Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4 -

EPILOGUE

Teaser chapter

ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
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First Printing, October 2008

Copyright © Taylor Anderson, 2008

All rights reserved

Photo of the author taken on the Battleship Texas (BB-35) State Historic Site—3527 Battleground Rd., La Porte, Texas 77571, with the permission of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Dept.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Anderson, Taylor.

Crusade : Destroyermen, book II / Taylor Anderson. p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-440-64066-7

1. World War, 1939-1945—Fiction. 2. Time travel—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3601.N5475C’.6—c22 2008012553

PROLOGUE

Tsalka, Imperial Regent-Consort and Sire of all India, lounged on his padded, saddlelike throne. The throne was raised upon a triangular platform in the center of a vast oval-shaped stone chamber. An arched ceiling left most of the chamber in shadow for much of the day, and flowering ivies transplanted from the dark jungle floor all. Only above the throne was there always sunlight. It beamed through a large, ingeniously mirrored opening in the center of the ceiling, and the warm, sensuous rays caressed and illuminated the regent with their favor.

Tsalka idly stroked a small, squirming miniature of himself as it chewed on his long finger-claw. Its sharp teeth were like little needles and its claws and flailing tail tickled his palm. A basket of its nest-mates wobbled near the throne. The tiny mewling growls of the occupants struggling with one another provided amusing distraction from thoughts of the disquieting interview he expected. Word had already reached him that a hunting-pack had been thwarted in some way and he awaited details. Details he might have to convey to the Celestial Mother herself. The first reports hinted that the pack had fallen prey and, deep down, a predatory quickening stirred.

He shouldn’t have cared less, on a personal level. He was of the Hij, the elevated, and the primordial impulses no longer held sway. He was one of the few who, through birth and achievement, were allowed to advance beyond the Uul, or warrior/worker stage of life. Not many did, and he had few peers. It was from the Hij alone that the Celestial Mother and her sisters took their consorts and provided a gentle stream of hatchlings that might one day gain the awareness to aspire to elevation themselves. Some became engineers and shipwrights. Others became generals, planners, navigators, or scribes. Still others oversaw the making of arms. Some few, like him, became administrators and viceroys of conquered lands. All were ancient by the standards of the Grik. Tsalka was close to forty and a few Hij even labored to the impossible age of sixty or more.

That was the blessing—to continue to exist and achieve a level of awareness the Uul could never fathom. It was necessary that some should do so, and the responsibility for guiding the Uul and shaping a world for them to enjoy was immense. That was also the curse. The Hij could no longer surrender themselves to the joy of the hunt and the ecstasy of battle. Theirs was the role of organizer—gamekeeper, if you will—and they paid for their elevation by stepping aside to let their charges have all the fun. Sometimes, the burden of the curse was heavy indeed.

The philosophy of the Grik was simple: the Great Hunt was the justification for all existence—to chase prey and devour it, ultimately across the world. One is either predator or prey. Only the predator survives and thrives and it must always hunt. Other predators may join the Great Hunt, but if they refuse, they are prey. Worthy Prey perhaps, but still prey. There are no old Grik, besides the Hij. When they slow down, they become prey and are killed by their young. And so it had ever been.

Because of the blessed abundance of prey upon the world, there had also been an exciting variety of predators. Some were merely animals, but others were quite cunning. Grik histoy. Wy Prey, are they not?”

Tsalka snorted noncommittally. “Perhaps, but I have never spoken to any prey—regardless how worthy it might be.”

Esshk replied with a hint of humor. “I beg to differ! Did you not just speak to Righ? Was he not made prey? Besides, what is the difference between Worthy Prey and our very pack-mates? One has joined the Hunt; one has not. That is all.”

Tsalka regarded the general with keen speculation. “You’re a philosopher, General Esshk. I have long thought it so. No wonder you’re so popular at court. But that is . . . a dangerous thought. I urge you to keep it to yourself.”

They were startled when the filthy, talking prey suddenly made a strangled cry and flailed madly against its restraints. In its weakened condition, it was quickly reduced to a sobbing, sagging shell; until then, it at least showed some courage. They realized it was the sight of the New Hunters that upset it.

“Well!” hissed Tsalka, pleased. “It must know the New Hunters after all! It reacted as prey to its natural enemy! Fascinating!” He paced to the edge of the balcony, clasping his hands behind his back, tail swishing speculatively. The Grik vessels looked tiny compared to the massive, dark gray ship the New Hunters called their home. It was nearly as large as one of the ridiculous Homes of the Tree Prey. Only this ship was iron, he was told, and bristled with huge, magic weapons. He wondered what its flag signified—the curious white flag with bloodred streaks radiating outward from the center.

“What do they call it?” asked the general.

“Hmm? Oh, the ship? I’m told it is called Amagi . . . whatever that means!” They both hissed amusement.

CHAPTER 1

The morning general quarters alarm woke Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, and he automatically reached for the little chain beside his sweat-soaked bunk and pulled it. The cramped stateroom was bathed in a harsh white light as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Awareness came quickly, not instantly. He always took a mome to get his bearings when he’d been having the Dream, and he’d been right in the middle of it. The same one. It came almost every night and he knew it at the time, almost consciously, but he could never remember it when he woke. He just knew he’d had it again. Even while he dreamed, his subconscious seemed to blot out each sequence of events as soon as they occurred so he was aware only of what was happening at that very moment and, of course, the crippling dread of . . . something he knew was yet to come. Sometimes, like now, if he was disturbed before the Dream reached its horrible, inevitable conclusion, he’d carry a sense of it with him for a while. But, as usual, details vanished as soon as he opened his eyes, like roaches when the lights came on. Even now, the last vestiges of . . . whatever the Dream was diminished like a wisp of smoke in a gale. All he really knew for sure was that the Squall was involved. The Squall that had somehow delivered them from destruction at the hands of the Japanese, but only by marooning them in this twisted, alternate . . . alien world. A world geographically little different from the one they knew, but utterly different in every other conceivable way.

For a while he sat there, struggling to classify the dark, lingering emotional perceptions and taking inventory of the things he knew. They were under way; he could feel the vibration of the warm, dank deck beneath his bare feet. The unusual strain he perceived in the fibers of the ship indicated the “prize” was still under tow. Th determination to help their friends resist the Grik beyond even their earlier determination to resist the Japanese. After all, the Japanese—hated as they were—didn’t eat those they conquered. With the discovery of a human skull on the Grik ship, a skull that could have come only from Mahan, the war against the Grik became an American war as much as a Lemurian one. That they were the only Americans around, besides those they hoped still survived aboard Mahan, was immaterial. Walker would lead the struggle. The weary iron ship and her tired iron crew would drag the Lemurians out of the Bronze Age and build an army and whatever else was needed to take the fight to the enemy. Some progress had already been made, but much more would be required before they were ready to begin the crusade Matt had in mind.

He dressed quickly and pushed aside the pea green curtain that separated his stateroom from the short passageway through “officers’ country” between the wardroom and the companionway to the deck above. As he strode to the ladder, he almost collided with Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker as she emerged from her quarters, headed for her battle station in the wardroom/surgery. They maneuvered around each other in the confined space, each aware of the electric response that proximity aroused between them. Sandra was short, barely coming to Matt’s chin, but even with her sandy brown hair wrapped in a somewhat disheveled bun and her own eyes still puffy with sleep, she was the prettiest woman Matt had ever seen. Not beautiful, but pretty in a wholesome, practical, heart-melting way.

Sandra and five other Navy nurses had come aboard as refugees before Walker, Mahan, and three other ships abandoned Surabaya with the Japanese on their heels after the disastrous Battle of the Java Sea. In the running fight that followed, the British cruiser Exeter and the destroyers HMS Encounter and USS Pope were sunk by the remorselessly pursuing enemy, leaving Walker and Mahan to face Amagi—and the Squall—alone. In the frenzied action with the battle cruiser, the two destroyers were mauled, but they’d put at least two torpedoes into Amagi and when they came through the Squall, she was gone. They hoped they’d sunk her. Also gone, however, were half of Mahan’s crew and a quarter of Walker’s—including one of the nurses, killed in action.

Three of the surviving nurses went aboard Mahan to care for her many wounded and so, like the ship, they were lost to them. Only Sandra Tucker and Karen Theimer remained—on a ship full of rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyermen. So far, there’d been few problems, other than a mysterious altercation between some of Matt’s junior officers over Nurse Theimer’s affections, but Matt and Sandra had both early recognd he had to restrain a powerful urge to embrace her. Instead, he merely smiled.

“Morning, Lieutenant.”

“Good morning, Captain,” she replied, her face darkening slightly.

As quick as that, the moment was past, but Matt had a springier step as he trotted up the companionway stairs to the exposed deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge above.

“Captain on the bridge!” cried Lieutenant Garrett, the tall gunnery officer. He had the deck.

“As you were. Status?”

“Reports are still coming in, but we’re under time.”

Matt nodded and went to his chair, bolted to the forward part of the starboard side of the pilothouse. Sitting, he stared out at the blackness of the lingering, moonless night.

“All stations report manned and ready,” announced the bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds. His voice cracked. The seaman was so young-looking that Matt suspected puberty was to blame. He glanced at his watch in the dim reddish light. 0422.

“Not the best time, Mr. Garrett, but not the worst by a long shot.”

“No, sir.” In spite of the fact the Japanese were no longer a threat, it had become clear that other threats were still very real. Because of that, Matt insisted they maintain all wartime procedures, including predawn battle stations. It was during that time when the sky began to gray but the sea remained black that ships were most vulnerable to submarines, because the ship was silhouetted but the sub’s periscope was invisible. Matt wasn’t afraid of submarines, but there were other, even more terrifying things in the sea and it was always best to be prepared. Besides, even as the men groused and complained, it was a comforting routine and a clear sign that discipline would be maintained, regardless of their circumstances.

Slowly, the gray light came and lookouts, mostly Lemurian “cadets” because of their keen eyesight, scanned the sea from each bridgewing and the iron bucket “crow’s nest” halfway up the tall, skinny mast behind the bridge. As time passed, there were no cries of alarm. Ahead, on the horizon, like a jagged line of stubborn night, rose the coast of Borneo—called “Borno” by the natives—and at their present pace they should raise Balikpapan—“Baalkpan”—by early afternoon. Astern, at the end of the tow-cable, the Grik ship they’d captured began to take shape. She was dismasted, but the red-painted hull still clearly reflected the shape of the long-ago-captured British East Indiaman she was patterned after. Bluff bow, elevated quarterdeck, three masts, and a bowsprit that had all gone by the board in the fighting. Just looking at her, Matt felt his skin crawl.

The fight when they took her was bad enough: the darkness, the shooting, the screams, and the blood. He vividly remembered the resistance he felt when he thrust his Academy sword into the throat of a ravening Grik. The exultation and the terror. Exultation that he’d stabbed it before it could rip him to shreds with its terrible teeth and claws; terror that he had only the ridiculous sword to prevent it from doing so. The first Grik he killed on the ship had been disarmed, but certainly not without weapons. They were like nothing he’d ever seen. Fuzzy, bipedal . . . lizards, with short tails and humanlike arms. But their teeth! They had the jaws of nightmare and claws much like a grizzly’s. So even though it lost its axe, he was lucky to surook h"1em">“May we come on the bridge?” came a hesitant voice from behind him. Matt turned and saw Courtney Bradford standing on the ladder with Sandra. Bradford seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist” wouldn’t have even asked. Maybe Sandra made him, Matt thought. He expected he might have seemed as though he was concentrating on something—which he was—but he was actually glad of the distraction. Bradford hadn’t been there for the fighting, but he’d arrived on the PBY flying boat the following day. Since then, he’d spent most of his time inspecting the prize. That was enough to sober anyone.

Theoretically, no one was really in charge of Courtney Bradford. Since the Australian engineer was a civilian, his status was somewhat vague and had been allowed to remain that way because he worked well without constraint. Before the Japanese attacked, he’d been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps that showed practically every major oil deposit Shell had ever found in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the same oil existed on this earth as the other, but after the success of their first well—exactly where Courtney told them to drill—they were all believers now.

“Of course. Good morning.”

“Good morning to you, I’m sure,” Bradford replied, stepping on the bridge. Sandra just smiled at him. Matt gestured through the windows at the landmass ahead, becoming more distinct.

“Almost home,” he said, with only a trace of irony.

“Indeed,” agreed Bradford, removing his battered straw hat and massaging his sweaty scalp. It was still early morning, but almost eighty degrees. Matt had noticed, however, that Courtney usually did that when he was upset or concerned. “I’ve been studying that map you gave me. The one that was apparently drawn by the Grik captain himself, not the navigational charts with all their incomprehensible references . . .” Matt nodded. Even though the Grik charts were disconcertingly easy for him to read, since much was, horrifyingly, written in English, Matt knew which map Courtney meant. It was just a drawing, really, that basically depicted the “Known World” as far as the Grik were concerned. It showed rough approximations of enemy cities and concentrations, and it also showed much of what the enemy knew of this part of the world—the part that should be the Dutch East Indies. It was much like what one would expect of a map showing “this we hold; this we want.” The farther east it went, the vaguer it became, but Java, Sumatra, and Singapore were depressingly detailed and accurate. There were also tree symbols that represented known cities of the People, and many of those had been smeared with a blot that looked like blood, symbolizing, they believed, that a battle had been fought there. Currently, there was no tree symbol at Baalkpan, but there were two others that didn’t have smears beside them. One was near Perth, Australia, and the other was at Surabaya, or “Aryaal,” as the locals there called it. The map also depicted a massive force growing near Ceylon and Singapore too, which was believed to be their most forward and tenuous outpost.

“Captain, since only Perth and Surabaya appear on the enemy map, we can only assume the next blow will fall on one or both of those places. I’d bank on Surabaya myself. I’m no strategist, but it seems to me, judging by the dispositions on the map, the Grik are planning a major of’s Mate Chack was escorting one of the ‘prisoners’ we rescued from the Grik . . . larder.” Everyone, even Matt, flinched at the memory of that. The creatures had been emaciated and, for the most part, wildly insane. “One of the prisoners was known to him, and delivering him aboard Big Sal was a highly personal act and one that, had I known he was doing it, I certainly would have approved.” He looked at Chack. “The accused pleads guilty, but under extenuating circumstances that include not only family but foreign relations.” Matt had to smile at Gray’s imaginative defense, but his own memory of the event was not amusing. The prisoner Chack escorted was none other than Saak-Fas, the mate of Keje-Fris-Ar’s daughter, Selass. He’d disappeared in battle with the Grik many months before and was considered lost. In the meantime, Selass had developed a desperate love for Chack and had expected him to answer her proposal to mate, after the battle. The scene when he returned her mad, barely living mate to her, a mate she’d never really loved, was heartrending.

“In view of the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ the first charge against Bosun’s Mate Chack-Sab-At is dismissed,” Matt declared. “Mr. Garrett? Have you anything to say on Gunner’s Mate Silva’s behalf?”

Garrett looked at the big, grinning man and took an exasperated breath. “Guilty, sir. His only defense is that some other fellas did it too.”

“Unacceptable. Mr. Dowden?”

“Uh, the next charge is that both the accused became involved in, well, a brawl, sir, and not only were they at the center of the brawl but they started it by striking one another.”

Matt sighed. “I won’t even ask who started it. I know I won’t get a straight answer. Besides, I have a pretty good idea. If I’m not very much mistaken, I expect Chack threw the first punch—”

“He pulled my tail!” Chack interrupted, seething indignantly.

“Did not! I was just holdin’ it. You did all the pullin’!”

“Silence!” Matt bellowed. “Trust me, you both would really rather keep your mouths shut and handle this my way! Silva, your unnatural and hopefully pretend ‘relationship’ with Chack’s sister, Risa, was all very shocking and amusing . . . at first. It’s now not only an embarrassment to this ship but a constant goad to Chack’s self-control. I know Risa’s as much to blame as you are. You’re two peas in a pod, personality wise, if not . . .” He shuddered. “In any event, you’ll cease tormenting Chack with the lurid details of your fictitious ‘marriage’ to his sister and you’ll definitely refrain from any more . . . overt physical demonstrations when you are together. Is that understood?”

“But, Skipper . . .”

“IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Very well. It’s pointless to dock your pay, but you’re both losing a stripe and you’re both restricted to the ship for ten days—after we make port. Silva, you’re losing another stripe for AWOL.”

“But—”

“Shut up.” Matt looked at Dowden, who cleared his throat.

“Attention to orders!” he said. Captain Reddy unfolded a piece of paper before him.

“For extreme heroism and gallantry in the face of the enemy, etc., etc.”—he looked up—“I’m sorry to you other guys, but I’m still too damn mad to get flowery. Anyway, with my deepest gratitude, I’m t and sighed heavily. “Boatswain’s Mate Chack-Sab-At and Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva. Most of you deserve it. Chack, you lose one, you gain one, so you’re back where you started—except for the restriction. Silva . . .” Matt shook his head. “You’re never going to get that first-class stripe if you don’t settle down!” Dennis shrugged philosophically and Matt looked at Campeti, who concluded the proceedings. As they walked back to the pilothouse, Matt and Dowden were rejoined by Sandra and Bradford. Both wore broad smiles. “Cut it out,” he said, almost smiling himself as he mounted the steps. At the top waited Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya of the Japanese Imperial Navy.

“Mr. Shinya,” Matt greeted him.

“Captain.” Shinya was the sole survivor of a destroyer that took a torpedo meant for Amagi. Somehow, her survivors in the water had been swept through the Squall with the American ships, but before Walker could return to rescue them, they’d been eaten by what was evidently a plesiosaur of some sort, not to mention a ravening swarm of tuna-sized fish that acted like piranhas. They called the fish “flashies” and they were everywhere, at least in the relatively shallow equatorial seas within the Malay Barrier. Shinya alone was saved because he’d been unconscious atop an overturned lifeboat. It had been the first indication to the destroyermen that they were no longer in the world they knew—the first other than the bizarre effects of the Squall itself, of course.

Since then, Shinya, who had studied in the United States, had given his parole and had become a valued member of the crew. He was an excellent swordsman, if not in the traditional Japanese style, and he was a big help to Sergeant Alden, the Marine from the doomed cruiser Houston, whom they’d also carried from Surabaya. Together, they were building an army based on historical principles the captain had suggested. Matt had realized early on that the only way they could counter the overwhelming Grik numbers was with discipline—specifically, the Roman shield wall, backed by spears and archers. At least that’s what they’d need in an open-field fight. Shinya also understood Latin, which was, amazingly, the language of the Ancient Scrolls of the ’Cats. Not because it was taught them by Romans, but because that’s the language the sailing master of the HEIC (Honorable East India Company) ship Hermione chose to teach them and communicate in.

Matt suspected the earlier visitors did it to remain as enigmatic as possible, since there was evidence they’d already encountered the Grik, even before one of their ships was taken by them. The rest of the “Tail-less Ones” of that long ago visit had sailed into the “Eastern Sea” beyond the “edge of the world” and disappeared from Lemurian history. Matt suspected they were still out there, somewhere. British Indiamen often carried passengers and deportees, so there was reason to believe they’d survived. Anyway, that’s how they first communicated with the ’Cats; Bradford and Tamatsu Shinya spoke the “Ancient Tongue” of the Lemurian Sky Priests.

Valuable as Shinya was, many of Matt’s destroyermen still hated his guts simply because he was a “Jap.” Matt respected him and trusted his honor, but even he couldn’t put Pearl Harbor—and everything that had happened since—completely out of his mind. Chief Gray openly loathed him, despite saving his life in the recent battle. Tony Scott told him something he hadn’t even known about the Bosun: his son had been on the Oklahoma when she capsized and sank to Pearl Harbor’s muddy bottom.

“Where’s Pete?” asked the captain, referring to the Marine.

“He’ll be along,” Shinya replied. Even as he spoke, Alden and Chief Gray arrived on the bridgetly just as unimaginative, but Spanky had recently learned there was more to them than met the eye.

Normally, their skins were pasty with a belowdecks pallor they worked very hard to maintain, but now their exposed skin still bore the angry red-brown tans they’d accumulated while operating the first oil rig outside of Baalkpan. A rig they designed based on a type they were intimately, if ruefully, familiar with from their years in the oil fields before they escaped that hated life and joined the Navy. Now they were back at it and not happy at all.

Matt looked back toward Borno. He thought he could just make out the mouth of Baalkpan Bay. “We’re all going to have to do things we hate, I’m afraid, before this is over.” He sighed. “It’s going to be a hell of a homecoming,” he added nervously.

As the day wore on and the crew went about their duties, Walker towed her prize ever closer to Baalkpan. The nearer they got, the more traders and fishing boats paced her advance. Opening the bay, the old destroyer steamed toward her customary berth near the shipyard and the fitting-out pier. They had been gone less than two weeks, most of that time laying their trap for the Grik scouts they engaged. The battle itself took only a day, and the return voyage took three. The people had known the outcome, however, since the very day after the fight. The radio in the precious PBY was working now, and there had been constant reports. Then the big seaplane had flown out with passengers to examine the prize. Some, like Bradford, stayed with the returning ships, but those who returned on the plane were strangely tight-lipped. No matter. The dismasted hulk trailing in Walker’s wake was sufficient proof to the populace that the expedition had been a success.

As always, Matt was struck by the sight of the large, strange, but exotically beautiful city of Baalkpan. The unusual architecture of the multistoried buildings was strikingly similar to the pagoda-like structures that rose within the tripod masts of the great floating Homes. Some reached quite respectable heights and were highly decorated and painted with bright colors. Some were simple, one-story affairs, but all were elevated twenty or more feet above the ground by multitudes of stout pilings. Chack once told him that was done in order to protect against high water and “bad land lizards.” It was also tradition, which Matt supposed was as good a reason as any. He’d never seen any creatures ashore that could threaten anyone twenty feet above the ground, but he was assured they did exist. He believed it. There was certainly plenty of bizarre fauna in this terrible, twisted world.

Among the pilings, under the massive structures, was what some would call the “real” Baalkpan. It was there, beneath the buildings themselves or colorful awnings stretched between them, that the city’s lifeblood pulsed. It was a giant, chaotic bazaar that rivaled anything Matt had seen in China, or heard of anywhere else. Little organization was evident, beyond an apparent effort to congregate the various products or services in strands, or vaguely defined ranks. From experience, Matt knew there was no law or edict that required this; it was just practicality. This way, shoppers always knew where they had to go to find what they wanted. Along the waterfront, fishmongers hawked the daily catch with an incomprehensible staccato chatter. Beyond were food vendors, and the savory smells of Lemurian cooking wafted toward them, competing with the normal harbor smells of salt water, dead fish, and rotting wood. Still farther inland were the textile makers—weavers, cloth merchants, and clothiers. Closer to the center of the city, near the massive Gallll milling near the red-hulled ship cheered louder as a cloud of steam and a deep, resonant shriek jetted from the whistle and the amazing iron ship raced upstream, raising a feather halfway up her number, smoke streaming from three of her four funnels.

“Let ’em have a good time for a while,” Matt said, his voice turning grim.

“Aryaalans!” snorted Nakja-Mur later that evening, standing on Walker ’s bridge where she was again tied to the Baalkpan docks. He hadn’t waited for Matt to report. As soon as Walker returned from fueling, he and the just-arrived Keje tromped up the gangway. “You ask me to risk everything for those unfriendly land-bound . . . heretics?” Matt and Keje had been describing the details of the battle and the capture of the enemy vessel. The account turned to the discovery of the enemy charts, or “Evil Scrolls of Death,” as Sky Priest Adar insisted they be called. That led to their theory of an impending Grik attack on the people of Surabaya: “Aryaalans,” as they called themselves. Chack was present to interpret, but so far, between Keje, Nakja-Mur’s rapid advancement in English, and Matt’s slowly growing proficiency in Lemurian, he hadn’t been needed.

Matt sighed. “With respect, my lord, it’s essential we go to their aid if they’re attacked.”

“But why? Let them fend for themselves, as do we. They were invited to the last gathering and they chose—as always—not to dampen themselves with the company of sea folk!”

Matt was tempted to point out that Nakja-Mur was, however sensible, the very definition of a landsman. But to be fair, the People of Baalkpan were every bit as sea-oriented as the people of Old Nantucket ever were. They built and repaired ships and they dealt in the products of the sea’s capricious bounty. Their livelihood was entirely centered around maritime toil and commerce. Whereas the Surabayans were . . .

“Just what the hell is it about them you don’t like?” Matt asked in frustration.

“They . . . they are heretics!” Nakja-Mur proclaimed.

“Why?”

Nakja-Mur shifted uncomfortably and paced out on the port bridgewing. Matt and Keje followed him there, and Larry Dowden joined them. There was a reduced watch on the bridge since they weren’t under way, but a torpedoman had been tinkering with the director connections. Matt motioned for him to leave them and the man quickly gathered his tools and departed.

“Why?” Matt asked again.

“Perhaps you should ask Adar.”

“I can’t. He and Bradford ran off to study together as soon as we rigged the gangway. Who knows where. Besides, I have to ask you because you’re the one whose opinion really matters, in the long run, and we have decisions to make . . . you have decisions to make. I know, traditionally all ‘High Chiefs’ are equals here, but surely you know that in reality you’re a little more ‘equal’ than the others? You have the largest force and Baalkpan’s the most populous city this side of Manila—and it’s on your industry we all depend.”

Nakja-Mur grunted, but his tone wasn’t unfriendly. “I have heard it said you’re the most ‘equal’ among us, because of this ship.” He patted the rail under his hand.

Matt shook his head. “Untrue. Without you and Baalkpan, this ship would most likely be a powerless, lifeless hulk on a beach so, bound together, but as great as that combined strength might be, it’s not enough and it’ll be even less if Surabaya falls. We need those people on our side—not filling Grik bellies!”

Nakja-Mur recoiled as if slapped, but then nodded. “The Aryaalans are fierce warriors,” he conceded, “but they do not revere the heavens.

They may worship feces for all I know, but the sky is not sacred. When Siska-Ta went to them to teach the wisdom of the Scrolls, she was cast out and nearly slain.” He made a very human shrug. “They are heathens, but their religion is unimportant to me. We are not intolerant of the beliefs of others. Many folk of other lands—even some upon the sea—do not believe as we do and yet we remain friends. Did we not befriend you and your people?” he asked.

Matt didn’t point out the probability that they thought then—and probably still did—that the destroyermen had very similar beliefs to their own, and he remembered the scene Adar made in Walker’s pilothouse over the charts displayed there. He’d thought they mocked him with apostasy at the time, since the Ancient Scrolls or charts of the Sky Priests are not just maps but holy relics on which are woven the tapestry of Lemurian history in the words of the Ancient Tongue—Latin. Their religion is not based on the Scrolls, but they’ve become integral supplements—along with a few twisted Christian concepts that may have been passed inadvertently by the previous “Tail-less Ones” almost two centuries before. Matt had picked up a little Lemurian theology and, although it was fundamentally a form of Sun worship, he knew the heavens—and the stars in particular—represented far more than simple navigational aids. Since that first awkward moment, religion had not been much of an issue and he’d concentrated on other things. Maybe he needed to bone up. He would talk to Bradford.

“What confirms the depravity of the Aryaalans, however,” Nakja-Mur continued, “is that they often war among themselves! They are constantly at war, one faction against another, and they often repel visitors with violence. I cannot help but wonder, even if we aid them, will they not simply turn on us as yet another enemy?”

“We have to try.”

“Perhaps. But it will take another meeting, I suppose, and you will have to be very convincing.”

“Sure,” said Matt. “We’ll have another meeting. We need one, bigger than before. But that’s beside the point. Have you boarded the Grik ship yet? Spoken to any of the survivors?” Nakja-Mur shook his head. “You need to do that. Then you’ll understand. This is a fight to the death. To the end. Total war and no more goofing around. Even if you could flee, like the sea Homes can, they’ll catch you eventually because that’s what they do.” Matt paused. “You told me before we left on the last expedition to find out what we could, that you’d do anything to keep the Grik away. Did you mean that?”

“Of course!”

“Well, then, if we’re not going to fight them here, we’ll have to fight them somewhere else. Let’s do it where we might have some help.”

The gathering in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall was even larger than when they’d debated the previous expedition. This time the massive structure was nearly packed. Those present weren’t just the High Chiefs of the Homes in the bay either, but their advisors, Sky Priests and senior war leaders as well. Alden, Shinya, along with their Marine and Guard officers and senior NCOs, represented Baalkpan’s armed forces. As predicted, some sea Homes left, althouf the now “veteran” Marines who’d participated in the bloody boarding action stayed busy drilling everyone on the new, larger parade ground that used to be jungle. There was no more complaining, and even the warriors from the Homes in the bay rotated ashore for drill. And in the harbor, the unpleasant, unwanted task of refitting the Grik ship progressed.

Matt wasn’t entirely clear about Lemurian funeral conventions, but he knew they preferred to be burned so their life force, or soul, could be carried to the heavens with the rising smoke. There, they would rejoin in the firmament those who’d gone before. He wasn’t sure if the People believed they became stars after death, or if the stars guided their journeys there much as they did below. Maybe a little of both. It was clear to him, however, that the ’Cats would really have preferred to just burn the thing that they believed still held the souls of Lemurians who’d been tortured and eaten by the enemy. He tried to explain that if all went well, the Grik ship would soon become the second-fastest gun platform in the world. Much as he’d have liked to defer to their cultural preferences, they didn’t have time to build another ship of the type. They would start some, certainly, and incorporate many refinements, but for now he was going to need that ship.

The People were aware of the advantages. They knew how fast and maneuverable the enemy ships were, compared to their own lumbering Homes. The idea of arming such a ship with cannon appealed to them as well. They just didn’t want to use that ship. It was the one instance where Captain Reddy’s military plans were met with real resistance. He sympathized, but he wouldn’t bend. The crisis was finally solved by Adar, who argued that the trapped souls would surely welcome the chance for revenge, and using the tool of their own murderers to help claim that vengeance would make achieving it all the more sweet. They would clean it out and give it a name. They would re-rig and repair the damage it had suffered, but unlike Walker, or Big Sal, or, hopefully, Mahan, it would never, could never truly be a live thing.

Matt was grateful for Adar’s assistance. He hadn’t been sure which side of the argument the Sky Priest would take. Nakja-Mur’s aged Sky Priest, Naga, had begun to defer more and more to Adar in matters of “belligerent spiritual guidance.” Big Sal’s “head witch doctor,” as he was sometimes affectionately called by some Americans, had almost visibly swelled in importance and prestige. He didn’t flaunt it, and he certainly didn’t abuse the power, but he did have greater influence than ever before. His approval had been key. In word and deed, Adar had become the most outspoken advocate of this “total war” no matter what it took. He’d taken to heart his vow not to rest until the Grik were destroyed. At Adar’s urging, in spite of their distaste, gangs of workers dutifully, if uncomfortably, toiled on the Grik ship, getting it ready for sea.

Light streamed through the Great Hall’s open shutters and motes of dust drifted in the beams. Loud voices and shouted conversations carried on around Matt, Lieutenant Mallory, Courtney Bradford, Alan Letts, and Sandra Tucker, where they stood beside Nakja-Mur and his entourage, as well as Keje and Adar. Nakja-Mur stood, obese but powerful, dressed in his usual red kilt and gold-embroidered cloak that contrasted with his shiny dark fur. Fur with growing splashes of white. Matt thought of it as his “High Chief suit,” since he’d always dressed thus when Matt saw him. Adar’s purple robe with embroidered stars across the shoulders was an equally constant garment. The hood was thrown back, revealing his almost silver pelt and piercing gray eyes. Matt’s friend Keje was dressed in a warlike manner, as Matt had first seen him after Walker nd, by so doing, joined them in this terrible war. His armor consisted of engraved copper plates fastened to the tough hide of a plesiosaur they called “gri-kakka.” At his side was a short, scimitar-shaped hacking sword called a skota, and cradled in his arm was a copper helmet, adorned with the striated tail plumage of a Grik. He also wore a red cloak fastened at his throat by interlocked Grik hind claws. Beneath the armor, as protection from chafing, he wore a blue tunic embroidered with fanciful designs. Other than the Americans, he wore the only “shirt” in the hall. All the ’Cats the destroyermen had met seemed to wear as little as they could manage, usually just a light kilt. Even the females went disconcertingly topless, and their very human, albeit furry, breasts were a constant distraction for the sex-starved destroyermen.

Large-scale addresses were rare among the People, and there was no way to speak directly to such a gathering from within its midst. Therefore, an elevated platform, or stage, had been constructed near the center of the hall where the Great Tree rose through the floor and soared high overhead to pass through the ceiling. Matt had seen the huge Galla tree many times now, but he was always amazed by its size and by the fact that he’d seen only one other like it. The one growing from the heart of Big Sal. He supposed other Homes had similar trees, and he wondered again if it was possible they were descendants of the trees the Lemurians had known in their ancient home.

The crowd was growing restless, anxious.

At a nod from Nakja-Mur, he stepped onto the stage. Immediately there was a respectful silence in the Great Hall—a much different reception than the last time he’d spoken to this assembly. Of course, he’d given them a “victory” since then—such as it was. He paced the small platform for a moment, staring at the upturned faces while Chack joined him to interpret. Many of those present had actually learned a smattering of English, but Matt hadn’t yet acquired a conversational ability in their tongue and he was slightly embarrassed by that. He’d always thought he was pretty good with languages, but there was something about the strange, yowling words of the People that absolutely defeated him. Bradford, Letts, and even Sandra could jabber away like natives—at least as far as he could tell—but he was just as likely to insult somebody as to tell them it was a temperate day. Maybe it was a mental block, or his mind was too busy. Whatever the reason, he was glad Chack was there.

He gestured at Lieutenant Mallory. “My friends,” he began, “as you know, the flying-boat has returned from its scout in the south.” He paused. He’d hated sending the PBY and its crew off by themselves, but Bradford and the Mice had managed to refine a small amount of high-octane gasoline. They had done it somehow using salt water, of all things. Also, since Riggs had the plane’s radio working, they’d never been out of contact. Ben flew under orders to avoid being seen at all costs, so he didn’t have a firm count of the number of enemy ships that invested Surabaya. The only thing he could verify was that the lizards were definitely there. All the air crew could see from ten miles away and an altitude of 13,000 feet—a distance that should have muted the Catalina’s loud engines—was “lots of ships.” Unrealistically, Matt had hoped Mallory would spot Mahan—even though he had instructed him not to specifically look for her. Judging by how long he was gone and how much fuel he’d used, the Air Corps aviator must have covered as much ocean as he could anyway. There’d been no sign. “What Lieutenant Mallory and his companions have reported confirms our fears,” Captain Reddy resumed. “Aryaal is under siege.” He waited for a moment while the tumult died down. “I must ptime, many minutes passed before he was able to speak again. There were a few shouts of agreement, but many more cries of incredulous protest. The initial response degenerated into a general roar of discussion and debate. “We have no choice!” he shouted over the hubbub. “If the enemy establishes a permanent base as near as that, Baalkpan is doomed!” He picked out a small gathering of High Chiefs and fixed them with his eyes. “Many of you can just leave. Your Homes aren’t tied to the land. But if Baalkpan falls, what then? Where will you replenish stores? With whom will you trade? Who’ll repair your Homes? I know there are other lands that will serve that purpose for a time, but how long will it be before they too are lost? If we don’t stop them now, one day all that will remain of the People will be scattered clans, alone on the sea, without sanctuary and without hope.”

“We have no hope now!” snarled Anai-Sa, Fristar’s High Chief. “We should flee. We’ve seen the charts you took, many of us, and the Grik are as many as the stars above.”

“We must not flee!” Adar bellowed, joining Matt on the stage. The intensity of his glare caused many to flinch. “I was in the belly of the Grik ship not long after its capture. I have spoken to the ‘survivors,’ though such a word mocks them! I have seen the perverted way the Grik twist our faith and use it against us. Speak not of flight! Any who would flee in the face of this scourge is aiding it! They are not only cowards but traitors to their people!” There were shouts of dissent, but some loudly agreed. Anai-Sa brooded in silence.

“Much has happened since we last met like this,” Matt continued when the uproar began to fade. “Since then we’ve accomplished much, in spite of the doubts of some. Most importantly, we’ve won our first real victory over the enemy. I don’t speak of simply destroying their ships. That’s been done before. Besides, I agree it’s now plain that such small victories are pointless in the face of the numbers the enemy possesses. What we’ve won is priceless intelligence!” He smiled. “We’re no longer as ‘ignorant’ as we were before, and so we can begin to plan for greater victories. Victories that will make a difference. The first such victory should be the relief of Aryaal.”

“How can it benefit us to spill our blood for them?” asked Kas-Ra-Ar, Keje’s cousin. The question wasn’t confrontational, but genuinely curious. “The Aryaalans have never helped us before.”

“If we save them from the fate that awaits them in the Grik hulls, I bet they will then,” Matt answered simply. “Don’t you see? The Grik are through ‘probing.’ This is for all the marbles—I mean . . . polta fruit!” He grimaced, wondering how well that would translate. “They’ve taken Singapore, destroyed Tjilatjap . . . possibly others. Now they threaten Surabaya—Aryaal. This is it! The conquest you’ve feared since you fled them the last time so very long ago!” He blinked appropriately to convey frustration and anger. “Well, I say this time we stop them! This time we throw their asses back!” He stopped and took a breath, wishing he had some water. He was sweating and he knew he was allowing his own frustration over the litany of events that had brought his ship and her people to this moment to color his argument.

Once again, the long retreat in the face of the Japanese was fresh upon him. The terrifying escape from the Philippines, the lopsided battle of the Java Sea, the doomed retreat from Surabaya and the death of Exeter and Pope and all the others haunted him anew. The fate of Mahan, and the horrors he’d seen in the Grik hold. Not to mention the enigmatic human skull. At that moment, emotionally, it all became one. The Grik had become an arguably far more terrible, but just as youar effort.) There was also the touchy religious angle, which they rightly figured the Baalkpan High Chief could smooth out more easily—with his own people anyway—than either of them could.

Mainly, though, Matt and Keje wanted Baalkpan to have a real piece of the naval war. Most of the landing force were Baalkpans, and most of their supplies came from there. Baalkpan truly was the “arsenal” of the alliance. Despite that, there was no great floating presence that represented Baalkpan in the order of battle, and the way such things were reckoned by their quintessentially seagoing race, the greater share of honor fell to those whose very homes went in harm’s way. Revenge more than satisfied that requirement of honor, since the plan called for her, the physical representative of Baalkpan, to be first in battle and perhaps even the key to the campaign’s success.

Matt turned to stare back at the bulk of the fleet. Five of the “flat-top”-sized Homes lumbered slowly in their wake, screened by forty of the largest feluccas in Baalkpan’s fishing fleet. Somehow, they’d managed to arm them all to some degree. The feluccas each carried at least one of the huge crossbow-type weapons that had usually been associated with the main armaments of Homes. In fact, most had come from the Homes. A few of the feluccas even carried small swivel guns that Letts thought to cast as antipersonnel weapons. The Homes—Big Sal, Humfra-Dar, Aracca, Nerracca, and sulky Fristar—were now each armed with ten of the larger guns like Big Sal had used to such effect off Celebes. Matt still couldn’t believe Letts had pulled that off. He was proud of the former supply officer, who’d become the greatest logistics asset on the planet.

He smiled wryly at the argument Letts put up when he was told he’d worked himself out of a job and was too essential to the war effort to go on the expedition. He, along with a disconsolate Sergeant Alden, would command the Baalkpan defenses at Nakja-Mur’s side and continue the good work. Together they would supervise the construction of fortifications and gun emplacements for the shore batteries and mortars that the foundry had turned to once the ships were armed.

The cannons had been an extraordinary achievement, but they had taken time, as had the other preparations necessary to mount the campaign. Two agonizing months had passed—had it been only six months since they passed through the Squall?—and Mallory’s weekly reconnaissance flights showed that Aryaal still held, although the noose was tightening. He had also gotten a better idea of the forces involved. Thirty Grik ships, representing who knew how many thousands of invaders, were squeezing Aryaal now. A battle had been under way every time Ben flew.

