, Sean O’Casey, had been fleeing the Imperial hangman after an unsuccessful rebellion against Company usurpation of Imperial authority. It had been only wild coincidence that Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald had been dispatched aboard the same doomed ship by her father, the Governor-Emperor himself. In his effort to provide for her safety from increasingly dark Company machinations, he’d set the wheels in motion that left her marooned and presumed dead these two long years. In the end, the Company had snatched her anyway.
The best thing, from the perspectives of Matt and Jenks, was that Respite’s inhabitants had become increasingly dissatisfied with the arbitrary policies enacted by the distant Imperial government—particularly as the Courts of Directors and Proprietors fell increasingly into the hands of the Company. The “Respitans” had always been a self-sufficient, individualistic lot, and Jenks suspected they would have supported O’Casey’s rebellion if they’d caught wind of it in time. He was sure that when USS
Walker
and her consorts arrived with news of the fight that
Walker
and
Achilles
had had with Company and pressed Imperial warships bent on murdering the princess, they would find themselves among a sympathetic population and territorial governor. A perfect place for the Allied supply ships and tankers to head for.
Icarus
flew her Imperial flag once more, and Matt noticed with interest that
Ulysses
’ new Imperial flag flew above her old Company flag. He wondered what the next Company ship or official they encountered would think of that. Bosun’s pipes twittered similar or familiar calls on every ship, and the special sea and anchor detail on
Walker
’s fo’c’sle sprayed the anchor chain with hoses as the steam capstan sent it dripping and clattering into the locker below. Finally, the anchor was aweigh and the little crane forward hoisted it into its cut-out storage space forward. Matt watched while the other ships’ anchors were raised and secured, and was struck by how primitive his own ship was in many ways. The stocks on Imperial anchors were wood and
Walker
’s was iron, but the overall shape was virtually identical. His ship was probably the last class in the U.S. Navy to use the old-style anchors, a design completely unchanged for a hundred years, but the Imperial model was even older.
He shook his head and strode from the bridgewing to the chart table. No one aboard was really sure where they were headed anymore. Somewhere in what they remembered as the Carolines, he supposed. It seemed the farther east they steamed, the less relevant their charts of the “old world” became. Courtney Bradford took the disparity between their charts and the actual locations of the various islands of the “Eastern Sea” as a matter of course. He still insisted that the larger, exposed surface area of the atolls was consistent with his Ice Age theory, and Matt had to agree there might be something to that. The fact that, according to the charts Jenks had loaned them,
These
Carolines were larger and more substantial than Matt remembered, or the old charts indicated, seemed to follow. What didn’t make any sense to Matt and many others was why the atolls, or actual islands, had been so shifted around. They’d discovered quite a few islands in—call them the Marshalls for lack of anything better—where there shouldn’t be anything at all. The island where they’d made their emergency repairs was one example. According to Jenks’s charts, other substantial atolls such as Kwajalein didn’t even exist. Bradford maintained that it was all perfectly understandable. Matt only wished Courtney would find some way to make it just as easily explainable. In the meantime, and for the foreseeable future, he would have to trust Imperial charts of the region.
“All ahead one-third,” Matt said. “Make your course one, one, five.”
“Ahead one-third,” Staas-Fin, or “Finny,” replied. “One, one, five, aye!” The blower rumbled contentedly and
Walker
gathered way. Juan arrived with his battered carafe and a tray of cups and Matt accepted one with thanks. Juan’s coffee was terrible, even using the ersatz beans of this world, but it was coffee of a sort and that’s all that matters sometimes.
“Thanks, Juan,” Captain Reddy murmured as he brought the green foam-rimmed brew to his lips.
“My pleasure, Cap-tan! Would you like breakfast? A haircut perhaps? A hot towel and a shave would do wonders for you,” he hinted. Matt’s razor had about given up the ghost, and he’d finally relented and begun growing a beard like the rest of the men under his command. “I traded a case of rusty cans of ‘scum weenies’ for a new Imperial razor!” he declared in triumph. “It is quite sharp!”
Matt scratched his itchy chin and winced. He’d love a shave—but he had never let Juan shave him despite the Filipino’s incessant attempts. Now ... he had the only razor. Matt was convinced that if he ever relented, Juan would be shaving him for the rest of his life. On the other hand, he’d always believed that keeping himself well-groomed was important. It was just his little way of showing defiance in the face of the odds against them. “No matter how bad it gets, the Skipper always shaves.” Something like that.
He sighed. “Well, can we do it right here? I mean, can I just sit here in my chair?”
Juan beamed. “Of course, Cap-tan! In fact, it would be best, I believe. The chair is just the right height! I will return in a moment!” With that, Juan darted away and Matt looked around the bridge. Finny was trying to suppress a grin and the lookouts diligently studied the horizon. Norman Kutas glanced at the chart and stepped around the chart house—probably so Matt wouldn’t see him crack up. True to his word, Juan returned quickly. He had two ’Cat mess attendants in tow, one with a basin of hot water, the other holding some damp, steaming towels. Juan immediately removed Matt’s hat and draped a towel over his face.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Juan! I thought you were just going to shave me!” he muttered under the towel. “I can’t conn the ship like this!”
