Maelstrom (37 page)

“Nothin’, Skipper, honest! Like I said, he’s a asshole.” Gray shrugged. “Maybe we were kinda assholes too, but he was one first!”

Eyes clenched shut, Matt shook his head. “Are we at war with them?” he ground out.

“I don’t think so,” Gray answered honestly, “but he carried on about how all this area was theirs, but it was okay if we squatted here as a ‘buffer’ against the Grik and such . . . then he was a jerk about our flag, and I got kind of riled.”

The girl’s expression of glee had turned to confusion, as if she couldn’t understand their doubts about Jenks. “I’m not sure whether it will be up to Captain Jenks whether he helps or not,” she said cryptically, then turned to Gray. “He’s headed for Baalkpan?”

The Bosun glanced at the captain, then faced the strange girl. “Not necessarily. Said they passed a ’Cat Home out of the Philippines loaded with troops. That’s who told them where to look.”

“Well, that’s good news about the troops,” Matt mused. “No reason they shouldn’t have told him, either, and it might work to our advantage.”

“I, uh, doubt it, Skipper,” Gray interjected. “Like I said, Jenks has no intention of helpin’ us, and when he asked where you were, I told him the Philippines—which I thought you were. Last we saw, his squadron was headed northeast along the coast. You coming in from almost due east, it’s no wonder you missed ’em.”

Matt shook his head and glanced at the setting sun, perhaps lamenting a lost opportunity. Finally he took a deep breath. “Listen, we’ll bring you up to speed, but right now all you need to know is that the Grik are coming. I want all your people aboard and us underway by dark. Leave the tools, equipment, and brontosarries behind. When this is over, we’ll come back and finish the job . . . or we won’t.”

Chack bellowed commands, and his whistle whirred insistently.
Walker
’s borrowed boats went over the side and prepared to run for shore. Signal flags fluttered up the halyards, and rapid preparations commenced on the beach. Amid all this activity, Isak Rueben stared at Gilbert and Tabby—staring back.

“You hurt bad?” Gilbert finally asked.

Isak flapped his arm. “Naw. Nary a scratch in the fightin’. Stayed out of it, mostly. I ain’t no good with no sword, an’ I loaned my rifle to Clark. He got killed, though. I got this while I was dumpin’ a load. Grabbed a burnt tree, squatted back, an’ snap! Tree broke, an’ I fell an’ poked myself on another one. Think they’ll gimme a medal?”

Gilbert shook his head with a concentrated frown, just as he always had, but his time without Isak had wrought subtle changes. Where before, the dry banter might continue endlessly, neither of them truly recognizing the humor, this time something in Gilbert’s expression cracked. Tabby watched with blinking eyes as the crack turned into a grin, and something like an indignant skuggik’s call escaped his lips.

“You laughin’ at me?” Isak asked, astonished, while Gilbert’s unaccustomed sounds became a recognizable cackle.

“Yeah . . . I am!” Gilbert replied, and he and Tabby both exploded into uncontrolled hilarity. Isak shook his head, eyes wide. For a moment he wondered if his friends had been filching torpedo alcohol, but the way they were laughing, barely able to breathe . . . he saw the stunned expressions or blinking of those standing near, and the absurdity of it all: his wound, his and Gilbert’s seclusion, the stagnant, cloistered life they’d led, struck him like a blow. He’d enjoyed being off the ship and doing something else for a change. He’d even made a few friends, sort of. Evidently the separation had been good for them all. Without really realizing it, at some point he’d begun laughing too. Tears streaked his face as he gave himself over to whatever possessed the others, and he didn’t know if they were tears of mirth or despair.

Seaman Fred Reynolds sat on the uncomfortable chair in
Walker
’s radio room. He had the midwatch radio watch until 0400, and was almost out of his mind with boredom. The earphones emitted only a steady, uninterrupted hum as he monitored the guard frequency listening for . . . nothing. Something was obviously wrong with the PBY’s transmitter in Baalkpan. Clancy said it might have been bombed! But the captain had decreed that somebody continue to monitor their own receivers, just in case, and tap out, “We are coming,” at least four times every watch. Clancy was the only radioman aboard and couldn’t do it all the time, so the tedious chore fell to just about everyone on a rotation basis.

