Maelstrom (36 page)

Gray was already smoldering over the man’s apparent derision toward his flag, and his evasion and superior attitude only fanned the embers. “Fine,” he snapped. “You do that. Like I said, you can wait for our ‘iron-hulled steamer’ here, or look for her where she is, which is the Philippines, last we heard. But for the record, you should show a little more respect for the flags around here, because you got
no
claim to anything here now. Look for your ‘castaways,’ and if you find our ship, USS
Walker
, and go aboard, you damn sure better salute that flag”—he gestured at the streaming bunting behind him—“because she flies the very same one. If you act like you have here, Captain Reddy’s liable to scatter fragments of your puny little fleet all over the sea. He ain’t as sensitive and forgivin’ as me about such things.”

Jenks’s mustache worked as his jaw clenched tight.

“And another thing,” Gray growled. “If you hang around here, you best watch yourselves, because if you’re not here to help us, you won’t get any help in return. There’s a shit-storm of a fight coming against those things”—he waved at the Grik bodies—“that’ll make this look like a picnic spat. You don’t want to get caught in the middle of it.”

Jenks took a step back, his surprised expression clouding to anger. “Is that a threat, sir?”

“No. Just fact. And a word of advice,” Gray said, looking at the Marines. “These ain’t ‘Ape Folk,’ or the simple ‘tribesmen’ your granddaddys abandoned to fend for themselves against a threat they knew would come someday.”

Jenks stroked his mustache and regarded Gray more carefully. The contradictory ranks
had
confused him, and the mostly white-haired, powerfully muscled man in torn, bloodstained khakis and a battered, floppy hat must have significantly greater status among these . . . Americans than boatswains did in his own navy. Amer-i-caans—Americans! Colonials from the far side of the world! Ridiculous! He hadn’t put it together before. And what were these “United States” the man referred to? Still, he clearly spoke a warped version of English. Could it be the sacred Mother Country on that distant, long-ago world had allowed her squabbling American colonies to pretend they were a nation? Impossible, yet . . . evidently true. He considered himself something of a historian, and he’d always been fascinated by the histories of the pre-Passage world their founders left behind. Yes, he could see a parallel between how his own empire had abandoned this region of savages and how that other empire might have done the same. Might that not have made the “simple” American “tribesmen” into something more formidable one day? He wondered briefly if it might be better to destroy this “buffer” than leave it in place.

“Very well, then. I can see we shall be the
best
of friends. I take my leave and wish you joy in tidying up after your ‘spat.’ ” Captain Jenks tossed a casual salute at the flag and turned back to his boat.

Long after the oars began propelling the boat back through the surf to
Achilles
, Gray stood trembling with rage.

“Well,” said Shinya at last, “that is just how I would have recommended keeping them off our ‘enemies’ list. Perhaps we can cement our friendship with some parting gifts. Some round shot, perhaps?” Gray thought he was mocking him until he saw Shinya’s deadly serious expression.

Captain Reddy wiped sweat from his eyebrows with his sleeve and took a long gulp of cool water. Juan had brought a carafe to the bridge, filled from the refrigerated scuttlebutt on the side of the big refrigerator on deck. It was unbearably hot, and ever since the wind came around out of the east, there was only the slightest apparent breeze—even as they charged west through the Celebes Sea at twenty-five knots. Keje and Adar stood beside him on the bridge wing, panting like dogs, and Bradford fanned himself manically with his ridiculous sombrero. Flynn was with them, newly shaved face and close-cropped hair exposing already sunburned bright pink skin. With the dark tan around his eyes, he looked like a raccoon. They’d been talking about Bradford’s interview with their Grik-like guest, and comparing what he’d learned with what they knew of their enemies. There were a few similar behavior patterns that seemed to support their theories about the Grik—behavior they hoped to exploit—but there were a lot of differences too. One glaring difference was currently on display.

They were watching Silva, Becky, and Lawrence on the amidships deckhouse, playing with the number two gun. Men and ’Cats stood around watching, but the trio didn’t seem to notice. Becky was in the pointer’s seat, spinning the wheel that elevated the muzzle, while Lawrence, who couldn’t sit like a human, stood to the right of the gun, gleefully spinning the trainer’s wheel, moving the gun from side to side. His wound had to hurt, but you couldn’t tell to look at him. Silva was pointing at a low cloud far abeam, giving them a target.