Against that, the Allied Expeditionary Force carried six thousand warriors and Marines. That constituted almost half of Baalkpan’s entire defensive force, male and female. Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to that. Instead of crying and waving good-bye from the pier, Lemurian females hitched up their sword belts and joined their “men” with their spear or crossbow on their shoulders. He had no doubt about their ability; he’d seen them fight. But it was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d seen since he got here. He felt a rueful twinge. Sandra enthusiastically supported the idea of female warriors, once she got used to the concept, and it wasn’t like she herself had exactly been sheltered from the dangers they all faced. But in her case, it wasn’t as though that’s the way things were supposed to be . . . He rubbed his chin and gave an exasperated sigh. It just didn’t He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

Garrett raised his hands and pressed the earphones more tightly to his head. He listened for a moment and then turned to Matt. “Lookout has the Catalina in sight, Skipper.” Matt nodded calmly enough, but inside, he felt a supreme relaxation of tension. He hated it every time the plane flew out of sight for two reasons. First, it always carried a crew of bright, talented, and irreplaceable people whose chances of survival were poor at best if the plane was ever forced down. Also, dilapidated as it was, the PBY was the only airplane in this world, and it represented the greatest intelligence-gathering asset he had. It was an asset only if he used it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The radio usually worked—and that helped a little—although it was strange to talk in the clear without fear of the enemy listening in! But radio or not, he couldn’t shake his near-obsessive desire to preserve not just the crew but the plane itself. Important as this campaign was, he knew it was just a single campaign. Maybe it was a reflection of his still-smoldering bitterness over the lack of air cover for the Asiatic Fleet that reminded him you could take nothing for granted. But he couldn’t throw off the premonition that if they used up the Catalina now, the day would come when they would really wish they hadn’t.

In the meantime, he contented himself with a surge of relief over its safe return from this scout, at least, and he looked forward to hearing what Ben Mallory had seen. “Very well,” he said. “Ask Lieutenant Dowden to close Big Sal and signal the fleet for all captains to repair aboard her for a conference. Please inform Captain Keje, with my respects; we’ll come alongside as soon as they’ve hoisted the plane aboard. Ask him to rig hoses as well. I want to keep the bunkers topped off.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Garrett replied and spoke into his mouthpiece.

Matt watched the PBY grow larger as it neared, its thundering engines loud and reassuringly smooth. Mallory waggled his wings as he roared by the destroyer and began a wide, banking descent that brought him down alongside Big Sal. Matt dropped down the ladder to the wooden strakes below and stepped into the pilothouse.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were,” replied Matt and smiled as the ship heeled into a tight turn toward the fleet. Juan, the diminutive but supremely dignified Filipino officer’s steward, had just arrived with the midwatch coffee, and he was desperately attempting to stabilize the serving tray so the coffee wouldn’t slide off onto the deck.

“Juan, Mr. Dowden and I will be crossing over to Big Sal at eighteen hundred. Would you present my compliments to Mr. Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker and ask them to accompany us?”

Juan finally got control of the carafe with an exasperated sigh as Walker steadied on her new heading. “Of course, Cap-tan Reddy. Might I recommend formal dress?”

Matt thought for a moment, then nodded, a grin stretching his face. “By all means, Juan. As formal as we can manage, at any rate. We must set an example.” He glanced around at the quizzical expressions. “We are the flagship, after all!”

Lieutenant—now Lieutenant Commander—“Spanky” McFarlane stood in the aft fireroom with his hands on his skinny hips and his eyes closed. He was feeling the ship and her machinery around him. The Mice watched expressionlessly, but two of the new “monkey-cat” snipes stared at him with reverential awe, as if they were in the very presence of some diminutive but allficulty staying awake.

It had been a long day for Ben and his crew. They’d flown out of Baalkpan early that morning to make a final aerial observation of the objective. For the first time, Mallory was allowed to fly directly over the city—and the enemy forces. His observations weren’t reassuring. Almost forty Grik ships were now in the bay before Surabaya and they’d dispatched a sizable landing force. Unlike Baalkpan, the defenders had a sturdy wall all around their city, with what appeared to be formidable defenses. But the Grik army was more than large enough to encircle most of the settlement. The only exception to complete investiture was a stretch of waterfront and a portion of the bay between the city and the island of Madura, about three miles from the mainland. A large assemblage of native small craft was concentrated in the passage, and another fortification, as yet unengaged, was constructed on the point of land on the island closest to Surabaya. A dense cloud of smoke from burning buildings—probably set alight by what everyone was calling Grik Fire—hung over everything, and Mallory couldn’t see much detail. But this time there was no question whether the Grik saw the PBY.

Matt disliked allowing the plane to be seen by the enemy, but they had to know what they faced. Perhaps the unnatural thundering apparition that swooped low overhead had unnerved the Grik, Matt consoled himself. In order to avoid doing the same to the Aryaalans, Mallory’s crew had dropped hundreds of “pamphlets” over the defenders’ main position. These pamphlets consisted of light wooden shakes etched with a Lemurian phrase that said: “Your brothers to the north will aid you. We bring powerful friends. Do not fear.” It was all they could do to assure the defenders help was on the way. With his mission complete, Mallory returned to join the task force. Tomorrow, he would fly back to Baalkpan, since they dared not risk the plane in the fight to come. Once there, he’d stay in radio contact with Walker.

Sandra Tucker sat primly at Matt’s side, also on one of the stools, and showed no discomfort whatsoever. He wondered what she was thinking. He’d come to rely more and more on her intuition as time went by, but he had to admit he also just liked having her around. They’d evolved an unspoken understanding after they declared their love for one another. Aboard ship, a wall of strict propriety always stood between them in spite of their mutual attraction. They thought they hid it well. But sometimes when they were alone, a more . . . comfortable . . . familiarity existed between them. They both felt compelled to restrict any further exploration of their feelings, and Matt felt almost guilty that they shared as much as they did when the rest of the men had no prospects at all . . . unless you believed Silva and Risa really . . . He shook his head. Perhaps someday they’d find more people; even the Lemurian legends hinted at the possibility, but right now there was a war to fight. Terrible as it was, at least it had released some of the pressure-cooker tension caused by the “dame famine.”

In the meantime, for the sake of the men, Matt and Sandra must control their passions. That didn’t mean Matt intended to ignore her excellent insight. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: “What do you think of that Anai-Sa?” he asked, referring to the High Chief of the Fristar Home. The black-furred Lemurian had arrived at the conference late, as usual, and now sat hunched on a cushion in sulky disdain while the rest of the attendees finished the refreshments that were a prerequisite to any council.

“I think he only volunteered so he could get the cannons that were promised to the Homes that take part in the campaign,” she whispered back. “I don’t trust him. Iiv>

Matt nodded. Anai-Sa had been the most outspoken proponent of just packing up and sailing off, but to possess the power of the guns was a mighty incentive to hypocrisy. “Do you have any less vague impressions about our other commanders?” he asked with heavy irony.

A quiet chuckle escaped her, but she nodded. “They seem pretty solid for the most part. You know you can count on Rick, on Revenge, and Keje, of course.” She paused, considering. “I really like Ramic-Sa-Ar of Aracca and Tassat-Ay-Aracca of Nerracca.”

“They’re father and son, aren’t they?” Matt asked, referring to the pair of Lemurians who sat close together talking animatedly among themselves. There was certainly a strong resemblance. The younger one seemed a virtual replica of the older.

“Yes,” she confirmed, “and Tassat is actually younger than Anai, even though you could hardly tell by the way they act.” She sniffed. “As far as Geran-Eras of Humfra-Dar, it’s hard to say.” She was referring to the only female High Chief present. “She’s been a vocal supporter of the expedition from the start,” Sandra continued. “You may even remember her showing rather . . . energetic approval of your plan?”

Matt did remember then, and cringed. Even Lemurian females had surprising upper body strength, and Geran-Eras had actually embraced him after he made his pitch for the relief of Surabaya. He was sure she’d almost cracked some ribs.

“I think, as your Mr. Silva would say, ‘she has more than one dog in this hunt.’ Adar told me her mate and one of her children were killed in a Grik attack right before they came to Baalkpan. Might’ve even been one of the ships we destroyed, so she really likes you. Also, I imagine she sees this expedition as a chance for revenge. You might need to keep an eye on her.”

Matt nodded soberly and glanced around. The refreshments had been consumed and Keje was looking at him expectantly. “Better get started,” he said to Sandra, and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began aloud. “We have a battle to plan.”

Standing on Walker’s bridge with his binoculars raised, Matt reflected that his return to Surabaya wasn’t altogether unlike his departure so long ago. Once again, the clouds above the distant city glowed and flickered with the reflected light of fires caused by an enemy bombardment. This time, the spectacle was all the more surreal. Walker’s blowers roared at a pitch consistent with her ten knots, but in spite of that, even at this distance, the loud whump and overpressure of Japanese bombs would have been felt and heard. Instead, only an eerie silence accompanied the distant battle. They’d opened the bay from the east at 0120 and picked their way carefully through the Sapudi Islands, which were scattered haphazardly there. The last time Matt traversed these waters, Walker had had the services of a fat Dutch pilot, and Matt wondered suddenly where the man was now. Had he even survived? He banished the thought. All Walker had this time was a waning crescent moon. Of course, this time there was no minefield either.

As they drew closer, they could discern the stern lanterns of dozens of Grik ships moored in the bay, close to the city. All were ablaze with light and all rode secure at their anchors, never suspecting any threat might descend from the sea. A few, closer in, kept up a continuous desultory bombardment with their catapults, flinging “Grik Fire”rs. Usually, a red gout of flame mushroomed upward into the sky. The festive, brightly lit ships in the bay provided a stark contrast to the suffering inside the city beyond.

Matt carefully refocused the binoculars dead ahead, watching one Grik ship in particular. Alone among its identical sisters, this one was under plain sail, creeping slowly among its brethren on a light southerly wind. Apparently accepted without fanfare as yet another reinforcement, the ship with the unusual blue glass in its lanterns moved deep into the enemy formation. Matt marked its progress by that blue light that identified it as Revenge.

He stepped onto the bridgewing and glanced aft. The Homes were hanging in there, totally darkened, as was Walker. He could see the occasional flash of white water alongside them as the hundred mighty sweeps propelled each huge ship forward at close to the ten knots Walker was making. He marveled yet again at the strength and determination that took. Fristar was lagging behind the others, leaving a small but growing gap between her and Humfra-Dar, but otherwise his “battle line” was holding together. The shoal of feluccas brought up the rear. He stepped back into the pilothouse and resumed his post beside his chair.

The bridge watch was silent other than an occasional whispered command, and he felt a tension that was different from any he’d sensed since the battle of the Makassar Strait. Like that night, there was fear and tension, but there was also a certain . . . predatory eagerness. A realization that they’d caught their overwhelming enemy with his britches down, coupled with a determination to make him pay. General quarters had been sounded long ago, and all stations were manned and ready except the torpedo director. Sandison’s “torpedo project” to repair the two condemned torpedoes they’d filched from a warehouse in Surabaya was still on hold, and they wouldn’t be using any of the three “definites” tonight. Sandison and his torpedomen had filled out the crews of the numbers one and four guns.

Matt turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who was in quiet conversation with Courtney Bradford. “Assemble your riflemen amidships and hold them as a reserve for any point of contact if the enemy try to board,” Matt instructed. Virtually everyone topside had a rifle handy, but at their stations, the crew was too spread out to mass their small-arms fire. Shinya saluted him with a serious expression and turned to comply with the order. It would be the first time he’d commanded any of the destroyermen in action, and his self-consciousness was evident. He was directly in charge of close defense of the ship and had half a dozen Americans assigned to his reserve. Matt doubted there’d be any friction. Most of the destroyermen still didn’t like him, but his abilities were evident. Some had even begun to consider him just another part of Walker’s increasingly diverse extended family. They never would forgive the Japanese, but Shinya wasn’t just a Jap anymore. Besides, they were all on the same side now. It even seemed as though Dennis Silva kind of liked the former enemy lieutenant, and if Silva would put up with him, the rest of the crew certainly could.

“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Matt cautioned as Shinya departed the bridge.

“Not long now, I should think,” commented Bradford when they were alone. Matt nodded. He hadn’t really wanted the Australian on the bridge during the action. He would have preferred that Bradford stay in the wardroom with Sandra, but the man had practically insisted. Chief Gray had just as “practically” offered to force him to go below, but the captain allowed him to remain. It was probably better this way. In spite of his peculiar manner, Bradford ofn awe-inspiring. A number of ships continued burning furiously, and many more Grik were so involved in preventing their own ships from catching fire, they were unable to contribute to the fight. Matt knew Walker had savaged them and he had no idea how many Grik she’d sunk. The number of burning ships was surprising even so, and he realized some of them must have set fire to each other, flinging their bombs haphazardly in the midst of battle.

The battle line was almost through to them now, their massive guns spitting hate at the Ancient Enemy, blasting great gaping holes in hulls and smashing masts and bodies on any vessel that dared draw near. Some still did, regardless of damage, in the predictable Grik style. The very waters of the bay burned with Grik Fire as bomb after bomb exploded against the stout, scorched sides of the Homes or spilled their burning contents onto the sea. Any fires that were started on the great wooden fortresses were quickly extinguished, and very little had been left exposed that would burn. The decks were soaked before the battle and the huge fabric wings had been stowed, leaving only the massive sweep-oars for propulsion. One by one, the blackened and smoldering but otherwise unscathed leviathans crashed through the final obstacles separating them from Walker and Revenge and slowly took up positions lengthening the line with their port batteries bearing on the bay.

Even then they continued to fire, without nearly as great an effect at the increased range, but with just as much determination. The surviving Grik that could began to flee. At least half the enemy’s fleet of forty ships had been destroyed, and most of those remaining afloat were damaged to varying degrees. Matt was tempted to allow Walker’s main battery to continue firing, but he knew he had to conserve ammunition. This was but the opening stroke, and he inwardly cringed at his expectation of what they had expended.

“Cease firing,” he said, but the guns had already fallen silent, probably at Garrett’s command. After the noise and turmoil of battle, his voice sounded strange . . . disassociated. He glanced at his watch and experienced the usual sense of disorientation when he realized the seemingly hours-long battle had lasted less than forty minutes. The rest of the fleet’s cannonade became more desultory as the remaining targets drew away, and a great tide of cheering voices from thousands of throats rose and washed over him.

Larry Dowden appeared at his side. He’d been at his battle station on the aft deckhouse and was black with soot and sweat from the fire that came too close. He stood with Matt and stared at the scene of destruction as the roar of exultation continued. “Even better than Balikpapan . . . in the old war,” he finally managed. His voice held a trace of wonder. Matt nodded. The enormity of the victory was beginning to sink in. “This even feels better,” Dowden continued. “God knows I hate the Japs . . . except Shinya, I guess, but he’s the proof. At least Japs are people. This feels more like . . . killing snakes.”

“What is it, Mr. Garrett?”

“Listen, sir,” he said, almost shouting, and pointed at the city. Matt turned back toward shore and strained his ears to hear over the cheering. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Garrett wanted him to hear over—then it hit him. The cheering of the fleet wasn’t just echoing off the walls of the city, it was being answered from within! Even at this distance, and in the dark, he saw hundreds of figures standing on the walls, waving banners and weapons in triumph and shouting their defiance to the massive Grik army encamped outside their walls. From that army there came only a shocked, sullen silence.

Matt clasped his hands behind his back and strained to keep his relief in check. Underlying all the concerns he’d felt over the meeting with the Grik had been not knowing how the people here would receive them. They’d still have to guard against friction, but for now . . . “It seems the Aryaalans are glad to see us after all, wouldn’t you say, Mr.

Dowden?” His statement was met with a few hopeful chuckles.

“Captain!” cried the talker, who’d come as close as his cord would allow. “Lookout says there’s a small boat coming up to starboard!”

Matt heard the bolt rack back on the .30-cal above his head. “Hold your fire!” he shouted, looking up. “Mr. Garrett, inform all stations to hold fire!” He turned and peered into the darkness that lay between them and the shore. The blazing wrecks threw a lot of light on the fleet and the fortress, but the space between them was in shadow, cast by the battle line. Even so, he saw what looked like a barge approaching from landward. It was about thirty feet long and broad in the beam. There were six banks of oars on each side and they rose and dipped with admirable precision. “Get Chack up here, on the double,” he said, glancing forward. In less than twenty seconds, Chack and Chief Gray were both beside him. Matt was looking through his binoculars and when he noticed their arrival, he handed the glasses to Chack. “What do you make of them?” Chack looked through the binoculars, mainly because he liked to. He didn’t really need them to see who was approaching.

“Aryaalans, Captain,” he said simply. Then he looked at Matt, inscrutable and expressionless as always, but he was blinking a sequence reserved for surprise. Intense surprise. “And others.”

Matt had started to turn and issue an order, but stopped and looked back at Chack. “What do you . . . ? Just a moment.” He did turn then. “Signal the fleet ‘Well done’ and compliments. Also, all battle line captains please report aboard Walker. They can send a representative if they have damage or other pressing concerns.” His gaze returned to Chack. “What were you saying?”

Chack wordlessly handed the binoculars back. Slightly annoyed, Matt raised them once more. The boat was much closer now, and even as he looked, he heard several exclamations of surprise from some of those crowding with him on the bridgewing.

The first thing he noticed was the Aryaalans themselves. He was struck by how different they appeared from the Lemurians he was used to. Counting the rowers, there were sixteen or seventeen of them on the barge, and almost all of them had dark-colored pelts. It was impossible in the dim light to tell exactly what color they were, but he had an impression of sable. That was unusual enough, since no two Lemurians he’d met were precisely the same color. And yet the differences didn’t end there. The People they’d grown accustomed to—Spanky’s efforts notwithstanding—wore as lians he re of Mahan’s tale. Judging by the appearance of Ellis and Steele, it had been a hard one. Both men’s uniforms were badly stained and battered, and a dreadful experience of some sort seemed to haunt their eyes. Jim still limped too, and Matt remembered that Captain Kaufman had shot his friend. He returned his attention to Lord Rolak, who was speaking.

“They will certainly attack at dawn.” Keje translated for him. “They attack most days, but after tonight . . .” He shrugged in a very human way. “They will certainly come and I doubt they will stop this time. I propose that your”—the Aryaalan lord actually sneered slightly—“warriors join ours in the defensive positions. They should take direction from our captains, of course.”

Matt suddenly found all of his commanders’ eyes on him as Keje told him what Lord Rolak had said. He answered their unspoken question with a single word.

“No.”

For just a moment, after Keje relayed the response, there was an uncomfortable silence. Prince Rasik finally spoke up. “This . . . creature speaks for you all?”

Keje grunted and answered in an ominous tone. “He does. He not only speaks for us, he commands us for the duration of this campaign.” He gestured angrily toward the porthole. “In case you did not notice, we swept your little bay clear for you this night. He was the architect of that.”

Lord Rolak shifted, and visibly regrouped his argument. “Your victory tonight was impressive,” he hedged, “but you are sea folk. Surely you see the wisdom of letting land folk lead when a fight is on land. Aryaalans are a warrior race. The warrior’s way is bred into us and nurtured in us as younglings. You sea folk do not even fight unless you have to! We have the experience . . . !”

“It seems to me that you were about to experience defeat, Lord Rolak,” Bradford interrupted quietly. “What is your estimate of the forces arrayed against you?”

Rolak was quiet for a moment as he looked around the table. Finally he sighed. “There are, perhaps, fifteen thousands of the enemy.” Matt nodded when the translation came. That was consistent with Mallory’s estimate of the enemy force.

“How many warriors do you have to face them?” Matt brutally cut to the heart of the matter. If the Grik truly were going to attack at dawn, there was no time for this foolishness. Rolak answered him in a slightly more subdued tone.

“King Alcas has twenty-four hundred warriors in the city, fit for battle. Queen Maraan from B’mbaado Island across the water has sent another six hundreds to our aid.”

“She should have sent more!” seethed the young prince, speaking for the second time since his introduction.

Rolak looked at him. “We are lucky she sent anything at all! Do you forget we were at war with her before the Grik came?” Rolak shrugged again and glanced at the others around the table. “War is a . . . pastime . . . among my people. That is why we are so good at it.” He paused and his tone subtly changed. “It is different this time. The Grik do not follow the rules. They do not have rules. No truce is accepted. There is no parley, no discussion of aims or demands, and . . . no respect for the dead.” His tail swished and he blinked outrage. “They eat fallen warriors, you know, whenever we cannot recover them. Sometimes they even stop fighting long enough to feed...” Quickly controlling himself,ize="3">“Most are accounted for, but some are not. I fear we must assume they were lost breaking through the Grik.”

Matt nodded somberly, looking at Rick Tolson. “Revenge will make a quick search after dawn to see if any are adrift, disabled.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

“Don’t take too long, though. I want you back as soon as possible.” Tolson nodded. “Mr. Shinya, you will land three-quarters of the Marines and Guards at the dockyard. I’ll leave the choice of units to you, but I want you to reserve one-quarter of the force to demonstrate as if they’re going to land here”—he pointed at the map—“across the river. Hopefully, we can keep the Grik reserves tied down, prepared to defend against a landing. The battle line will support that impression with a bombardment.” He paused. “The main force will assemble at the breastworks that join the castle walls to the beach.”

Most of those present were already familiar with the plan, but Lord Rolak leaned forward and peered at the map. “Why gather there?” he asked, puzzled. “It will take time to move your forces within the walls and through the city. Would it not be better to send them in as they arrive?”

“No, Lord Rolak,” Matt explained. “The Allied Expeditionary Force won’t be going inside.”

Shortly, after escorting the dignitaries and the battle line commanders to their boats and watching them scurry to their various commands to begin preparations, they returned to the wardroom. They didn’t have much time, but Matt was determined to know, at last, what had happened to Mahan and her people. Sandra and Bradford were present, as were Spanky, Gray, and Dowden. By now, the whole crew had heard the exciting news that ome are nohad settled upon the host, almost twenty-six hundred strong, as they gazed over the barrier and across the coastal plain. Matt and the Chief walked behind them, their shoes squelching in the ooze that had been churned in the damp sandy soil by the milling and marching of so many feet. Matt wished he had a horse to ride that would give him an elevated perspective not only of the events that were about to unfold but of the mood of “his” troops as well. It was hard to judge their feelings at that moment, with their inscrutably feline faces. But he’d learned to read Lemurian body language fairly well, and he’d learned to read much of the blinking they used instead of facial expressions.

Most were nervous, of course. Hell, he was nervous. But some few were blinking uncontrollably in abject terror. Most of those were surrounded and supported by steadier hearts, however, in a Lemurian way that Matt admired. But the vast majority of the troops poised for battle showed every sign of grim determination, if not outright eagerness. He nodded to himself. They would need all the eagerness, determination, and courage they could muster because across the marshy field before them lay the right flank of the Ancient Enemy.

The only sound was the flapping of the banners in the early-morning breeze. Each of the six regiments of infantry had its own new flag and most were emblazoned with some symbol that was important to the clan that dominated the regiment. The flags were Keje’s idea, and at his insistence each also bore the symbol of a tree. It was a sacred sign to all Lemurians and it gave them a unifying identity. It was also the symbol that the Grik themselves used to identify them and to Keje that made it even more appropriate. In the center of the line flowed a great, stainless white banner adorned with only a single stylized green and gold tree. Beside it, also borne by a Lemurian color guard, flew the Stars and Stripes. Keje told him that it was the first flag the People ever fought under, and beneath it they’d tasted victory. It was also the flag of their honored friends and allies, so of course it should be there. Matt felt a surge of pride at the sight of it and he wondered yet again at the irony that had placed it on the field that day.

Across the expanse, the Grik had finally noticed the force assembled on their flank and had begun to react. The mob of warriors facing them swelled, as more were shifted from other parts of the line and others came slowly from across the river on barges. There was no help for it. They had known it would happen before they were ready to strike. Sneak attacks are all but impossible when armies have to assemble and move everywhere they go on foot, not to mention within plain sight of each other. Perhaps their tactics would be surprise enough. Whatever the Grik thought, though, it didn’t look like they intended to let this “diversion” take their attention from what they saw as their main objective: the city beyond the wall.

Horns sounded a deep, harsh, vibratory hum and thousands of voices took up an eerie, hissing chant that sounded like some creature being fried alive in a skillet. Accompanying the chant, thousands of swords and spears clashed against their small round shields and the staccato beat built to a deafening crescendo.

“It’s even more terrifying on land than sea,” admitted a voice beside him. Matt turned to see Keje standing there, resplendent in his polished copper mail. His helmet visor was low over his eyes. “At sea, the noise is muted by wind and distance.”

“What are you doing here?” Matt demanded.

Keje grinned. “What a question to ask! I would ask the same of you if I thought I would get a different answer. Adar commands the battle line in my stead,” Keje assured him. nF Z “He knows what to do and he will be obeyed.”

With a great seething roar, the Grik horde surged toward Aryaal, waving their weapons over their heads and jostling one another to be in the vanguard. The beginning of the attack must have been plainly visible to the lookouts high above the decks of the Homes in the bay. Most of the Grik directly across the quarter mile of soft ground from the AEF didn’t join in the charge, but continued to face them, securing the flank. Even at the distance, it was clear they were unhappy with the task and a steady trickle was bleeding away to join the assault.

“Now would be about right for him to give the order,” Matt said of Adar. As if somehow the Sky Priest heard his quiet words, a bright flash and a white cloud of smoke erupted from Big Sal’s side, followed immediately by four more. The heavy, booming report of the big guns reached them a moment later, and by then the sides of all the ships of the battle line were enveloped in fire and smoke. The canvas-tearing shriek of the heavy shot reached their ears, and seconds later huge geysers of mud and debris rocketed upward from the midst of the Grik reserve across the river. Matt watched through his binoculars as troops swarmed over the bulwarks of the big ships and crowded into boats alongside. The guns continued to hammer away, each one sending a thirty-two-pound solid copper ball into the enemy camp. The balls shredded the densely packed bodies and destroyed the tents and makeshift dwellings as they struck and bounded and skated through, unstoppable, to kill again and again.

One of Lord Rolak’s aides, left as a liaison, vaulted to the top of one of the brontosaurus-like creatures that had been on the waterfront when they arrived. This particular specimen had bronze greaves on its legs and wore polished bronze plates over its vitals. Besides being beasts of burden, the ridiculous brutes apparently served as Aryaalan warhorses. Matt had noticed the thing when he came ashore, but it never even occurred to him that anyone would try to ride one of the amazingly stupid animals into battle. Now he self-consciously reached up and grabbed the aide’s outstretched hand and allowed the powerful Aryaalan to help him swing onto the dinosaur’s back. He took a moment to secure himself to the rock-steady platform and then quickly raised the binoculars again.

The camp across the river looked like an ant bed stirred with a stick. Shot gouged through them, but the Grik had begun to assemble on the beach, preparing to attack what seemed to be an imminent amphibious assault. He turned to look at the river. The barges carrying reinforcements into the assault had stopped halfway across and were beginning to return to the far bank with their teeming cargoes. The assault itself had reached the obstacles and entanglements at the base of the wall, and rocks, arrows, and other projectiles rained down upon the enemy. Ladders rose out of the mass and fell against the wall, only to be pushed back upon the attackers. For now. The attack had weight behind it, however, and regardless of the terrible losses they were inflicting, the defenders were too thin on the walls to hold for long. Matt leaned over and looked down at Shinya, Gray, and Keje, who were staring up at him expectantly.

“The army will advance!” he said in a loud, firm voice. He smiled briefly at the irony. It wasn’t an order he, a naval officer, had ever expected to give.

The barricade parted before them, and at the shouted commands of their officers, the Marines and Guards from Baalkpan and Big Sal and all the other Homes and places that had come to Aryaal’s aid stepped through the gaps with a precied the others on the exposed side, with nothing between them and the enemy but a gently swaying sea of marsh grass and flowers. There the army paused for a moment, flags fluttering overhead, as it dressed ranks and waited for the guns to make their more difficult way through the obstacles. Matt patted the Aryaalan aide on the arm and motioned for him to follow. The dinosaur bellowed a complaint when the aide pushed forward on a pair of levers that caused two sharpened stakes at the back of the platform-saddle they rode to jab down hard into the animal’s hips. With a sickening pitching motion, the beast began to move and the aide released the pressure on the stakes. Two long cables, like reins, snaked back along the beast’s serpentine neck and the aide pulled savagely on one of them, physically pointing the creature’s head in the direction he wanted it to go. Slowly, they trudged through the barricade and joined the army on the other side.

“God a’mighty, Skipper! I wish I had a camera!” came a voice from below and behind. Matt looked down. Dennis Silva and half a dozen other destroyermen were falling in on the animal’s flanks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Matt called hotly. “We already have more men ashore than I’d like. You’re supposed to be assisting Lieutenant Ellis!”

Silva assumed a wounded expression. “I am, Skipper! But he’s a captain now too, you know. What with his own ship and all. He plumb ordered us off of it!” He gestured at the other men. “Said he couldn’t stand the very thought of us deck-apes foulin’ his engineerin’ spaces! I think he must’a been a snipe himself once upon a time,” he added darkly. “Put us ashore, and made us take these guns”—he brandished the Browning Automatic Rifle, or BAR, in his hand—“to keep ’em out of the workers’ way!” Silva shook his head. “No way back to Walker now, so we figgered we’d come along over here and keep you comp’ny watchin’ this fight.”

Matt tried to maintain a stern expression, but an unstoppable grin broke through. “My God, Silva, you missed your calling. Hollywood or Congress, that’s where you should be. I’ve never seen anyone tell such a ridiculous lie with such conviction.” He looked at Gray, glowering at Silva. “Chief, put these men on report. They can stay, but they’re in your custody and control. They will not fire their weapons without my orders. Is that understood?” Matt gestured at the backs of the Lemurian troops as they prepared to move forward again. “The last thing we need is for these people to start relying on our modern weapons to fight their battles. We just don’t have enough to make a difference.” He smiled sadly. “We could probably do it once, but that would be even worse.” He looked squarely at Gray. “Emergencies only. That’s an order.”

“But, Skipper, beggin’ your pardon, haven’t we been doing that already? With the ship?” Silva asked, genuinely confused.

Matt nodded. “Yes, we have, but there’s a difference. The ship is who we are. She’s what we are, as far as these people are concerned. She’s what’s given us the credentials to advise them and help them technologically and be believed. Of course we fight with the ship. That’s what’s allowed us to give them the confidence they’ll need to win this fight—and it’ll be their fight for the most part. It has to be.”

“But . . . even some of the cat-monkeys have guns—”

Matt’s voice took on an edge. “I’m not in the habit of explaining myself to gunner’s mates, Silva, but you may have noticed that Sergeant Alden’s Marine rifleor two, but the victory, if there is one, must be theirs.” He waved at the army again. “Won with their arms. Do you understand? That’s the only way they’ll ever win not just this battle but the war.”

Matt was convinced he was right. He just hoped it would turn out that way. Being right in theory wasn’t always the same as being right in practice.

“Does that mean we have to sling our rifles and just use these crummy cutlasses, Skipper?” asked Tom Felts from the other side of the dinosaur.

Matt grinned. “No, just don’t shoot unless I say so. Damn, I thought I said that.”

“Just shut up, you stupid apes,” growled the Bosun. “Can’t you see the cap’n’s got a battle to think about? One more word out of you and I’ll drag your asses back to the dock and you’ll miss the whole thing!”

Lieutenant Shinya’s voice rose above the silence of the waiting army. “Soldiers of the Allied Expeditionary Force! People of the Sacred Tree and sons and daughters of the Heavens!” Others answered his shrill voice, up and down the line. Many didn’t hear him over the stiffening breeze, but they heard the voices of those closer to them.

“First Guard Regiment!”

“Second Guard Regiment!”

“Second Marines!”

And on and on, followed by the shouts of company commanders and squad leaders.

“At the quick time, march!”

As a single entity, the entire army stepped off with their left feet just as they’d been taught and began to move forward with long, purposeful strides that ate up ground at a surprising rate. The guns went with them, and two dozen artillerymen per piece manhandled the weapons and ammunition right along with the infantry. It was amazing. To Matt’s knowledge, the army had never been able to train together on such a scale before, either on the parade ground or in the newly cleared zones around Baalkpan City. But for the most part, the formation held together with almost total precision. Here and there, NCOs called a cadence or shouted instructions for their squads to keep up or slow down, but the overall impression of discipline was impressive. Pete Alden, the man who, more than anyone, had built this army, would be proud. Matt was proud. Despite his inner anxiety, he felt a sudden thrill. He knew then what it must have felt like to be Caesar, or Alexander, watching his well-trained army march into battle against disorganized barbarians. The historian within him continued to whisper insidiously that the barbarians often won, but for the moment, he didn’t—wouldn’t—listen. The die was cast and the time for strategy was past.

There would be little maneuver; there was no point. When they engaged the enemy, the army would extend from the walls of the city almost to the banks of the river and he was reminded of one of his favorite Nelson quotes: “Never mind about maneuvers. Just go straight at ’em.” That was about all they could do in this confined space. When the two forces came together, there’d just be fighting and hacking and killing. His great hope then was that the training his people had received would make the difference. Of course, they did have a few surprises for the Grik even before that happened.

The battle raged with more intensity at the base of the distant walls, and more and more ladders fell against them. Occasionally, firebombs arced up in high trajectories and fell among the defenders beyond his view. Matt surmised the enemy must have some sort of portable machine or was difficult to tell through his binoculars how well the Aryaalans were holding because of the odd, jouncing gait of his mount. He heard a different note from the horns of the Grik in front of them, one with a kind of strident edge. He thought, incongruously, that they really needed to come up with some means like that for the Lemurians to signal one another. Their mouths were shaped all wrong to blow on a bugle. They had some woodwind-type horns, but they just weren’t loud enough. Maybe the conch-like shells they blew as a warning? Even simple whistles would be better than nothing. He should have thought of that sooner. He wondered how the Grik managed it. The way their mouths were shaped, he couldn’t see how they could do anything with them other than tear flesh.

At three hundred yards, a single command echoed up and down the line.

“Shields!”

The tall, rectangular shields made from bronze plate backed with wood that the first two ranks carried clashed together as they were locked, side to side, overlapping one another to form a mobile wall. Spears came down in unison and rested on the top edges of the shields as the army advanced. It was an impressive display and Matt wondered what the enemy thought. He knew the sight had horrified the enemies of Rome, but he had no idea how the Grik would react. A smattering of crossbow bolts fluttered toward them. Most landed short, but a few thunked into the shield wall. A single piercing scream reached his ears from far to the left. His unlikely mount lumbered mindlessly along with a kind of quartering, rolling motion, following behind the trotting ranks but easily keeping up with its plodding, long-legged pace.

“Halt!” came the cry at two hundred yards, and the advance ground to a stop. For a moment there was a little confusion as the ranks realigned themselves. A runner dashed up from where Shinya had stopped with his staff a short distance away. He spoke in carefully enunciated English. “Lieutenant Shinya sends his respects, sir, and asks if he may commence firing?”

“By all means,” Matt answered. With a salute, the young runner scampered away. Matt glanced down and saw Keje standing with Chief Gray. The Chief was practically supporting him as the Lemurian wheezed and Matt felt a pang of shame. The advance from the barricade had to have been tough on his portly friend. Keje was strong as a bull, but Matt doubted he’d had many occasions to trot as far as he had. “Keje,” he called, “why don’t you join me up here? You can sure see better. There’s plenty of room.”

Keje eyed the beast with suspicion, but gratefully nodded his head. He climbed swiftly onto the platform and settled next to Matt and Lord Rolak’s aide. He was still puffing a little. “I grow too old,” he said, “and my legs are too short for this fighting on land.” He shook his head. “It is unnatural.”

Matt glanced behind them and smiled. “But you didn’t come much farther than the length of Big Sal. Hell, I doubt it was as far.”

“Perhaps, but Salissa does not clutch at your feet as you run, and her decks are flat and you do not sink into them.”

“Batteries, forward!” came the command. “Archers, prepare!” Gaps opened in the shield wall to allow the guns to be pushed through. Their crews immediately raced to load them with fixed charges consisting of thin tin canisters filled with two hundred three-quarter-inch balls on top of a wooden sabot to which was attached a fabric bag of powder. In carefully choreographed, highe had heard the thunder. Not just the thunder from the ships, which he’d begun to hear already, but the thunder that came from the sea folk land force. That was when he had known it wouldn’t be long before they called him, and he stood ready to dash down to the south gate as soon as he saw the flare.

“The wait is . . . distracting,” came a soft voice beside him. Lord Rolak turned and looked at Safir Maraan, Queen Protector of B’mbaado. She was dressed all in black, from the leather that backed her armor to the long, flowing cape that fell from her shoulders and fluttered fitfully in the breeze. Her fur was black as well—entirely, without the slightest hint of a past mixture that would attest to any dilution of the royal blood. Her bright gray eyes shone like silver in her ebon face and artistically justified her only concession to the dark raiment, which was a form-fitted breastplate made of silver-washed bronze.

She is perfect, Lord Rolak admitted frankly to himself. He was almost three times her age, but he hadn’t grown so ancient he couldn’t recognize fact. It’s no wonder that young fool of a prince would have them fight a war to have her. That war had ended inconclusively, of course, when the Grik had come. As much as she hated Rasik-Alcas, she’d brought six hundred of her finest warriors, her personal guard, to help defend against them. Lord Rolak rather doubted if Fet or Rasik-Alcas would have done the same.

One of those warriors was a massive B’mbaadan, scarred and old as he, who shadowed Queen Maraan’s every move. His name was Haakar-Faask, and Rolak respected him greatly. They had battled often and inflicted their share of scars on one another. After Safir became the Orphan Queen, it was Faask who became her mentor, chief guard, general, and, in some ways, surrogate father. Right now, Rolak wished he would exercise a little more protectiveness. He looked at the warrior and blinked with exasperation, but Faask remained inscrutable. With a growl, Rolak stepped quickly back from the bastion wall, hoping to draw the queen with him. Dressed like that, she had to be a tempting target for the enemy crossbows. Unconcerned, she continued to peer over the side at the roiling enemy below. To her left, some distance away, a great cauldron of boiling water poured down upon the enemy and agonized shrieks rose to their ears. Rolak saw a slight smile of satisfaction expose a few of her perfect white teeth. She turned and stepped from the edge just as a flurry of crossbow bolts whipped over the wall where she’d been. Rolak sighed exasperatedly, blinking accusation at Haakar-Faask. “My dear Queen Protector, you must not take such chances. You must be more careful!”

“Like your own king?” she asked with a mocking smile. Rolak didn’t respond. “Unlike the great Fet-Alcas, I am not only the leader of my people in peace, but in war. That is why I am also called ‘Protector.’ I take that duty seriously. I won’t shirk any danger I ask my warriors to face.”

“I have not seen you ask your warriors to flaunt themselves pointlessly in full view of the enemy, my dear,” Rolak observed with a wry smile as he blinked with gentle humor.

“Have you not? What then do you think they are doing here?” As before, Lord Rolak had no reply.

Shouted voices registered and he looked to the north. To his admitted surprise, the tide of Grik began to ebb, the closer to the harbor it was. The fight below them had not abated, but to the north there was a growing hesitancy. Confusion. The enemy horns brayed insistently, and he ventured nearer the parapet.

“It is working,” he breathed. Below him, the ed overfont>

Rolak’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Lord King, you must. I am Protector of Aryaal and it is my duty to protect this city. I explained to you the plan this morning. You had no objection then.”

“You are Protector, appointed by the king!” sneered Prince Rasik. “You will do as he says.”

In a calm, patient voice like one would use with a youngling that had just found a sharp sword and was preparing to examine its sibling’s eyes more carefully, Rolak spoke. “Great King, I have made alliance—which is my right—with the sea folk and the Amer-i-caans to defeat the enemy who threatens us. Even now they are fighting at our side as they promised. They have drawn the enemy away from our walls and upon themselves so we can attack from behind. We are moments away from victory, or days from total defeat!”