Reynolds had lied to join the Navy—twice, actually. He’d known no one would believe he was eighteen, so he claimed to be seventeen and forged his parents’ permission. He’d still been surprised his stunt was successful, since he’d been only fifteen at the time, and probably looked twelve. Now, actually seventeen at last, he was probably the only human on
Walker
still listed as “seaman,” since he hadn’t struck for anything. He just couldn’t decide. He’d become a good bridge talker, and he liked that okay, but anybody was supposed to be able to do that. The exec said he’d probably be an ensign soon, if he’d just pick something and learn to do it well. He’d thought about striking for ordnance, but he wasn’t very big. Any thought he’d had about striking for radioman or signalman was losing its appeal. Maybe navigation? It was time to make a decision.

He leaned back in the chair, considering, his eyes sweeping across the clock on the bulkhead. It was time. Sighing, he shifted forward and tapped out the string of memorized dots and dashes. He began to lean back again when he almost lost his eardrums to the intensity of the unexpected reply. Tossing the headset down, he dashed through the hatch to get Clancy.

Matt stared at the vague shape of the message form in his hand with mingled relief and concern. Keje arrived on the bridge, followed by Adar and Shinya. Dowden brought up the rear, escorting a still-drowsy O’Casey. The dim red light in the pilothouse provided barely enough illumination for the watch to move about, and the starboard wing where Matt waited was almost totally dark, a heavy overcast blotting out the stars. “We’ve finally heard from Baalkpan,” he announced without preamble, with a touch of irony. They’d be there in a few hours.

“That is good news,” Adar said.

“Very good,” Matt agreed. “Mr. Riggs constructed a broadband spark-gap transmitter pretty quickly evidently, but he couldn’t power it. The batteries are going to take longer than he thought. Trouble making sulfuric acid. Anyway,
Mahan
finally came crawling in yesterday, and they used her generators.”

They didn’t like the sound of that. “What happened to her, and why did Mr. Ellis disobey you?” asked Keje.

Matt told them about
Donaghey
’s fight, and how Queen Maraan and Pete Alden got left behind. It all made sense now; with
Donaghey
under repair, and the other frigates incomplete,
Mahan
was the only ship that could have pulled off the rescue against cannon-armed Grik. But it had been a terrible risk. It hadn’t gone all her way, either. Baalkpan already knew the Grik were coming;
Mahan
had run the gauntlet of their fleet. She’d expended most of her remaining ammunition and destroyed as many of their cannon-armed ships as she could, but she’d been severely punished in return. Matt had it on good authority now: the crude Grik shot could indeed punch through his old ships’ rusty sides at point-blank range.

“Was she badly damaged?”

“She had some casualties—hard not to, as packed as she was, and she lost a boiler. Good thing the wind’s in the enemy’s teeth, or they might’ve caught her.”

“And Queen Maraan? Aal-den?” Adar asked urgently.

“Safe. They lost Haakar-Faask, it seems, but no details.”

“Most unfortunate,” Keje rumbled. “I did not know him well, but he had great honor. I trust his end was noteworthy.” He hesitated. “Have you told Chack?”

Keje approved of Chack and Safir Maraan’s relationship, but he also wanted happiness for his daughter, Selass. It was a tough situation, but one Selass had brought on herself, as far as he was concerned.

“Yeah, I expect he’s in the firerooms now, pestering them to step on it.”

“What of
Amagi
?” Shinya asked, carefully neutral.

Matt looked at the Japanese officer. Shinya had been given considerable time to resolve his inner turmoil concerning
Amagi
, maybe too much time. Now he must quickly decide where he stood. The luxury of time for contemplation was over for all of them. Matt felt a pang of guilt, however. He’d read only
most
of Kaufman’s message to his assembled officers, and suggested Kaufman might have subverted a single sailor to let him send it—which might be the case. He’d deliberately withheld the possibility that there might be widespread contention aboard the Japanese ship. It would only make the issue more difficult for Shinya, and if
Amagi
attacked anyway, it wouldn’t make any difference.

“Jim didn’t see her, so she hadn’t sailed with the enemy vanguard, at least.”

“Oh four hundred, Skipper,” Dowden interrupted.

“Very well. Sound general quarters.”

The alarm reverberated through the ship, and the relative peace was shattered by frantic activity. Most of the crew was already up, anticipating the daily ritual and eating breakfast, so there was literally no delay before Campeti and his fire-control team scampered up the ladder behind them, and Silva—and now the Bosun too—began loudly exhorting their divisions. Even in the dim light, Matt saw that O’Casey was impressed by the discipline.