The shipwide comm suddenly blared. “Now hear this!” It was Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray’s voice. He was in on it too! Gray was around sixty, barely shorter than his captain, but the man who’d once grown flabby and jaded on the China station of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet had transformed into a lean, powerful pillar of moral authority within the Alliance. He was no longer a “mere” chief bosun’s mate; there were plenty of those in the rapidly expanding American Navy. He’d become something much more, still ill-defined. Officially, he commanded Matt’s personal security detail, the “Captain’s Guard,” and was “chief armsman of the supreme Allied Commander.” Unofficially, he was often referred to as “The S.B.” (Super Bosun), but most, even Chief Bosun’s Mate Bashear, still just called him “the Bosun.” To Matt, and probably Matt alone, he was still just “Boats.”
“Now hear this!” Gray repeated. “Lieutenant Steele to the bridge! The exec will take the conn while the captain endures his mornin’ toyletty!” A roar of laughter echoed through the ship, amid the stamping of Lemurian feet.
“Oh my God, Boats!” Matt groaned, but he couldn’t help laughing. “Put yourself on report! And ... whoever else is responsible for this stunt!”
“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Gray said, “but beggin’ the Skipper’s pardon, your beard is startin’ to look a little scruffy.” He lowered his voice. “That, and with all the stuff that’s been goin’ on, the fight, the chase for the girls ... me and a few of the fellas figured you could use a laugh. Besides, you’ve always stayed shaved through a lot worse scrapes than this. Don’t want the fellas to think you’re lettin’ yourself go.”
For just an instant Matt tensed. Gray couldn’t see his face under the towel, but it might actually be best. Suddenly, Matt reached out and grabbed Gray’s sleeve, pulling him down closer.
“They don’t call you Super Bosun for nothing, do they?” Matt whispered huskily. “You’re right. I need a laugh, and so does this crew. Let’s make the most of it.”
Freshly shaved, trimmed, and with his face tingling with whatever refreshing soap Juan had been able to create or procure, Matt sheepishly relieved a grinning Steele and resumed his watch. Cheerful voices and snatches of good-natured banter rose to his ears from the fo’c’sle forward, and the weather deck aft. It suddenly struck him that his crew was happy—not because they’d pulled a stunt on the Skipper, but because they’d managed to do something for him. He felt embarrassed and a little ashamed that he hadn’t noticed a growing cheerfulness aboard the ship. He’d been too lost in his own duty, and his ongoing misery over Sandra’s unknown fate. The rescue of the princess might be the primary diplomatic reason for the mission, but to him it was personal. He had to have Sandra back, for the very survival of his soul. He needed to rescue the young princess too. She’d trusted him, relied on him to keep her safe, and he loved her too, he supposed, much like a daughter. His recent mood must have been a terrible drag on the ship.
All the crew felt his anger and they’d do whatever was necessary to make things right, but these were extraordinary times as well. The humans under his command were almost giddy with the prospect that they were nearing lands where actual human
women
dwelt, and each of them harbored happy fantasies of how they’d ultimately break the “dame famine” that had plagued them ever since the Squall. The ’Cats were happy too. They’d steamed much farther into the vast Eastern Sea than they’d ever believed possible. They’d always known the world was round, but they also
knew
that the force humans referred to as “gravity” pulled down. It had simply followed that if one went too far from the “top” of the world, one would plummet off the side into the endless heavens. They’d
believed
the human Americans,
hoped
they were right that gravity pulled down wherever on the world one stood, but only now had it become a demonstrated fact. Matt knew this “fact” flew in the face of some very long-held religious dogma, and regretted that they’d upset their friends yet again in that respect, but the contradiction didn’t seem that important to his Lemurian-American crew right now. Just the fact that they hadn’t fallen off the world and were free to continue their important adventure satisfied them at present. Later, they might contemplate the religious implications. Matt knew from the messages relayed through Manila from Baalkpan that Adar already was, but right now,
Walker
was a happy ship and his own serious, intense mood had been like a ... wet towel on the humor of the crew. He would have to try harder to conceal his anxiety and concern. He’d had a lot of practice at that—but then, of course, he’d always had Sandra to help him.
He glanced at his watch. Almost 0800 and time for the watch change, so this was as good a time as any. “Mr. Campeti,” he said, addressing
Walker
’s new gunnery officer, “I assume you’ve managed to standardize the drill on the number four gun?” The number four was a dual purpose, 4.7-inch gun they’d salvaged from
Amagi
to replace the four-inch-fifty that had been badly damaged in the Battle of Baalkpan. The respectable quantity of ammunition for it that they’d salvaged as well was still high-explosive, cordite propelled, as opposed to the black powder-loaded four-inch-fifty’s they had for the other guns. Until they perfected their own cordite using the indigenous materials, they couldn’t “regulate” the 4.7-inch with the others, and they’d decided to keep it in local control.
“Aye, aye, sir. The drill’s mostly the same, and the fellows have it down pat.”
“Very well. They no longer have any excuse to be late, then, I take it?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Matt grinned. “With all this ‘nervous energy’ everyone seems to have today, we should be able to break some records!” He turned to the bridge talker. “Sound general quarters, if you please. The watch is ticking!”
The “drowning goose” began gasping for air, and Sonny Campeti raced up the ladder beside the chart house, to the fire control platform above. Other men and ’Cats quickly appeared, laden with belts of ammunition and shoving two heavy Browning .30-calibers up the ladder to waiting hands.