“It is your right to make alliance, Lord Rolak, but it is my right not to support that alliance if I do not think, in the interests of the people, you have acted wisely.” King Fet-Alcas could no longer bellow, but his tone was imperious. “You have not.”

“In what way have I not acted wisely, that you did not recognize before our allies committed themselves?” Rolak felt a tension building within him, a tension bordering on rage. He had given his word to the Amer-i-caan leader and even now the sea folk were fighting and dying outside these walls based upon his word. Soon the moment to strike would pass and whatever they did would be too late. Queen Maraan stirred beside him, a small growl deep in her throat. She hadn’t been party to the agreement, but she too recognized the opportunity that was being squandered.

The king waved his hand again and glanced at his son. “That is not your concern.”

“It is my concern if my honor is at stake, Lord King. I beg you to satisfy my honor and that of your people by telling us what your plan might be.”

“That is simple. The strangers refused your offer of honor to join us within these walls and fight at our side. They chose instead to fight alone. It is my order that we let them! They came here unasked for and without my permission—”

“To save us!” Rolak interrupted.

“—with fanciful plans to continue this war far from here. They did not come here to save us, and if they did, what is their price? That we should fight for them as their slaves? No! We will let them fight they had. No choice. “Forget the ‘no shooting’ order. I want one of you to each regiment, ready to pour fire into any breakthroughs if they occur. We’ve got to keep this line together at all costs. If it breaks, we’re dead. Conserve your ammunition and don’t get trigger-happy, but use it if you have to. Now go!”

They all hurried off except Silva, who stood rooted with a worried expression on his face. “But what about you, Skipper?”

“Never fear, Mr. Silva. I have my pistol. If that fails, the Bosun will protect me.”

Silva arched an eyebrow and a grin crept across his face. “But who’s gonna protect him?”

Gray’s face turned purple with rage. “Buzz off, you goddamn weedchewin’ ape! Or I’ll let that crazy cook use you for fish bait!”

“Just worried about you, is all,” shouted Silva as he loped off down the line. Gray shook his head and stifled a grin. They were standing right behind the rear rank of the Second Marine Regiment. The Second was near the center of the line and it was spear-heavy, all of its members being large and strong enough to stand in the front rank. Those at the rear were methodically shooting arrows over the heads of those in front, and periodically they’d move forward and take the place of an exhausted comrade. It was a good drill and Matt wished the Guard regiments had learned to do the same. Many of those who came to the rear were wounded, some badly, and an increasing number of them were pushed or dragged out of the ranks as the fighting continued. A growing number of bodies, some moving, others not, were gathering behind the lines, waiting to be carried back to the barricade on stretchers to be tended in the field hospital.

“There ain’t enough stretcher bearers,” Gray observed grimly. “When we start to pull back, things could go bad in a hurry.”

Matt recognized one of the wounded Lemurians as he was tossed roughly on a litter. It was that runner of Shinya’s he’d spoken to before. He had a terrible slash across his chest and blood-soaked bandages were heaped high upon him. Matt hurried to his side. “Do you understand me?” he asked urgently. The young Lemurian nodded, his teeth clenched with pain. “The hospital must evacuate! Get the wounded to safety.” He grasped the runner’s hand in his. “Tell Lieutenant Tucker . . .” He paused. He didn’t know what to say. “Tell her to pull out now. That’s an order.” He squeezed the hand.

“I will tell her, Cap-i-taan,” the runner replied with a strained voice. Matt nodded and the stretcher bearers raced to the rear with their burden.

Chack-Sab-At gasped with pain as a Grik spearpoint skated off his shield and laid open the top of his shoulder. The thrust had overextended his enemy, however, and Chack drove his own spearpoint into the Grik’s throat with a triumphant snarl. An explosive spray of blood and spittle flecked his face as the enemy warrior went down. If it screamed, Chack didn’t hear it over the constant roar of battle.

For just an instant, his thoughts turned to his sister, Risa, and he wondered what she would think if she saw him now. It seemed so long ago that she’d virtually shamed him into taking the warrior’s tack. How little he’d known at the time; beneath his nervousness and protestation a warrior was what he was. Or perhaps, deep down, he knew it all along. Maybe that was why he allowed himself to be bullied and never tried to win the frequent bouts of his youth. Or raid. He had loved it, and much to his great surprise, he had been good at it as well.

His warrior-minded sister had seen the change in him when she recovered from her wounds, but she’d believed it was just a sign that he’d grown up at last. She hadn’t realized the more fundamental nature of the change. Once, his greatest ambition had been to one day become a wing clan chief. That goal no longer even entered his thoughts. He no longer cared about running Salissa’s great wings, or those of any other Home. He still loved Salissa, but Walker was his Home now and he was a destroyerman through and through. He knew most people believed he was playing a game with Selass, rubbing her nose in her rejection of him for Saak-Fas. But as far as he was concerned, she could remain mated to the mad, broken shell that Saak-Fas had become. The only thing he really felt for her now was pity. He didn’t care about anything that once seemed so important—other than his sister, of course, despite her bothersome behavior, and the safety of his people and their strange tail-less friends. All that mattered now was the joy he felt when he was destroying their enemies. A joy he felt even now, in spite of the pain and thirst and exhaustion.

He’d spent most of the fight in the second rank, where his height gave him an advantage, stabbing and thrusting powerfully with his spear. Then the one in front of him, another wing runner from Salissa, fell. Chack immediately took his place. He couldn’t kill as many of the enemy from the wall, fighting and straining to hold back the weight of thousands, it seemed, but the wall had to hold. Another Grik took the place of the one he had slain, battering furiously at his shield with its sickle-shaped sword. Chack dug his feet into the slurry of sandy, bloody mud and leaned hard into his attacker. He let his spear fall toward the warrior at his back—quite certain it would be put to good use—and drew the cutlass that the destroyermen had given him. He slashed at the Grik’s feet under the bottom edge of his shield and was rewarded with a jarring contact of blade on bone.

The pressure eased, but as he stood up straight, a blow from an axe right on top of his head drove him down again. He was stunned for a moment and he’d bitten his tongue. His comrades to the right and left helped support him while his senses returned. Thank the stars for the strange, platter-shaped helmet, he thought. He spat blood between gasps for air. There was frenzied shouting from behind him and he risked a quick glimpse. The muzzle of one of the cannons was inching through the press. He and the others near him shielded its progress until it was right behind them and then, at a shout, they gave back on either side.

Instantly, there was a deafening thunderclap, seemingly inside his head. The pressure turned his bones to jelly and the fur on the right side of his body felt like it had been driven into his skin. A choking cloud of smoke engulfed him and a high-pitched ringing sound replaced the noise of battle. He didn’t care. For just a moment, all that remained of the enemy in front of him was a vast semicircle of churned, shattered gobbets of flesh. He barked an almost hysterical laugh and was surprised he couldn’t even hear himself. Recoil had driven the gun backward, and the wall closed up tight where it had been. Something caught his eye and he looked up. High in the air, beginning to descend, was yet another flare.

“It’s fallin’ apart, Skipper,” Gray wheezed, his hands on his knees. He had lost his hat and his hair was matted with blood. To their left, they heard the rattle of a Thompson on full auto. None of the guys could have much ammo left, thought Matt as he inserted his last magazine into the butt of the Colt. He glanced at the barricade behind them just a lt U dast magazihe grass that had covered this plain.

A tremendous roar went up from the Grik, a predatory roar of triumph as the shield wall broke yet again. This time, it was as if some critical point had been reached beyond all endurance. One moment, a few Grik were racing through a small gap, hacking and slashing as they came, and in the next, like a pane of glass in a hailstorm, the entire wall around the gap shattered and fell away. Lieutenant Shinya raced by, aiming for the breakthrough, but Matt caught his arm. The Japanese officer whirled toward him, an insane light in his eyes that dimmed just slightly when he recognized the captain.

“Save the guns, if you can,” Matt croaked. “Try to form a square around them. If we can make it to the breastworks, we might be able to hold them there.” Shinya nodded reluctantly, deterred from his suicidal charge. He ran off shouting for runners. They both knew it was hopeless. Too many had already started to run. But it was all they had left and they had to try.

Maybe not hopeless after all, Matt amended as he wiped his eyes and struggled to see through the developing chaos. The Second Marines and most of the First Guards had already formed a square of sorts. It was a maneuver the Marines practiced often and the Guards had simply retreated into the formation with the Marines. They’d managed to save at least a couple of guns too—suddenly a pair of bronze snouts pushed through and barked spitefully at the Grik that had begun to curve around and try to get between the square and the barricade. Scores fell beneath the billowing smoke and the banshee wail of canister. To the right, the line still miraculously held. But its severed end had curled back toward the wall to form a semicircle at its base.

Separate from either force, however, Matt, Gray, and Keje stood alone as the shield wall in front of them melted away, oblivious to anything but the need to escape. Behind them raged the thundering horde. Matt gauged the distance to the Marine square. Many within it were shouting his name, or Keje’s, and waving, urging them toward it. There was no way.

A lone Lemurian gunner, abandoned with her dead crew, stood waiting while the Grik swept down upon her. Crouching behind the axle as bolts whizzed by or spanged off the barrel of her gun, she looked small and frail compared to the monsters coming for her. There was no doubting the determination of her stance, however, and her tail flicked back and forth as if she was preparing to pounce. At the last moment, she touched the linstock to the vent and the gun blew itself apart with a tremendous blast. Grik bodies were hurled into the air or mowed down by fragments of the tube or pieces of the carriage. She must have loaded it to the muzzle, Matt thought, stricken by the act. Of the lone Lemurian gunner, nothing remained.

“Come, my friends!” Keje bellowed, pointing at the Marine square. “We must try!” With a final glance through the smoke at the momentarily stunned Grik advance, Matt and Gray joined Keje, racing toward the square as it resumed a slow, shuffling retreat.

Gray uttered a sudden, startled grunt of surprise and fell to the ground as if he’d tripped. Matt and Keje both stopped and turned toward him. He was lying on his side with a black vaned crossbow bolt protruding from his hip. Irritably, he waved them on. Keje disemboweled a Grik warrior with his scota as it ran toward them out of the lingering cloud and Matt took careful aim and shot another with his pistol. More were coming. Soon it would be a flood. “Go on, damn it! I’ll be along!” Gray yelled.

“Shut up,” Matt grated as he and Keje helped him to his feet. Stifling a tooward the square. Matt shot another Grik and then another as they struggled closer to the Marines, whose formation had started to expand toward them as it moved, hoping to take them into its embrace. Keje deflected a blow from a Grik sword with his small shield and Matt shot the creature as it snapped at Gray with its terrible jaws. His pistol slide locked back. Empty. He tucked the gun into his belt and parried a spear thrust with his sword. He wasn’t much of a swordsman, but holding the Chief and fighting with his left hand, he was almost helpless. He managed to deflect the spear just enough that instead of driving through his chest, the sharp blade rasped along his ribs. He gasped with pain but clamped down with his arm so the Grik couldn’t pull the spear back for another thrust and Gray drove the point of his cutlass into its eye. It shrieked and fell back, but then Keje went down, pulling them down on top of him.

Matt rolled onto his stomach to rise. All around him he saw running feet, Grik feet with long curved claws that slashed at the earth as they ran. He felt a searing blow of agony in his left shoulder blade that drove him to the ground, out of breath. He raised his head once more. There, just ahead, was the Marine square. He could see the tired, bloody faces of the people he had brought to this, staring expressionlessly back at him, but with their eyes blinking in frustration. He could feel Chief Gray, trapped beneath him and struggling to rise, and he tried to roll aside. Got to let him up, he thought. Then something struck him on the side of the head, and bright sparks swirled behind his eyes, quickly scattering into darkness.

“Through! Charge through! Do not stop at the barricade!” bellowed Lord Rolak, waving his sword above his head. He was nearly spent and his old legs ached from unaccustomed exertion. He stopped, gasping for a moment as his warriors flowed past, shouldering their way through the debris of a shocked and splintered army. He stared at the survivors of the sea folk as they stumbled, slack-jawed and empty-eyed toward the dock as if they knew, instinctively, safety for them could only be found at sea. He couldn’t believe it. They’d broken, yes, but they had fought against impossible odds for longer than he’d ever expected, and his shame warred with his pride for their accomplishment. Never again could it be said with honesty that sea folk would not fight.

Some fought still. A solid block of sea folk warriors with several flags held high in their midst was churning its way through a mass of enemies back toward the relative safety of the barricade. The block was dwindling even as he watched, but the path they hewed through the foe was out of all proportion to their losses. His sense of failure and shame was only slightly assuaged by the fact that he wasn’t entirely too late. It had taken his and the Orphan Queen’s forces almost two hours to work their way through the streets of Aryaal, streets that became ever more congested as they neared the north gate. The fighting had caused a general exodus of townsfolk to gather there seeking refuge from the firebombs and hoping that if the city fell they might yet escape to B’mbaado. It was an empty hope, of course, but it was the only hope they had. Then, when they finally forced their way to the gate itself, they found it closed and fortified from the inside as well as out. The king, or his brat, must have foreseen something like what Rolak was attempting and ordered his personal guard to prevent anyone from trying to leave. It was then that Rolak’s defiance of his king had sparked a civil war in the city of Aryaal.

He stormed the gate with Queen Maraan at his side. The fight for the towers that housed the gate windlasses was difficult and costly—he himself had overseen their construction years before with that very purposked their way to the machinery that opened the massive doors, leaving scores of white-clad bodies behind them. When the gate swung wide, Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred and a slightly larger number of Aryaalan warriors—rebels now—swarmed down into the waterfront shantytown where fisherfolk and boat people dwelt. Through the squalid alleys filled with muck they raced, until finally they emerged behind the breastworks to see the disaster their king’s treachery had wrought. Tears of guilt and humiliation stung Rolak’s eyes as he beheld, at last, the extent of Aryaal’s dishonor. The fact that any of those they had betrayed still lived—let alone fought—was proof that if only they’d followed the plan, a great victory could have been achieved. Now all that remained was to save what he could of this valiant army as well as his own people’s soul.

“Straight through the barricade!” he urged hoarsely once more as another cluster of soldiers passed. He noticed a group of warriors standing nearby, leaning on their spears and watching the battle beyond the breastworks as the last of his own troops clawed through the gap and slashed into the milling Grik. “What are you doing?” he demanded. One of them looked at him and blinked confusion.

“We are the guard here. This is our station. We have no orders but to defend this position.”

Furious, Lord Rolak struck the hapless Aryaalan with the flat of his sword. “You do now!” he bellowed. “Through, now, the lot of you! Or I’ll have your tails for baldrics!” More terrified of the raging Protector than of the Grik, the entire barricade garrison hurried to obey. Rolak stood waiting, catching his breath and cursing his age and frailty until the absolute last of the defensive force hurried through to join the battle. He felt a hand on his arm.

“Rest here a moment,” spoke the queen of B’mbaado. Her eyelids flickered with concern.

“Never,” he said, “will I rest again until the honor that was stolen from me is restored.”

She turned her gaze to the battle that raged a short distance away. B’mbaadans and Aryaalans didn’t fight in the strange, ordered way she’d seen the sea folk begin the battle, but their tightly massed attack of screaming and slashing reinforcements led by an almost berserk Haakar-Faask had taken the Grik unawares. In moments they had battered a deep wedge through the enemy and were on the verge of linking with the exhausted Marines.

“In that case, Lord Rolak, let us salvage what we may of it while we can!” She flashed him a predatory grin and drew her sword. He nodded and smiled back at her. Aryaalan females never became warriors; it was forbidden. B’mbaadans almost never did, but there were a few exceptions—a noted one stood before him now. Sea folk females fought right alongside the males, and hundreds of them had died that day defending all the people of Aryaal, including its proud male warriors who had done nothing. He knew it was no use trying to make Queen Maraan stay out of the fight. She’d already been in the thick of it at the gate.

“Of course, dear queen, just promise not to outrun me. What little honor I have left would not survive.” She clasped his arm tightly this time, and together they charged into battle.

Matt’s eyes focused slowly on the battle lantern swaying above him. He didn’t know how long he’d been staring at it, but it seemed like quite a while. It was only now, however, that he real sizld do was look at her in wonder and confusion. “The only ones to know defeat today were the Grik!”

A ragged cheer broke out and quickly spread to the area beyond the tent. It didn’t last long, because the voices that made it were exhausted and hurt, but it was real and it was sincere and he knew somehow that her words were true. He closed his eyes in confusion and saw it all again, those last terrible moments when he knew all was lost. He couldn’t imagine how they’d escaped disaster, but they must have. Sandra said so. He was alive, so it must be true.

Victory, he thought. “My God.” He squeezed her fingers gently.

Long after she felt his hand relax in hers, Sandra sat beside Matt on the cot, looking down at him, wiping away her tears of relief while he slept.

It had been like a terrible nightmare. They’d all been so confident, God knows why. Maybe the string of small victories Matt led them to had made them think they could accomplish anything. After the battle in the bay, that confidence was reinforced. Sandra had watched with the rest as the proud army marched across the field, banners flying, and opened the battle with a terrible, one-sided blow. Even from her vantage point, where she had a better perspective of the horde they faced, she’d still been confident. The battle was unfolding precisely as planned. The Grik reserve was distracted on the far side of the river and the entire force attacking the city had been diverted down upon the Allied Expeditionary Force. And then, like a puff of smoke in a high wind, the grand plan that would have led them to victory, perhaps even with relatively light casualties, was just . . . gone.

The whole thing depended on the Aryaalans coming out and striking hard into the enemy rear, which might not only have sent the Grik into a panic, but would also have cut them off from reinforcements at the ferry landing. She ran her fingers through her hair, scooping the loose locks out of her eyes, and glanced around at the countless wounded around her.

They’d been so stupid! Even in their own world people so rarely did the things they ought to do—had to do!—when the need was so clear! Look at how long Europe had appeased Hitler. How long the United States had tried to accommodate Japan’s unspeakably brutal expansionism in Asia. Treachery wasn’t a unique and alien Aryaalan trait. Nakja-Mur had warned them, and Keje had too, not to count too heavily on the people of Surabaya. But under the circumstances, surely they had to see the logic? She snorted quietly. They’d applied their own concept of self-interest to others, she realized, and that was always a dangerous thing to do. It had been the greatest flaw in their plan.

She’d known something was wrong when the second flare went up. The battle line held and held for what seemed an eternity—surely longer than they’d expected to feel the full crush of the enemy assault. All the while, the booming of guns and the drifting white smoke made it impossible to see much detail. The first steady stream of wounded began to arrive, however. Up to that point there’d been a trickle, a few at a time, and most of those had made it to the rear under their own power or assisted by a comrade. Those that came as the battle raged on were carried, and their wounds were almost always desperate. She flew into the fray of spurting blood and severed limbs and directed the surgery with an energy and steady detachment that helped instill calm and confidence into the overworked staff of healers under her command. She was overjoyed when Kathy McCoy and Pam Cross arrived from Mahan, but there was no time for a psteastood. But they hadn’t been part of the “team” Sandra had trained for just this situation. It took a while for Pam and Kathy to integrate themselves and find their most effective roles.

And still the battle raged. The wounded that returned from the fighting were no longer excited and boastful. An atmosphere of exhausted desperation began to prevail. They were fighting like fiends and the field was choked with Grik dead, but something was wrong. The Aryaalans hadn’t come. Then came Shinya’s runner, horribly wounded but able to tell her the order Captain Reddy sent. By then she half expected it, but it still struck her like a slap. She quickly instructed her orderlies to prepare to move the wounded and raced to the barricade to see for herself. The horror was beyond anything she’d ever expected, or could possibly have imagined.

The battle was much closer now, close enough to see individuals, and she quickly picked out the white and coffee-khaki dress of the captain and the Bosun near the center of the line. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of other destroyermen here and there and she heard the sound of their weapons when they fired. Beyond the diminishing, wavering line was an endless sea of menacing shapes surging forward with a single-minded, palpable ferocity. She still heard the thunderclap of cannon, but the surflike roar of the Grik and the clash of weapons absorbed the sound of all else except thought.

Abstractly, the struggle before her brought to mind a scene from her childhood. A small green grasshopper had inadvertently landed upon an ant bed. Before it could recover and launch itself again, dozens of ants swarmed upon it, biting and stinging as fast as they could. Within moments, the insect had been completely obscured by a writhing mass of attackers as they continued to sting and sting and slash at their victim with their cruel jaws. Occasionally, she saw one of the grasshopper’s legs twitch feebly, hopelessly, but it was doomed. As she watched the battle, to her horror, that mental image was re-created before her very eyes. Like a plank stretched across two points, bowing ever lower beneath a remorselessly increasing burden of stones heaped upon it beyond all sense or reason, the shield wall broke completely with the suddenness of a lightning bolt. She knew she had to leave, to get the wounded out, but she couldn’t move—so deep was her shock and terror, not only for herself but for the trio of distant forms that suddenly stood entirely alone in the face of the relentless onslaught. A trio that included the tall, white-uniformed figure of Captain Matthew Reddy. Her heart leaped into her throat and she cried out in anguish—just as a gun exploded and a blanket of smoke billowed outward and mercifully obscured the last moments from her view. She could only stand, stunned and lost, with tears streaming down her face and her soul locked in a maelstrom of grief. All around her, battered, blood-matted troops streamed through the barricade and ran to the rear as fast as they could, but she could think only of what lay within that dissipating cloud of smoke.

Someone bumped against her and she almost fell, catching herself by grabbing the barricade and drawing to the side. It had been a warrior who bumped her, accidentally, of course, but she suddenly realized that this warrior, unlike the others, was racing through the barricade toward the enemy. And then another passed, and another. Within seconds, the trickle became a flood and she watched, amazed, as hundreds more went surging past to join the fight.

The Aryaalans had come at last. She knew it was true when she saw Lord Rolak trot up behind them, bellowing furiously. She could send ghastly shadows upon it. He’s suffered so much for us all, she thought, ever since the very beginning. Most of that suffering was inside, where no one else could see. But she had glimpsed the inner turmoil, even though he kept it hidden. He fought it alone because that’s what he had to do. If he’d ever shown an inkling of his concern and doubt to the crew—or their Lemurian allies—they certainly wouldn’t be here now, in the aftermath of a miraculous victory. More than likely they’d have been dead long ago, like Kaufman. With indecision, everything would have fallen apart.

She gently touched his lips, reassured by the warm breath she felt. He was getting old beyond his years, with the burden placed upon him, and she noticed for the first time that a few white whiskers had appeared in the stubble on his chin. Maybe he had been wrong to trust the Aryaalans, although she would never, ever, tell him so. Maybe even his whole grand strategy to roll back the Grik and create a world where all of them, destroyermen and Lemurians, could live in safety, was hopeless and doomed from the start. She slowly stood so as not to wake him, and stretched her painful muscles. That may very well be, she thought grimly, but it’s something that needs doing, and we have to try. If Walker and Mahan had been saved from the Japanese only so they could linger in some sort of purgatory of endless strife, so be it. At least she would be there to support Matthew Reddy however he would let her, and patch him up when the need arose as well. And if he believed they could make a difference, then somehow she would believe it too.

CHAPTER 2

Prince Rasik-Alcas sprawled on the heap of cushions opposite his father’s massive throne in the Royal Chamber of the high, sprawling palace. Blood matted his fur—none of it his—and he idly reflected that the opulent pillows would be ruined, but he didn’t care. He was exhausted by the fighting that Phad convulsed the city, even while the titanic struggle raged beyond the walls. He had, of course, never intended to get as caught up in it as he had, but when some of the palace guard, spurred by rage and shame, actually rose against the king, Rasik had been forced to fight. It was something he didn’t much enjoy, strangely enough—at least the physical aspects of it. He was keenly interested in war and strategy and politics and all the heady matters a future king should be interested in, but the actual fighting was something he’d just as soon leave to others. That didn’t mean he wasn’t any good at it.

And a good thing too, he mused, watching his bloated father nervously stuffing food into his jowly face. The king certainly wasn’t much good in a fight. He’d literally squeaked in surprised terror when the guard’s sword flashed down from behind. It missed him by the very thickness of the royal cloak it slashed, and Rasik was still amazed that anyone could miss something so fat and awkward. It just goes to show, he thought philosophically, if you’re going to retain a palace guard, always choose them from the nobility. Then, if they are treacherous, they will probably be incompetent as well.

He lifted an eyelid and glanced idly at the only guard currently in the chamber. A loyal one, he thought with a smirk. Rasik didn’t know the guard’s name and didn’t care what it was, but he was a formidable warrior. He’d fought alongside Rasik, defending his king and prince from the very beginning of the attempt against them. He had, in fact, been the only one for a time. Now he stood, nervously vigilant, as the occasional sounds of renewed fighting wafted through the broad arched windows and all it might be a while before they managed to root out all the traitors. And, of course, there was Rolak. Rasik seethed. He could still feel the cold metal of Rolak’s blade against his neck. That one would surely die, he promised himself. And the Orphan Queen as well.

“I told you!” proclaimed Fet-Alcas in a frail attempt at a menacing growl. “We should have let Rolak out!”

Rasik sighed. “No, you didn’t, sire.”

Fet-Alcas blinked. “Well, he got out anyway,” he grumped. “And then those ridiculous sea folk actually defeated the Grik!” His voice became shrill. “That . . . that you did tell me would not happen!” Rasik lazily blinked unconcern. “And then a rebellion!” wheezed the king, spewing food across the tiled chamber. “Never before in history has Aryaal rebelled against its rightful king!” Fet-Alcas’s rheumy eyes smoldered. “And all because you counseled me to deprive our people of their place in the battle! A battle arranged by the rightful Protector himself.” He stared out the windows at the darkness beyond. “No wonder they rebelled,” he murmured. “The greatest battle ever fought—and a victory!” He glared back at his son. “You did that!” he accused darkly, draining a cup of seep. Rasik yawned and blinked irony. “I did not want Rolak to go,” the king admitted, “but only because you said the sea folk would lose! We could fall upon the Grik remnants and have our great battle to ourselves!”

Fet-Alcas belched then, and shifted uncomfortably on his throne. “But no!” he continued bitterly. “The miserable sea folk and their friends with the iron ships did not lose! It is we who lost!” He stared back into the darkness with a grimace. “The greatest battle ever fought!” he repeated and took a gulp from another cup of seep.

“Do not complain, sire,” Rasik sneered. “Our people had their battle after all!”

Fet-Alcas turned to him and began a furious shout, but all that emerged was a gout of blood. It splashed down on his white robe and pooled like vomit at his feet. Both Rasik and the guard rushed to his side and stared at the king as he looked at them in shock.

“The king is ill!” cried the guard in alarm.

“No,” said Rasik, as he drove his own sword into the distracted retainer’s throat. Blood spurted down the sword onto Rasik’s hand and splattered on the king’s white robe. The guard fell to the floor and thrashed, describing great crimson arcs upon the tile as his mouth opened and closed spasmodically. His tail whipped back and forth for a few seconds more, smearing the blood still further, and then he lay still.

Fet-Alcas, stunned, looked at the corpse that had fallen almost at his feet. He tried to speak, but yet another gush of blood poured forth and he was wracked with spasms of agony. Silently, for the most part, he continued to retch, but by now the blood had slowed to a trickle. The poison in the seep from the cup he still held was of a type that deadened all pain and sensation while it corrosively ate any flesh that it touched. At least it deadened it for a while. Fet-Alcas looked at the cup in his paw and then dropped it in horror.

Rasik slowly sheathed his own sword and drew the one worn by the dead guard. His eyes were wide with excitement and his tail twitched nervously back and forth. “No,” he repeated with a hiss, drawing his thin lips hard across his teeth. “You are not ill, sire. You are dead. Killed by another traitorous guard!”

With that, he slashed down repeatedly across the king’s neck and upper chest, grunting with effort as the blade bit deep. Finally,peate throne and joined the guard on the tile abattoir. Rasik stood motionless, listening, while his breathing returned to normal. Laying the bloody sword on the floor, he drew his own again and looked at it wonderingly. Then he dipped the tip into the pool of blood rapidly spreading beneath his father’s corpse.

“A king’s blood on a king’s sword,” he whispered, and stepping toward the hallway that led to the chamber door, he began to run. “Murderers!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, flinging the door wide. “They have murdered the king!”

Courtney Bradford stood at the barricade staring through his “borrowed” binoculars at the scene of the previous day’s battle. The first rays of the sun were creeping above the horizon, but so far all he could see was a seemingly endless sea of indistinct shapes, alone or massed in piles, across the marshy plain. Occasionally he saw movement. Either a wounded Grik that the searchers hadn’t dispatched the night before, or possibly some scavenger darting furtively through the unprecedented smorgasbord.

It was the scavengers he hoped to see. Queen Maraan—a delightful creature, he thought—had told him about skuggiks, which she described as vile little predators about the size of a turkey. They invariably appeared to feast upon the carrion after a battle. They walked on two legs and actually looked a lot like Grik, she said, except they were considerably smaller and had no upper limbs at all. They were walking mouths, for all intents and purposes, with quick, powerful legs and a long, whiplike tail. Bradford couldn’t wait to see one.

Perhaps there? he thought, as something seemed to move. He was having trouble holding the binoculars with one hand since his other arm was still in a sling. “Blast!” he exclaimed, lowering his good arm to rest for a moment. He would just have to wait until there was enough light to see. He glanced to his right and was surprised to find a number of Lemurian warriors, on guard against a renewed Grik assault, staring at him with open curiosity. He looked to the left, saw much the same, and felt a twinge of unaccustomed self-consciousness. “I’m a scientist, not a ghoul!” he announced harshly, brandishing the binoculars. They continued to regard him with their inscrutable stares. He sighed and stepped away from the barricade. Most of these wouldn’t understand English, he realized, since the majority were Rolak’s or Maraan’s people. They had made every effort to retrieve all of their own few wounded and many dead throughout the night, but some would undoubtedly remain. The idea of him watching in fascination while some scavenger chewed upon anyone besides Grik—and maybe them too—might be a less than popular morning activity.

With as much dignity as he could muster, he stuffed the binoculars into his sling and strode away from the breastworks toward the guttering torches that surrounded the hospital tent. Marine guards ringed the area, nearly dead on their feet. After the treachery of the day before, they’d been reluctant to allow the Aryaalans and B’mbaadans to take their place on the barricade, but they were exhausted and Adar ordered them to rest. They weren’t about to trust undependable allies with the security of their wounded comrades and leaders, however. Battle-weary Marines rotated the duty throughout the night. Bradford knew now what had happened, and he personally felt nothing but gratitude for the warriors that came to their aid, but he could sympathize with how the Marines felt.

There were many, many wounded lying on the ground in the vicinity and he carefully picked his way through the sleeping forms. Many, he suspected, would never awake. Most would, however, and that was largeng torchesg into the gray morning light. He realized she’d probably brought little in the way of medical science to the Lemurian people. In many ways their medicines were more effective than those she knew—the strange antiseptic paste for one—but she had introduced the idea of battlefield triage and the associated patch-and-splice that went with it. That was something the local healers had never considered. The sea folk didn’t need it because they so rarely fought anything like a major battle, and the locals, who fought all the time, had just never thought of it. Perhaps it was because even they had never fought a battle such as this, in which the sheer numbers of casualties were so high. Unlike anyone they’d met so far, the B’mbaadans and Aryaalans understood the concept of surrender, at least among themselves. Maybe they had never let things go this far before one side or the other just quit. Whatever the case, the exhausted young nurse had done heroic work that night. He picked his way toward her.

“You should rest, my dear. You are destroyed.” He spoke quietly so as not to disturb those nearby whose sleep was only temporary. She nodded at him and smiled weakly. “But you know that, of course.”

“Yes.” She sighed. “The healers we brought are a wonder. I couldn’t have managed without them.” Her face brightened somewhat. “Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy came from Mahan to lend a hand. God, I’m so glad they’re safe!” She gestured under the tent and shook her head. “They’re in there now. Last night was bad, but they sure had a rough time on Mahan. Everything from constant fear for their lives to attempted rape. With Kaufman in charge”—she snorted—“pretending to be in charge—there was chaos. They told me things . . .” She didn’t finish, but instead looked in the direction of the barricade and what lay beyond. “Beth Grizzel went ashore with Kaufman. Did you know that?”

Bradford nodded and gently patted her arm. “Mr. Ellis told me last night.”

Sandra shivered, but continued to glare at the barricade. “Damn Kaufman!” she muttered fiercely. “So much misery because of him. I hope he roasts in hell!”

Bradford felt his eyebrow arch, but decided now wasn’t an appropriate time for the response that leaped to mind. Pity. “I’m quite certain he did, my dear.” He guided her to a bench and hovered near her as she sat down at last. “And how then are the captain and his extremely lucky companions? I still can hardly believe they survived, from what I hear.”

She stared bleakly at her hands on her lap. “As you say. Lucky to be alive. Keje has a concussion, I think, but other than that he didn’t get a scratch. The Chief had an arrow in his hip, but it struck the very edge of his pelvis and went down instead of up. Lucky. If it went up, it would have perforated his bowel. God knows if that Lemurian paste would have any effect on peritonitis. It’ll hurt when he walks for a while, but he should be fine. Matt?” She closed her eyes tightly and tried to control the relief in her voice. “His cheekbone is cracked, at least, and he has a deep gash in his side, down to the ribs. Besides that, he was stabbed in the back, through his shoulder blade and out his chest with a spear.” She laughed bitterly. “At least it was a ‘clean’ wound. Not many bone fragments or other debris. Those Grik spears are sharp!” The tears came then, in spite of all she could do.

Bradford sat beside her and put his good arm around her shoulders. “You care a lot for him, don’t you, my dear?” He spoke in a kindly voice.

“Of course I do,” Sandra whispered, answis. all.”

The sun finally rose and showed for all to see the results of the Battle of Aryaal. By late morning, the skuggiks had arrived in force, and soon there were so many even Bradford couldn’t watch them anymore, so sickened did he become. Beyond the barricade and across the plain, all the way up to the base of the wall that surrounded Aryaal, a seething mass of raucous scavengers feasted on the thousands of Grik corpses underneath the brilliant sun and cloudless sky. The ground itself came to look like one huge corpse, working with maggots as the light gray skuggiks capered and hopped among the bodies, gorging themselves on the remains. The smell was overpowering, but the sounds the creatures made while they ate were even worse.

Jim Ellis walked, still limping a little from the wound Kaufman had given him, up to the awning that served as a hospital tent. There he found Rolak, pacing anxiously back and forth while Chack stood in one place and spoke quietly to him. Jim had met the Lemurian bosun’s mate only the night before, but he didn’t feel the least bit ridiculous returning the sharp salute Chack gave him when he joined them.

“Good morning, sir,” Chack said. There was a blood-soaked bandage on his shoulder, and he wore his battered doughboy helmet with a jaunty air. Over his other shoulder was slung a long-barreled Krag-Jorgensen and a Navy cutlass was belted around his blood-spattered kilt.

“Good morning, ah, Mr. Chack.” Ellis gestured at Rolak, who had stopped his pacing and was now looking at him. “What’s with him?”

“He is anxious to see the captain.”

“Me too,” Jim said with feeling. He glanced at his watch. “I guess we’ll get to in about fifteen minutes. I got word there’s an officers’ call at twelve hundred hours.”

Chack nodded. “Yes, sir, but not in the tent. It’s down at the left flank of the breastworks, close to the water. I’m directing everyone there as they arrive.”

Jim Ellis looked at him in surprise. “You mean they carried the captain over there in the shape he’s in?” he demanded.

Chack blinked. “He walked.”

Matt was seated stiffly on a stool near where Ellis had placed the .30-cals the day before. His left arm was bound tightly to his side so he couldn’t move it, even accidentally, and risk opening his wounds. His sunken eyes and the purplish-yellow bruise that covered the left side of his face made his pain clearly evident in spite of the clean uniform and fresh shave. Behind him stood Lieutenant Tucker, wearing a disapproving frown, and Chief Gray, supporting himself with a pair of crutches from Walker’s medical locker. His hat was back on his head. Someone had found it while retrieving the wounded and dead and had returned it to him. Lieutenant Shinya stood beside him, wearing a slightly bewildered expression. Somehow, throughout the battle, he’d received only a few superficial wounds, even though he’d been in the thick of it from the start. Often his gaze drifted to the field beyond the barricade, where the scavengers now reigned, and his hand strayed to the hilt of the modified cutlass at his belt as if he wanted to reassure himself it was still there.

The gathering, or “officers’ call,” was quite large. All the battle line “captains” were there, including Rick Tolson from Revenge. Matt had already praised him and his brave crew, and he and Kas were about o in aboutmost all of the original regimental commanders had fallen and been replaced by their second or third in line. The Fifth Guards had a sergeant in command. There was no representative present for the Fourth, since it no longer existed.

Keje was there, also on a stool, with his head bound in a bandage that resembled a turban. Nearby stood his daughter, who stared at the striking, black-furred queen of B’mbaado with expressionless eyes. If Safir Maraan noticed the scrutiny, she gave no sign. She was immaculately groomed, which alone was enough to set her apart from most of those present. Her black cape and brilliant armor had been just as muddy and bloodstained as anyone’s the day before, but since then it had been either cleaned or replaced. Now she cut a most imposing figure as she stood, slightly aside, with Haakar-Faask and four of her elite personal guards in attendance. They were not quite as resplendent as she, but they had groomed themselves. Adar was speaking softly to Keje, who nodded without thinking and winced at the pain from the sudden movement.

Larry Dowden and Lieutenant Garrett were the only officers from Walker that weren’t there and Matt watched nervously as they slowly, carefully, backed his ship from the mouth of the river just a few hundred yards away. Slow maneuvers in any kind of current were difficult for the old four-stacker, but going backward on one engine in a confined space . . . It was positively nerve-racking for him to watch. Jim Ellis shouldered through the crowd to stand next to him and Matt glanced at his watch. It was on his right wrist for now.

“I guess everybody’s here that’s coming,” he said.

“Sorry I’m late, Captain,” Ellis apologized, although it was only just now 1200. “I went over to check how repairs to my shi—” He grimaced guiltily. “I mean Mahan—are progressing. I was only told the meeting had moved when I came ashore.”

Matt made a dismissive gesture with his good hand. “You’re not late, Jim, and Mahan is your ship. No apology necessary.”

“Thanks, Skipper,” Jim said in a tone of relief. He wouldn’t have been surprised to be relieved. After all, he deserved it. He cocked his head toward Walker and made a wry face. “She’s still my ship too. You don’t think maybe I . . . ?”

Matt shook his head with an assurance he didn’t feel. “Nonsense. Lieutenant Dowden’s a fine officer. He’ll have no trouble. Now then . . .” He turned his attention to the gathered officers, who had silently watched the short exchange. There was a sudden commotion in the ring of onlookers and Matt vaguely recognized Lord Rolak as he pushed his way through to stand before him. His fine helmet was dented and the feather plume was gone. Unlike Queen Maraan, he hadn’t refreshed himself in any way since the battle the day before. He stood squarely before Captain Reddy and his eyes blazed with inner torment. He drew his battered sword.

In an instant Gray had his pistol pointed at the Protector’s face. In the shocked silence, there were several metallic rasps of bolts slamming home as other destroyermen reacted to the threat. Matt raised his hand. Slowly, never taking his eyes from Matt’s, Lord Rolak went to his knees and laid his sword on the ground at Matt’s feet.

“My sword, my life, my honor—which is all that I am—is yours,” he said in a keening monotone.

Astonished, Adar hurried to him and knelt at his side. “I am Adar, Sky Priest to Salissa Home and councillor to Keje-Fris-Ar,” uiltily. “ him to assume responsibility for their losses—but they were his fault regardless of what had happened. It had been his plan and he was in command. In the face of that surprise and disagreement, he remorselessly tallied the casualties. “Almost four in ten of the brave soldiers, sailors, warriors, and Marines who began the battle were killed or seriously wounded. Seriously enough that most of them are out of this campaign, at least.” He looked at Safir Maraan. “Her Gracious Highness, Queen Protector Maraan of B’mbaado told me her losses were similar. I imagine the same is true for those who followed Lord Rolak. Let no one here doubt for a moment their courage and honor. It wasn’t they who betrayed us, but King Fet-Alcas, who still sits safe behind the walls we preserved for him.” There were angry growls. “But let’s put that aside for now. I think Her Highness has an announcement to make.” He nodded at Adar, who whispered something to the queen. She stepped briskly forward, her cape flowing behind her. When she was in the middle of the circle, she looked around and began to speak in her husky, self-assured voice.