“Amazing!” Courtney gasped, stilling his frenzied fanning for a moment. “I declare, Captain Reddy, what a fascinating sight. And your man Silva reveals new depths all the time!”

“He does, doesn’t he?” Matt agreed absently. He blinked. “Put something to kill in front of that gun and he’ll revert quick enough, I expect.”

“As will we all,” Keje agreed, and Matt could only nod. The mission had been a success, as long as the promised troops arrived in time. They’d even found the submarine. But the avalanche was loose, and he was beginning to feel the old pull, the impatient, almost yearning for the “game” to begin. If they believed Kaufman’s cryptic message—and they had no choice—they’d beat the advance elements of the Grik swarm to Baalkpan by mere days. Perhaps longer if this wind held. Once again he’d be back at the center of the maelstrom with every life he held precious under his command: his responsibility, and there’d be little time for contemplation, only quick, decisive action. Time would compress to the size of an egg, and frenzied activity, chaos, and terror would prevail both inside and out, all trying to crack the egg at unpredictable points. Within the egg were his people, his friends, his love—maybe even the future of civilization on this twisted world. Outside was
Amagi
and the Grik, and all the horrors the shell must protect against, and it was fragile, fragile. In many ways
Walker
represented that shell: old and frail and held together by imagination, but she was just the outer, rusty layer. Without her destroyermen to reinforce her, to give her strength with their bodies, their character, and courage, she was nothing. With her crew she was a living thing, weak perhaps, but game and ready to do what had to be done, and for that she needed a mind. Captain Reddy was that mind, and he was fully aware of the responsibilities and implications. It was a heavy burden. He feared, ultimately, that the primary part of the shell was himself, and he’d made too many mistakes that cost too many lives to be confident he’d keep it intact. He feared and dreaded the great test to come, even as he planned for it, prepared his crew with more frequent drills, and tried to prepare himself. He loathed himself as well, because even greater than the dread was the craving. His hatred of the Grik and their Japanese helpers was so intense he could barely wait to get at them. He’d have to guard against impetuous impulses.

He missed Sandra more than he could say. He missed her face, her insight, her soft voice, her touch . . . and the steadying influence those things had over him. The trip had been a welcome rest, and he’d been able to step back, for a time, from the War and all the stress and urgency that went with it. For a while he was just a ship’s captain, a destroyerman once again. But soon the trip—the escape—would end, and he grew increasingly anxious. He knew he’d “revert” just as quickly as Silva, and he needed Sandra’s influence to make sure he didn’t screw it up.

“That beats all,” Dowden said, joining them on the cramped wing. “When that girl came aboard, she would’ve killed Silva with a bar of soap. Now they’re best friends.” He paused, seemingly at a loss for words. “And the Grik too.”

“Tagranesi,” Bradford corrected, flapping his hat again.

“Whatever. Anyway, all the other kiddos stick with their elusive nannies, who act like the ship’s full of pirates ready to ravish them on sight. . . .”

“It is,” Kutas muttered bleakly from the wheel.

Dowden spared him a glare. “But she sticks to him like glue whenever O’Casey lets her out of his sight. Where is he, anyway?”

“With Chack and Spanky in engineering,” Matt answered. “He might be helpful when we build our own reciprocating steam engines. He knows how his people do it, and since turbines are out of the question for the foreseeable future . . .” He shrugged.

“He does seem to know much,” Adar conceded sourly. “Apparently he is an engineer, a sailor, a soldier . . . he speaks of his experiences, but only vaguely, and according to Silva the girl doesn’t know much about him either. Almost as if he hides himself from her as much as us.”

Matt looked at the Sky Priest thoughtfully. “You may have hit on something,” he said. “I need another little talk with Mr. O’Casey, it would seem.”

They raised Tarakan late that afternoon, and thought at first they were mistaken; it bore no resemblance to the tropical jungle isle they’d left behind a few weeks before. What remained was a barren, blackened tangle of charred trees and brush, with a heavy pall of gray smoke still rising above. Only the flag and the ragged, cheering people on the beach convinced them it was the right place. Not long after they hove to and let fall the anchor, Gray was clambering up the side from a boat. He was grinning when he saluted the colors and turned to salute Matt.