“That leaves us with you, Mr. Sean O’Casey . . . if that’s really your name. You didn’t seem as pleased by the prospect of ‘rescue’ as the young lady did. Is there some reason you don’t want this Jenks to find you?”

“Ye . . . might say that.”

“Well. The last thing we want right now is war with your people—the war we already have is quite sufficient! But if Jenks is as big a jerk as the Bosun says, we’re liable to have one if you don’t tell me what I want to know. They’re obviously looking for you, or more probably the girl, and they’ve gone to extraordinary lengths to do so. Each of those ‘rescue’ ships might have suffered the same fate as yours. That’s a hell of a risk to take on such slim odds, and I have to know why. Is Jenks a threat? Now, you may not believe it, but this single ship, battered as she is, could slaughter his entire squadron without working up a sweat.” He glanced at the others and shook the message form. “Hell, according to this,
Donaghey
’s repairs are complete and the new frigates
Kas
-
Ra
-
Ar
and
Tolson
will join her and the guard ship,
Big Sal
, currently on duty.” Keje formed a predatory grin. If plans had gone apace, his Home,
Salissa
, had become even more formidable during their absence. “Jenks can hurt my frigates, and it’d probably be a hell of a fight, but based on Gray’s estimates I’m confident they can take him. So, do I send those frigates after him, or keep them here, where we really need them?”

O’Casey slumped. “All right. I may be on the run, but I’m no traitor—although Captain Jenks might disagree. I’ve told ye nothing of the location of our homeland, an’ won’t, because that’s been pounded into us since birth: safety from secrecy. Aye, ’tis a tradition passed down from our ancestors who first came to this world. They knew of the Grik, and the Ape Folk, as they called them, but assumed that eventually the first would conquer the second, an’ they didna want anyone knowin’ where ta find us. They set a colony on some secluded islands in the middle o’ the Pacific, what the Ape Folk—Lemurians—call the Eastern Sea. Over the last two-hundred-odd years, their colony’s grown into an empire, the ‘Empire of New Britain Isles,’ an’ now includes many islands, as well as larger lands. It’s become prosperous an’ powerful but, over time, tyrannical as well. The governor-emperor is a good, kindly man, as have been most of his predecessors, but the company has supplanted the Court of Proprietors an’ the Court of Directors to such a degree, he has little power now.”

“The ‘company’?” Shinya asked.

“Aye, the Honorable New Britain Company,” O’Casey answered with a sneer. “They’ve won their power on fear o’ the threats surroundin’ us, and kept it by suppressing the lower classes—descendants of lascars and transportees—that gave them power in the first place, in the Court of Directors—like the old House of Commons—who then cemented it in the Court of Proprietors—like the old House of Lords.” He paused, a wry smile on his face. “Ye see, I know me pre-Passage history well, though they suppress that too, now. Because I object to the current system, I’m a traitor, a subversive, as far as they’re concerned, but in fact, I’m a patriot who supports the governor-emperor wi’ all my heart. I’m a soldier, sailor, and an engineer . . . but I also led a wee mutiny, ye see, an’ when it was crushed—not enough arms!—I took ship for the western colonies, the ‘buffer zone.’ I didna think they’d find me there.” He paused, apparently considering whether to go on.

“When we were wrecked, I saw the girl! I couldna believe she was aboard! She’d kept to her cabin, I suppose, an’ I never, ever knew it. But don’t ye see? Savin’ the girl proves me word! She’s a darlin’ creature, an’ I like ta think I’d’a tried ta save her regardless, but would a true traitor ha’ done so, she bein’ who she is?”

The sky was beginning to brighten aft, and there was enough light in the pilothouse to see Captain Reddy blink. “Who is she?” he grated, although he’d already begun to suspect. How much more complicated could their situation become?

O’Casey confirmed his fears. “Why, she’s the governor-emperor’s daughter, of course!”

Matt took a deep breath. “And this Jenks, he’s a ‘company’ man?”

“Nay, he’s Imperial Navy through and through, but he follows orders,” O’Casey said.

“Issued by a company-controlled admiralty, I shouldn’t wonder,” Courtney Bradford grumped. Matt hadn’t even noticed him join them, and he wondered if he’d heard it all.

“So,” Dowden spoke thoughtfully, “is he actually here to rescue her, or to make sure she’s gone for good?”