“B’mbaado is proud, grateful, to have fought beside such warriors as yourselves. Never has there been such a battle, and never have warriors achieved so much against such odds.” She listened to the appreciative murmurs. “B’mbaado is a warlike nation,” she continued matter-of-factly. “We war often. With Aryaal, or the other nations up the coast, so fighting is not strange to us. But this war is unlike anything we’ve faced. The Grik are Evil. They are not even People. They do not fight for, or with, honor but only for death. Beyond that? Territory perhaps. We do not even know. We do know what happens to those they vanquish.” She took a breath. “For the first time, when the Grik came here, B’mbaado faced a war it did not want, was not prepared to fight, and knew it couldn’t win. We even tried to join forces with our most bitter rival, Aryaal, because we knew that only together might we have a chance.” She paused. “But it was to no avail. They were too many. We knew it was just a matter of time until Aryaal fell, and then B’mbaado would be next. I brought the Six Hundred, my personal guard, to help delay that day as long as possible, but in reality all hope was lost.” She turned to look directly at Matt.

“Then you came. Not for loot or conquest, or for anything from us at all. You came to help!” She shook her head and blinked with remembered surprise. “Sea folk!” She glanced quickly at Jim Ellis. “The other iron ship had been here for a time and we knew it had great power, but in our shortsighted, uncurious way, neither Aryaal nor B’mbaado had any use for it or its people once we knew it would not help either of us against the other.” She blinked apology at Jim. “Besides,” she said, “it was badly damaged. Every day I expected to look out and see that it had sunk. When the Grik came, it tried to help us against them, but it couldn’t move. All it could do was use its power to keep a passage clear between Aryaal and my home.” She bowed to Jim Ellis. “For that, I thank you.”

She looked back at Matt, and again at the surrounding officers. “But then you came, with yet another iron ship, and the great Homes of the sea folk. You erased the Grik from the bay! It was the greatest thing I ever saw. I am sure that were it not for Fet-Alcas’s treachery the battle for Aryaal would have been just as one-sided, and just as complete.”

She paused and blinked significant resolve. “I have come to realize that this war you fight to destroy the Grik forever is not just a war for honor, as we’ve so often fought, but an haraan, Queen Protector of the People of B’mbaado, beg you will accept my nation and my warriors into your Grand Alliance to destroy the Grik menace once and forever.”

There were appreciative howls and stamping feet, and the humans that could clapped their hands together. Matt stood and watched while the queen bowed formally, acknowledging the praise, and he managed a smile. Behind it, however, as he so often did, he was considering ramifications. The B’mbaadans were considerable warriors. Much like the people of Madura were reckoned in the world he came from. The question was how best to integrate them into the shield wall. They would have their own ideas how to fight, and he hoped they wouldn’t prove too difficult to teach the new way of fighting, as they’d done with the others. If the battle had taught them anything at all, it was that the tactics Matt had suggested and Shinya and Alden had drilled into their troops worked. The last thing they needed was a gaggle forming part of the line.

Surprisingly, Queen Maraan immediately answered the question for him.

“I was, of course, impressed by the skill and courage with which you fought,” she said. “As an ally, might I presume you will teach us these skills of war?”

Matt stirred with relief when Adar told him what she had asked, and he cleared his throat. “Certainly, Your Highness. I’m sure something can be arranged.” He waited until Adar began telling the queen what he’d said. “Lieutenant Shinya?” he whispered quietly.

Shinya stepped up beside him. “Sir?”

“See to it, if you please. Set up an abbreviated drill for our new allies. Or if they’re willing, maybe we can integrate the B’mbaadan troops directly into our existing regiments, at least for now. Sort of a ‘jump right in’ form of basic training. God knows, we need the replacements after yesterday.” While he spoke, he noticed the queen of B’mbaado staring at Chack with as close to an expression of interested speculation as her face was capable of. Perhaps Adar had mentioned him? Maybe she’d asked about the powerful young Lemurian who stared brazenly back at her from beneath the jaunty angle of his dented helmet. “I know you’ve learned to speak ’Cat pretty good, Lieutenant,” Matt said in a thoughtful tone, “but use Chack as your liaison. If you want him to keep the Second Marines that’s fine with me—hell, he helped train them—and that’d be a good outfit to put their officers in to work them up.”

Lieutenant Shinya nodded. “That was my thinking exactly, Captain.”

Matt looked at the battle line commanders for a moment before addressing them. “All of you are not just captains but also heads of state. You have an equal say in this matter. Do any of you object to this alliance?” There was only a respectful silence from the Home high chiefs, although Anai-Sa of Fristar seemed oblivious. “Good.” He turned to Safir Maraan. “Your Highness, as commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force, it’s my honor to accept your nation into our alliance on behalf of its other members, with my gratitude.” There was another short cheer, and Queen Maraan bowed graciously once more. Matt took a breath and regarded Lord Rolak, who stood watching what transpired with a tired, wistful posture. “Lord Rolak.”

The Aryaalan seemed to clear his thoughts as he quickly knelt before the captain. “Yes, Lord?”

Matt understood that much of the People’s speech, and he rubbed his eyes with his good hand and peered down at the t was high time he learned to speak without an interpreter. “Adar,” he said, “please try to explain to Lord Rolak that he’s not a slave. I know what he did—what he risked and what he lost—in order to keep his word. I don’t doubt his honor or his courage, and no one else should either. I admire it. Tell him that. Then tell him I’d be grateful for his service, and the service of all those who followed him and fought so well at our side. Not as slaves or vassals, but as friends.”

Matt carefully lowered himself until he was kneeling on the ground. As Adar spoke, Rolak lifted his gaze until it rested heavily and searchingly upon Matt’s face. With an encouraging smile, Matt extended his hand. Rolak looked at it, unsure, until Adar quickly explained the human custom. Then Rolak slowly, almost tentatively, extended his own hand. Matt grasped it between them and pumped it up and down.

Seeing Matt’s difficulty in rising, Shinya and Sandra helped the captain back onto the stool, where he sat, puffing slightly and watching the Aryaalan.

Rolak stood and brushed sand from his knees. “We are friends then, yes,” he said, talking to Adar. “But that in no way absolves me of my honor debt. If anything, it makes it a greater burden. Sometimes friendship can be the cruelest slavery of all, but in this case I accept it gladly. Tell Cap-i-taan Reddy he is my lord, as Fet-Alcas once was, and my sword, my life, and my honor are still his, but they are freely given as a friend and not as a slave.”

Matt listened to Adar’s translation and sighed. It was probably the best compromise he would manage for now, given the dire nature of Rolak’s original pledge, and he was grateful that, however it happened, the alliance had grown still more.

“Now,” he said, holding himself as still as possible while the pain of his exertions subsided, “that’s over with. I’ve heard your reports, but this meeting is to get everyone on the same page regarding our current situation. Mr. Shinya, would you describe the disposition of the enemy?”

“Yes, sir.” Shinya shifted and spoke so his voice would carry to all those present. “As far as we can tell, they’re gone. Our original estimate of their embarked force seems to have been . . . a little off, and several hundred of them, at least, escaped at the end of the battle. There is no indication that they retreated in any semblance of order, though.

They just fled. I would recommend that when the Catalina flies in from Baalkpan this afternoon, Lieutenant Mallory be requested to fly a quick search pattern, fuel permitting, to ensure that the enemy has not reconstituted himself nearby.”

“Do you think that is likely?” Keje asked. He spoke very carefully because he, like Matt, was trying to remain as still as he could.

“It’s possible. I do not think it likely, however.” Shinya paused and his brow furrowed in thought as he tried to decide how best to explain himself. Before he could, Courtney Bradford spoke up.

“If I may, Lieutenant?” Shinya nodded and the Australian cleared his throat. “Well. First of all, when the Grik finally broke, it was quite spectacular. Quite spectacular indeed! They just ran in all directions, like bees! As if they’d entirely lost their minds. Although I wasn’t, um, actually in the very thickest of the fight, I saw the end from what might have been a better vantage point than most. Their demeanor couldn’t have been more different from one moment to the next. It was as though one just pulled a cord and flipped a lied. “We saw it once aboard Big Sal and again, well, yesterday. I don’t think it’s a phenomenon we can feel certain enough of to base any strategy upon.”

“What do you think it is?” growled Chief Gray.

Bradford shrugged. “Some kind of massive, instinctual panic attack that renders them totally incapable of concerted efforts—such as war. Be lovely to turn it on and off again at will, but so far the only things I’ve seen do the trick are massive doses of automatic weapons, heavy artillery, and having their assault stopped cold by what were, at least briefly and locally, superior numbers that attacked them with mindless ferocity.” He beamed at Lord Rolak.

Matt frowned. “So, in other words, pretty much the same thing that has stopped every other attack in history.”

“Indeed. But the effect was still significant, don’t you think?”

“It was certainly significant,” Shinya confirmed. “And if we could learn how to create it at will, even strategic perhaps.” He turned to Matt. “But Mr. Bradford is right. We cannot ‘plan’ for it. We have fought the Grik enough now to know that it does not always happen. In fact, sometimes their ‘rout’ can make them even more dangerous.” He was remembering the losses they’d taken in the hold of Revenge when they scoured the last of the Grik from below. Slowly he brightened, his hand still resting on the pommel of the cut-down katana/cutlass Sandison had given him. “But they are gone from here now!”

“Good,” said Matt with a genuine smile. “At least the ‘land’ lizards no longer seem a threat.” There were a couple of chuckles from the destroyermen nearby. “What’s the condition of the task force?”

“All is well, Cap-i-taan Reddy,” Keje said, but then he put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. Adar continued for him. “No serious damage yesterday, or in the fighting with the Grik ships. Ammunition is depleted. We expended more than half of what we brought. As you know, weight and storage is not a problem, only production. We brought what we had. As more is made in Baalkpan, it will be sent.”

Matt nodded. “What about those feluccas we couldn’t account for?”

Rick Tolson spoke up. “We found one, Skipper. Hard aground in the shoals around those crummy little islands off the southeast coast of Madura. Everybody got off okay, but the ship was a total loss.” He shook his head. “Lucky we didn’t lose a dozen of ’em in there. No sign of the others. Lizards must’ve got ’em.”

“Poor bastards,” muttered Gray. Matt glanced at him, then looked at the bay where Walker had finally backed clear of the river. Even as he watched, her horn tooted exultantly, and Matt grinned in spite of himself. Dowden must have known he’d be as nervous as a cat. He had every confidence in his exec’s seamanship, but he still felt tremendous relief.

“Well, now that it’s clear our exuberant Mr. Dowden has saved my ship from further exposure to freshwater, I guess I’ll report that she came through the fighting with no damage except for some scorched paint, some busted glass, and the loss of one of her propeller blades.”

The Lemurian sea folk all nodded seriously at the news. They’d never seen Walker’s propellers, of course, but they’d seen drawings of the magical things that moved the iron ship so swiftly. Also, they’d seen the propellers on the PBY and knew the principle was the same. Matt had have thrown spears at it or started a new religion. They certainly wouldn’t have acted like “Oh, yeah. Pretty neat. We can’t make one, but it makes perfect sense.”

The fact that their culture—at least that of the sea folk—revolved around the reality of moving air, or wind, must have given them a pretty good grasp of the idea that air had substance whether you could see it or not. There were enough creatures that flew to prove flight was possible too. So from there, the notion that people might fly in a machine of some sort wasn’t as big a stretch to them as it probably would have been among Bronze Age humans. Anyway, it was just another example of how sophisticated Lemurians could sometimes be. He didn’t know why it surprised him anymore.

“That brings up another matter,” he said, addressing Jim Ellis. “I want Mahan to make for Baalkpan as soon as possible. We don’t have a dry dock, of course, but there are facilities there. Whatever we decide to do next, Mahan’s in no shape to fight. If we can get her to Baalkpan, at least we can start to change that.” He paused and grimaced. “Before she leaves, though, I want one of her propellers if we can manage it.”

Jim whistled. “That’s a tall order, Skipper. How are we going to get at them? Hell, we can’t even go in the water.”

Matt was relieved that Jim didn’t show more resentment at the prospect of crippling his ship further. He hated to ask it of him, but he didn’t see any choice. If Walker couldn’t run on two engines, it would seriously hamper any plans they made for further offensive operations.

“I don’t know, Jim, but we’ll think of something. I’ll get with you after the meeting and we can hash it out. We’ll work out a schedule to get Mahan as seaworthy as possible too. Now”—he looked back at Rolak—“what’s going on in the city? I see guards on the walls, but no one’s answering the door.”

“Civil war,” growled Rolak through Adar. “Warriors came out during the night, warriors loyal to me. They told of fighting throughout the city and . . . horrible deeds.” He cast down his eyes. “It seems that by trying to save my city’s honor, I may have caused its destruction. None have come out since morning, though, and I don’t know what’s happening now. My best guess is that the king’s loyalists have retaken control of the main gate.”

“What happened?” Matt asked gently.

Lord Rolak sighed. “As you know, when Fet-Alcas refused to allow us to strike the enemy rear, as we agreed, my forces and those of Queen Maraan swept north through the city and came out through the north gate. We had to fight to get out even there. Apparently, word spread of the specifics of the disagreement and many were appalled not only by the king’s treachery but also by the fact that they had been deprived of participating in such a great battle. I know it may be hard for some of you to understand, but to watch such a fight from behind stout walls and do nothing, regardless of the honor at stake, would be difficult for Aryaalans to bear. Fet-Alcas has never been a popular king. He assumed the throne upon the death of his brother, who was popular and widely respected. Even, I think, in B’mbaado.”

Safir Maraan nodded. “Tac-Alcas was a worthy opponent,” she agreed without reluctance. “We warred with him often and he was difficult, difficult, but my father respected his courage, as well as his honor. As did I. Tac-Alcas would never have betrayed us as his brother didt>

“We must talk to them, nevertheless. Whoever’s in charge,” Matt observed.

“Indeed. Many of my warriors who would wish to join you still have families within those walls. None of them are bound by my friendship with you, although most will consider themselves so. I will storm the city myself, if necessary, to get their families out.”

“Hopefully that won’t be necessary,” Sandra said in a fervent tone.

Heads nodded in unison and Matt cleared his throat. “Well. That’s pretty much how things sit, I believe. The way I see it, we have, almost in spite of ourselves, won a major victory here. It was costlier than it should have been and we’re not in as good a shape as we’d hoped to be at this point. But that doesn’t change the ultimate strategy of our campaign. We’ve got to keep up the pressure and move against Singapore as quickly as possible. The intelligence we gained from the captured charts suggests the enemy has only an outpost there so far. While we can presume that the force we destroyed here probably at least stopped off at Singapore, there’s no indication in the charts that they dropped off any sizable force. That being said, I expect that’s probably where the ships that escaped the battle in the bay retreated to, but they left their troops behind. With the addition of Queen Maraan’s troops, and those of Lord Rolak, we should have sufficient forces to evict them—if we act before they reinforce.” He looked at the gathered faces and wished again that he had some inkling of their thoughts. “Therefore, our priorities are these: first, bring the B’mbaadan and Aryaalan troops up to speed as quickly as possible.” Matt let his gaze rest on Queen Maraan and Lord Rolak in turn. “That’s going to take considerable cooperation from both of you. Your people are proud warriors and they may resist training in the new tactics, particularly since their instructors will be ‘mere’ sea folk.”

“They won’t resist,” Queen Maraan assured him. “Not after yesterday.”

Matt hoped she was right and he tried to hide his skepticism. He knew how difficult it had been for Europe to accept the lessons of modern war that Americans learned during their own Civil War. “Second, I want every felucca in the fleet either transporting supplies from Baalkpan or scouting the coastlines for any further incursions by the enemy. If they’ve established other outposts—at Tjilatjap, for example—we must know about it immediately. We’ll also reconnoiter toward Singapore. Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar will assemble a small squadron of the fastest craft around Revenge for that purpose.” He looked at Rick. “Don’t push too hard. They have to expect us to check them out, but I don’t want them to expect an attack.”

“Understood, Captain.”

“I also want the wounded out.” He looked speculatively at his battle line commanders. “We should move them aboard a Home. Decide among yourselves which one it’ll be.” Matt had no doubt they would choose Fristar. Even now it was clear that the High Chiefs of the other Homes were avoiding Anai-Sa. His Home had lagged throughout the Battle of the Bay and had shown no initiative with her fire the following day. Adar told him that he doubted she’d fired a dozen times—as if Anai-Sa was hoarding his ammunition. “Whoever it is,” Matt continued, “must deliver the wounded and return here as quickly as possible with “I also ast, after the battle in the bay, but everything moved so quickly and besides”—he shrugged and gestured at the destroyer, which had completed her turn and was slowly approaching the dock—“I was just so glad to see you and that old ’can, the last thing I wanted to do was argue.” He frowned. “But that was before yesterday.” He glanced at Sandra for support and then looked to see if anyone else was in earshot. There was a general commotion and bustle all around, but the only ones close enough to hear were Gray, Rolak, and Chack.„ Currently, however, the Bosun and Matt’s new . . . whatever he was . . . were deep in discussion, with Chack translating for them. He sighed.

“Skipper, I really don’t think you should let yourself get caught up in any more desperate land battles, and I’d take it as a personal favor if you’d refrain.”

Both of Matt’s eyebrows rose then, but he managed a chuckle. “I had to be there, Jim. Nakja-Mur and all the High Chiefs put me in overall command. It would have looked pretty lousy if I wasn’t willing to face the same danger as those I was supposed to be leading. Hell, Keje was there.”

“Keje was there because you were there, and he almost got killed too,” Sandra pointed out.

“Well, you’re the one who so forcefully assured me I’m not indispensable,” Matt reminded her with a gentle smile.

“I lied,” she retorted. She wasn’t smiling. Matt’s grin faded and he looked at her intently for a moment. Jim seemed to be considering his words. When he spoke, at first it appeared he was changing the subject.

“When’s the last time the men got paid?” he asked. Matt blinked at the apparent non sequitur.

“Before we left the Philippines,” he answered guardedly.

“What do you suppose would have happened, before the War, if they’d gone that long without pay?”

Matt made a “what next” gesture, wondering when Jim would get to the point. But instead of Jim, Sandra spoke up. “What he’s trying to say is you are indispensable! After everything that’s happened; the War, the Squall, making an alliance with the Lemurians, and now this battle, Walker and her crew have continued to carry on and follow orders and do what you asked of them regardless of the fact that, besides her, and now Mahan thankfully, the United States Navy doesn’t exist anymore. Not to them. Even the country they fought for is gone. The only thing that’s kept everything together up to now is you. The possibility that the crew might not continue to follow orders never became an issue because you didn’t let it. You just continued ruthlessly on, as you always had, and made it clear you expected everyone else to do the same. The United States is gone, but Walker’s their center, their core, their cause to cling to, and you’re the one who made that happen.” She rubbed her tired eyes. “Do you have any idea how fragile that is?”

“She’s right, Skipper,” Jim said solemnly. “If anything happened to you, it would probably all fall apart. I’m only beginning to learn what all you’ve managed to accomplish in Balikpapan. I mean, fuel, for Christ’s sake!” He took a deep breath. “I might be able to carry on for a time—at least I hope I could. I kind of doubt it, though. My command experience so far has been less than stellar. Or maybe Dowden or Letts could swing it for a while, or Bradford could keep things going. But if you’re lost, the unique relationship you’ve forged between Walker and the people here would be lostls of the city. “Hell, most of these people wouldn’t even talk to each other before you made them. Do you think they still would if you were gone? They see you as an honest, impartial broker. One who’s not caught up in their petty disputes. The way I see it, you’re the glue that’s holding this alliance together, and even adding to it.” Jim grunted in frustration. “Hell, when I got here with Mahan, I couldn’t even get the locals to talk to me.

“Besides,” he continued, “from a purely selfish perspective, think what it would do to the crew. You’re the last visible vestige of supreme authority they have left to cling to. The last physical connection to the world they’ve lost—to normalcy, I guess, and duty. They still follow your orders because you’re The Captain, and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. Even here.” Jim looked down at his feet for a moment, and then met Matt’s eyes again. “I like to think I could fill your shoes on the bridge someday, as far as seamanship is concerned. Believe me, I thought about that a lot over the last few months. Then I look at Walker, with her new paint job and fuel oil burning in her boilers and I see . . . guys . . . like Chack over there, filling out her crew. I see a ship that was whipped but has since become the most powerful ship in the world, more than likely.” He sighed. “I compare that to Mahan, which hasn’t done half of what you have since we split up, and she still looks whipped.”

“We were lucky,” Matt murmured.

“Maybe so, but that wasn’t all.” Jim stopped and rubbed his temples, but when he spoke again his expression was pained. “I don’t know if I could’ve stopped Kaufman or not. It never dawned on me that he’d try to take over the ship. Then, when he did, I never thought anyone would obey him, but they did. After what Mahan went through, it was hard to blame them, I guess. He sounded like he knew what he was doing when nobody else did, even me. But I’ve seen what happens when chaos and fear set in and a ship loses all sense of purpose and hope. I don’t want to see it again.”

Spanky McFarlane stood on Walker’s fantail, hands on his skinny hips, peering down through the portside propeller-guard tubing at the water below. Occasionally, small waves lapped against it and disrupted the almost perfect, wine-bottle blue-green clarity of the bay. That itself would prove to somebody who just woke up that this wasn’t the cloudy, oily, Surabaya/Madura Bay they remembered. Through the occasional ripples, the sandy bottom was visible about thirty feet below, and between it and the surface, the growth-encrusted propeller shaft and support protruded far out beyond the line of the deck on which McFarlane stood. The only thing glaringly wrong with the view was the decidedly queer appearance of the now two-bladed screw. That, and the malevolent silvery shapes that glided and darted hopefully about.

McFarlane was surrounded by half a dozen helpers, snipes and deck-apes together. All stared at the water as if it were fresh molten lava oozing from the ocean floor. The most persistent shark had never received as much attention as the smaller but infinitely more numerous “flashies” did. A short distance away, so close the ’guards almost touched, floated Mahan, with a similar assembly peering at the water between them with identical expressions. Noisy sounds of difficult labor and coarse shouts echoed from the other ship as repair parties worked to make her seaworthy, but on Walker—just a few yards away—men and Lemurians almost tiptoed around, ridiculously making as liay. Seconds later, there was a dull flash and the sea between the ships turned opaque white. Even as the surface heaved, they felt a jolt through the deck plates beneath their feet. A geyser of water erupted skyward and the prevailing wind carried the bulk of the spray down upon the men on Mahan’s fantail, who gestured and cursed.

Cheers and happy, good-natured jeering broke out on Walker, and even on Mahan, since the man most thoroughly inundated was Al “Jolson” Franklen. Franklen had once enjoyed a measure of celebrity throughout the squadron before the War. He did a really good Al Jolson impersonation and he wasn’t shy about performing. But even before Pearl Harbor, his act had begun to sour—for a variety of reasons—and most of his fans became distant. Then, of course, he was one of the few Mahans still alive who’d supported Kaufman’s mutiny. He only agreed to resume his duties with a full pardon—which Jim Ellis had been obliged to give because of how shorthanded his ship was. In any event, he wasn’t a celebrity anymore and the jeering continued long after he strode forward, stony-faced and soaked to the bone.

Ignoring the noise, Spanky, Laney, and Silva too were staring intently at the water. Dead flashies, belly-up, appeared at the surface. Many trailed bloody tendrils but most were unmarked. The other crewmen on both ships quickly forgot their momentary indignity or amusement and joined them in their scrutiny of the grenade’s effect. A large flashy swirled and bumped gently against the side of the ship. It twitched. It twitched again. For an instant, they thought it had resuscitated itself, but then it jerked violently and a dark cloud spread around it. Within moments, the surface of the water around and between the two destroyers’ propeller guards boiled and seethed with ravenous flashies as they gorged on the bodies of their schoolmates. Laney looked at Spanky, his face a pale, waxy green.

“Fire in the hole!” Spanky warned this time, and dropped the second grenade. The effect was similar to the first, with the exception that the Mahans had time to scramble under the aft deckhouse overhang before they were drenched again. This time, there was only the briefest calm before the roiling frenzy redoubled.

“Oh, well,” Spanky grumped, regarding Laney with deadpan remorselessness. “Back to plan A.”

“Captain, Lieutenant Mallory’s on the horn,” reported the radioman,„ Clancy. “He’s crossing Madura—I mean B’mbaado—now, sir.”

“Very well,” Matt acknowledged. “Tell him to watch out for wrecks in the bay when he sets down.”

“Aye, sir,” came the reply and Clancy disappeared back down the ladder.

“Too bad we can’t just roll a depth charge over the side,” Steve Riggs said, resuming the interrupted conversation. “We still have a full load of those.”

Garrett shook his head. “A depth charge is not a hand grenade. If we did that, we’d blow the stern right off the ship.” Matt nodded agreement. He was sitting in his chair on the bridge sipping “monkey joe,” the local equivalent of coffee, which actually looked and tasted somewhat like coffee except for the greenish foam. He mostly just listened while his officers and senior NCOs brainstormed about the propeller problem.

“I can’t send a man over the side,” Spanky said. “He’d be torn to bits.”

“Maybe we could beach Mahan, take 3">“That’s something to consider,” Jim mused. “How high do the tides run around here? The charts ought to say, but it’s awful risky this close to the equator. I doubt they run more than a couple feet. Besides, more ships than I like to think about have been lost trying to pull stranded vessels off a bank in confined waters. What was that cruiser, twenty years ago or so, that tried to pull that sub off a shoal? The line parted and the cruiser went aground. Total loss. What was her name?”

“Milwaukee,” answered Spanky.

Gray grunted. “That’s all we need. Our own little Honda Point.” He referred to the 1923 catastrophe when seven four-stackers ran hard aground on the California coast in a dense fog. “A fine stupid mess we’d be in then.”

Matt shook his head. “I have to say, that’s my least favorite option so far, gentlemen. Nobody wants to deliberately beach his ship.”

“Maybe we could build a cage of some sort,” Sandison speculated. “Lower it over the side next to the screw and let the divers take it off through the bars.”

Spanky looked at the torpedo officer with surprise. “Hey! That might work. We’ve only got the one little crane aft for handling the depth charges and it won’t lift a screw, but we could use it for the cage and then rig a boom off the main mast to raise the propeller, I bet.”

“Keep working on it. I know you’ll get it figured out,” Matt said. Then he frowned and looked at his watch. “I’m afraid Mr. Ellis and I have to leave you now. We have . . . a couple of funerals to attend.” He glanced at Garrett and Chief Gray. “You too. The men we lost were in your divisions. Have the burial party turned out as sharply as they can manage.” He sighed and stood carefully from his chair, groaning slightly. “I’ll meet you ashore at, say, sixteen hundred. The Lemurians have some sort of funeral planned for dusk, I believe. We may have to be flexible, but I want to bury our people as close to eighteen hundred as we can.”

“You sure we shouldn’t just bury them at sea?” Gray asked quietly.

Matt took a breath and grimly let it out. “I’m sure. I hated putting Marvaney over the side and I’ve never felt right about it. Not like I probably would . . . back home. Not like I did when we buried all the people we lost in the fight running away from this damn place. But that was different—at least we thought it was.” He shook his head, but his frown remained. “Besides,” he finally added, “these guys fought for this crummy place . . .” He didn’t continue. There was no need. The following silence was broken by the lookout’s report that the plane had been sighted.

“Sixteen hundred, Mr. Dowden,” reminded Matt as Riggs replied to the lookout. “Carry on here. Show the flag at half-mast, if you please, and I’ll want one to take ashore. I doubt we have enough to cover them all, so we’ll just have to make do.” Instead of departing as he’d intended, he remained a moment longer with a thoughtful expression. In the distance, the droning engines of the PBY could be faintly heard. “What happened to our flag they carried during the battle?”

“The Second Marines, Skipper. They have it,” Gray answered.

Matt nodded with approval. “Good. We’ll use that one instead.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” they chorused.

Freshly shaved and dressed in his less than pristine whites, Matt appeared at the place he had specified for the burial services to commence. Sstared somberly at the Marines guarding the five small graves. There might have been six as far as Matt was concerned, had the ’Cat they lost during the Battle of the Bay not gone over the side. The location of the new cemetery caused considerable controversy. Matt insisted on the flat, high ground right beside the road from the waterfront and just a short distance in front of the hasty breastworks they’d thrown up facing—and in clear view of—Aryaal’s main gate. From which, there had still been no word at all.

Lord Rolak joined them, as did Queen Maraan. Rolak had polished his armor and replaced his missing plume, but in spite of his expressionless eyes, his deep frown left no doubt he was troubled. He spoke to Captain Reddy through Courtney Bradford. “My lord,” he began hesitantly, “I am yours, as you know, and will do as you command. But since you’ve placed the burden of friendship upon me, it is my duty to counsel against this act.” Matt turned cold eyes upon him as he continued. “If we and the sea folk agree on one thing, it is that the souls of the dead belong in the heavens, where they are taken by the flames of the pyre. Not planted in the ground—from which they may never ascend.” Rolak had little experience upon which to base his perception of human expressions, but Matt’s darkening mood was clear enough. As a credit to his courage, he continued. “Pleasther intentionally or otherwise—you don’t share it at all! This ‘burying’ of souls in the ground is proof enough of that!” He stopped and glanced at Rolak. “Although, if it must be done, I find it highly appropriate for you to do it here.”

Matt looked at his friend with new respect. With a human Bronze Age priest, this would have been about when the torches would be lit.

“You’re not angry that we don’t share your beliefs?” Sandra asked.

“Of course not,” Adar replied. “No one can be forced to accept the True Faith. It would not then be True, would it? I was only . . . uncomfortable . . . when I thought you mocked it.” He looked darkly at Rolak. “As the Aryaalans do.”

Rolak sniffed. “A lie,” he said pedantically.

Matt was looking at the Marines and the graves they guarded. “You might be wrong, Adar. My people sail many winds to reach the same destination, but once there, I believe the place might yet still be the same. Perhaps the same as yours.” A commotion grew behind them and they saw the approach of seven destroyermen dressed in whites. They had probably scrounged both ships to find so many bright, clean outfits. All of them carried Springfields on their shoulders and they marched in step well enough, despite being more than a little rusty. Matt swelled at the sight, as well as when he saw the battle-scarred American flag that had been rescued by the Second Marines leading the way. He was surprised to see who carried it. Walking slowly in front of the riflemen, also dressed in whites with gaiters laced on above his bare feet and with his battered helmet on his head, was Chack-Sab-At. His eyes were grimly set and focused before him and his tail was held erect as it swayed back and forth behind him as he walked.

The firing party halted beside the graves and the flag fluttered in the breeze between them and the walls of Aryaal. “I have to go now,” Matt said quietly, and stepped quickly through the Marine guard to stand before the graves, facing the growing crowd with his back to the city. He reached into his coat pocket to retrieve his small Bible, but found himself faced with the difficulty of opening it with one hand. Sandra rushed to join him, opening the book to a page where he had inserted a small piece of paper. He looked at her and smiled.

“Please stay,” he said. She returned his smile with a supportive one of her own and took her place beside him. A column of thirty destroyermen was moving toward them, swaying in step from side to side. Between each group of six was the body of one of their comrades, sewn in his mattress cover. Chief Gray led the procession, hobbling on his crutches. When they drew even with Ellis, Jim joined the Chief and the column followed the pair to the graves. Matt noticed that almost half of the party who bore the bodies of his crewmen were Lemurians, in spite of what might be a religious aversion toward what they were doing. He felt a surge of affection for them, mingled with a sadness that the original crews of the two destroyers had dwindled so far. When the bodies were deposited beside the graves, the bearers stepped back.

To Matt’s further surprise, the final member of the procession was a stony-faced Dennis Silva. Before him in his hands he carefully carried Mack Marvaney’s portable phonograph. He stepped into position beside Chief Gray where a bugler would have been if they’d had one, set the phonograph on the ground, and opened it. It had already been wound and he merely released the brake and positioned the needle on a record as the turntable began to spin.Walker. Many of those in the gathered crowd gasped at the unexpected music, but Matt felt a sudden tightness in his throat and a strange pressure behind his eyes. He blinked.

Looking sidelong at Sandra, he saw a sad, wistful expression and as the anthem ended and Silva leaned down to turn off the machine, he saw tears streaming down the gunner’s mate’s face. Tears for Tom Felts, or Mack Marvaney, or any of the dozens they’d lost, there was no way to know. Or maybe he was just thinking about all they’d left behind.

“Pa-RADE, REST!”

Matt cleared his throat and looked at the book Sandra held open for him. Then he shook his head. “I never was one much for church,” he apologized, “and I guess we’ve all missed a few services lately.” Some of the men chuckled quietly, in spite of themselves. “It’s not my way, or my place, I think, to preach a sermon here today. I do want to say a few words about these men we are burying, as well as all the rest of you destroyermen. Like all of us—except maybe Juan—Tom Felts and Glen Carter, Andy Simms, Loris Scurrey, and Gil Olivera were a long way from home even before the Japs bombed Pearl and Cavite. For some reason, all of us are even farther away now. Tom was from Arkansas. Glen and Andy were both from Ohio. Gil was from New York and Loris was from California.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts.

“Mr. Ellis is from Virginia and so is Lieutenant Tucker. Sonny Campeti is from New Jersey and Frankie Steele is from Brooklyn. Chief Gray and Dennis Silva are from Alabama. I miss Texas as much as any of you miss the places you’re from . . .” He shrugged. “We might be stuck here, however it happened. My guess is we probably are. But no matter how far we’ve come from those places we yearn for, they’ll always be with us—part of us—deep down. And no matter how far apart they were from each other, those places had one thing in common. They were part of the United States of America, and that made us all Americans.” He looked out at the faces of the firing party and the bearers, and some of the others who had come ashore. He saw out into the bay where Walker and Mahan floated side by side in the distance and, for the moment, those who’d stayed aboard them lined the rails and the flags flew low. “We’re all still part of that no matter how far we’ve come. We were still Americans in the Philippines, and by God, we’re still Americans here.”

He paused for a long moment before continuing. “A few of us have gone even farther than the others now, but it’s my belief that, in so doing, they’ve gotten closer to home, not farther away. I believe there’s one God, above all things, who made the world we came from and this one too. Has to be. Only God could’ve figured out anything as complicated as this situation. I think He can probably manage to sort things out and put us where we belong when we die. I believe the men we bury here today in this strange but familiar place are with their loved ones that went before them now just as surely as if they’d died at home in bed.” He stopped again to let that sink in. He really believed it was the truth, too. At least he hoped it was. The idea of their very souls being banished to this strange world as well was m right.”

“Never was much good at public speaking,” he demurred.

“You did all right, Skipper,” Ellis repeated.

“Yes, you did,” Sandra agreed. “And you know? Maybe you’re right. About why we’re here, I mean.”

“Makes as much sense as anything,” said Jim. “And if it’s true, it proves God sure is an imaginative guy.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way the war was going back home, and in the shape our ships were in, only God could’ve found a use for them. Even if we’d managed to get out of our fix without the Squall—which I doubt—they wouldn’t have been any good to the Navy anymore.”

“God works in mysterious ways, huh?” quoted Matt with a small smile of his own. “What an understatement.”

The crowd dispersed, many to attend to their military duties but most to continue preparations for the Lemurian service later that evening. Labor parties resumed tearing down the wooden warehouses that lined the wharf to use them for fuel for the pyres. Others swarmed over one of the Grik hulks that had been driven ashore during the battle and were quickly reducing it to its skeletal framework. The ghetto housing, such as it was, was left untouched. The allied commanders were unhappy about the necessity of destroying the warehouses—or any property at all—but since there was no suitable timber nearby, they had no choice. They needed all the wood they could find to send this unprecedented number of souls to the sky. At least the warehouses were mostly empty, their contents having been moved into the city when the Grik arrived.

“An . . . unusual ceremony,” remarked Keje to Adar and Rolak, referring to the Amer-i-caan funeral they’d just seen. Keje had arrived late and had been supported by his disapproving daughter. He was still dizzy from the blow on his head.

“Unusual,” Adar agreed thoughtfully. “Short, too. And very somber. Their grief was quite clear.”

“They see death more as an ending than we do, perhaps. As if they do not expect to meet their lost ones again,” Keje speculated.

“I think not,” countered Adar. “Cap-i-taan Reddy told me to hear his words and I might better understand their faith.” He shook his head. “I listened, but my understanding is no less uncertain. I think he was right, however, that we may only sail a different wind to the same destination. They certainly hope to meet again those who go before them, as do we, but perhaps they are less certain their God will find them here, so far from their home.”

“Even more reason not to hide their dead underground.”

Adar looked at his lifelong friend but shook his head at Keje’s obtuseness. “You know as well as any novice priest that the souls of those lost at sea will rise to the heavens as surely as those sent by the pyre. The smoke of the pyre is symbolic. The ashes of the dead that rise within it settle back to the land or sea, in time. No,” he continued, “their customs may seem bizarre, even distasteful. But the meanings behind them are not so different as they may at first appear. I will have to speak more with them about this, but I think we must consider: they are willing to fight and die with us despite a fear that if they do die, they will be utterly lost. I believe our service for the dead would be considerably more somber if that concern lin, I’ve no doubt the souls we free tonight will find their way, but I do grieve that there are so many. Their concerns are over, beyond those they may retain for us. I do not begrudge their contentment in the heavens . . . but we will regret their loss in the battles to come. Do not think I’ve forgotten my oath,” he said.

The three Lemurians lingered in silence a short while longer, watching as the mixed human and Lemurian burial party proceeded with their chore. Shovelfuls of soil disappeared into the rectangular holes with soft thumping sounds.

“It was surely a ceremony for warriors,” Rolak stated. “Except for the part when they are buried.”

The Lemurian “service” was just as alien to the human destroyermen who witnessed it as theirs had been to the Lemurians. Matt watched the initial ceremony accompanied by Jim, Sandra, and Courtney. Except for the firing party, whom Matt had ordered to remain as a show of honor and respect, most of the other members of the funeral party had returned to the ship. He’d ordered Gray to go, ostensibly to help coordinate repairs but mainly to get him off his feet. To his surprise, all the Lemurian destroyermen returned to the ship as well. All except Chack, who had remained behind along with the equally surprising Dennis Silva. Silva sent the phonograph back with Stites but stayed ashore talking quietly with Chack, waiting for the Lemurian funeral to get under way. Matt doubted they had ended their feud, but they appeared to be observing a truce for the evening, at least. Matt joined them briefly, out of curiosity.

“Chack?” he said.

“Sir?”

“Why did the other people . . . your people, go back to the ship? I thought I made it clear they were welcome to stay.”

Chack looked at him and then glanced out at the deepening gloom of the bay, beyond the pier, where the two ships lay. Nearby, and lower down, the dark silhouette of the PBY floated now as well. The Lemurian ceremony was about to take place on the west side of the point, nearest to Madura, where Mahan had been anchored almost since she arrived. A power cable had been rigged between the destroyers, and portable lights and lanterns glowed harshly on the decks, contrasting brightly against the dull glow in the western sky where the sun had slipped away.

“They grieve, Cap-i-taan,” he said. “But they are Navy men, yes? They are destroyermen.”

Matt nodded. “Yes. They are.”

“Walker is their Home. You are High Chief for Walker. You are High Chief of all the Amer-i-caan Navy here, so Mahan is their Home too. Both Homes need us now, more than the dead, and so they want to work.” He paused. “I am here because I do not know what you want me to do.”

Matt was taken aback. “What do you mean, Chack?”