“Permission to come aboard, Skipper?”

“Granted! God, what happened here?” Others climbed aboard while Gray told his tale. All were covered in soot and dried blood, and several were bandaged, including Shinya and Isak Rueben, who stood blinking with his arm in a sling. Matt glanced at each appraisingly, returning their salutes, but continued listening to Gray. His eyes moved to
Felts
’s blackened timbers, protruding from the sea, and on to the stranded Grik ship. Flynn, Laumer, and O’Casey were staring at the aftermath of battle with almost identical expressions of concern and calculation, but he suspected the thoughts behind their eyes were somewhat different. He looked back at Gray. “Sounds like you had a tough fight, Boats,” he concluded. “What was the bill?”

“Not too bad, considering they had cannons. Good thing their gunnery’s not up to par. Otherwise, they just came on in ‘the same old way.’ Our casualties were about thirty percent, which sounds pretty bad, but most of the wounded’ll make it.”

“Cannons?!”
Bradford gasped incredulously.

“Oh.” Gray shook his head and blinked. He was clearly exhausted, and honestly, as hard as it was to remember sometimes, he wasn’t a young man anymore. “I guess I left that part out.”

Shinya continued the report. “Yes, Captain Reddy, they had cannons. Naval guns, much like those we equipped
Revenge
,
Felts
, and the other prizes with. Not as good as our new construction; not even as good as our first attempts, really, since theirs were not only crudely formed, but poorly bored, and made of what Mr. Gray called ‘crummy iron,’ prone to burst.”

“Still . . .” Matt murmured, contemplating the implications.

“Yes, ‘still,’ ” Shinya agreed. “How many do they have, how many of their ships have them, and how will this affect our defensive plans?” he said, stating the obvious questions. “There’s another matter we must report,” he added. “This morning we had some curious visitors.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Human, singularly rude. Spoke English with a strange accent.” Matt’s eyes leaped to O’Casey, but aside from a sudden tenseness, he made no response. “They had four armed sailing steamers, and claimed to be on a ‘rescue mission.’ ” The surprised reaction of those nearby was matched by those from the island when Silva pushed his way through the crowd with a small girl perched on his shoulders. Following close behind, like a devoted pet, was an unusually colored, bandaged Grik. Shinya stepped back, and Gray snarled, going for his cutlass.

“As you were!” Matt said, his calm, firm voice having greater effect than any shout. He glared at a grinning Silva, who’d probably timed his approach for maximum shock effect. “Don’t be alarmed, gentlemen. May I present”—he paused—“Miss ‘Becky,’ ” he continued with a trace of irony, “and her friend Lawrence.” He pointed at the rail beside Flynn. “And that’s Mr. O’Casey, another acquaintance of hers. You may notice when you speak to them, they have unusual accents as well.”

“I’ll be damned,” grumbled Gray. “That bastard Captain Jenks said they were looking for shipwreck survivors. I guess you found them.” He glanced around and saw other unfamiliar faces. “And the sub too.” He spotted Flynn, whom he knew, and nodded.

“Jenks!” squealed the girl.

“You know him?” Matt demanded. The contrast between Becky’s reaction and O’Casey’s couldn’t have been greater. The girl was animated with happiness, while the one-armed man slumped, in apparent dejection, against the rail.

“Oh, yes! He’s a famous naval captain and explorer! Did you hear, Mr. O’Casey? We are rescued!”

“He’s also a asshole!” Gray barked.

“Yes, he is!” The girl giggled. “But a very good one. Don’t you see?” She patted Silva energetically on the head. “With his help, you should have no trouble with these terrible, vicious Griks of yours!”

Matt looked at Gray, who shook his head. “He’s a asshole, Skipper, beggin’ your pardon. He’s lookin’ for
them
. He ain’t here to help us, and he won’t—not that he’d make much difference. His ships are wooden-hulled paddle wheelers. Probably mount good guns, but they ain’t worth more than four or five of the enemy each. Twenty Grik ships won’t make a difference one way or the other.”

“It might if that’s all they have guns on, and they might be worth a lot more that aren’t armed.”

“Don’t matter,” Gray snorted. “He won’t help.”

“Certainly not now,” Shinya added wryly.

Matt glared at them both. “What did you do?” he demanded.