“When I came to Walker, Keje-Fris-Ar was my High Chief. Big Sal was my Home. When I joined the Amer-i-caan Navy, I thought Walker was my Home. I was Bosun’s Mate,” he added proudly. Then he sighed. “Lieutenant Shinya tells me now that I am to be Chief of the Second Marines. What does that mean? I have become a good warrior,” he said matter-of-factly, “which is something I never expected, and I . . . am good at it. But is Walker no longer my Home? Do I not have a home?”

Matt was perplexed for a moment; then realization dawned. “No! I mean, yes, Walker is certainly your Home, Chack, and you’re still a bosun’s mate! Good grief, I’m sorry ift size="3"ious enough not to think of them at all. That was a tough difference to bridge and he knew major religious wars had been fought throughout human history over less profound differences. Matt had to admit that the sea folk’s religion was probably closer to what he’d been brought up with—profoundly different, of course, but still closer than Rolak’s or Queen Maraan’s. Although, he admitted wryly to himself, he could understand the attraction of the land folk religion to its adherents. At least to the males.

He looked at Sandra and saw the torchlight reflecting off her gold-tinged, sandy hair and fresh-scrubbed face. Her nurse’s uniform was immaculate and exotically feminine compared to the dungarees she wore day to day. He couldn’t help it, but a deep sadness, unrelated to the day’s events, swept over him and he looked away so fast that his throbbing shoulder made him wince.

She looked ey would have us believe that everything, even the delay in speaking to us after the battle, was caused by confusion while they hunted the murderous conspirators.”

Matt shook his head. “Sounds awfully Byzantine to me—or Soviet.”

Courtney Bradford laughed out loud. “I don’t believe we need look to Uncle Joe Stalin for examples of a dirty and complicated rise to power. Our own shared English history is replete enough with those, Captain.”

Matt smiled. “I’m Irish American, with a fair measure of Scot. O’Roddy—Reddy—you know.”

“Hmm.”

They were aboard Walker, in the wardroom again, and it was full as usual. They were engaged in an informal discussion of the situation, but nearly every faction was represented, except the Aryaalans, so whatever they decided would have the effect of policy. Nearly two weeks had passed since they blew down the north gate of the city, and in that time Matt had spent precious little time on his ship. He was glad to be home. Revenge had sailed with a small squadron of feluccas to scout the enemy and Mallory flew every other day, either probing north toward Singapore or carrying news and people between Aryaal and Baalkpan. So far there was no sign that the Grik intended to renew their offensive. The ragtag remnants of their fleet had gone to ground at Singapore, but no other forces had joined them there. Given everyone’s reluctance—the Grik included—to cross the menacingly deep water of the Indian Ocean, it seemed unlikely the enemy would use any other avenue of approach.

Sergeant Alden came to help Shinya integrate the B’mbaadan forces into the AEF. His envy of the Japanese officer regarding his role in the battle had been palpable. He managed to contain it, however, and the burgeoning friendship between the tough Marine and the former enemy lieutenant wasn’t in danger. Alden was gone again, but the news from “home” was welcome, and good for the most part. The Baalkpan defenses were strengthening every day and the cottage arms industry was beginning to flourish. Matt knew Walker missed all the people they’d left in Baalkpan, Letts most of all, but he was glad the fair-skinned supply officer was there. Letts, Alden, and Brister, together with Karen Theimer, had been working miracles. Besides, with the dame famine still under way, keeping Letts’s and Theimer’s affair out of the local eye was certainly prudent—even now that they had two more nurses for the guys to ogle. It was one less latch on the pressure cooker. Some tension still existed regarding Silva and Risa’s apparently ongoing trans-species relationship and there was little doubt now that they had one. But it now seemed more platonic than anything and few really took it seriously anymore. They were clearly great friends, and ever since captain’s mast they hadn’t been as blatant about “it” anymore either, whatever “it” was. Both were popular characters—not to mention dangerous—and as long as they maintained a semblance of dignity their “friendship” was ignored beyond the mild humor it inspired. Mostly. Occasionally there were still words.

One “relationship” Matt thoroughly approved of seemed to be flourishing as well. He looked at Queen Maraan with a puzzled expression. “Queen Protector, I just realized you spoke to us in English.”

“Yes,” she confirmed with a toothy grin and a series of blinks that indicated pleasure. “I spoke . . . Did well?”

“You sure did,” Jim Ellis confirmed.

“We take this . . . Sin-Po-Ar . . . war end?” asked the Orphan Queen.

Matt sadly shook his head. “No, Queen Protector. It won’t even be the beginning of the end,” he said, quoting Churchill. “But it’ll be the end of the beginning.”

“My God!” exclaimed Bradford. “I wonder what dear Winston would think to hear his words used in this context?”

“I bet he’d find it appropriate,” Matt responded thoughtfully. “And pretty familiar too—except I don’t really believe the Krauts eat their prisoners.”

“Ready to go!” announced Spanky over the intercom at the auxiliary conn on top of the aft deckhouse. His voice was more gruff than usual with repressed tension as he watched the slack go out of the cables that trailed past the propeller guards. A vicious squall had marched across the bay late that morning, threatening to delay the operation. It passed quickly enough, however, leaving the sky bright and clear and the water almost dead calm. Now the only thing marring the otherwise perfect Java day was the customary oppressive heat and humidity—and, of course, the critical nature of the task at hand. Walker and Mahan had maneuvered into the middle, deepest part of the bay. Now they were poised stern to stern with lines trailing down to Walker’s port side shaft support and across to Mahan, where they were carefully secured to the propeller they planned to pluck. The low angle was necessary so they would pull the screw straight off, without putting an upward bind on the shafts—not only so the screw would come off easier, but to avoid warping either of the shafts themselves. They needed the deep water so when the propeller came off, it wouldn’t plunge down and damage itself on the bottom of the bay. The “practice run” had been a success. That was when they used a reverse arrangement to pull Walker’s useless propeller the day before.

Spanky spared an unusual sympathetic glance at Dean Laney, who stood beside the starboard depth-charge rack, shivering, in shock most likely. He was black and blue with bruises, and Silva, just as uncharacteristically, had draped him in a blanket as soon as he came out of the suit. They’d hoped to use a welded-steel cage to lower the machinist into the sea, but there was one problem they just couldn’t solve. It had to be tight enough to keep out the smaller flashies, but still let Laney work through it to secure the cables and remove the huge nuts that held the screw in place. Ultimately, they resorted to the ancient technique of passing one of Big Sal’s coarse, heavy sails under the hull of the ship and securing it tightly wherever it came in contact. This created a flashy-free pocket for Laney to work. Captain Reddy told them sailing ships had often used the same strategy in shark-infested waters to make repairs, or just to have a place to swim or bathe in safety. It worked like a charm—until the swarming predators figured out something was inside the pocket.

It may have been noise or movement, but even though they sensed nothing edible, they began bumping aggressively against the bulging canvas with their hard, bony heads. Often, of necessity, Laney was right behind it and they very nearly beat him to death. Somehow he managed to finish the job in spite of the pain and terror. Spanky cringed to think what would have happened if any of the blows had broken the skin. Even through his suit, enough blood would have entered the water to drnt size="3">“Hey . . . !”

“You idiot snipe! You tryin’ to jinx us? I guess the Skipper knows what he’s doin’! Here, gimme that blanket back!” A short Lemurian ordnance striker named Pak-Ras-Ar, hence of course, Pack Rat, stood behind the pair and Silva threw the blanket at him. “Here, Pack Rat. You have it. I ain’t sleepin’ under no damn snipe-sweaty blanket!”

Pack Rat held the blanket at arm’s length and wrinkled his nose. “Smells mostly like Silva sweat to me,” he said.

“Goddamn little hairball.”

On the deckhouse, Dowden took off his hat and ran shaking fingers through his greasy hair. The captain’s expression was like stone as he calculated the angle. How could he be so calm? What he didn’t see was Matt’s left hand shaking at his side and the typhoon of acid roiling in his stomach. His right hand was on the wheel, the only thing that kept it still.

“Signal to Mahan: Hold on.” Matt waited a moment while the message was passed. A high, fluffy cloud passed overhead, dulling the glare of the sun on the water and he looked quickly forward to check the angle of his ship once more.

“Starboard ahead full,” he said quietly.

Black smoke chuffed skyward from the aft stacks and Walker’s stern crouched down. Vibration quickly built as the old destroyer leaped from the block.

“She’s comin’ up!” Silva bellowed unnecessarily as the cables raced from the depths once more. Fifty, sixty, seventy yards—the distance quickly grew. There was a hundred yards of cable. Suddenly there came a tremendous, wrenching groan and it felt as if Walker had slammed into a wall of rock. Crewmen were thrown to the deck and the bow heaved to port, nearly spinning the wheel out of the captain’s hand. Then, as quick as that, Walker lunged free and resumed her dash away from Mahan.

“All stop!” Matt cried.

Dowden passed the word and then ran to the rail. Below him, Silva and Laney were trying to heave on the line that trailed over the side. “Do we have it?” he shouted down.

“Aye, sir! And it’s heavy enough! I hope we didn’t yank Mahan’s shaft and turbine too!” A cheer built as men and ’Cats picked themselves up and word quickly spread forward.

Dowden pounded the rail in triumph. “Quit fooling around with that line, men. You’ll never lift it without a winch!”

“Ain’t tryin’ to lift it, sir, just want to feel if it hits bottom. We got three hundred feet of line and three hundred twenty feet of water—we think.”

Dowden’s face grew troubled. “Well . . . let us know.”

Walker’s momentum bled off until she coasted to a stop about a quarter mile from her anchored sister. At rest, she had a slight list to port, caused by the weight of the screw. Silva was the last to let go of the cable. “Swingin’ free and easy, Mr. Dowden,” he announced.

Spanky sighed with relief and turned to relay the report from the engine room. “Seals are fine, Skipper. No more water coming in than usual.”

“Mahan reports the same,” Riggs said from behind them as he watched Mahan’s signal light with a pair of binoculars. He lowered them to his chest. “Thank God.”

Matt nodded, keeping his hand on the wheel so it wouldn’t betray him. “Thank Him indeed,” he said. “Good work, Mr. McFarlane. Pass the word to all hands: Well done.” He grinned because of one selfish, perverted, racist bastard.

A lot was up to the girl. They’d allowed Pam a few minutes to assemble a bag and without even a glance at Franklen she rushed to the young victim and began a quick, softly murmured examination. As she and Risa began to ask quiet questions, the grim-faced men turned to the prisoner. Chack crouched beside him in the sand, resting his chin on his cutlass guard, staring at him from inches away, his inscrutable eyes somehow radiating malice.

“Pull his gag,” Gray instructed. He looked at Chack. “If he does anything but quietly answer questions, kill him.” He peered hard into Franklen’s eyes. “You got that? You answer questions and keep a civil tongue, you might just survive this night.”

In spite of himself, Franklen snorted and blood bubbled from his shattered nose. The Bosun shrugged and nodded at Donaghey, who yanked out the nasty, bloody rag.

Franklen coughed and spat for several minutes before his spasm subsided enough that he might be understood. Finally he spoke.

“You gonna kill me any-ay, Chee. You ne’er ’iked me.” Black blood and wrecked lips made him almost unintelligible.

“Not so. I thought you were funny as hell. When you’re made-up, you’re not near as ugly. You can act and talk as much like Al Jolson as anybody I ever seen, and you can tell the funny stories like he can. You just wouldn’t leave well enough alone. Hell, a lot of the coolies and Filipino guys got treated like crap for days after one of your shows. Not to mention the mess attendants.” He snorted. “Besides, I got news for you: you can’t whistle and you can’t sing . . . and your big Hollywood role model—who loaned you the only popularity you ever had—is a Jew!”

“Das a damn lie!”

Gray rolled his eyes.

“An for de others,” Franklen went on, “they was just lyin’ Tagalog Bastards. Flips. Like Nigras back home. Takin’ jobs in de fact’ries from hardworkin’ white men just ’cause they’d work for less.” He looked around and sneered as best he could. “And now these goddamn ’Cats puttin’ on airs like real destroyermen. Real soljers!”

Gray slapped him hard. He couldn’t help himself.

“Like real people, you mean? You don’t even think of ’em like that, do you? You figure you can just have your way with one like one of your farm animals back home. Is that about the size of it?”

Franklen stared at him defiantly. “You’re one to talk.” His tiny eyes squinted around. “All of you, I bet.” They fell at last on Silva. “And you most of all, you ’Cat-lovin’ traitor!”

Gray and Donaghey almost weren’t quick enough to stop Silva from drawing the long bayonet at his side and ramming it into the top of Franklen’s head. Chack stood up, though, and watched Silva’s reaction with interest—as well as that of his sister, who came partly uncoiled from around the victim Pam was tending. With both a shudder and a sense of wonder, he realized their “carrying on” couldn’t be quite entirely a joke after all. Whatever it was, he was certainly getting a major contrast lesson in Silva and Risa’s relationship as opposed to others that were possible.

“We can’t get anywhere with him.” Donaghey sighed emotionlessly. “He just don’t get it.”

“I’ll get through to him,” Silva said softly, resheathing his bayonet and dropping to his knees in the sand. The two ’Cats who’d been holding Al fought his struggnt>a stared across the tent at the intensity of the eyes that glowed back at him from the females. One was filled with a murderous passion and the other . . . similar, but with a measure of devastation he’d seen only once before. In the belly of Revenge when they took the ship from the Grik and rescued the “provisions” there. He’d never been the sensitive sort and he’d used women like toys himself, but this . . . He almost felt ashamed to be a man. And to add a measure of icy mercury to his shame and his resolve, it suddenly dawned on him that this was the first time he’d ever seen a Lemurian teenage female seem just like a vulnerable, devastated, teenage girl. He was filled with a smoldering rage like he’d never known. Pam’s frequent glances in his direction weren’t much different from those of the Lemurians.

“I’ll tell you something, Al. I like these ’Cats. A hell of a lot better than I like you. And I do think of ’em as ‘people.’ Hell, maybe even human. They’re a lot more human than you are; that’s a fact. I’ve fought with ’em and worked with ’em and spilled my blood alongside ’em. We’ve helped them and they’ve helped us.” He pointed at the crumpled child. “I don’t recognize her after what you done, but I bet I’ve fought alongside her!” He looked intently at Franklen. “The way I hear it, you never fought alongside anybody. Why don’t you tell us what you’ve done for ‘us humans’ since we got here, Al, ’cause by all accounts, it ain’t much. You supported Kaufman’s mutiny against Mr. Ellis, and look how many died because of that . . .”

“Pardoned,” Franklen gummed, but Silva went on.

“Let’s see, how many battles have you fought against the Griks that are swoopin’ down? You’ll at least agree they’re worse than ’Cats, won’t you?” There was no response. Dennis started counting on his fingers.

“Well, let’s see. I seen—helped—the ’Cats fight like hell to save Big Sal from a gob as big as the one Mr. Ellis fought through. Which you was in the brig waiting for Captain Kaufman to come back aboard if what I hear is true. Skipped that one, didn’t you? Even stayed in the brig as ‘insubordinate’ the whole time the ship was laid up here and made no effort to give a hand.”

“We were screwed, Silva, you dumb son of a bitch! Just look around yourself! The stupid ’Cats around here wouldn’t talk to us. They didn’t even care about the Griks until it was too late. All they cared about was fightin’ each other.” He spat a gobbet of blood. “Ellis weren’t no officer. He couldn’t get anything sorted out between ’em. And I did too agree to work on the ship.”

“You agreed to work on the ship—for a pardon,” Gray glowered, “because the ship was so shorthanded. Mr. Ellis should’a hung you. Instead, your skipper forgave you and let you loose. Figgers ‘let bygones be bygones and we’re all together now.’ My God, after seeing that field in front of the city how could you think anything else? But you sat out the battle on shore. Again. Even when it started to fall apart and everybody went to fight.”

Silva raised his eyebrows. “So on top of everything else, you really are a coward.” He shook his head. “Except where little girls are concerned. All you could think of, the first time nobody’s really watchin’ you, was grabbin’ up some . . . child and tearin’ her up like that. What were you gonna do next? You couldn’t have let her live.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and suddenly everyone in the tent knew Silva was right.

“Nah, Silva,” Franklen gushed. “It wasn’t like that! I wouldn’t’a really hurt her . . . I just wanted a piece—like you got!”

“Silva no have ‘piece,’ you piece of shit!” Her glare moved to encompass her brother as well. “He have friend. We make big joke, scare Chack. Scare Captain too, have big laugh . . . but we more than friends too.” Now she was talking directly to her brother. “Okay with you, the Captain.” She glanced at Pam. “Or anybody, that’s fine. Not okay?” She blinked sublime unconcern. “Still okay with Risa.”

“Now see,” Franklen whined, “I got no problem with that! That’s what—” He was almost dead before Silva and Chack could pull Risa off him and move her back across the tent.

Gray, Donaghey, Laney, and Steele were kneeling over the unconscious form as if deciding what to do with a dead snake, when Silva and Chack returned. Silva didn’t come right out and say “Sorry about that,” but his body language did. He did apologize for “using up all the air so far.”

“Hell. You just said what everybody was thinking,” said Gray. “Make no mistake. This is a trial. He’s admitted what he done, and you pointed out it would have been a lot worse if he hadn’t got caught.”

“Who caught him, anyway?”

“Steele. Sheer luck. He was runnin’ a final check before he went on deck for the party and heard her cries. Damn, he’s got good ears! Franklen had her down in Mahan’s steering engine room to show her the ‘machines.’ Hell, they can’t resist that. It’s like offerin’ ’em candy.”

Silva felt another uncharacteristic twinge of guilt.

“How much of me and Risa ‘carrying on’ mighta, you know, contributed?”

Several faces became unreadable.

“I don’t reckon any,” said Gray at last. “For one thing, nobody really knew what you were up to, and I guess we still don’t. I’d just as soon keep it that way. ‘More than just friends’ can mean anything. Outside this tent, they still won’t know that much.” His eyes bored into Laney’s. “Besides, whatever it was, it sure wasn’t . . .” He spit on Franklen as the man groaned and began to come to. “Like this.”

“So,” Chack said at last, “what shall we do with this creature?” For the first time in a long time, he didn’t appear to be thinking about Silva when he said the word “creature.” Maybe he’d started to think over what his sister and friend had said—or maybe their “relationship” had finally been put in perspective for him. “We’ve already decided we can’t make an example of him, which is actually a shame. There are more than a few of my people who don’t think of humans as ‘people’ either.”

“That’s changing fast enough. We’ve spilled enough blood together. Besides, most of the ones who feel that way are on the other side of that wall, yonder, or they’ve run off.” Franklen was fully conscious again when Gray finished. “And pretty soon, there’ll be one less of ours who feels like that.”

“Let’s ask the girl,” Laney suddenly blurted. They were the first words he spoke. Donaghey nodded.

“Yeah. Let’s see what she wants to do with him.” Franklen began to thrash and moan, but the bloody gag went back in his mouth and Chack and Laney held him again. Having made the suggestion, Laney was more than willing to let others carry it out. The last thing he wanted to do, in his heart of hearts, was speak to a teenage rape victim of Franklen, who had awakened and was looking back. “And I want to eat his eyes.”

Donaghey glanced at his watch. “Whatever we do, and whatever she eats, we better get on with it. Sooner or later some officer is going to figure out there’s a hell of a lot of Indians running around without any chiefs to tell ’em what to do.”

“Right,” agreed Gray. “Call ’em in and we’ll sort this out.”

Except for Russ Chapelle and the Lemurian Marines, everyone else managed to squeeze in the tent. They made solicitous comments as they passed by “Blossom,” but had only hard stares for their former shipmate.

“We ain’t gonna have no jury,” Gray said. “The ‘accused’ was caught in the act, admitted what he done, and invited Mr. Steele to ‘get some’ himself. No one has since heard him deny he raped and brutalized one of our young female allies. He is guilty, so I won’t even call for a vote. The only thing we have left to decide is punishment.”

Steele sighed. “We’re kind of in the same boat there. There’s only one punishment for what he did, and he probably would’ve done worse before he was finished.”

“I never figured chiefs had so much power,” Laney whispered. “This ain’t in the book!”

“No, it ain’t,” Gray growled. “There’re lots of things that ain’t in the book. This world we’ve wound up in, for one. But chiefs have always ‘handled’ things.” Gray looked at Donaghey. “And this ain’t the first time we handled somethin’ like this. Sometimes problems just have to go away and Franklen’s turned himself into one of those problems tonight. With all that’s at stake, we can’t dump this on the captain.”

“It will even look better from our point of view,” confirmed Chack, speaking very close to Franklen’s ear, “if news of this . . . event comes forward over time. It will show your people honor your leader and the alliance, but you also honor a youngling’s virtue enough not to wait until the ‘time is right’ to sort things out.” Blossom bristled at the “youngling,” but Chack blinked reassuringly. “You are still a youngling—I am scarcely beyond that myself—but you are also a Marine.”

“So, how are we gonna do it?” Silva asked, ever practical and to the point. “I’d kinda’ like to get some more dancin’ in before the party winds down.”

“We can’t shoot him, for obvious reasons,” Donaghey mused.

“Easiest thing is to take him down to the water and just throw him in. Let the flashies have him,” said Silva. “Where’d ol’ Al Jolson go? Hell if I know. Musta’ got drunk that night at the propeller party and fell in the water. Yeah, seen him swipin’ everybody’s half-empty seep cups when they was dancin’. Serves the bastard right.”

Gray looked thoughtful. “Say, that’s just how we’ll work it. You’re a fiend, Silva, but you’re a pretty good acting chief so far.”

Throughout this exchange, Franklen was unable to speak, but his eyes had begun to move rapidly back and forth. They were talking about killing him, right in front of him, matter-of-factly, like he wasn’t even there.

“You—You can’t do that!” protested Laney. Franklen leaned against him in relief and began to sob.

“What do you mean?” Gray asked menacingly. Laney gulped, but didn’t look away.

“I mean, kill him, sure. The bastard deserves it. eyes.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t throw him in the water alive, and that girl is sure not gonna eat his eyes. We’ve got rules during these illegal gettogethers, Laney. That’s the thing that makes us different from the Grik and from guys like Al. We’ve got rules of decency, of honor to follow, even when we’re breaking the rules of the Navy. And it’s because we take those rules so seriously that we’re breaking them in the first place. To protect the honor of our Navy, our ships and our people. See?”

“So how are we gonna kill him? We ain’t gonna hang him—not in here,” Silva persisted. “I don’t mean to sound all insensitive, but the bastard’s gotta die, and we prob’ly oughta’ quit sankoin’ along.”

“He’s right,” said Steele. “Let’s get on with it. Lots or volunteers?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” said Silva in an exasperated voice. “Somebody draws a short straw, or long straw, you gonna make ’em kill him, Frankie? What if he can’t do it? Whoever kills him is gonna have to use their hands. What if they ain’t strong enough? Might as well sell tickets for that.” He turned to Laney.

“Would you like to kill him, Dean?”

Surprised, Laney looked around, then looked at the ground. Anywhere but at the prisoner or his victim. “No, Dennis, as a matter of fact I wouldn’t. Not in cold blood. I’ll do it, but I wouldn’t like to.” He looked up. “I guess I just ain’t the killer you are.”

“Few are,” agreed Silva equably. “Thing is, I shouldn’t have to kill him either, even though, for reasons of my own, I’d really kind of like to. But we all been told a chief ’s job is to lead. Well, we’re all of us chiefs, or acting chiefs or petty officers now, but some are higher than others. I been here before, even if I never got The Hat, but I never could keep it because I didn’t want the responsibility.” He walked over and looked Gray in the eye. “A lot of responsibility comes with that chief’s hat. You got time in grade on everybody. You’re ‘in charge.’ Maybe Frankie outranks you now, but there ain’t no officers here. Right here, right now, you’re it. So lead, Bosun. You either got to pick somebody to do it or you have to do it yourself.”

After a long moment, Gray nodded. “You would’a had The Hat a long time ago, Silva, if you weren’t such a maniac. Come on, we’ll do it together.”

With Laney and Chack still each on an arm, Silva grabbed the burly quartermaster’s mate around the chest. Wide-eyed, he struggled and moaned through his gag.

“I’ll pull this gag and let you have some last words if you’ll keep ’em quiet and decent,” Gray offered. Franklen went slack. Taking this as a sign he agreed, Gray pulled the bloody rag. Instantly, Al began screaming at the top of his lungs. Gray grabbed his head and began to twist and the screams abruptly ceased.

“You hear that kind of weird crackin’ sound, Al? Sounds like it’s right under your skull? Just grunt if you do.” Franklen made a noncommittal sound. In Fitzhugh Gray’s very best Al Jolson voice (which wasn’t half bad) he spoke the real Al Jolson’s signature line: “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet!”

Rasik-Alcas, King and Protector of Aryaal, paced back and forth before the large arched window, his rich, supple gown flowing as he walked. Barely visible in the distance beyond the north wall, bonfires, lighted shipourselfidth="1em">“Why?” Rasik snapped.

Koratin bowed his head. “I am not sure, lord. Some needed repair, long delayed, is the word I hear. We have few spies among them yet.” Rasik-Alcas began to scold his senior and currently only advisor for taking so long to build a network of informants, but he hesitated. Lord Koratin represented one of the oldest houses in Aryaal, and the creature was politically savvy. He was urbane, vain, and quick to take offense—but fear would prevent him from challenging his new king. For now. Rasik was fairly sure that Koratin harbored firm suspicions as to how Fet-Alcas had died, but for now the Aryaalan noble seemed willing to let the matter stand, and even to help. It made Rasik uncomfortable to rely on Koratin for anything, particularly anything critical to his consolidation of power, but he had no choice. “Perhaps when their repairs are complete, they will go away,” Koratin speculated.

Rasik growled. “Of course they will—to fight the Grik.”

Koratin blinked. “Then that is good! They will be gone from here and things will become as before.” He paused. “We are weakened, true, but we can stand against B’mbaado. In time—”

“No!” shouted Rasik. “Don’t you see? As long as they war against the Grik, they will have a presence here! They will never go away as long as the war continues!”

“Is that so terrible? What if the Grik return?”

“Return?” Rasik snorted. “With what?” He gestured eastward. “Have you not seen the carrion beyond our walls? Mere bones now, but the bones of thousands! It will be generations before those losses are made good.” He shook his head. “No, the Grik menace is gone. They won’t return in our grand-younglings’ lifetimes.”

Koratin was not so sure. He proceeded carefully. “I have heard it said they are not like us—in more ways than are obvious. They breed quickly and their kingdom is vast. Some say they are the Demons of Old, come to harry us again, and what they sent here is but a tithe against what they are capable of.”

“Nonsense! You really should let your females tell stories to your young.” Koratin’s devotion to his younglings was no secret, and he often recited tales to them—and others—in open forum. He enjoyed performing, and while he recognized his own failings, he secretly hoped he could atone to some degree by telling tales of real virtue and clear morals to the young. “You begin to believe your own fables,” Rasik accused. Koratin remained silent. “As long as the sea folk war against the Grik, we won’t be rid of them,” Rasik repeated, returning to the subject at hand. He resumed pacing, deep in thought. Then he stopped. “But what if the war was over?”

“What do you mean, Lord King?”

Rasik’s eyes had become predatory slits. “Tell me, Lord Koratin. Do you think those silly sea folk would have the courage to fight without the iron ships?”

“No, Lord King,” Koratin answered honestly.

“Do you believe they’d even consider carrying on without them?” Koratin felt a chill.

“No, Lord King,” he whispered.

Rasik barked a horrible laugh. “So simple!” he said and resumed his pacing, but forrion in one of the chairs around the wardroom table idly fingering a freshly stripped Grik skull, retrieved from the battlefield, while Juan Marcos and Ray Mertz cleared the dishes left by the dinner party. It had been a fine meal, mostly Americanized local fare, but a few purely native dishes had been presented. Bradford wasn’t accustomed to the unusual Lemurian spices and, for the most part, he just stuck to salt. At least salt hadn’t changed, thank God. His morbid trophy hadn’t elicited the excitement he expected when he flourished it at the beginning of the meal. He’d been politely but firmly asked to place it out of sight until everyone had eaten.

Now, most of the diners had returned to their duties or joined the party on deck, leaving only the captain, Sandra, Jim, Keje, and Bradford himself. Without fanfare, the grisly thing reappeared upon the table. “This is the face our own world would have taken if whatever killed the dinosaurs . . . hadn’t,” Bradford announced muzzily, interrupting the conversation at the other end of the table.

“Probably,” Matt agreed. They’d had this talk before. He began to resume his conversation with Jim.

“But have you considered,” Bradford plowed on, “that maybe this is the way it should have been? Just look at this thing!” he demanded. “Similar brain capacity, large eyes, wicked, wicked teeth! Obviously a far better-adapted natural predator than we!” The rest of the group reluctantly turned their attention to the Australian. He was on a roll, and even drunk, whatever he said was bound to be interesting.

“Well, there’s no doubt they’re intelligent,” agreed Ellis grudgingly, “and they’re certainly better fighters on land than at sea. I don’t see how that makes them ‘better natural predators’ than us. We beat them.”

“Ah,” said Bradford, controlling a belch, “but we beat them with our minds, not our bodies. Only superior technology won the day, in the end. Consider: as far as we know, humanity has not risen on this world. We may be its only poor representatives. Where we come from, man is the greatest predator, but here that’s not the case. Here”—he tapped the skull—“this creature—or similar races—might predominate all over the globe.” He shifted his bleary stare to Keje. “Even on the islands that the People control, there are Grik, are there not? You’ve said so yourself.” He paused. “We’ve seen them,” he remembered. “Primitive, aboriginal, but plainly related to the more sophisticated enemy we face.” Keje nodded, peering intently at the man.

“What’s your point, Mr. Bradford?” Sandra asked quietly. The Australian’s fatalistic tone was giving her the creeps.

“It’s quite simple, my dear. We all, myself included, have from the beginning considered the world we came from to be the ‘normal’ one—the ‘right’ one—and this world the aberration.” He blinked. “No offense, my dear Captain Keje.” The Lemurian blinked acknowledgment. “But if you compare just the sheer physical lethality, there’s no way we humans would ever have evolved to become ‘top dog,’ as you Americans so aptly put it, if these creatures had anything to say about it—” His belch finally escaped. “Back home, that is. Here, we would have been an evolutionary impossibility . . . excuse me, please.”

“But what about the ’Cats?” asked Matt. Bradford shrugged.

“They apparently evolved more recently, in an isolated environment—Madagascar, I am quite sure. Two sentient species rising independently, but necessarily separate or it could never have taken place.” He stared at the skull. “At least Idat He was known as a malcontent malingerer and chances were he’d turn up in a day or so. Where could he go?

Matt suddenly realized that Sandra’s small, soft hand had found its way into his own. Clearing his throat, he released her fingers so he could ostentatiously adjust his hat. He glanced around, but the bridge watch all seemed preoccupied with their duties.

“It’s hard to watch them go,” Sandra murmured beside him. He nodded. To the south and east, the sky was clear and the harsh glow of the morning sun touched the wave tops with fire. To the north, however, the sky seemed smeared with a muddy brush. He stepped away from Sandra, heading toward the opposite wing, glancing up through the windows as he walked, until he saw the sky beyond the city in the west-northwest. Across the horizon, a great black mass was forming, as dark as the blackness of night. Wispy stringers of gray and white crawled across it like snakes, or worms. In spite of the morning heat, he felt a chill as Sandra joined him.

“Keje said this was the stormy time of year,” he whispered nervously.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Something bad.”

Rick Tolson was having the time of his life. He’d always loved the sea—even as a kid, having run away aboard a fishing schooner when he was ten. He hadn’t enjoyed that life, to be honest, but it taught him a lot about the sea and sails and how to be a man. When he returned as a prodigal son, his father arranged for him to spend the summers with the crew of a sixty-five-foot racing yacht named Bee that belonged to a wealthy Chesapeake-area business associate of his. All through high school, the summers found Rick converting the wind into raw speed. While other kids his age worked at gas stations and soda fountains, he got paid (a meager salary) to play, racing against the other sleek play-things of the rich.

He learned everything, and by the time he went to college he’d commanded Bee in several high-stakes races and won, always against newer and faster competitors. In college he didn’t have much time for racing, since he took summer classes as well, but he always had a place aboard the Bee when he went home on weekends. He also joined the Naval Reserve Officer Training Corps—against his father’s wishes—and that was how he’d wound up here. He was glad.

Not in his wildest boyhood fantasies had he imagined that a Navy life would put him in command of what was, for all intents and purposes, a square-rigged frigate. Like Stephen Decatur, Isaac Hull, or Porter before Valparaiso, he was living the life of his childhood heroes with the greatest assignment any frigate captain could ask for: independent command. It was a fantasy come true, and he was loving every minute of it. Revenge was fast—by Lemurian standards—and surprisingly well made considering her builders. The Grik had taken her draft directly from the lines of the stout, fast-sailing British East Indiamen, and it was obvious now that they’d captured one centuries before and used it as a pattern—scaled up or down—ever since. Revenge had one major difference, of course. She was armed with twenty guns. More a ship-sloop than a frigate, in the old scheme of things, where a ship’s class was reckoned by how many guns she carried, but “frigate” sure sounded better.

Rick’s crew was entirely Lemurian, with the exception of an ordnance striker named Gandy Bowles, fresh off of Mahan, who’d been jumped to “master gunner.” The rest of the crew couldn’t love their ship, remembering constantly what she represented. Despite everything they did to eliminate it, the cloying scent of her previous owners and what they’d doe he well lingered, and that didn’t help. They loved the idea of her, however, and they were ecstatic about what she could do. She was faster and more maneuverable than the stolid, plodding Homes—and faster than any other Grik ship they’d encountered. They’d encountered several. Rick remembered each action with a warm glow of excitement. All had been stragglers or scouts and showed no concern as Revenge drew near. She was one of theirs, wasn’t she? All were destroyed.

Revenge’s speed was due primarily to some innovative rig improvements that Rick and his crew came up with, and he liked to think his racing background helped. Also, in spite of her guns, she wasn’t as heavy as other Grik ships. Her crew was smaller and she didn’t carry a regiment of warriors and their supplies everywhere she went. That might be a problem if the enemy ever grappled, but so far, Revenge had destroyed her surprised victims from beyond the range of even the enemy’s shipboard bomb throwers. Whatever the reasons for her success, Revenge had been a wolf on the prowl for the better part of three weeks now, earning her name in spades, and the enemy had no idea she was even there. Rick felt like Robert Louis Stevenson had written this part of his life and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

“Good morning, Cap-i-taan,” greeted Kas-Ra-Ar as the Lemurian joined him on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

“Morning, Kas.” Rick smiled. “A brisk day and a stiff wind.” He glanced aloft at the single-reefed topsails overhead.

“When should we expect the plane, do you think?” Kas asked. Every four days, the PBY flew out and rendezvoused with them so it could carry a report of their sightings back to Surabaya. The latitude wasn’t prescribed for the meetings, but the longitude was. That way, the Catalina could just follow the line north until they met. In theory. Revenge’s consorts tried to stay in line of sight, and they would signal her with any sightings they made as well. Once, amazingly, they encountered a Lemurian Home headed north into the China Sea. They closed to speak to her and had nearly taken a fusillade of the giant crossbow bolts for their efforts. They finally managed to convince the Home they weren’t Grik (an understandable mistake) and they passed them the news of the war. That news came as quite a shock, since these people hadn’t even known there was a war. They told Kas they might go to Baalkpan, or they might not. They did turn around and head south.

“Sometime this afternoon, I think,” Rick replied to his sailing master’s question. “We’re farther north than they probably expect us, but not close enough to Singapore for Mallory to worry about being seen.”

“Will the plane try to find us if there is a storm?” Kas asked, nodding toward the horizon. Rick had been watching the growing clouds since dawn.

“You’ve got me there. If it gets bad, no.” Rick snorted. “If it was me, I wouldn’t let them fly the only bloody airplane in the world if the wind was over five miles an hour.” He glanced at his second in command and then pointed at the sky. “Do you think it’ll get bad?”

Kas cocked his head to one side and blinked. “It is difficult to say. Possibly. This is the stormy time of year.”

“So everyone keeps saying,” grumbled Rick.

A silence stretched between them, but it was broken by a high-pitched cry from the maintop. “Deck there! Sail!”

Rick snatched a speaking trumpet. “Where away?”

There was a short pause while the lookaboring. “Two points the left . . . the port bow!”

Rick scrambled into the port main shrouds and secured himself as best he could. Then he raised his binoculars. Yes! There she was, running toward them under all plain sail. Probably trying to escape the storm building behind them, Rick mused. “Shake that reef out of the fore-tops’l!” he shouted. “We’ll wait till they get closer. Act like we’re turning to run, too. We’ll rake him as we turn!”

He beamed down at Kas-Ra-Ar. “One way or another, it’s going to be an interesting day!”

“Captain, the launch is alongside.”

Matt nodded. “Single up all lines and prepare to cast off.”

The rain was falling in sheets now, and he could barely see past the fo’c’sle. He was accustomed to the dense squalls of the region, but this was different. He could feel the power behind the thing. He wondered fleetingly if this would be the event that snatched them back where they belonged? For some reason, in spite of everything, he caught himself hoping it wasn’t. Jim was right. Back home, Walker was just another over-age ’can. If they didn’t break her up and scatter her crew through the fleet, she’d probably spend the war towing targets for newer, more capable ships to practice against. Here, she and her people could make a difference. They had already begun.

“The work detail is back aboard and the launch is hooking on,” Dowden reported as he entered the pilothouse. Water coursed down his saturated clothes and drained away through the strakes at his feet. The work detail had been winching the screw onto shore, raft and all, so that working against the dock wouldn’t damage it.

The talker spoke again. “Radio says Lieutenant Mallory’s about to turn north, but it’s getting pretty boogery up there—his words—and he wants to know if you still want him to rendezvous with Revenge.”

“No sense. He can’t set down even if he spots her. Tell him to make for Baalkpan. Fly around the storm if he can—he should have plenty of fuel.”

The attention of the bridge watch was diverted by another figure entering the pilothouse. It was Keje. He must have come over on the launch that delivered Courtney Bradford, Sandra Tucker, and a few others to Big Sal. Matt sent them with the explanation that it wasn’t wise to keep all their eggs in one basket. Also, since they weren’t critical to the operation of the ship, it made no sense for them to endure a major storm aboard Walker—given her less than sedate performance in heavy seas. It would result only in unnecessary suffering. Bradford went with an appreciative smile, but Sandra had been reluctant. Matt finally traded heavily on her professional concern for the wounded that remained on Big Sal. Most had been shipped home on Fristar, but not all. As to her suspicious concern regarding his own injuries, he blithely reassured her that he’d take it easy.

“Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

“Hello, Keje. I’m glad to see you, but we’re about to cast off. It looks like we’re going to have some of that ‘stormy’ weather you talked about.”

Keje nodded agreement as he wrung water from his fur. “Indeed. Quite stormy.”

“Well.” Matt paused, unsure how to continue. “Shouldn’t you be with your ship?”

“Unnecessary. Both her feet are out,” he said, referring to the gi

Matt looked at his friend for a moment, expressionless. “That’s fine, Keje,” he said at last. “Glad to have you. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word, though. What’s a Strakka?”

Keje waved his hand. “I don’t know if there is a proper word to describe Strakka in Amer-i-caan. The closest I can think of might be . . . typhoon? Is that it?”

“You know what a typhoon is?” Matt asked with surprise. “Those are storms we only used to get in deeper waters than the Java Sea.”

“Yes. Mr. Bradford described the typhoon very well. It did sound like a Strakka, but on a different scale.”

Matt smiled. “Yeah, a typhoon’s as bad as they come. But you’re in for a heck of a ride aboard Walker in any kind of storm!” There was knowing laughter in the pilothouse.

Keje looked at him and blinked. “No. You misunderstand. A typhoon is bad, but a Strakka . . .” He smiled tolerantly. “A Strakka can be much, much worse!”

The Mice had wedged themselves between the forward air lock of the aft fireroom and the access-hatch ladder. Nearby, clutching the grating as if the ship itself was trying to shake her loose, Tabby continued the dry retching that had wracked her small body since the storm began. Isak’s and Gilbert’s stoic expressions belied the real concern they felt for their furry companion. The monumental cacophony of sound was stunning even to them. The blowers howled as they sucked the sodden air, and the tired hull thundered and creaked as the relentless sea pounded against it. Condensed moisture rained from every surface to join the nauseating sewer that crashed and surged in the bilge as the ship heaved and pitched. The firemen on watch weren’t doing much either, just holding on as best they could and trying to supervise the gauges and fires.

“Reckon she’s gonna die?” Gilbert Yager asked, peering through the muck that streaked his face. As close as they were, he still had to shout for Isak Rueben to hear him. Even Tabby’s soggy tail lay still—he’d never seen that before. Her ordinarily fluffy light-gray fur was almost black, and plastered to her body like it had been slicked down with grease.

“Nah,” Isak Rueben reassured him after a judicious glance. “Poor critter’s just a little seasick, is all. Must be sorta’ embarrassin’ for her to be seasick after spendin’ her whole life at sea.” He was thoughtful. “ ’Course, on them big ships o’ theirs, I don’t reckon it ever gets quite this frisky. Don’t carry on so. You’ll make her feel worse.”

Gilbert looked at the exhausted, wretched, oblivious form.

“Okay. She wouldn’t want us coddlin’ her.” He paused. “Damned if I ain’t feelin’ a little delicate myself,” he admitted, glancing around the dark, dank, rectangular compartment. He could certainly feel the violent motion of the ship, but the only visual evidence was the sloshing bilge and the way the condensation sometimes fell sideways. “Now I know how those idiots who go over Niagara Falls in a barrel feel.”

The air lock beside them opened, but the “whoosh” was lost in the overall din. Spanky McFarlane spilled out onto the grating, nearly landing atopcloe="3">“Seasick, we figger,” Isak told him.

“What’s she doin’ here? If she’s that sick, she ought’a be in her rack.” Spanky remembered then that he hadn’t seen Tabby for a couple of days.

“She was,” Gilbert confirmed. “She crawled down here today.

The roll’s just as bad, but there ain’t so much pitch. Maybe she’ll feel better.”

Spanky hesitated. “Well, try to get her to drink something. She’ll get dehydrated.”

The Mice nodded in unison. “Say, how’re things topside?” Isak asked, uncharacteristically interested in something besides the fireroom. Spanky blew his nose into his fingers and slung the ejecta into the bilge.

“It’s a booger,” he said. “It’s startin’ to taper off a little now, though. I just came from the bridge and, I’m telling you, that was a ride! It’s a miracle we haven’t lost anybody overboard. Even the lifelines have carried away!” Spanky was thoroughly soaked, but that alone wasn’t proof he’d been on deck. The Mice were soaked too. “Skipper’s been up there ever since the storm hit and he looks like hell. Lieutenant Tucker would give him a shot to put him out if she was here—and if she had one. The man needs rest, with his wounds and all. Other than that, the damage ain’t as bad as you’d think. Antenna aerial’s gone. Took the top of the resonance chamber with it so the radio’s out.” He saw their blank expressions. “You know that big pointy cylinder on the back bridge rail, right next to the main blower vent? Looks like a great big bullet?”

“You mean that’s what makes the radio work?” Gilbert asked, amazed.

“. . . Yeah. Anyway, the launch is wrecked too. Hell, it crashed on the deck right over your heads.” The Mice looked at him and then up at the deck above. They hadn’t heard a thing. “The life rafts are gone—not that I’d ever get on one of those things on this ocean—and we’ve lost just about everything else that wasn’t bolted down.” He patted the railing under his hand. “But the old girl’s doin’ okay—on one engine too. I think Skipper’s more worried about Mahan than anything. As usual. If she got hit as hard as we did . . .” He grunted. “Anyway, that Keje’s up there too.” Spanky grinned. “He’s havin’ the time of his life.”

“Where are we?” Gilbert asked and Spanky shrugged.

“If we run into something big and rocky, we’ll know it was one of the thousands of pissant islands scattered around out there, but that’s as close a guess as I’d care to make.”

“You’ve been out in a ’can like this in the North Atlantic, ain’t you?” Isak asked and Spanky nodded, accustomed to the Mice’s abrupt subject changes. “Is this as bad as that?”

Spanky just looked at him. “Son,” he said, shouting above the turmoil, “I was on the old Marblehead in a typhoon in the Philippine Sea back in ’36. That storm tore up a ’can like this and a fleet oiler too, like they were paper cups. It wasn’t a patch to this one. We’re doin’ fine.” With that, he shook his head and crept away, lurching hand over hand along the rail to resume his inspection of the engineering spaces.

“Well,” Isak said, “dudn’t feel that bad to me. Maybe we ought to get out more, Gilbert.”

“Well,” said Captain Reddy as the bow buried itself under a roller, “now I know what a Strakka is.” The entire ship shuddered with effort as it came out the other side. Gray-green water sluiced down the deck, submerging the number one gun and erupting upward against the pilothouse. After Walker spent two days runnad torm they’d ever seen.

“Yeah,” said Letts, whose thinking mirrored Mallory’s. “How’s the plane doing? Engines okay?” he asked.

The pilot hesitated. “Sure,” he answered in a defensive tone. “The oil we’re getting isn’t quite up to spec, but we change it every time she flies. Other than that, she’s better now than when we got her.” He grinned and gestured at the rain. “Cleaner too.” He pointedly didn’t remind them that “when they got her,” the PBY was full of holes and half sunk on a beach.

“Good,” Letts murmured, looking carefully at the aviator. He turned to Brister. Mahan’s former engineering officer had become the general engineer for all of Baalkpan. Captain Reddy and Pete Alden had designed the city’s fortifications with an eye toward successful historical port defenses. Alden added a few things based on local conditions. Also, with an infantryman’s eye, he’d stressed additions based on the possibility that the enemy might make a landward approach. In addition to his other duties—which now included direct supervision of the massive (by local standards) foundry—Lieutenant Brister was responsible for making the dream come true. The result might very well be the most formidable defensive works this world had ever known.

Instead of the stone walls that Aryaal enjoyed, a huge defensive berm had been thrown up around the city, the approaches festooned with entanglements and sharpened stakes. Moving the vast amount of dirt had also created a wide, deep trench that had subsequently filled with water and become an impressive moat system. The jungle was pushed back at least five hundred yards on all sides, except where the ground sank into swamp. Some of the wood was stockpiled for later use—much of it was fine hardwood after all—and some was used to shore up the breastworks and put a roof over the heads of the defenders to protect them from plunging arrow fire.

The pièce de résistance was the twenty-four heavy guns that pierced the berm at regular intervals through stout embrasures, mostly facing the harbor. These were carefully concealed. The thinking was that, since the harbor was their most heavily defended point, they didn’t want to scare the enemy away from it—now they’d had a taste of cannon. If the Grik ever did attack Baalkpan, the defenders wanted them to do it in the “same old way” because the waterfront was where they would smash the invaders’ teeth. Still more guns were situated in a heavily constructed and reinforced stockade named Fort Atkinson, overlooking the mouth of the bay.

Again thanks to Alden, the landward approaches hadn’t been neglected. One hundred crude mortars were interspersed among the defensive positions. Little more than heavy bronze tubes, they could hurl a ten-pound copper bomb as far as the extended tree line. A little farther if you were brave enough to put a dollop more powder beneath it. The poor fragmentation characteristics of copper had been improved by casting the things with deep lines that ran all around and up and down the spheres—just like a pineapple grenade. When all was said and done, there wasn’t so much as a copper cup or brass earring in Nakja-Mur’s entire city, or anywhere they could quickly trade with. But what they had, hopefully, was a slaughterhouse for the Grik.

“How have the defenses held up in the rain?” Letts asked.

Brister snorted. “A little rain won’t hurt anything. Pack it all down a bit, is all. I may not be a combat engineer by trade, but when I put something together, it stays put together.”

It would wreck him. Even if he came back to his senses, it wouldn’t matter. Everyone would know. Tony Scott, coxswain, was helplessly afraid of the water. The pity would be worse than jeers. He’d blow his brains out. Thank God he could still handle the bay.

Behind him he heard the clattering roar of engines as the PBY thundered across the bay and took to the sky. He looked over his shoulder as a fleeting ray of sunshine flickered on the rising plane. All that water, he thought. It was bad enough in the bay, where few of the monsters were present, but . . . out there, where the plane was headed and most of Tony’s pals might even now be slipping down into the dreadful embrace of the sea, so far from land. The safe, dry land.

He fought the current upriver and dodged the dead trees and other debris that had washed down from the distant mountains. Crocodiles floated by, disoriented or dead, and he knew the river must’ve been something at the peak of the deluge. It was still out of its banks. The damp world had begun to reawaken, however, evidenced by the flocks of lizard birds that rose amid raucous cries and riotous colors to greet them as they churned upstream. Finally, after another hour of enduring the buckshot of bird shit that peppered them constantly from above, the fueling pier came into view around the bend.

The willing hands of the caretakers caught the rope, and Tony gratefully leaped up to the dock and onto the shore. His relief at feeling the motionless earth beneath his feet was palpable, and his mood brightened immediately despite another round of drizzle. “Everything all right?” he asked the first Lemurian caretaker/guardsman that joined him.

“No pro-bleemo,” mimicked the ’Cat, proud of his English.

“Anything come apart?” Tony asked the other one, who he knew could speak much better.

“Don’t think so. Everything fine here. Won’t know for sure until the pump is back on.”

“Okay,” Tony said. “I’ll go check it out. In the meantime, why don’t you fellas try to get the fires lit? God knows it’ll be a week before any local boats can make it up that river and bring the rest of the crew. I’ll have to ferry ’em up in the launch.” The idea of spending the better part of the next two days on the water didn’t appeal to him, but at least for now he could bask in the safety of the shore. He stuck his hands in his pockets and, whistling, followed the pipeline cut into the jungle.

He didn’t whistle for long. The ground was mucky and the grade was steep. Soon l to him,im.

Ben Mallory had coaxed the reluctant aircraft up to three thousand feet, all the while listening intently to the engines. So far, so good. The steady, throbbing drone of the Pratt & Whitney R-1830-92 Twin Wasps seemed healthy enough. Contrary to Lieutenant Letts’s suspicions, Mallory really thought the engines were fine. Of course, it was hard to tell over the excessive rattling and violent vibrations the rest of the aircraft made. Everything except the engines on the hard-used plane was falling apart. He tried his best to take it easy on the old gal, but metal fatigue was beginning to take its toll. Sooner or later, good engines or not, the battered flying boat would fold up like a paper kite and fall out of the sky and the only airplane in the entire world would be no more. He shrugged mentally. When it happened, it happened. Until it did, he would fly.

He spared a quick glance at his “copilot.” The young sable-furred ’Cat on his right was peering through a pair of precious binoculars through the open side window at the ocean below. His name was Jis-Tikkar, but he seemed to like “Tikker” just fine. He’d been a good companion on the long flights between Baalkpan and Surabaya and he was still fully enraptured by the wonder of flying high above the world at a measly 110 miles an hour—oh, how Ben missed the glorious P-40E! Whatever Ben called him, Tikker wasn’t quite ready to assume all the duties of his position. For one thing, he could barely see over the instrument panel.

On a couple of occasions, Mallory had allowed him to take the controls for a little “straight and level,” but it would be a while before he did it again. The second time the little devil had his hands on the oval-shaped wheel, he’d nearly put the big plane through a barrel roll. It was all very exciting and the flying lessons abruptly ceased. For now, the “copilot’s” duties had reverted to observation and keeping Ben awake on the long flights with his irrepressible humor.

The rest of the flight crew consisted of Ed Palmer, and two more farsighted Lemurians in the observation blisters. Ed sat in the compartment directly behind the flight deck, still trying to raise Walker when he wasn’t keeping track of their navigation. The young signalman had been studying under Bob Flowers to raise his grade before the lieutenant was killed. In his short time aboard Mahan he had, for all intents and purposes, been the navigation officer. He wasn’t a pro yet, but he was a quick study. As long as there were landmarks he could identify, he hadn’t led them astray—and they were forbidden to fly at night. Besides, they’d made the trip often enough now that the Makassar Strait was pretty familiar. Ben liked having someone to bounce his reckoning off of, though.

They broke out of the dreary overcast at last and the sky ahead was bright and clear. The trailing edge of the storm was still visible far to the east beyond Celebes, and a few petulant squalls marched about at random. Below them, evidence of the storm was still apparent from the lingering whitecaps. Three hours of flying had them in the general vicinity where they’d captured Revenge, and nearing the way point where they would either turn southeast and prepare to set down and refuel or head due south on the next dogleg that would complete the bottom of their horseshoe search.

Ben glanced at the fuel gauges. More than enough. The flying boat had a theoretical range of over twenty-eight hundred miles, and the search pattern Letts had suggested would consume less than half of that. Mallory intended to cover more area than the plan called for, but there’d still be ample fuel. He decided to forgo a visit to their remote gas station on Celebes. Every time the plane touched > wident, particularly on the still-rough sea. Besides, there were no pumps at the station and they would spend half the day hoisting and pouring the two-gallon jugs. He much preferred idling up alongside Big Sal and letting the fuel run down into the plane.

He called Palmer forward. “We’re going to zigzag south across the Flores Sea on hundred-mile legs, west-east, west-east. But I want to check out those islands north of Sumbawa. Keep track of our turns so we don’t miss the damn things. I’d rather catch them headed east so we can cross them twice. There must be a hundred of them.”

“Most of those islands aren’t much account,” Palmer replied.

“No, but if somebody got driven east by the storm there’s a good chance they might’ve wound up on one of them,” Ben reasoned grimly.

As it turned out, they didn’t have to go that far. Shortly after they made their first eastward turn, Tikker spotted a lonely wake below them. Ben immediately began a spiraling descent.

“Mahan, sure enough!” Tikker said excitedly. “Only three smoke-stacks, see?”

Mallory grunted when he banked the plane far enough to see for himself. “Unless the storm knocked one off Walker,” he agreed doubtfully. “But mainly, she’s headed north, toward Baalkpan. Walker would be headed west. Yeah, that’s Mahan, all right. There’s her number. Looks even worse than the last time I saw her, but she’s under way.”

“We’re not going to set down, are we?” Ed asked nervously from between the two seats.

“No way. Look at those swells! Let’s signal them with the navigation lights.”

The sun was setting beyond Java’s distant volcanic peaks when Walker steamed through the Pulau Sapudi and returned to Aryaal/B’mbaado Bay. The naked tripods of the battle line Homes were silhouetted against the evening sky and the lights of the city. Safe and sound, right where they’d left them. Captain Reddy was dozing in his chair and Keje had gone to the wardroom for a sandwich.

“Just like a bunch of battle wagons moored at Pearl,” Garrett quipped, referring to the Homes. “Those guys never know what they’re missing when the wind kicks up.”

“Maybe so,” Dowden agreed, “but small and fast beats slow and fat when bombs and torpedoes are falling out of the sky.”

Garrett grinned sheepishly back at him. “Yeah, but we don’t have to worry about bombs and torpedoes anymore. The next time we get caught in the middle of a Strakka, tell me again that small and fast beats fat and slow.” He gestured at the huge ships in the bay as they drew closer. “Especially since they don’t even look like they noticed it.”

Appearances were deceiving. The full fury of the storm had passed right over the bay. Humfra-Dar had dragged one of its feet and nearly gone aground. Superficial damage had also been sustained by the pagoda structures on all the ships, but the Homes of the People were designed to withstand far worse. Onshore it was a different story. The waterfront ghetto had been knocked flat. Since the buildings there had provided most of the shelter for the AEF, there had been numerous injuries and even a couple of deaths. The rest of the troops had spent an extremely miserable couple of days, exposed to the full violence of the storm. Nevertheless, there were cries of happy greeting as the ship passed through the anchored fleet and neared the pier.

There had evidently brder me to fly, but it’s not his fault we got in late. We altered the flight plan a little to increase our search coverage, true, but I’d respectfully point out that we wouldn’t have seen Mahan otherwise.” He shrugged. “We ran into a headwind on the last westward leg.”

Matt nodded. “I’m glad you found Mahan. Knowing she’s safe takes a load off my mind. I just wish you wouldn’t cut it so close. You’re the only pilot we have.”

“Yes, sir. Flying the only airplane. But when we couldn’t raise you on the radio we got worried. The last we knew, everybody was at sea in the path of that god-awful storm. I guess we needed to know we weren’t suddenly all alone.”

Matt studied him in the torchlight. “What would you have done if you found one of us, Walker or Mahan, in a sinking condition?”

“I . . . don’t understand, sir.”

“Yes, you do. Say it was Walker. No power and low in the water. Just wallowing in the swell.” Matt grimaced. “And nothing but the whaleboat, which is, incidentally, all we have left. This afternoon you might’ve been able to set down, but not this morning. What would you have done?”

The young aviator looked stricken. “I . . . I don’t know. Maybe . . .”

Matt interrupted him. “No ‘maybe,’ Lieutenant. There’s absolutely nothing you could’ve done.” He put his hand on Mallory’s shoulder. “Nothing. Not if you’re a responsible officer. This isn’t the world we knew, where you could whistle up some ship to come get us. We’re on our own. That’s why you and Letts should’ve waited another day before coming to look for us.” He smiled and squeezed the shoulder. “By which time—tomorrow—the radio ought to be fixed. I’m glad you’re here, don’t get me wrong, and I’m glad you saw Mahan, but we can’t spare you or that airplane.” His smile became a grin. “It’s going to have to last the whole damn war.” He dropped his hand to his side and nodded toward the chart laid out on a table nearby. Together, they looked down at it. “Now, since you’re in a rescuing mood, I want you to take off in the morning—weather permitting—and find Revenge. We’re going to start on the propeller first thing, but we ought to have the radio repaired by morning. With Riggs gone to Baalkpan, Clancy is chief radio operator and he says with Palmer’s help he can get it done. Clancy’s already fixed the resonance chamber—used a coffee cup for an insulator!—and he says now that the ship’s not pitching her guts out he can re-string the aerial.” Matt looked up at Mallory. “By the way, if the radio’s not working, you don’t fly.” He returned his gaze to the chart. “If you find Revenge and she needs assistance, with any luck, we’ll be able to come and get them.” Matt pointed at the chart. “Concentrate here first,” he said grimly, indicating a large island surrounded by dozens of smaller ones about halfway between Sumatra and Borneo. “I have a feeling that’s where she’ll be.”

Captain Reddy glanced at the group gathered around them. Many were engaged in animated discussions, while some were relaxing on cushions that had been placed under the awning for their convenience. “It looks like I’m going to be here for a while,” he said. “Go get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

“So,” Matt said at last, when the briefings were complete and the “meeting” had been officially under way for some time, “correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems the situation remains unchanged. The battle line is fit for sea, in spite of some slight damage. The B’mbaadan infantry and Rolak’s volunteers have been thoroughly integrated into the AEF and are ready to embark. I have every minated something lying in it.

“Goddamn! It’s a gun! I bet those sneaky bastards filled it full of powder and plugged it up, hoping the fire would cook it off!” He started to run for a fire hose, then stopped dead in his tracks. No time. If he was right, that thing could go off any second. It would take several minutes for the water pressure to build. Without a word, he hopped the rail and began climbing down the rungs.

“Where the hell are you going?” Lanier yelled. “I got an arrow in my gut!”

“I doubt it hit anything vital, you fat tub of lard!” Harvey snarled back. “Don’t just stand there. Get the hose!”

Lanier waddled in the direction of the closest hose reel and Donaghey resumed his descent. The initial flash of the conflagration had diminished considerably to a steady blaze in the forward third of the boat. He could hear crackling as the wood began to burn. The heat pushed almost physically against him the lower he went and he wasn’t sure he was just imagining his skin beginning to blister.

“Hurry up!” he shouted, unsure if the cook even heard him as he gasped for breath in the acrid smoke. Below him, one rung down, he could see through his slitted, watery eyes that a rope had been tied to the ship. With one hand, he reached into his shirt and retrieved a long-bladed folding knife that always hung around his neck on a braided cord. Called a sausage knife, it had a long, skinny blade that was useful for a variety of things. He opened it with his teeth and leaned down to cut the rope that had already started to burn. He was certain he was blistering now and he cried out in pain. He smelled the hair on his arm begin to singe, mingling with the stench of the smoke. He sawed at the rope like a madman. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it parted under his blade and he would have dropped it in the water but for the cord.

The ship’s bell began ringing frantically in the dark, followed moments later by the general alarm. Harvey scrambled back up the side of the ship a few rungs to escape the worst of the heat and looked down at the boat. Slowly, lazily, it drifted with the current. Amid the flames he clearly saw the ruddy shape of the bronze cannon barrel as the fire grew around it. From above he heard shouts and curses and a gurgling stream of seawater trickled on the boat. Other hands had joined or taken over for Lanier and they were finally getting water on the fire. It would still take a while for the pressure to build, one trailing alongside. Crouching on his knees, and with his hat pulled down low to protect his eyes, he laboriously managed to turn the boat. With a growing sense of urgency that bordered on panic, he rowed as fast as he could. He heard the yells of the men on deck—quite a few now, by the racket they were making—screaming at him to stop, come back, don’t be a fool—but there was no choice. He had no choice.

All he knew, as the flesh on his face and hands began to sear and his vision became a red, shimmering fog, was that he had to row. Nothing else in the entire world mattered anymore except for getting that crazy, stupid bomb the hell away from his ship.

He made it almost forty yards.

Captain Reddy paced the deck beside the number two torpedo mount, back and forth, his hands clenched behind his back. Occasionally he ventured near the smoke-blackened rail and stared at the water below. The angry red horizon that preceded the dawn was a singularly appropriate backdrop to the white-hot rage that burned within him. A quiet circle of destroyermen, human and Lemurian, watched him pace, and Sandra and Bradford were nearby as well, conversing in subdued tones.

On deck, trussed up like hogs, were two Aryaalans. Dennis Silva towered over them with a pistol in his hand and Earl Lanier, shirt off and with a wide bandage encircling his midsection, menaced the prisoners with his fishing pole.

Harvey Donaghey had hit one of them with a lucky shot from his pistol, causing the ’Cat to lose his oar and slowing their escape. By the time the cannon exploded, the saboteurs were far enough away that they weren’t directly injured, but they were so startled by the blast that they dropped the other oar over the side. Thus they were quickly discovered by the vengeful whaleboat, wallowing helplessly back toward their intended victim with the tide. By then, the one Donaghey had shot was dead. Garrett commanded the whaleboat and it was all he could do to bring the others back alive. Even so, their capture hadn’t been gentle and the Aryaalans watched Matt pace through puffy, swollen eyes, nervously licking their split, bloody lips.

Mank-Lar had told him everything. Why not? It had been an exploit of warriors and had been commanded by his king. It was the way of things. His dishonor was not what he tried to do, but that he had failed. Rasik-Alcas might kill them for that, but even the sea folk would understand they were bound to obey their king . . . wouldn’t they? Mank-Lar vaguely understood that the tail-less sea folk might consider it dishonorable that King Alcas had ordered the attack in the first place, particularly since they were not at war. But that was between them and the king, was it not? He himself was just a tool, and it was pointless to deny his role. Regardless, he couldn’t escape a growing concern as he watched the brooding leader of his king’s enemy.

Larry Dowden approached his captain with care. He’d seen him this way—this intense—only once before, when Walker and Mahan made their suicidal charge against Amagi, so long ago now. It had worked, somehow, but it had also been a reckless moment and he wondered if the captain was on the verge of another one now. He opened his mouth, but hesitated, daunted by the working jaw and the icy green braziers gazing back.

“Captain,” he said quietly, “Radioman Clancy says the radio’s up.

Lieutenant Mallory requests permissiaid you wanted to begin installing the screw this morning?” Dowden prompted gently. Matt only glanced around for a moment, as if surprised the task wasn’t already under way. For the first time he noticed that almost the entire crew was present, grim-faced and angry.

“Right. I guess the men are a little distracted. Have Spanky and the Bosun light a fire under those repair parties.” Several of the men held his gaze as it passed across them. “They have their own duties to perform today,” he said in a voice that matched his eyes. “I’ll take care of this one.”

“What should we do with these two, Skipper?” Silva asked, nudging Mank-Lar hard with his shoe. Matt shrugged.

“Don’t even need to try them. They’ve admitted they’re enemy saboteurs under orders of their king. But they’re without uniforms or even the courtesy of a declaration of war. Hang them.”

“I want that little son of a bitch dead!” Matt said in a calm but eerily forceful tone. The gathering was almost identical to the one the night before, only this time it was convened directly behind the massed block of the Second Marines, flanked by Rolak’s expatriate Aryaalans and Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred. Another entire regiment of B’mbaadan infantry was added as well. Thirty heavily armed destroyermen—not all human—were in the center, anxious to spearhead the assault with fire. The Orphan Queen stood beside Matt, her eyes gleaming with a feral, joyful light.

“It could break the alliance!” Adar pleaded. “Think of the greater threat!” Sandra stood beside the Lemurian Sky Priest and nodded her agreement, but she seemed deeply troubled.

“Why? I haven’t asked any of the Homes or Guard regiments from Baalkpan to contribute to the attack.” He wore an ironic expression. “I notice none have offered, either, but if they don’t want to be in the assault, that’s fine.”

“What about the Marines? They are drawn from all our people.”

Matt looked coldly at Adar. “The Marines are mine. They’re all volunteers and they’ve volunteered for this. I ordered Chack to make sure.”

“That still does not give you the right to throw them away on this . . . sideshow!”

Matt’s mounting fury exploded. “I’m not throwing them away! I’m using them for what they’re for! We’ve been attacked! Suddenly and deliberately and by stealth! Believe me, my people have recent experience with that sort of thing!” His gaze lashed Keje. “We’ve been attacked!” he repeated. “And I lost a damn good man who died to save my ship. I thought you said it was ‘different’ if we were attacked? How is it different? I can’t tell yet. I assumed it meant that then you might bring yourselves to fight others of your kind. Is that it? Or is it only different if you are attacked? You’ll personally defend yourselves if you’re personally attacked? Where would you be today if Walker behaved like that?”

Keje met his gaze, but then looked at Adar and blinked furiously with shame and frustration. Matt continued, his voice angry and sarcastic. “Ever since we met, Walker has stood up for you and your people, and she’s lost a lot of good men—some to save that damn city I’m about to . . . lose more good men going into! But now, when it comes time to stand up for Walker, she’s not ‘one of you,’ is she? You almost had me fooled. I was ready to leave Rolak’s people to fend for themselves—even after they risked everything to come to our aid. We may have helped them first, but at least they know what gratitude is. Still, I was ready to leave them. Now I know there’s no way we can leave them here with that madmat+ yo

“Naw, I fudged the headings you gave me.” Ben frowned. “Captain said to check these little islands real careful. He figures if the storm drove Revenge aground, that’s where she’ll be.”

“What a mess,” Ed murmured, looking first at the distant islands and then the chart. “No way she’d have squirmed through, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, well,” hedged Mallory uncomfortably, “maybe she did. Or maybe she’s fine and Rick’s still chasing lizards like he was Drake and they were Spaniards.”

“Who’s Drake?” Ed asked.

“Never mind. British guy.”

Tikker leaned forward and squinted until his eyes were tiny slits. “Let me see chart, please,” he said, and Ed handed it over. Tikker studied it carefully for a long time and squinted out the windscreen once more. “Very strange,” he said and shook his head. “Usually you charts are so good.”

“What? Why?”

“I see white islands where chart says should only be water.”

Mallory took off his sunglasses and squinted as well. “I don’t see anything.”

“You push pedals, I look for ship,” Tikker said smugly and resumed his study of the horizon. Ed left them and went to the engineer’s compartment. One of the few things they’d discovered that still worked in the half-sunken plane when they found it was a thermos. It had been empty at the time, floating in the sandy brown water in the fuselage. Ed rescued it and had used it ever since. The initials “EP” were lightly scratched in the thick aluminum and he was struck by the coincidence since they were the same as his. He often wondered what had become of the original owner. He picked it up and poked his head into the waist gunner’s compartment to make sure the other two spotters weren’t goofing off. Then he carefully poured a cup of joe into a tin mug and eased his way forward against the jostling motion of the plane.

“Coffee,” he announced, slowly extending the cup into Mallory’s line of sight.

Ben shook his head. “Can’t right now. I need both hands. Thanks, though.” Ed only shrugged and took a gentle sip himself. Tikker looked at him and wrinkled his nose. Not very many Lemurians liked real coffee, much less the local brew. Like real coffee, it had a stimulating effect and that’s what they used it for: medicine. Not because they liked the taste. The big island was growing larger and many of the smaller ones were easy to distinguish now. Tikker suddenly remembered the binoculars around his neck. He thought they were the neatest things in the world—next to the airplane, of course—but much as he loved them, their technology was still so unfamiliar that he often forgot he had them on. Somewhat embarrassed, he raised them now and adjusted the objective knob. Then he stiffened, and it seemed to Ben every sable hair on his body stood on end.

“What? What do you see?” For a long moment, Tikker couldn’t speak. “What is it?” Ben demanded. His copilot’s body language had sent a chill of concern down his spine.

“It is not islands where they do not belong,” he finally managed. “It is sails. Grik sails.”

“Here, give me those,” Ben said, taking the binoculars from Tikker’s neck. He tried to hold the wheel and the glasses steady at the same time, but found it impossible. He glanced at Tikker, who seemed immolently, “walking” around and sloshing its contents. He raised the glasses to his eyes.

“God a’mighty,” he whispered. The entire horizon, from the islands of Pulau Belitung to the distant hint of a smudge that was western Borneo, was dotted with hundreds of dingy pyramid shapes. The water below was still a little foamy and the whitecaps had turned the normally warm, dark blue sea a kind of dirty turquoise, but the hint of red from the enemy hulls made them stand out quite clearly. “God a’mighty,” he repeated, a little louder this time and with an edge of panic in his voice.

The intercom crackled and an excited voice reached them from one of the observation blisters. “Ship! Ship! I see ship! Right below! Wake up, you in front! You not see ship?”

Revenge had been through hell. As soon as the size of the storm became apparent, Rick Tolson and Kas-Ra-Ar knew their only hope was to beat north as far as they could and gain as much sea room as possible before the seas grew too large to do anything but run before them. With grim satisfaction, they’d pounded the lone Grik ship with a pair of broadsides as it drew near. Then, leaving the enemy trailing a shattered mainmast and at the mercy of the coming blow, Revenge went about. The wind drove out of the west-northwest at first, and the ship shouldered her way through the growing swells far into the Natuna Sea.

For thn one piece she’s fast, well built—thank God!—and weatherly.” Glancing past Kas at one of the many work gangs diligently at their labors, he added, “And she’s got the best damn crew any ship like her ever had in this messed-up world. A destroyerman couldn’t ask for much more.” He paused. “Engines would be nice, but then she wouldn’t need her sails and that’s part of her charm.”

He became serious again. “But that’s not what you asked.” He sighed. “Yeah, the war’s to blame. Those fishermen on the feluccas, they wouldn’t have been here if not for the war. They’d have been catching flashies and feeding their families instead of fighting for their lives in a storm they couldn’t beat. That’s the war’s fault, not ours. And before you think that if we weren’t fighting the war there wouldn’t be one, try to remember why we fight. It’s fight or die and that’s not much of a choice. You might die if you fight, but you will die if you don’t. If you look at it like that, the War isn’t an excuse but a blessing. A chance for survival.” Rick grew silent and thoughtful for a moment.

“You know, now that I think about it, it is different here. What I said before is all a bunch of crap. We can shake our heads and say, ‘It’s war,’ because it’s easy and it’s what my people are used to. At home, it might even be true sometimes. The war we left behind might’ve been different, but who’s to say? The Nazis and the Japs were very bad, but most of the time it’s not that black and white. Here? It’s the lizards. Period. They’re the ones to blame. ‘The War’ is what we’re doing to stop the lizards and when you think of it like that, it makes a good explanation.” Rick yawned hugely and then smiled at his friend.

“I’m tired, and I may not be making a lot of sense, but whatever else I said, I guess what I mean is, if we lost the feluccas, they didn’t die for nothing. They were helping fight the War, and in maybe this one and only instance, war is good.”

Kas grinned again. “Before the storm came, you certainly seemed to be enjoying it.”

Rick grinned back at him. “Well, when something needs doing, it always helps to be good at doing it, and we were so, so good—”

Kas suddenly tilted his head as if listening intently. Rick heard it too. Within minutes, the entire crew of Revenge was jumping up and down and pointing gleefully at the sky as the small dark shape of the PBY grew larger and began a rapid spiraling descent. Soon it was skipping tentatively across the tops of the choppy waves until it splashed to a rather abrupt halt some distance ahead of the ship.

Ordinarily, Revenge would heave to and lower a boat. They were going to have to think of something else this time, since all the ship’s boats had been either lost or badly damaged. This must’ve become apparent to the flying boat’s crew, because as Revenge drew near, a small rubber raft appeared in the water under the plane’s left wing. Almost as soon as it did, however, it began to deflate.

“Damn flashies,” Rick muttered, realizing the fish must have torn the raft apart. “I wonder what now?”

Eventually a man and a Lemurian appeared out of the top of the pilot’s compartment and climbed up onto the wing. Slowly, they made their way to the end and crouched there waiting above the float.

“Dangerous,” Kas observed.

Rick nodded and called to the helmsman. “Easy there! Don’t so much as scratch that plane. Captain Reddy would never forgive us!”

Slowly, Revenge wallowed up to the plane. When she was just a few fingtip, Tikker leaped lightly across. Ed Palmer followed close behind, but with less self-assurance. Waiting hands grabbed him and kept him from falling backward into the water, and his face was drained of color as he stuck out his hand to Rick.

“Man, are you ever a sight for sore eyes!” Rick said happily as he grasped it. Ed returned the greeting with a small, sickly smile of his own, but he seemed distracted. He was looking around at the ship. In spite of rols throughout, cursing and maneuvering the plane against the swells as best he could. When the six were safely transferred, the Revenge crew who’d assisted with the operation all scampered back aboard their ship to await the oncoming horde. Even Gandy Bowles, whom Rick practically ordered to leave, elected to remain behind. Ed crawled out to the wingtip once more and Rick Tolson met him just a few feet away with a leather-bound book in his hand. He had to shout to be heard over the engines as the PBY cruised alongside.

“Here’s my log. Give it to Captain Reddy! It’s a damned exciting read, if I say so myself!”

Ed grabbed his hat before the wind took it over the side. His eyes were stinging. From the salt spray, he told himself. “I’ll give it to him,” he managed to reply.

“Kas wrote something in there for Keje. They’re cousins, you know.” Ed nodded. Rick spared a glance to the north. The mass of enemy ships was close enough now that individual forms could be seen upon them. Their garish banners fluttered ominously in the stiff west wind. In the distance, still beyond the horizon, a dark smudge of smoke was vaguely visible. Maybe one of the damn things has caught fire, Ed hoped bitterly. They’d cut it as close as they dared.

“Tell Captain Reddy . . . thanks,” continued Rick, handing the book across. “Thanks for the opportunity. It’s been a blast. I always knew I was a pirate at heart!” White teeth shone in his tanned, bearded face. “Now get the hell out of here, Signalman Palmer!”

Ed nodded again, and standing as straight as he dared on the swooping wing, he braced to attention and threw Rick Tolson the best salute he knew how. With that, he turned and made his way carefully back to the space between the engines. Mallory throttled back so as not to blow him into the sea, and Palmer dropped down into the pilot’s compartment and disappeared.

Calmly, Captain Tolson, commander of Revenge, turned to Kas-Ra-Ar. “Clear for action!” he said, the grin still on his face. “Boy, I get such a kick out of saying that!”

“That’s it? Six?” Mallory demanded. Ed nodded without a word. “Shit!” shouted Ben in frustration. “Now I know what the captain meant when he asked me what I’d do!” Ed had no idea what he was talking about, but given the context of the situation, he could make a pretty good guess. “All right,” Mallory said at last. “Strap in. As soon as we’re airborne, try to raise Walker again. You have ten minutes. Then I want you on the nose gun. Tell those ’Cats in the waist to get ready too.” He fiddled with the throttles as he turned the plane into the wind. “Maybe if we strafe ’em a few times we’ll scare ’em off,” he added doubtfully.

The engines roared and the hull pounded and thundered beneath their feet as the plane tried to increase speed, but instead it just seemed to wallow through the choppy swells.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Mallory shouted, and slammed the throttles to their stops.

“What’s the matter?” Palmer shouted from behind him. Tikker sat, perfectly still, both eyes clenched shut.

“Oh, ah, nothing, Ed. It’s just a little rougher than I’m used to!” His voice was vibrating sympathetically with the airplane.

“I’m gonna be sick!” Palmer moaned when the plane pitched nose-first into a larger wave that seemed to arrest all forward motion. “Air-sick and seasick all at once!”

Surprisned by the staccato bursts of one .30- and two .50-caliber machine guns. The firing in the waist was accompanied by high-pitched squeals of delight. The airframe vibrated more than usual with the recoil of the guns and Ben continued his tight-banking turn to keep his indicated targets in range. Geysers of water marched from ship to ship and then disappeared when the bullets struck wood. Tightly packed Grik warriors were slaughtered in droves.

“Let ’em have it!” Ben screamed. Revenge vanished behind another cloud of smoke and this time the foremast of one of the closest ships tottered into the sea. Dragged around by the trailing debris, the ship veered sharply to port and speared into another Grik ship sailing directly alongside. Others slammed into the entangled wrecks from behind and it looked to Ben like a giant chain-reaction pileup on the highway.

“Hell, yes! Outstanding!” he shouted as still more ships added to the catastrophe.

“What are those ones doing?” Tikker asked, pointing. Ben looked. Several ships had broken from the pack and were trying to cut Revenge off. If they crossed her bow, the ship’s guns wouldn’t bear and they’d be free to grapple. Once that happened, it would be all over but the dying.

“New targets!” yelled Ben. “Engage the ships out front! One of them looks different . . . bigger! And the hull’s white and gold—not red. I bet it’s special somehow. Give it an extra dose!” The nose gun and the port .50 stitched the sea around the unusual ship. Splinters and debris erupted and bodies fell, while others tried to surge away from the impacts. A few even fell into the sea.

“I’m empty!” came a frustrated, keening shriek from aft. So much for controlled bursts. Ben stomped on the right rudder pedal and banked the opposite direction, allowing the starboard gunner a chance.

“Make ’em count!” he snarled. The plane rattled as the other gun resumed fire. Down below, Revenge was wreathed in smoke. Bright jets of flame stabbed out at irregular intervals. Several enemy ships were almost upon her and they were being systematically dismantled. Masts crowded with struggling forms fell into the sea and at least one of the enemy was dead in the water, its shattered bow dipping low. So far, none of the enemy had employed their “Grik Fire,” however. They seemed intent on coming to grips with Revenge, whatever the cost.

“They want her in one piece,” Ben surmised aloud. There was nothing he could do about it. Ed’s gun had fallen silent in the nose. The PBY wasn’t carrying much ammunition—it was never imagined that it would need more than would be necessary to keep a threat at bay while it took off. Much like what had happened right after they discovered it. Now, even as the starboard waist gun continued to stutter, grappling hooks arced through the air, trailing their lines behind them like hundreds of spiders casting their webs.

“Damn it!” Ben exclaimed. His voice cracked. “They want her guns!”

Ed reappeared at his shoulder. “Rick won’t let them take her,” he said with sad, quiet certainty. Even as they circled, watching with sick fascination, more and more enemy vessels crowded forward like ants upon a stricken comrade. Revenge had disappeared entirely within the forest of masts and the only way they could tell her position was by the proximity of the strange white ship and the hazy column of smoke that still rose from the center of the mass. The final waist gun was silent now, but still Ben orbited above. On the d billowing cloud of smoke. Masts toppled outward from the blast like trees on the slope of a volcano and fiery debris rocketed into the sky. The plane was buffeted by the shock wave of the explosion and Ben fought the wheel to regain control. He quickly banked again to see the results through his suddenly unfocused eyes. Eight or ten ships had been in close contact with Revenge when she blew herself up. Two were just gone, and three more were smoldering wrecks. Vigorous fires had taken hold on several more and the smoke added to the vast pall now drifting down wind. Of Revenge and the white ship that had been beside her, there was no sign.

“That’s the style,” muttered Ben. His voice was almost a sob. He gently eased back on the controls and the Catalina began to gain altitude.

“Are we leaving now?” Ed asked.

“I guess,” Ben replied. “I just couldn’t before. Not while there was anybody down there who could see us.” Ed nodded understanding. “Besides, the captain . . . everyone will want to know how it ended.” He sighed. “One more thing, too. I want to get a solid count of how many ships they have. We’re still the ‘eyes’ of the fleet.”

At three thousand feet, Ben circled again while the others counted the enemy.

“Jesus, there’s a lot of them. I’ve lost count twice,” Ed said.

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. What do you have, Tikker?”

“Three hundred ten, but that’s not all I see, that’s all I can count. There’s more on the horizon.” Tikker squinted again. “There’s that Vol-caanno still.” He shook his head. “It looks closer now.”

For the first time, Ben really looked to the north where Tikker had spotted the smoke. Sure enough, a solid black column was slanting away to the east. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. “What the . . . ?” He leveled out and pointed the Catalina north, toward the distant smudge.

“What is it?” asked Ed.

“I dunno. It looks like . . . but that’s impossible.” Frozen mercury poured down his back.

“It is!” Ed exclaimed excitedly. He was looking through the binoculars now. “It’s a ship! A modern ship! Burning coal, by the look of her. That’s why all the black smoke.” He hesitated and his face assumed a troubled expression. “But what the hell is she doing running around with a bunch of lizards? Look, they’re all around her!”

“Maybe they captured her? She had to have gotten here the same way we did. Hell, they nearly got us, remember?”

Ed was still staring intently through the glasses. “Jeez, that’s not just any ship, it’s a warship! She looks bigger than the goddamn Arizona!”

The icy mercury running down Ben’s back was suddenly joined in his stomach by molten lead. “Give me those!” he said, snatching the glasses away. “Tikker, take the controls!”

The Lemurian stared, wide-eyed, at the wheel in front of him and then grasped it in both of his clawed hands. The tone in Ben’s voice told him that any fooling around wouldn’t be acceptable. He clenched his teeth and held the wheel as tight and steady as he could. Ben adjusted the objective until the image became crystal clear. His subconscious mind screamed in protest and he almost dropped the binoculars. Even at twelve or fifteen miles the silhouette was un maintained contact for quite a while as it flew ever farther north. Then, all of a sudden, there was nothing. Just some weird static. It wasn’t coming from his end, he was sure, and he doubted that Ed had done anything on his end to cause it. Ed could be a screwball, but he was a pretty good hand with a radio and besides, with the skipper on the warpath, he knew better than to goof around.

A hazy tendril of concern began to creep into Clancy’s thoughts. Steve Riggs was in Baalkpan working on a system of communications for the defenses there. With him and Palmer both gone, Clancy would be the communications department. Of course, without the radio on the plane, there wouldn’t be much need for one. All in all, it had been a pretty nerve-racking day.

“C’mon, Ed,” he muttered. “Talk to me.”

Suddenly enough to startle him with the irony, he thought he detected something buried in the static. He put his earphones on and began adjusting knobs. There! The unmistakable “beep beeping” began to emerge. Instead of voice, the signal was coming in CW, or Morse code. He snatched up a pencil and began to transcribe the letters as they came.

ZSA ZSA ZSA. (Can you receive?) Over and over again. Clancy quickly tapped back a reply.

ZSB-2. (I can receive. Readability fair.)

ZOE-5-O-J. (I am going to transmit in strings of five-urgent-verify and repeat.)

For an instant Clancy just stared at his key. “What the hell?” he muttered. They’d been transmitting in the clear for so long it didn’t make any sense. Why on earth would Ed want to use five-letter code groups?

ZOE-5-O-J, he finally tapped back.

It wouldn’t be long now. The bright passion of Matt’s rage had ebbed somewhat as the day progressed, and that was probably for the best, he realized. The endless delays of preparing an army for battle had stretched into the midafternoon, and at times he found himself wondering if he really should have waited for the rest of the force to join them. Keje’s and even Shinya’s estimate of the time it would take to get ready had been overly optimistic. Intellectually, he knew the wait was a small price to pay. Not only would the larger force face less difficulty and take fewer casualties when it stormed the city, but now that it was decided, he believed even more strongly that it was important they all go in together.

The various members of the Allied Expeditionary Force had to learn here and now that they couldn’t pick and choose which battles were convenient for them to fight. They were all in this together and if they were going to win this war, they had to share the burden equally.

That didn’t mean he felt any less frustrated over the delays. Lord Rolak’s force and the Marines still constituted the point of the spear, but Queen Maraan’s had been pulled back in reserve and replaced by the Third and Fifth Guards. That’s what took the most time. It was believed—probably correctly—that the defenders would fight harder if they knew they were facing their ancestral enemies from across the bay. Matt’s destroyermen had been redeployed as well—much to their disgust. They’d still go in with the “first wave” but more as heavy-weapons support platoons than front-line shock troops. Their job would be to shoot archers and commanders with the Springfields and Krags and break up enemy concentrations with the Thompsons and BARs. Either way, they’d be in the thick of the fighting, Matt knew, and they’d use an awful lot of ammunition.e once more join those who fought and hear their deeds in person!”

A great roar went up and, Safir, her eyes still shining, turned to Matt while Chack translated what she said. All Matt could do was shake his head and wonder. He wasn’t about to ask right then.

“What about Aryaal?” she asked, the power gone from her voice. “And there are other cities—Kudraang, Kartaj, Bataava—farther up the coast.”

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” Matt replied somberly.

“There’s not enough time.” He glanced grimly at his watch again and then looked at Rolak. The old warrior was standing, shoulders bowed. He knew that just warning his people wouldn’t be enough. Rasik would not believe it and all of his people would stay and perish. He and his warriors couldn’t leave them to that, and all would die for nothing.

“No time at all,” Matt repeated. “Under the circumstances, Queen Protector, I think your troops would be better employed evacuating B’mbaado immediately. Some of the embedded officers might want to remain, however. They might need the experience.”

She nodded gratefully, but blinked surprise. Rolak and many others did the same.

“The way I figure it, we have three hours to take Aryaal.”

As expected, a last desperate appeal came to naught. Officially, at least. There was no response to the demand for surrender, but when the guns in the breastworks made ready to fire, the defenders on the walls just vanished. With no apparent opposition, the Second Marines and Rolak’s force, now called the First Aryaal, moved forward toward the gate. Matt, Keje, and even Adar fell in behind, and five-member squads of destroyermen interspersed themselves among the troops. Silva’s squad remained around its captain.

“You believe this . . . nightmare ship truly exists? That it is coming?” Keje asked. “Perhaps your Mallory made a mistake?”

“A mistake like that . . . wouldn’t be possible.”

“You never told me there was another ship,” Adar said, matching their pace.

“We didn’t know.”

“Then where did it come from, this ship that has changed everything in an instant?”

Matt sighed. “The same place we did. Through the Squall.”

“But you know her?”

Matt nodded. “You remember we once spoke of how Walker was damaged so badlyly from them? And the Japanese are as different from us as you are from the Aryaalans. Remember, we were at war with them before we came here.”

“But—”

“We’ll have to pick it up later,” said Matt, hitching his belt as best he could and nodding forward.

“Who was winning?” Adar asked quietly, but Matt didn’t answer. Ahead, as the first troops entered the city, the distinctive sound of battle reached them from within. Chack shouted something over the din, but what it was, at first, Matt had no idea. Other shouts echoed back, and when Matt and his companions finally passed through the arch, the cause of the confusion was plain. Battle raged in the courtyard and streets beyond, but as yet the Marines weren’t involved. Civil war had come once more to Aryaal.

Word of the final ultimatum, complete with the warning of the Grik, had spread like wildfire throughout the city. It began among the defenders at the gate who fled from the guns. Officer after officer—Rasik’s handpicked—tried to stem the tide of desertion and many of them were slain. The palace guard tried to stop them too, but when real fighting began, many who were willing to defend the city joined the mutineers when they saw them being killed by the king’s personal troops. It was too much. Most were loyal to their city and their king, no matter who he was. That the loyalists had prevailed in the previous fighting was proof enough of that—even if the purges after the first rebellion had been excessive enough to fire indignation and doubt. But as word of the renewed Grik threat continued to spread, they began to realize that the patient invaders outside the walls weren’t the real enemy after all. They knew if it hadn’t been for the sea folk, the Grik would have had them already. They could never hold them off a second time. Suddenly, to most of the warriors of Aryaal, the survival of their families transcended nationalism and loyalty to a new king they didn’t even like.

By the time Lord Rolak entered the city at the head of his column of native warriors, the uprising in the city—at least the northern half—was already practically over. Marines fanned out and created a perimeter inside the gate, but no one so much as threw a rock at them. Beyond the perimeter there was still fighting, but it flared in fits and spurts. It had degenerated mostly into a grudge match now between the various Aryaalan political houses and the palace guard. None of the combatants from any side seemed to want the Marines to get involved. Lord Rolak paced to the great Fountain of the Sun in the center of the plaza and climbed the stepped circle that surrounded it for a better view. From amid the turmoil of fighting and the growing crowd of townsfolk, someone shouted a cheer at the sight of him. Then another. Within minutes, the dwindling sound of battle was overwhelmed by thunderous cheering that surged and echoed off the walls of the city and the royal palace beyond the plaza. Defenders threw down their weapons and many took up the cheer as well.

Rolak was overcome. Matt mounted the steps beside him, grinning for the first time that day. The sound was overwhelming and it only seemed to build as more and more Aryaalans rushed from other parts of the city. The crowd surged, but the Marines kept them at bay. A phalanx of armed Aryaalans—not palace guards but still a well-turned-out force—made its way through the crowd until it reached the Marines’ shield wall. Shinya rushed to the point of contact with Chack by his side and after several moments of hand gestures and shouting, a single figure was let through the wall. Chack hurried to Matt and Rolak, with the individual puffing and almost running to keep up. His flowing embroidered robe threatened to trip him.

“Lord Koratin,” Rolak of restrained greeting when the pair drew near. Chack automatically translated for Captain Reddy.

“Lord Rolak,” Koratin replied, and bowed.

“I understand you are chief advisor to that murdering coward who has stolen the throne,” Rolak said. “We were never friends, but I expected better of you.”

“It is true, that was my position, my lord. And that is what I tried to do. But my advice wasn’t heeded, or even tolerated. The king is quite mad.”

“The attempt to sink the iron ship?”

Koratin nodded. “I told him it was madness when I learned his scheme. I even sent three trusted servants to warn you, but they were caught and killed. The palace guard came for me then, but my retainers held them off.” He smiled crookedly. “If not for your timely arrival and the chaos that ensued, I would be dead. How delightfully ironic!”

Rolak barked a laugh. “You always were amazingly skilled at survival, Koratin!”

Koratin bowed. “As you can see, it’s a useful skill.” His face turned grim. “Is it true? The Grik will return?”

“It is true.”

“I feared as much. I feared for my younglings—for all the younglings of our people—but the king would not listen. He does not believe the old stories”—he nodded respectfully at Chack—“that for our salvation the sea folk have preserved!”

“Fear still, Koratin. The danger is greater than you imagine. We must all leave this place and become beggars in the north. The sea folk will succor us, but they need our arms more than our bellies, so all who go must be willing to fight, and provocations won’t occur.”

Koratin was stunned. “But what of our walls? Can we not hold here if the sea folk come to our aid?”

“No.” Rolak nodded toward Matt, who stood listening. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has told me how it must be and I believe him.”

Koratin turned to look at Matt for the first time. His stare was an appraising one. “So that is the great tail-less leader of the sea folk,” he said. “I suspected as much.” He bowed low to the captain.

“Where’s Rasik?” Matt demanded, eyes flashing.

“In his palace, lord. Yonder.” Koratin pointed at the imposing structure beyond the plaza. “He has almost four hundred guards. Quite fanatical, I’m afraid. It will be difficult and costly to storm.”

For a long while, Matt said nothing while those nearby waited for his decision. His expression seemed almost yearning as his eyes bored into the palace walls.

“No, it won’t,” he said at last. Rolak cocked his head and looked at Matt with a questioning blink. “We’re not going to storm it. Oh, don’t get me wrong—there’s nothing I’d rather do than bring the guns in and blow it down around him, and that’s what we’d do if we had the time. We’d take our time!” he snarled. Calming, he clasped his hands behind his back. “But we don’t have the luxury of time, and I’m not going to waste lives getting the little bastard the old-fashioned way. Chack and his Marines will see that no one gets out while you begin evacuating the city.”

Chack was confused and surprised. He was first and foremost a destroyerman, after all, and Donaghey was one of his clan. Surely the captain wouldn’t leave his death un-avenged—not after he had been willing to break the alliance that morning to take the city. “But what about the king, Captain?” he prodded. “What are we going to do about hime to ive liberators, bent on saving the people of this world from the depredations of a remorseless foe. They were leaving as destroyers, causing more harm than the Grik had yet managed.

With a surprised thankfulness that he couldn’t express, he felt Sandra’s hand find his in the darkness and he squeezed it gently before letting go. She’d been more reserved toward him that day than their “agreement” required and he still wondered why. Then he looked at Mallory. The young aviator’s face glowed grimly in the reflected light. He’d spoken little since he arrived, only confirming with a nod that the dispatch was entirely accurate. There was no mistake. He stood there now, holding Revenge’s log in both hands like a sacred treasure. Matt would read it later, when his attention could be spared from the decisions at hand. Right now it would just be too much. He would share it with Keje when the two of them could quietly mourn their dead alone. He cleared his throat. “So, are they Japs, Mr. Mallory? Did you get close enough to see?”

“I guess they probably are. We saw the flags for sure.” He grunted. “And then they started shooting at us. The first air burst we saw, we got the hell out.”

Matt nodded, deciding not to chastise the flier for the risk he’d taken. “Lucky they didn’t let you get closer before they opened fire. Sounds like they got anxious.”

“Yes, sir. They must’ve been pretty surprised to see us too.”

Matt rubbed his forehead. “Maybe not. We’ve been transmitting in the clear all this time. Maybe they’ve been reading our mail. Any transmission at all would’ve warned them we were here. If they’ve been listening in, they may even know where Baalkpan is,” he added darkly. “And if that’s the case, we won’t know until they’re almost here whether they’re all coming here or they mean to dispatch forces to both places.” He ground his teeth. “Damn.”

“I’d think Amagi would go wherever she thought Walker was, Captain,” Mallory speculated.

“Maybe. If they know where we are. I wonder if they do?” He paused for a moment and then answered his own question. “Probably. The lizards certainly know we’re here.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “But they may not know there are two of us . . . Anyway, that answers my question. We have to assume the Japs know, and the last I heard, they don’t like us very much. If they figure we’re evacuating for Baalkpan they might try to get between us. Make us come to them.” He shook his head. “It’ll be tough to do at eight knots. I wonder why they’re so slow? Amagi used to make over thirty.”

“Only as fast as the slowest ship?” Bradford opined.

“Yeah, but the lizards are faster than that . . . unless maybe Amagi is the slowest ship! You’re sure it was coal smoke you saw?”

“Positive.”

“That may be why we haven’t seen her till now—they’ve been converting her boilers. Coal’s a lot more efficient than wood, but not as good as oil. Shorter range and a fair cut in speed. Still . . .”

“Damage,” Sandra said suddenly. “We’ve all been thinking of Amagi only in terms of firepower. That’s a pretty one-sided comparison. But remember, as bad as she roughed us up, Walker and Mahan got in some pretty good licks. Maybe enough that she nearly did sink!”

“Right,” Matt breathed. “We know how tough it’s been for us to make repairs. Just think of all the problems they’ll have had to face! Every pies. He is a Jaap. You are the sworn enemy of his emperor, and so, in the collective eyes of his people, you are evil. He knows that is not the case. In your eyes, his people are evil. Not just because they support the Grik, but because they attacked you in the world you came from. I’ve seen how quick you are to anger in the face of such a thing. But in spite of whether you or I—or even he—believes his people in this world are on the side of evil, he cannot believe that all of them are evil.”

“What will he do?” Matt asked, alarmed. Not because he believed Shinya would turn on them, but because he had, after all, become such an integral part of Walker’s family—not to mention the war effort as a whole—and he was worried about him.

The lights of their “allies’ ” ships were all around them on the broad expanse of the sea, clustered about them as if shepherding them along. That infuriated Kurokawa more than anything else. Amagi was the most powerful ship in the world. By rights, she should be leading this task force—not groping along trying to keep up. The Grik had slowed their advance so Amagi could remain with the fleet, but “keeping up” wasn’t what he wanted to do.

Sato glanced at the captain and noticed with a rush of alarm that he was moving in his direction. He braced himself for the onslaught. To his surprise, the captain’s voice was quiet, even mild when he spoke.

“I hope you are feeling better, Commander Okada.”

Sato gulped and bowed his head slightly. “Yes, Captain. Much better, thank you. It must have been something I ate.”

“Of course. I know you are not timid.” The captain’s face clouded slightly. “Either in the face of the enemy, or my own.”

“It is my duty to advise you, sir.”

“It is your duty to obey me!” Kurokawa snapped.

“I have always obeyed.”

The captain’s face clouded still more but, forcibly, he pushed back the threatening storm. When he spoke again, his voice was controlled once more. “Very well. Since you see it as your duty to advise me, how„ would you do so now?”

Sato looked at the captain, appalled. It was the first time since Kurokawa assumed command that he’d ever asked anyone what they thought. That might be entirely appropriate under most circumstances, but since the Strange Storm, things had been anything but normal. Still, for Kurokawa to actually ask, let alone care, what Sato thought about their situation was most uncharacteristic. It was probably a trap. Something to get him to commit to a course of insubordination.

“On what subject would you seek my advice?” he asked carefully.

“Ah. Of course. I assumed you would have a differing opinion than I on everything we have done. I was correct. Your reports seethe with discontent! Let us limit our discussion to strategy so I might get some sleep tonight!” His face became grim. “I am frustrated with these barbaric ‘allies’ of ours, as you know. Dreadful creatures, but useful.”

Sato had to suppress a shudder at the thought of the Grik. They’d encountered them first at Singapore when they went there for repairs after their battle with the retreating American force. It was then that they discovered something extraordinary had happened to them. Singapore wasn’t there! In its place was only a strange village of some sort with a harbor filled with sailing ships—which had attacked them immediately and as apparently automatically as a disturbed hive of bees. Throughout the day and night they fought, killing thousands of the hideous creatures, which continued the assault even as Amagi tried to steam away. But the ship had been too badly damaged by the American destroyers and it couldn’t outrun the red-hulled ships.

Finally, after they repelled what seemed like countless assaults, a single ship approached but did not attack. Negotiations were established and a bizarre alliance was struck. Amagi would join the creatures that attacked her so fanatically suly a stran furry folk that resided at sea on large ships, and in the Dutch East Indies. To make matters even more bizarre, the “tree folk”—he believed that was the best translation—seemed to have allied themselves with one of the American destroyers they’d been fighting when they were swallowed by the Strange Storm. It was that discovery, Sato thought, that finally drove Captain Kurokawa mad. If he’d ever had the intention of slipping away from the Grik, it had now certainly passed.

The captain blamed everything that had happened to them on the two destroyers that so arrogantly charged them right before the Strange Storm brought them here. Sato had been secretly stirred by the courage of their crews, but Kurokawa took their escape and the damage to his mighty ship quite personally. Each wound to the ship was matched by one to the captain’s pride. That two such outdated and dilapidated vessels could wreak such destruction on Amagi was as if house cats had savaged a tiger. And then, as if in punishment, Amagi was taken from the world she knew. That was the Americans’ fault too. The fact that one of the badly damaged destroyers still existed in this twisted world struck Kurokawa as a personal insult. He was now obsessed with its destruction in an almost Grik-like way, and if it took alliance with such unpleasant creatures to accomplish that goal, so be it.

“What can we do to increase our prestige among those monsters?” Kurokawa asked, waving toward the endless fleet beyond the glass windows of the bridge and returning Okada’s thoughts to the unusual conversation.

“Show ourselves to be even more vicious and contemptible than they are, I suspect,” Sato said bitterly. The captain considered his words.

“You may not be mistaken. We must put ourselves forward in battle, Commander Okada. Their commander must see our power for himself !” He clenched his fists at his side in frustration. “Which we cannot do if we are so slow!”

Sato tried to avert his captain’s mounting rage by changing the subject. “At least now we know the source of the radio transmissions we detected. Not two ships, but a single ship and a plane. The American flying-boat was unexpected.”

“Yes. It did a great deal of damage before it flew away.” Kurokawa’s features reddened. “If our antiaircraft defenses had been better prepared, we could have shot it down and we would not be having this conversation! The Grik would have certainly seen our worth!”

Sato quickly diverted the captain from attacking another part of the crew. “But the enemy ship did much more damage. I understand one of the Grik commanders was killed and his ship destroyed. The survivors of the raid on Surabaya were right about the cannons.”

“So it would seem.” Kurokawa hesitated. “The Grik will see Amagi’s worth if they face many more of those.” He glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. For the first time, Sato thought he saw nervousness behind the captain’s eyes. “Soon I must cross to the ‘flagship.’ ”

Sato waited a moment before he spoke. “Must you take Captain Kaufman with you this time? He might be even more valuable to us now, and each time he is in the presence of those creatures, he . . . slips . . . a little more.”„

Kurokawa regarded him with a hard gaze. “Pity for the enemy, Commander Okada?”

Sato’s expression hardened as well. “Empathy for an officer who saw his crew eaten by our ‘allies,’ Captain Kurokawa. Even the Grik spoke highly of his bravery, after a fashion. He did not surrender; he was overwhelmed.”

Sato shuddered, and once more changed the subject. He was getting good at maneuvering the conversation to keep his commander’s temper in check. “Will you tell the Grik your assumptions based on all the radio traffic we intercepted? Before the enemy resumed transmitting in code?”

Kurokawa looked at him. “Of course. It is valuable information and they will see it as such.” He smiled. “That we’ve somehow divined it will surely raise us in their estimation.”

Sato took a deep breath and glanced around at the other men on the bridge. He knew they were straining to hear, but doubted they could understand much. In spite of that, he spoke barely above a whisper. “Before we reveal that we can send and receive messages over long distances, let alone where we think the American base might be, would it not be best to speak to the Americans first?”

Kurokawa’s eyes bulged and he screamed, “You would speak to the enemy?!”

Sato forced his voice to remain calm and low. “Captain, please! Let me speak!” he said. “First, would it not be best to conceal the technology of radio from . . . our ‘allies’ as long as we can? Once they know of its existence, we will have irretrievably lost an advantage. They will want its secrets and we will have difficulty withholding them.”

Taken aback, Kurokawa lowered his voice. “But what good is it to keep the secret? We have no one to talk to!”

“That may not always be the case! Besides, we have two aircraft of our own. The spotting planes! They have radios!”

Amagi had lost one of her spotting planes in the battle that brought her here—ironically when a Japanese dive bomber went out of control and crashed directly atop her amidships ten-inch turret, destroying it as well as the plane and catapult on top of it. But she still had two planes left. Both were obsolete, short-range biplanes. Nakajima Type 95 E8Ns, to be precise. They were single-engine affairs and carried one huge float under the fuselage and a couple of smaller ones under the wings. They were good, reliable, low-maintenance airplanes with all-metal structures covered by fabric. The two-man crew sat in individual open cockpits where they would never have to worry about being too comfortable to keep their eyes open. Perfect for observation planes. Probably the best kind of planes they could have right now, since they were so simple. But they were certainly not fighters.

Kurokawa still seethed constantly over the loss of their much more capable plane, the Aichi Type Zero E13A1 that had been turned into flaming confetti along with quite a lot of other very useful equipment, weapons, ammunition, and fuel—Kurokawa didn’t consider the men—when the crippled plane smashed into his ship. Okada mourned every scratch Amagi suffered and every life she lost, but practically speaking, under the circumstances, he’d trade the Type Zero for the Type 95s any day.

“True, but we have hardly any fuel for them,” the captain snapped bitterly. He waved his hand. “Enough for a few short flights. Most of our reserve was destroyed by the Americans’ cowardly torpedo attack . . . And That Imbecile Who Crashed IThe officer said something in Japanese and the hatch was closed and secured. As always, now that they were alone, the officer wrinkled his nose at the stench from the other bucket, in the corner. Kaufman didn’t even notice the smell anymore. Still squinting, he hastily stood.

“Good morning, Captain Kaufman,” said the man in pleasant, if badly accented, English.

“Is it morning?” Kaufman asked eagerly.

“Yes. Just dawn.” Sato paused, watching the nervous twitch that had taken control of the prisoner’s pale, waxy face. That was new. “I have not come to take you to the Grik,” he hastily assured him. “You are well?”

Much of Kaufman’s tension ebbed, but the twitch remained. “I am, thank God. I mean, thank God . . .” He shuddered, and Sato nodded understanding.

“I too am glad,” he muttered. “But I have to ask you a question.”

Kaufman nodded and straightened his shoulders. “Of course.”

“Yesterday, our . . . the fleet we are a part of was involved in action with an enemy ship . . .” Kaufman tensed again and his expression was one of anguish. “It wasn’t the American destroyer,” Sato mercifully assured him. “It was a captured Grik vessel that the enemy had supplied with cannons. They were most effective. Many Grik ships were destroyed.” He paused and watched to see how Kaufman reacted to that. He wasn’t surprised to see a fragile smile and he had to struggle not to match it. “Regrettably, from an intelligence standpoint, the ship was destroyed. Nothing was recovered, but there is testimony from the survivors on nearby ships that there was one human, perhaps two, on board the enemy ship. We can only conclude they were countrymen of yours.” Sato hesitated when he saw the prisoner’s stricken look. “For that, you have my condolences. What I must ask you, however, is whether or not you were aware of the existence of an American flying-boat?”

Kaufman’s eyes went wide and, if anything, his twitch became more violent. He began scratching the left side of his face unconsciously. “Well, yes, I am . . . I mean, I was. You mean you’ve seen it?” Sato nodded and Captain Kaufman closed his eyes and smiled with genuine relief. “My God. So Mallory made it after all!” He stopped and looked at Commander Okada. “We found it on the beach. The plane, that is. It was shot up and half sunk, but Mallory and a couple other fellas got it flying. The Grik nearly got them! Anyway, I sent it on to Ceylon to bring out an escort for Mahan.” He stopped and his face was stricken. “But he couldn’t have gone to Ceylon . . . could he?”

“Why did you never mention the plane before?”

Kaufman glanced vacantly around. “Nobody asked. I just figured it was lost. The Griks that got after it saw it that day.” He looked imploringly at Sato. “I’m sorry. I would have told you, I swear! I just never thought it was still around!” He sat back down on his bucket and rubbed his twitching face, staring at Sato through his fingers with red-rimmed eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t beat me anymore.”

Sato stared down at the prisoner, sickened. As much with Kaufman as with himself. “You won’t be beaten,” he said. He glanced back at the hatch to make sure it was still dogged. “This plane,” he said, “has a radio.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. “So too does the American destroyer. If I could arrange it so you had access to a radio yourself, could you contact either of them?”

Kaufman looked down at the floor. “I don’t have a codebook,” he saidon, but ge a radio, you would be able to speak in the clear.”

“What would you want me to say?”

Sato shook his head. “I do not know yet. That would depend on a number of things . . . What I want to know now is can you do it? Do you think they would listen to you?”

“I doubt Reddy would,” he said grimly, and Okada recognized the name of the destroyer’s commander. “I doubt he trusts me. I know he doesn’t like me. Mallory, though . . .”

“Mallory is the pilot of the flying-boat?”

“Yes. At least he was. I think I could talk to him. Maybe he’d talk to Reddy . . .” Kaufman looked up at Sato. “Why?”

“Perhaps no reason. But let us keep this between ourselves.” He waited until he saw Kaufman nod. “In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you?”

For a long moment, the aviator didn’t reply. He just stared at Sato with astonished eyes. Finally, he spoke.

“Light. Leave the light on, please.”

Sato nodded. “Anything else?”

Kaufman blinked and looked vaguely around the compartment. “Something to read,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what it is.”

Big Sal left at dawn. Slowly, majestically, the giant wings spread and the sweeps were stowed. Matt watched her go with tired eyes and decidedly mixed emotions. Big Sal or Keje had always been there, somewhere nearby, almost since they came to this world, and he knew he’d miss them and worry about their safety. Aracca Home was being loaded now, and in the distance he saw the first smoke of the fires that would consume B’mbaado City. He realized with regret that he’d never even visited the Orphan Queen’s palace, and now it was being destroyed. At least not all of it would be lost. Several feluccas had been detailed to take away B’mbaado’s greatest treasures. He wished the same could have been done for Aryaal, but Rasik still hoarded them to himself, locked in the royal palace. Matt realized that the vengeance he’d chosen had contributed to that loss, but lives were more important. His conscience wouldn’t suffer much when all was said and done.

His coffee cup was empty and Juan was nowhere in sight. Garrett had the watch and so he decided to try and find some, and maybe grab something to eat. That reminded him he’d been too busy to check on Earl Lanier and he grimaced at the thought. Sandra had told him the cook would be fine. The shaft hadn’t penetrated beyond his impressive layer of fat. But Matt should have checked.

Thinking of injuries . . . Experimentally, he tensed a muscle in his shoulder to see what he could get away with. To his surprise, it seemed considerably better. Time to pester Sandra again about getting the dressings removed. He was sick of running around trying to do everything with one hand. He knew Sandra was asleep, though. For now, he’d leave her alone.

First get something to eat, and then go aft. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to see for himself how the work on the propeller was shaping up. Progress there had him more worried than he cared to admit. They’d finally been forced to lay off work last night when the flashies tore through a second sail. Spanky himself was in the water and they nearly got him. Hopefully they’d make up for lost time in the light of day. He didn’t like the idea of the world falling on top of them when they had a half-installed screw. With two engines, three boilers, and a full bunker of fuel, he would feel a lot more confident in the face of what was coming.

Walker ’s crew was making preparations for getting under way and, except for the propeller, there were no difficulties in that regard. For the first time in longer than he could remember he faced no pressing decisions that he alone could make. They’d all been made already, and now there was nothing left to do but watch while others carried them out and hope it wasn’t all for nothing. It left him somewhat at a loss. He couldn’t shake the feeling there was something left undone. Pondering his unease, he descended to the wardroom. There he found Courtney Bradford, alone and sleeping in a chair at the table. His head was tilted back and his mouth was open. Loud snores filled the compartment.

There was a coffee cup on the table, but by the smell of the room, coffee hadn’t been in it. Matt sighed and poured some lukewarm coffee for himself from a carafe. Then he opened the portholes on either side of the wardroom to let the warm morning air circulate within. Bradford’s snore caught in his throat and he opened his eyes and blinked. Matt sat across from him and emptied the carafe into the Australian’s cup. Then he gestured at it.

“That’s got to stop, Courtney,” he scolded him gently. “It sets a bad example.”

“’m not in the Navy,” Bradford grumbled. “And even if I was, it would be the Royal Australian Navy, which, I might remind you, certainly does not persecute the occasional tot.”

“Your ‘tots’ are no longer occasional. Alcohol’s not allowed on U.S. Navy ships, but so far I’ve turned a blind eye because of your . . . unusual status . . . and because, until lately, you’ve been discreet.” He rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat. “I need you sober, Mr. Bradford. I need you sober and clearheaded all the time. We’re all going to need our wits to survive.” He smiled slightly. “And I’ve come to rely heavily on yours.”

Bradford snorted and sipped from his cup. Grimacing, he set it aside. “I’m not much good to anyone, I’m afraid.” He spoke with a still muzzy voice. “Sometimes I think there is really not much point. No matter what we do, we are continually faced with ever greater obstacles.” He covered his face with his hands. “I grow so weary and . . . I miss my son quite dreadfully, you know.”

Matt leaned back. Bradford had never spoken of a son. Like most of them, he hadn’t said much at all about what he’d left behind. Bradford shook his head and sat up straighter. “Oh, he’s alive, for all I know. Flying Hurricanes for the RAAF, in England.” He frowned. “For all I know. The trouble is, I don’t know for sure and I never, ever will.” He glared at Matt. “We Australians still have somewhat closer ties to the mother country than you Yanks, and even though we were considerably farther away, the threat posed by Hitler struck a little closer to home. My son volunteered to fight against him almost a year and a half ago.” He glanced down at his cup and took another reluctant sip. “Adar always talks about the ‘greater threat’—we all do, and we’ve certainly been proved right in this instance. But while my son and most of the rest of the world were confronting the Nazis, you Yanks were busy antagonizing the Japs.”

He paused, and turned visibly inward. Then he held up his hand. “I apologize,” he said at last. “That was unfair. I was about to ask why you should care a damn what the Japs did in China when I recognized Malays. And now the Lemurians . . . God help me, I do love the little buggers . . .” He stifled a hiccup and coughed.

“I suppose I have at times resented you Yanks for not helping my son fight the Nazis. That made it all very personal, don’t you see? Of course you do. But the Japs are just as bad and they are physically much closer to home. What they did in Nanking . . . They actually bombed Australia, did you know?” Matt nodded patiently. One of Walker’s sisters, the Peary, had been sunk by the Japanese in Port Darwin. “So I suppose it makes little difference,” Bradford mumbled. “You Yanks are fighting Hitler now—or were—whatever. My point is, the reason that’s the case is that the Jappos and the Nazis are allies. You said you couldn’t understand why the Japs would help the Grik? If they are on the same side as Hitler, there’s no telling what they might do.”

“That’s a good point, Mr. Bradford, although war can certainly force you to make some awfully unusual friends. Uncle Joe’s no saint.”

“True, but Stalin shared with us the dubious distinction of being one of the Attacked, not the Attacker. In this instance at least. I won’t belabor Poland, or mention Finland for the moment.” He crossed his arms on the table and laid his head down. He wore no hat, and a long wisp of thinning hair trailed down almost into his cup. “I just miss my boy,” he said at last.

“I understand,” Matt said around a lump that had formed in his own throat. “I miss my folks. I wonder sometimes how they are and what they’re doing. As far as they know, we’re dead. It’s pretty tough sometimes.” Bradford raised his head and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Everyone aboard must feel the same way,” Matt continued. He gestured at the cup, and by inference, what had been in it before. “But we can’t find solace in that. If we do, we lose.” He shrugged. “We might lose anyway, but we owe it to our people here on Walker, as well as our new friends, to do our very best, and wallowing in booze and self-pity’s not the way.” Bradford’s eyes flared with anger, but Matt continued on. “The war back home will be won or lost—there’s nothing we can do about that. I hope your son survives, but if he doesn’t, he’ll have died for a good cause that he actually chose. In the meantime, we have our own war to fight, against an enemy that’s just as bad as Hitler—maybe worse in a way—and our odds of survival are even worse as well. But we have to go on—not only for ourselves but for the people who trust us. Human and Lemurian.”

Bradford’s anger had disappeared and he sat staring at his hands. “What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.

“Ease off on your ‘tots,’ ” Matt replied. “Other than that, what I want you to do—what I need you to do—is to keep on being the same cheerful, irreverent, awkward—brilliant—pain in the ass you’ve been since the day you came aboard. The men—our allies too—like you, Courtney, and they count on you in ways you can’t imagine. I do too. If they think you’ve lost hope, then they might too.” He stood.

“I came down here wondering what I was forgetting, what I’ve neglected to do with everything else that’s been going on. I just realized what it was. Sometimes, even when we’re in a group, people get to feeling like they’re all alone. It’s like you’re sitting on the track and there’s a freight train headed your way and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. All you can do is look around and hope somebody knows what the hell they’re doing. Even while the train’s bearing down, you gain strength from your comrades, not only from their courage but from the realization that you’re not the only one that’s scared to death. At the same time, you on your ‘tEarl beamed. Unhurried, Matt transferred it to his still-immobilized left hand and, munching on the first one, he continued aft.

“You idiot!” Earl cursed quietly and slapped Mertz on the side of the head. “It’s a good thing the captain likes my cookin’ or you’d be in a hell of a mess.”

“But you told me to pick it up!” Ray protested.

“I didn’t tell you to give it to the captain!”

Matt heard the exchange and a genuine smile replaced the false one he had worn. In spite of everything, he thought again, some things never change. He passed the number one torpedo mount, where some ’Cat and human torpedomen were checking the pressure in the air flasks and accumulators. The flasks had been empty for the last few months—which was customary when the torpedoes weren’t needed. Now they were full. Sandison had asked him that morning if he could perform quarterly maintenance on the operable fish and Matt agreed, so long as all three would be ready when Walker got under way. By the time he reached the number four mount, he could already hear Spanky’s curses from the fantail. The engineer and the Bosun were supervising their respective divisions in—hopefully—the final process of installing the propeller. Gray’s men were trying to keep the sail tight against the hull so no flashies could get past and Spanky’s snipes were controlling the now submerged screw with taglines. A heavy cable descended into the water from a makeshift boom, down between the supports for the propeller guard, and Dean Laney was reluctantly preparing to go back into the water. Astern, a far more orderly procession than the night before was mounting the ramp onto Aracca’s deck and a smoky haze had descended from the nearby burning city.

It was already warming up and Spanky wiped sweat from his brow. He was vigorously chewing a quid of something that caused a distinct bulge in his cheek. “What’s that in your mouth?” Matt asked.

Surprised, Spanky turned and saw the captain. “Good morning, Skipper,” he said and saluted with a grimy hand. He shifted his chaw speculatively. “I’m not rightly sure. Something Chack came up with. He said it was ‘courtesy of King Rasik.’ They use it for some kind of holy stink-weed or something hereabouts. It looks like a yellow tomato leaf, but it sorta tastes like tobacco.” He shrugged. “Anyway, some of his boys were poking around near the palace and found a warehouse full of the stuff. They sent down what must be a ton of it last night.”

“Has it made anybody sick?”

“Silva’s been chewing it steady, ever since it came aboard, and he’s okay so far.”

Matt chuckled. “I’m surprised Silva would chew anything Chack recommended—after last time.”

Spanky joined him in a laugh. “So you knew about that?”

“Of course.” Matt grinned.

Chack had Silva chewing every dead leaf he could find, trying to find some replacement for his precious tobacco. The process left Dennis ill enough to waste a shell on an easy shot against a Grik ship. Silva did not endure ridicule gladly, and Matt was certain that was when the scheme between Risa and Silva—to embarrass Chack—had been hatched.

“Maybe with a real, good-faith tobacco substitute, Silva will forgive Chack and quit pretending to carry on with his sister. I need Chack sharp, and I know that drives him nuts.”

Spanky nodded vigorously. It drove him nuts too and he was almost sure Silva wasn’t pretending. “Order ’em to stay away from each other,” he urged.

“Can’t. Other than Chack, the ’Cats don’t think it’s a big deal even if they are . . .” He shuddered. “And I can’t start giving orders against fraternization between our people. We need each other too much.” Matt fumed. “Besides, then that bastard Silva would have won. He would’ve forced me to call his bluff. No. He can put more significance and meaning in an arched eyebrow—” He snorted a laugh, his face red, and shook his head. He gestured at the work with his second sandwich in his hand. “How’s it going?”

“Slower than I’d hoped,” Spanky replied, glad to change the subject. “But we’ll have it shipped by this afternoon. The screw is almost in position. Once it’s there, we slide it on the shaft and bolt it down. Easy as pie in dry dock, but a little more involved under the circumstances.”

“That’s cutting it pretty close. If the enemy scout ahead, some of them could be here by tonight.”

Spanky’s expression grew solemn. “Yes, sir. We’re going as fast as we can.”

Matt patted him on the arm. “Of course you are.” He looked ashore, at the teeming mass of Lemurians waiting to board Aracca. The haze was thicker toward Aryaal, although the massive fires of the night before had dwindled. To the northeast, B’mbaado City was engulfed in flames. It looked like hell, and it was all so very familiar. Less than a year ago, they’d steamed out of what the maps showed as this very bay in the face of an overwhelming invasion. Of course, somehow that happened in an entirely different world. Regardless, the sense of impending doom was very much the same. Also, fantastically, it was once again the Japanese they were running from. It was as though Walker was condemned to repeat the same event in increasingly warped realities, over and over until the end of time. Or until fate finally caught up with her.

Spanky followed his gaze and then spoke more quietly so those nearby couldn’t hear. “Would we be running if it weren’t for the Japs?” he asked, reading Matt’s mind. His voice was bitter. “The boys are tired of running. They were used to winning for a change.”

Matt nodded. “I know. It was a good feeling, wasn’t it?” He sighed. “Yeah, we’d still have to run. There’s too many of them this time, even without Amagi. If we make it back to Baalkpan we’ll have a chance.” He raised his voice. “Keep up the good work. When you get finished, this old bucket’ll be the fastest thing in the world again. The Japs are down to eight knots, after the last time they tangled with us. If they want a rematch, we’ll run rings around ’em!”

There were tired but determined growls of approval, and Matt grinned at the men’s spirit. Inside, he was sick with dread.

A little after noon, Matt watched Aracca fade into the haze to the east. They were cutting it close indeed. Nerracca was now alongside the pier and was quickly filling with the increasingly nervous refugees. They would have to pack them in tighter than ever before, but Tassat-Ay-Aracca assured him they’d find a place for everyone. When last he checked, Spanky’d said the screw was finally in place. Now all that remained was to bolt it down—a laborious and dangerous underwater procedure, but one that wouldn’t take much longer. All the feluccas were gone and the last company of Chack’s Marines was marching down the harbor road. They would come aboard Walker.

Alone in his palace now, except for his most fanatical followers, Rasikany difference if they had.

Ben Mallory was up, scouting the enemy approach. He’d sent a warning a few minutes earlier that advance elements of the enemy fleet, a dozen ships, were less than fifty miles away. The rest seemed to be coming on hard not too far behind. Hundreds of ships could be seen in the distance, more spread out than before since they were no longer confined between Belitung and Borneo.

Matt ordered Mallory to fly back in the direction of Aryaal until he was out of sight of the lizards, and then proceed toward Baalkpan. Nakja-Mur’s city would need constant reports, and Matt wanted to resume direct communications with Baalkpan. In case the Japanese were able to find their direction by radio, however, he forbade any further transmissions by the PBY except in an emergency. Once home, they could monitor Walker’s transmissions. If the enemy still didn’t know about Baalkpan, Matt didn’t want to tell them now.

Every day they had to prepare was precious. He even toyed with the idea of broadcasting continuously from Walker while steaming away down the Lesser Sunda Islands. Then they could go silent and run up around Celebes and down to Baalkpan from the northeast. It would lengthen the enemy’s lines of supply and leave them no idea where their quarry was, but it was an awfully long way and Matt wasn’t sure he even had the fuel to do it. Besides, they’d have no way of knowing if the enemy took the bait. Better to stick with the original plan and just try to get around them undetected. That was going to be hard. Even if she left right now, Nerracca would risk discovery by the advance force. The greatest danger of that would come after dark, however, and maybe then the massive ship could avoid being seen.

“Marines are coming aboard now, Skipper,” Lieutenant Garrett reported, “and Nerracca says she’ll be ready to shove off within the hour.”

“Anything new from Spanky?”

“At least another hour, maybe more. They had to pull Laney out. He was nearly unconscious. The flashies must’ve figured out something’s in the sail and they’re beating the hell out of it.”

Matt nodded and winced. He remembered Laney’s bruises from the last time. “Very well. Have Nerracca get under way as soon as she’s able. Don’t wait for us. We’ll catch up. We can move faster than she can even with only one engine if we have to.”

Garrett shifted uncomfortably. “We’ll risk losing the screw if it’s not bolted on tight, Skipper.”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Garrett. I’m sure Spanky is too. But we aren’t going to bug him anymore. If it comes down to it and we have to move before he’s ready, then we will. I’d rather risk losing the screw than the ship.”

Dennis Silva had made some dumb choices in his life, but this one took the cake. He’d volunteered to go in the water and finish the job after Laney was hauled back aboard, but even then he was less than enthusiastic. Laney looked like they’d dragged him out of a Shanghai bar after he told a dozen Royal Marines the king was queer. He was black and blue with bruises again, and at first he could barely move. It was obvious that swimming with the flashies, even with the sail as protection, wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. There was nothing for it, though. When Laney finally opened his eyes, they settled challengingly on Silva. Not a word was spoken, but the implication was clear. The snipes had done their part. Now iried with the men’s individual ability to grow one, however, and a few were a little sparse. The razors on the ship would last only so long and he wasn’t going to force the men to shave, but he did require they keep themselves trimmed. His own determination was to remain clean-shaven as long as he possibly could and he disliked appearing with stubble. It was his little ritualistic way of showing daily defiance toward the adversity they faced.

Sensing it was important somehow, he picked up the razor after all. His officers knew he preferred to take the few extra minutes to make himself presentable. It never hurt for the men to see, no matter how desperate the situation, their skipper was always calm enough to hold a razor to his face. If time was critical enough to prevent him from doing so now, Garrett would have made that clear. He did hurry, though, and in just a few minutes he was climbing the ladder at the rear of the pilothouse. As he did so, he was surprised how rested and vigorous he felt. The long sleep had done him a world of good, but in spite of that he couldn’t ignore the growing dread that welled inside him. He always felt apprehensive when called to the bridge unexpectedly, but the fact that they were in the middle of the Java Sea, in broad daylight, only made his concern more acute. He knew his officers had probably conspired to let him sleep as long as he could and it would have taken something fairly serious to disturb him. In their current situation, things went from “fairly serious” to “catastrophic” pretty damn quick.

“Captain on the bridge!” Garrett called. He was waiting for him by the chart table.

“As you were. What’s up, Mr. Garrett?”

“Surface contact, Captain,” he said. “You can see it better from the fire-control platform.” The gunnery officer led him up the next ladder to the platform above the bridge. Matt followed slowly, still hampered by the use of only one arm. His plea the evening before had come to naught, but Sandra had promised to take another look at his shoulder today. Then she would make her decision. He hadn’t seen her yet today, having been asleep for most of it. Slightly winded, he gained the platform and joined the lieutenant beside the useless range finder.

“Port bow,” Garrett suggested, and pointed. “On the horizon. Nerracca saw them first and signaled. Her lookouts are a lot higher than ours. It didn’t take long for us to see them, though.”

Matt raised his binoculars and peered through them for a moment, adjusting the objective. Walker and Nerracca were in one of those rare parts of the Java Sea in which absolutely no land could be seen in any direction. They would soon raise the islands off the southern coast of Borneo, but for now there was nothing. The afternoon was bright and almost completely clear. A few high clouds scudded hastily overhead in the direction of Borneo. Evidently the wind had finally shifted back out of the south.

Matt focused carefully at the point where the sea met the sky and as he stared, he began to discern towering, dirty-white sails outlined against the light blue background. There was no doubt about it. Even as he concentrated on holding the binoculars steady, more and more of the ominous shapes resolved themselves in the distance. It wasn’t just the advance element of the enemy fleet they’d been avoiding either. There were far too many. In spite of the heat, icy tendrils clutched his heart and radiated outward, across his chest and down his back. Far in the distance, beyond the ever more crowded horizon, Matt thought he could see a hazy column of black-gray smoke drifting away to the n

“They must’ve seen us,” he observed. “At least Nerracca. Her masts are twice as tall as theirs.”

“Yes, sir. It’s hard to tell, but it looks like they’ve altered course since I first saw them. Right before I called you. Should I sound general quarters?”

Matt shook his head. “Not yet. But please do have Mr. McFarlane, Mr. Dowden, and the Bosun report to the bridge immediately.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Ten minutes later, Matt gently tapped the chart with his index finger. “We’re here,” he said to the small group that had quickly gathered on the bridge. Then the same finger stabbed down a little to the northwest of their position. “The enemy is there. There’s no longer any question in my mind that they know where Baalkpan is. There’s no other reason for them to come this way.” His lips formed a rueful smirk. “Just like we feared, the Japs must’ve been ‘reading our mail.’ Monitoring our transmissions.” The smirk changed to a snarl. “And they ratted us out to the lizards. Regardless whatever other ‘inducements’ the Grik might have used to get the Japs to help them, they told them about Baalkpan because they wanted to.” He shook his head, genuinely amazed. The Japanese were the enemy and when it came to Amagi, he had to admit it was even kind of personal. But he still found it hard to believe they would actively, voluntarily, help the Grik. Fleetingly, he wondered how Amagi’s more junior personnel felt about that. Pointless to speculate. He looked at each of those present. “Whether this force represents the bulk of the enemy fleet or not is impossible to say just yet, but it’s certainly a sizable fraction of it. Nerracca’s lookouts have counted upwards of a hundred ships so far.” He paused and took a deep breath. “And there’s definitely a column of dark smoke rising from somewhere within or beyond the enemy force. We have to assume that smoke represents Amagi.”

“But . . . when Lieutenant Mallory reported the advance force nearing Surabaya, he also sighted a significant number of enemy ships on an identical course less than thirty miles behind them,” Dowden stressed.

“Yeah, but as I’ve been concerned all along, if they really have more than three hundred ships, they have more than enough to send a ‘significant number’ in two directions at once. It seems that’s what they’ve done.”

“We gotta warn Baalkpan!” Spanky said, around a mouthful of the yellow leaves.

“That’s happening right now. I just hope they can hear us. We’re still pretty far away.” He frowned. “I told Clancy to ask for confirmation when he gets through. Radio silence is pointless at this stage. They clearly know where we’re going.”

Dowden’s face suddenly went white with dreadful realization. “What are we going to do about Nerracca?”

Matt nodded slowly. “Precisely. What are we going to do? Walker can easily outrun the enemy, but obviously Nerracca can’t. She’s gained almost a knot, with this good wind on her starboard quarter. For her, that’s really moving. Right now the lizards are beating into the wind, but once they turn north after passing these islands here”—he pointed again at the chart—“she won’t have a chance. She might not anyway.” He nodded toward the distant ships. “As you can see, they have the angle on us.”

“Damn it, Skipper!” Gray growled with frustration. “What can we do? There’s seven or eight thousand people on that ship!”

Matt glared a usothers. “Gentlemen, we’ve got to come up with something, and we’ve got to do it now!” McFarlane’s face wore a thoughtful expression. “Spit it out, Spanky!”

“Well, you said Nerracca’s making six knots.”

“Thereabouts.”

“If we light off the number two boiler, Walker can make thirty for a while. Hell, we could sustain twenty-eight if nothing pops.” He glanced around at the expectant faces. “That’s a hell of a lot of horsepower.”

“You mean, rig a tow?” Matt breathed. Spanky nodded.

“But will it be enough?” Garrett asked skeptically. “I know Nerracca’s mostly wood, but her hull is incredibly thick and she’s . . . huge! Especndant of Allosaurus, according to Bradford. The things were rare and Pete had never seen one, but by all accounts they were one of the few “dinosaurs” of this region that weren’t stunted. The Lemurian scouts had discovered tracks and blood on the pipeline. The monster must have been lying in wait for passing prey, hunkered slightly back in the dense foliage along the trail when Scott came ambling by. It was a terrible loss and Pete shuddered to think about how it must have been. Even so, the irony of the coxswain’s death wasn’t lost on him.

Anyway, since Pete had operational command of Baalkpan’s defenses, Jim cheerfully reported to him when he arrived. There wasn’t even the tiniest hint that Mr. Ellis considered it inappropriate and Pete was grateful for that. The irony of a naval lieutenant in command of a destroyer reporting to Mrs. Alden’s son was even more bizarre, to him at least, than the way poor Scott had gotten it. Ever since then, though, Jim had been down at the dock working night and day, with hundreds of Lemurian “yard-apes” crawling all over his ship. By Nakja-Mur’s command, every possible assistance, regardless of expense, was placed at the disposal of the young lieutenant and his wounded destroyer.

Nakja-Mur had certainly stepped up to the plate; Alden had no complaints about that. He no longer questioned what things cost. The High Chief had finally completely grasped the concept of total war, and everything else had dimmed to insignificance. Nothing was as important to him as saving his city and its people and he’d do whatever it took. With Letts’s help, the High Chief of Baalkpan had blossomed into a kind of bureaucratic prodigy. In a government like that of the United States, Nakja-Mur would have been performing all the duties usually associated with the secretaries of state, commerce, agriculture, public works, and war. He didn’t really know doodly-squat about any of those things, but he was smart enough to know it, and he delegated all the hands-on work to people who did. He just made sure the wheels were greased and he arbitrated disputes. He was also a genius at sorting out priorities and making sure the most important projects got the assets they needed the quickest. He relied heavily on Alden and Letts to advise him as to which projects those were, but since Baalkpan’s defense and the support of the AEF were almost everybody’s top priority, there was rarely any disagreement between them.

The exception to this unity of purpose was still represented by what Letts called the Run Away Party, which was enjoying a resurgence that began with Fristar’s return and was reinforced by the terrible news that the offensive was turning into a desperate retreat. The “Run-Aways” were still a minority since most of them had, of course, already run away. But Alden figured that as soon as the new scope of the threat they faced became known, the Run-Aways would gain many converts. There was no Lemurian president, or anything of the sort, to rule the collection of independent Homes and peoples from other “land” Homes that had gathered at Baalkpan. The leadership was more like some sort of screwy legislature of equal representatives. Kind of like the city-state setup of ancient Greece, Alden thought. Unlike the captain, Pete didn’t know much about history—beyond that of the Marine Corps—but he’d heard of the Spartans and he knew about Thermopylae. He hoped they weren’t facing a similar situation. He knew one of the problems the Greeks had faced was an inability to work together. But Nakja-Mur chaired all the meetings since he was High Chief of the “Host” Home. Hell, throw in speaker of the house while you’re at it, Alden thought. So far he’d managed to keep everybody’s eye on the ball.

Pete gazed out across the city below and wondered yet again at the ingenuity of the people here. Insteadlike those that proved so effective in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Like its predecessors, this one was festooned with heavy guns that covered the harbor entrance and there were defenses around it similar to those that encircled the city. There were also sufficient provisions within that it could hold for quite a while if it was ever cut off from Baalkpan. Brister had named it Fort Atkinson, after Mahan’s captain who’d been killed in the battle with Amagi. Brister had admired Captain Atkinson very much. He was proud of the fort and Pete was too. He was proud of everything they’d done to prepare for a possible attack. Now, as he stood waiting for Nakja-Mur to join him for their afternoon bull session, he fervently prayed that all the defenses he’d helped design and build and all the citizen-soldiers he’d trained would never face the test they’d been preparing for.

A tapestry separating the balcony from the Great Hall parted, and Nakja-Mur strode through to join Sergeant Alden with his own goblet of nectar in his hand. His face was expressionless, as usual, beyond a small, clipped frown that didn’t reveal his teeth. His shoulders sagged and his tail drooped and it was clear he was exhausted.

“Good afternoon, Gener-aal Aalden,” he said by way of greeting.

Pete grimaced. He hated it when Nakja-Mur called him that, especially in front of others. “Good afternoon, Nakja-Mur, U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan.”

“Preparations continue to proceed well?” Nakja-Mur asked.

Pete shrugged. “Well enough. We started building up the overhead protection for the batteries today, now that we know about Amagi.” He shook his head. “Not that it’ll do much good against ten-inch guns. That’s one thing we never planned for. I’ve also started working on more shelters for troops and medical facilities. It’s mostly revetments to protect from fragments, but it’s better than nothing.”

“These ten-inch guns are very bad?”

Pete nodded. “They’re more than twice as big as Walker’s.”

“But the guns you helped build for my people are as well.”

“True,” Alden agreed, “but as we’ve discussed many times, those guns, as powerful as they are, are still no match for Walker’s in range, power, or accuracy. I wish they were, but we just don’t have the facilities to make anything like that yet. As for Amagi, her guns are bigger still than the best we’ve been able to make and they can shoot ten times as far.”

Nakja-Mur nodded solemnly. “You’re saying we have no real defense against this Amagi? Not even now that there are two of your fast iron ships?”

“No. As you can surely see for yourself, Mahan’s in no shape for a fight. Jim’s killing himself trying to get her ready and hopefully he’ll have time. But even if Walker and Mahan were brand spanking new, they’d be no match for that damn thing. We’ll think of something. We have to. But right now I sure don’t know what it’ll be. Pray, I guess.”

Nakja-Mur nodded. “I will certainly do that,” he said. “I will pray that it never comes. It may not, you know,” he added hopefully.

Just then, Ed Palmer was escorted onto the balcony by a pair of Nakja-Mur’s guardsmen, who paused and waited to be summoned close. Ed accompanied them and Pete’s heart sank when he saw the signalman’s ashen face.

“My guess is,” Pete said before Ed spoke a word, “we should have been praying already.”

A skept Matt didn’t think the Grik could catch them. On the other hand, Amagi would soon be in range of her big guns. With darkness falling, she wouldn’t have a target, though, would she? Once she got behind them, she’d never catch up either. Not if eight knots was all she had.

A couple of Grik ships, either because of better seamanship or cleaner hulls, were drawing ahead of the pack. Matt had a good eye for geometry and there was no way Walker would drag Nerracca past those two, at least.

“Sound general quarters,” he ordered at last. The raucous “gong, gong, gong” reverberated throughout the ship and hats were exchanged for helmets. Matt knew the consensus was that no one wanted to go in the water with a life jacket on, but he ordered them worn regardless. Sandra suggested that the possibility a crewman might be eaten was more than offset by the protection against crossbow bolts and flying debris that the jackets afforded them. The Lemurian destroyermen hated the jackets even more than the humans did. In their case it was because, for the most part, they were way too big. They wore them nonetheless.

Bernard Sandison was the last to report, as usual. He had the farthest to go from where he was supervising the preparation of the torpedoes. He plugged in his headset, turned to the talker, and gave a thumbs-up sign.

“All stations manned and ready, Captain,” Reynolds said aloud.

“Very well. Who’s in the crow’s nest?”

“Bosun’s Mate Chack, sir.”

Matt nodded. Early on, Lieutenant Garrett had worked very closely with the burly young Lemurian. He’d picked up ranges well. Matt didn’t have the perspective of the lookout, but those two lead ships were obviously in range. He wanted to knock them out before they got dead ahead, when only the number one gun would bear. “Inform Mr. Garrett he may commence firing when ready,” he said.

On the fire-control platform, Garrett listened to Chack’s report as it came through his earpiece. He echoed it to Sandy Newman, who was operating the mechanical fire-control computer. “Load one, two, and four. Range to target four O double O. Angle is zero six zero, speed seven knots.”

“On target!” chorused the director and the pointer.

Garrett knew they didn’t have the ammunition to waste on an “up ladder.” Since there was still some visibility, he would fire a single salvo and hope they could correct from there. Chack had good eyes; he should spot the fall of shot.

“One round each, salvo fire. Commence firing!”

The salvo buzzer alerted the bridge crew and a moment later the ship shook perceptibly with the booming roar of three four-inch guns. In the deepening twilight the tracers quickly converged on the target. A bright, rippling flash erupted amidships of the first enemy ship and a chorus of exultant shouts rose up. Matt was excited as well. Chack was right on the money.

“Silence!” bellowed Chief Gray on the fo’c’sle, right behind number one. “Grab that damn shell, Davis, before it goes over the side!” His yell was loud enough that half the ship must have heard.

Still grinning, Matt turned to the talker. “By all means let’s have some quiet so the men can do it again.”

The next ship in line was destroyed almost as quickly, but it took two salvos instead of one. It must have maneuvered to avoid the sinking, burning hulk in front of it. More ships were cracking on, though. It was as though the destruction of the first two only sp D tons of seawater poured inside her through gaping holes and opened seams. As tough as the Homes of the People were, they were never designed to absorb the type of punishment Amagi was inflicting.

For a long, torturous moment, Matt said nothing. He just continued to stare at Gray with a look of inexorable determination. The salvo buzzer rang again and the number one gun fired into the night. Then . . . he blinked. It was as though the nightmare that had surged from his subconscious mind was suddenly subverted by the one he was living now.

“Secure from flank,” he said in a subdued voice.

“Captain!” shouted Sandison from the starboard bridgewing, “Small craft are coming alongside!” Matt raced to join him and peered over the rail. A shoal of small double-ended sailing craft, about thirty feet long, were struggling to catch up with the destroyer. Matt immediately recognized them as boats the People used to hunt the gri-kakka. Much like human whaleboats of the past, they carried the hunters close enough to strike their prey with a lance. Most Homes carried dozens of the extremely fast things and launched them from the large internal bays Matt had first seen on Big Sal. The gri-kakka boats were packed to overflowing.

“Get boarding nets over the side!” Matt shouted. “Slow to two-thirds!”

Immediately, as soon as the nets were rigged, boat after boat thumped alongside and terrified Lemurians swarmed up to the deck. Most were younglings.

“What the hell are they doing?” Gray demanded.

“They’re trying to get as many off as they can!” Matt shouted. “Get down there and start packing them in!”

Gray was stunned. “But how many can we hold?”

“As many as they send us! Now get your ass down there and get them below! We have to keep the ship trimmed and you’re the only one that can do it. Use all the help you need!” The Bosun dashed toward the ladder. Matt realized Queen Maraan had joined him. With her black fur and clothing she was almost invisible in the dark. Only her silver eyes and the tears matting the fur around them were visible, reflecting the light of the fire that raged aboard Nerracca. More shells shrieked down and churned the sea.

“You risk much,” she said in a soft, sad voice.

“I’m risking everything,” he told her truthfully. Even he realized it now. One lucky hit and Walker and everyone aboard her would be blown into quickly sinking fragments. A few would survive in the water long enough to know they were being eaten. And then Amagi and the Grik armada would continue remorselessly toward Baalkpan with little more than poor, crippled Mahan to stand in the way. Nerracca was doomed no matter what. Probably the only reason Amagi was still shooting at her was that her fires gave the Japanese gunners a target in the distant dark. There was always the chance they would hit the American destroyer. “Sometimes you just don’t have any choice.”

The gri-kakka boats scurried back and forth, ferrying people as fast as they could while Walker still heaved on the cable. It made the transfer more difficult, but they had to remain under way to keep as much distance as possible between themselves and Amagi, as well as the approaching Grik. Also, if Nerracca went dead in the water, she would be a sitting duck and the Japanese gunners would finish her in a matter of much, but the number of hits Amagi scored began to decline. Still, the shells continued to rain down and Matt had to wonder why the enemy was expending so much of their limited ordnance. Evidently, whoever was in command over there wasn’t willing to risk any possibility that his prey would escape. Even temporarily.

Another nearby salvo tossed Walker like a cork. So far, she’d taken no direct hits, but the damage from near misses and shell fragments was becoming critical. The wardroom was filling with wounded but, miraculously, no more of her crew had been killed. That luck didn’t extend to the refugees. Almost a dozen had been scythed down on Walker ’s deck, and many more died when two of the gri-kakka boats were pulverized by a direct hit alongside. Refugees filled Walker’s lower decks and every crevice and compartment was packed to overflowing. Even the sweltering engineering spaces were full of panting Lemurians and the air was filled with a desolate, terrified keening sound and the smell of soggy fur and voided bowels.

“Keep packing them in,” Matt ordered the Bosun when he came to report.

“It’s turning into hell down there, Captain,” Gray replied.

Matt nodded grimly. “Just put them wherever you can. It sure beats the alternative.”

Gray nodded. “If they fill up the main deck, she’ll capsize,” he warned. “We’re already so low in the water with all the extra weight that we’re taking water through holes above the waterline. Damage control can’t even get to them with all the bodies down there.”

“I know. Are the pumps keeping up?”

“So far—” Gray was interrupted by the bark of the number three gun. The Grik were closing on them now and all guns were in local control, firing at nearby targets of opportunity. The sea to port was scattered with burning hulks. Amagi had slipped aft somewhat, until now she was off Nerracca’s port quarter. She was closing, though, since their own speed had diminished so much. She had advanced through most of the Grik that accompanied her until, by the flashes of her guns, they saw few lizard ships remaining between them. Most of the main Grik force had caught the favorable wind and were closing on the port bow. Matt realized bitterly that if it hadn’t been for those early hits, their scheme to pull the Home clear of danger would probably have worked.

Both the ships were heavier now. Behind them Matt saw that Nerracca was horrifyingly low in the water. All of her masts and sails were aflame, as was virtually everything on or above her main deck from stem to stern. The only people escaping now came from the bays low on her hull. Even that couldn’t last much longer. Soon they would be underwater.

“Four knots!” Kutas yelled shrilly over the roar of the tortured blower and the rattling cacophony of the exhausted ship. Several falling shells struck Nerracca simultaneously and rocked the hulk with what seemed like a single massive detonation. One shell went long and exploded just off Walker’s starboard bow. Matt, Safir, and Bernie Sandison were all knocked off their feet by the concussion, and fragments sleeted into the side of the bridge and the splinter shield on the number one gun. Leo Davis went sprawling and two of the Lemurian loaders were swept away.

Then, as those on the bridge gained their feet, they were hurled backward against the chart house and Walker erupted forward like a racehorse from the gate. Matt staggered up, climbing the conduits on the bulkhead. Reynolds was dously ctly away from us, it was lost to view.” Sato almost shrugged. “There were many explosions. Perhaps she was hit. Right now, however, we are wasting ammunition.”

“Oh, very well, Commander,” Kurokawa growled. “You may cease firing. We will steer toward the wreckage and see for ourselves. If we did not sink the American ship, we almost certainly damaged it. She will fly as fast as she can to her lair and we will catch her soon.” He paced the length of the bridge as though lost in thought while Sato gave the order to stop the bombardment of the burning, sinking hulk. A moment later he returned to Sato’s side. Strangely, there was a smile on his face. “A most impedo mount behind the amidships deckhouse on the starboard side. Hale’s station was directly atop the mount. Beneath him, nestled in their tubes, the final three operating MK-15, twenty-one-inch torpedoes in the entire world patiently waited, their safety pins removed. There had probably never been any more lovingly treated and carefully maintained torpedoes in the history of the Asiatic Fleet and they’d been painstakingly tested for every conceivable defect. Each of the three weapons was a marvel of technology and precise engineering and was, pound for pound, the most complicated piece of machinery aboard the entire ship. Not to mention the fact they’d cost the War Department of the United States more than ten thousand dollars apiece.

And nobody really trusted them to work.

There were many theories as to why the American torpedoes had performed so dismally. Much of the problem was undoubtedly due to the fact that prior to the war, destroyer and submarine crews were allowed very little practice in their use. They were fantastically expensive and the budget for the Asiatic Fleet in particular was extremely tight. Bernie Sandison, however, as well as his division, was convinced the problem was far more insidious. At Balikpapan, they’d seen the foaming wake of one of their torpedoes end directly amidships of a Japanese transport at the height of that confusing fight. To their amazement, it didn’t explode. On other occasions they’d been positive that the weapons ran true, but in spite of their certainty, their efforts and risks weren’t rewarded. Destroyermen on other ships, not to mention submariners, complained bitterly about similar experiences. It was obvious there was somet. Self-doubt constantly warred with his conviction that he’d been right to make the modifications. He knew his division had done everything humanly possible to ensure that the attack would succeed. But if he was wrong . . .

Chack finally reported that he was certain the target was Amagi and there were no Grik between them and the enemy. The range had dwindled to less than four miles—well within the range of the torpedoes—and so far there was no indication the Japanese even suspected they were there. A hush fell over the crew. Creeping up on a battle cruiser in the dark wasn’t a tactic they’d ever trained for or ever dreamed they’d use. The normal procedure was to race in at top speed and fire torpedoes from the maximum range of about eight miles. This method was . . . surreal.

Walker continued her leisurely approach, her bow-on aspect presenting the smallest possible target in the pitch-dark night. The tubes were rigged out at a thirty-degree angle and awaiting the command. Now that Chack was sure, he was calling constant corrections. Bernie didn’t need them now. Even he could see the massive ship looming ahead, a malignant black outline against a wash of stars beyond. He tracked the target with his torpedo director. Nine thousand, eight thousand, seven thousand yards, and still they narrowed the gap. Amagi was making barely eight knots and her course was constant. She was a sitting duck. The range was becoming almost ridiculously close when Captain Reddy finally spoke.

“Mr. Reynolds, remind Mr. Garrett not to open fire unless I give the command, but be ready if I do.” He looked at Bernie Sandison and, even in the darkness, Bernie thought he detected a ferocious, predatory gleam in the captain’s eye. “Fire your torpedoes, Mr. Sandison.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Bernie addressed Randal Hale in a brisk, nervous voice. “Mount one: Fire one! Fire three! Fire five!”

With each new command, there was a thump-chuff! and a sharp flash of yellow light aft as the small black-powder charge within each tube expelled the torpedo. The brightly polished weapons shone only as long dull shadows as they arced into the sea and entered the water amid a gray, concave splash.

“Helm, left full rudder. Come about to course one zero zero.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Left full rudder,” confirmed the helmsman. “Making my course one zero zero!”

As the destroyer heeled to starboard, Matt went out on the port bridgewing and waited for the stern to come around. This would be the most critical moment. If anyone on Amagi saw the impulse charges go off and looked hard in their direction, they’d probably see the ship as she turned broadside-on for a moment. Soon Walker steadied and Matt heard the helmsman announce he’d achieved his course. He raised his binoculars to watch the enemy ship. He couldn’t see the torpedoes and he felt strangely cheated, even though he knew it was for the best. If it was too dark for him to see the telltale trails of bubbles, then the Japs couldn’t see them either. Uh-oh, something was happening. Even as Matt stared at Amagi, a searchlight flared to life. Then another.

“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted into the pilothouse. The launch must have been seen after all. The searchlights stabbed at the darkness in their general direction, but for the moment they concentrated on an area to port. Then another light came on and almost instantly, Walker was seared by the harsh, bright glare.

“Commence firing!” Matt yelled. “Target their searchlights!” Gnd number four fired together and the tracers lanced into the night. Another salvo left the guns before the first was halfway there.

“Come left ten degrees!” Matt said and raised his glasses again, trying to see through the blinding light. He knew the course change would make Walker a larger target, but he wanted the number one gun in the fight. When the next salvo fired, it joined the others. The other two lights had found them now, and then yet a fourth. One suddenly winked out, however, and Matt supposed they must have gotten a hit. “How long on the torpedoes, Mr. Sandison?” he demanded.

“Another minute, Captain.” The torpedo officer had taken station on the port torpedo director—not that there was anything left to direct. He just had to see . . .

Other lights lit the battle cruiser, gun flashes from her secondary armament. The first splashes fell about two hundred yards to starboard and a little aft. The second group of enemy shells raised geysers just off the port beam and shell fragments peppered Walker. Amagi’s secondaries weren’t nearly as large as her main battery, but they were bigger than anything Walker had. The ship staggered under the force of a direct hit aft, and the sound of the explosion and the screams of refugees were deafening. The ship recovered herself, however, and continued her frantic sprint. Another blast, farther aft, and Walker shuddered in agony.

“Torpedoes?!”

Sandison’s eyes flicked to the stopwatch in his hand.

“Now!”

The lights went out.

Matt snapped the binoculars to his eyes in time to see a bright, slashing pulse of fire rising from Amagi’s waterline, just aft of amidships. A jet of sparks vomited from her stack and illuminated the rising cloud of smoke caused by the blast. The searchlights that just moments ago had been so remorselessly fixed on the destroyer were now askew, throwing eerie, smoke-dense beams in all directions.

“Yes!” shouted Bernie as his relief surged forth. Not what they’d hoped for, but one hit out of three was better than their average to date. He was pretty sure he knew which one it had been. Cheers erupted all over the ship. Cheers of relief and vindication.

“Secure from flank! Come right ten degrees. Let’s get some distance while she decides whether or not to sink. If she doesn’t, I’d just as soon we were out of range when they get their priorities straightened out. Cease firing main battery.”

A few more desultory shells landed in Walker’s wake, but without the searchlights to guide them the Japanese gunners fired blind. However much damage they’d caused, the torpedo attack had taken them completely by surprise. By the time the searchlights began scanning for Walker again, she had disappeared completely into the dark.

Matt slowly let out a breath. “Damage report?”

“That last hit tore hell out of the guinea pullman,” Reynolds said, referring to the crew’s berthing space situated above the propellers. “Lots of refugee casualties in there.” He paused. “There’s some flooding in aft general storage and the steering engine room . . . There’s people in there too.”

Matt was staring aft at the amidships deckhouse. He couldn’t see much in the darkness except for the occasional white T-shirt and hat dashing through the smoke that still poured from under it. “What about the hit amidships?ït of ’Cats hunkered under the deckhouse. He has no idea how many bought it. The galley’s a wreck, but Lanier made it okay.” Reynolds blinked. “He was in the head. Mertz and the cat-monkey mess attendant are both wounded.” The talker paused again, listening. “Oh, goddamn!” he exclaimed in an indignant voice. “Beggin’ your pardon, Captain.”

“What else?”

“Those Jap bastards got the Coke machine!”

Matt almost laughed. The last of their Cokes had been gone for weeks—all except one that was stashed in his own quarters. He doubted he’d ever drink it. The machine itself had remained a source of pride to the crew, in a strange, black-humor sort of way. They may have been lost on a hostile, alien—other—earth, but by God, the Coke e mac enough ahead of the Grik that she should be safe from pursuit, but Matt wanted Ben to make sure.

Tsalka glared across the water as Kurokawa’s launch returned to his ship. “You know, General, I grow increasingly weary of that creature.”

General Esshk hissed agreement. “I begin to understand why those who joined us in the Great Hunt in the past have ultimately fallen prey themselves. If they were as grasping and unpleasant as that one”—he gestured at the retreating boat—“it is no wonder the Hij of old turned them out and hunted them to extinction.” Tsalka agreed, but he knew there was more to it than that. Despite the Ancient Way, that whoever hunts together may partake of the meal, he knew it was difficult for any predator to share its prey. The tail-less, almost toothless Hij he had just endured was not one he would care to dine beside.

“Their iron ship is damaged again and it will move even slower now,” Tsalka mused. “But it is still wondrously powerful. I heard the tales of how it destroyed our Uul before it joined the hunt. Last night, I saw how it did so. Magnificent!”

“Most impressive,” Esshk hedged. “But to strike from such a distance! Where is the challenge . . . the sport in that? It is the hunt that counts. The harvest is secondary.”

Tsalka looked at him with his slitted yellow eyes. “Indeed. But it is not very sporting when the prey consumes the hunter. This prey has teeth! I do not desire another catastrophe such as befell our hunters at the walled city. Such a thing has never happened before and it will not happen again. The Celestial Mother would not be pleased and neither would I.” He gazed at the lumbering iron monstrosity. Black smoke belched from its middle as it burned the coal that somehow pushed it along. There was other smoke still, from the wound it suffered last night, and Tsalka perceived a slight list. Despite its amazing power, the Tree Prey had friends who could damage it. The thought gave him pause. They had damaged a thing that multiple vigorous assaults by his own race did not scratch. Insufferable as the Hij leader of the iron ship folk might be, Tsalka was beginning to suspect that he was right about one thing: the Grik needed them, and might need them very much if the Grand Swarm was to meet with success. The thought rankled, and yet it might be true. The Tree Prey had grown into Worthy Prey in their own right, but with friends such as they had . . . the slow iron ship of the new hunters might have to make the difference.

Initially, as was customary, the new hunters had been treated with proper disdain. That was appropriate, since they were the newest hunters in the pack. But things had changed. The prey fought well. They had flying things to help them, as well as an iron ship of their own. Much as he disliked the idea, Tsalka admitted it was probably wise to heed the council of a creature—however distasteful—who knew how to counter such things. For the first time, that morning he had actually paid attention to what the iron ship leader had to write.

“You and I are Hij, General Esshk,” he said. “We can look back upon the Uul-life with fondness and nostalgia. That was our time for the hunt to be sport. That time is past. I joined the Swarm because I was bored and there has not been a Grand Swarm in my lifetime. I wanted to see it for myself. Although I appreciate your courtesy, command is yours, of course. But I flatter myself that my advice may have some value.”

General Esshk bowed lstayed that long, and most of the watch was nervous to the point of distraction—particularly when Kurokawa stepped near their station. But the entire fleet had changed its course, and despite the fact that the damage to Amagi was probably responsible, the captain acted like he had achieved some sort of victory.

“Captain!” a talker suddenly blurted nervously. “The lookout reports sighting the American flying-boat, almost directly overhead!”

Kurokawa and Okada both raced out onto the bridgewing with their binoculars. Sure enough, floating lazily above, droning motors lost in the cacophony of Amagi’s abused machinery, was the PBY Catalina.

“Damn them!” shouted Kurokawa. He looked around. “Why isn’t anyone shooting at them?”

“They are out of range. If you want to waste ammunition to no effect—for all to see—we certainly can.”

Kurokawa’s gaze slashed at Okada. Then he raised his binoculars toward the Grik flagship. Some of the “officers” were clearly staring at the plane—the damn things had phenomenal eyes—and some were looking right back at him.

“Commander Okada,” he said in a menacing tone, “we must destroy that plane.”

Okada was incredulous. “But . . . how?”

“We will use one of our planes, of course.”

“But, Captain! Those planes are some of our most precious assets and we only have enough fuel for a couple of flights. Also, as you yourself pointed out, they are not fighters, they are spotting planes. They are lightly armed, and I’m not even sure they are fast enough to catch the American plane.”

Kurokawa’s round face regarded Okada without expression. “You, Commander, will choose a flight crew for the fastest of the two planes, if there is any difference. You will have it only half filled with fuel since it needn’t go far. That should improve its speed and will save fuel as well. You will then tell the crew that they will destroy the American plane or they need not return. Finally, if they are not in the air in ten minutes, they will be shot.” He snorted. “Remember, our ‘allies’ are watching.”

All Okada could do as he raced aft was mutter, “Madness!” under his breath.

“There they are!” Tikker shouted excitedly long before Ben Mallory could see anything but water and sky. By the time the leading edge of the enemy armada was visible to the pilot, Tikker already had an answer to one of their questions. The Grik had turned around. “They go home!” he shouted with glee.

“I doubt it.” Mallory sighed. “I bet they’re headed for Aryaal. They’ll set up a base there and hit us when they’re ready. Question is, why aren’t they ready now? Do you see any sign of Amagi?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Tikker with disappointment. “There is a large, dark shape farther ahead with smoke rising above it. It seems smoky all over, so maybe it is badly damaged. But we are still too far to tell.”

“There’s nothing for it then. We have to take a closer look.”

“Sure,” said Ed Palmer, standing in his usual place at the rear of the flight deck, “but I’m relieved for Aracca’s sake.”

“You and me both,” sighed Ben. “She might have made it, but if they’d still been coming on even at eight knots . . . Well, Walker’s report about what happeneIt was convenient that the PBY had full tanks of oxygen when they found it and Ben had them use some now, so they could get above the antiaircraft weapons. The seals on the masks didn’t work too well because even Ben and Ed had fur on their faces now, but there was plenty of oxygen for the few minutes they would need it. They would barely scratch the surface. There was almost a ten-hour supply. Ben pulled back on the wheel and slightly advanced the throttles. Before long, they were cruising at 18,000 feet—the big plane’s maximum service ceiling. Now the Japanese could shoot at them all they wanted, but the chances they’d hit anything were infinitesimal. Ben was betting they knew that too and wouldn’t want to waste ammo in front of their “friends.”

Ed was back in one of the observation blisters, staring straight down with his binoculars. At over three miles, the visibility wasn’t what he would have liked, but it was good enough. Amagi had been hard hit and she had a distinct list to starboard. Gray smoke from extinguished fires still rose to join the black smoke from her stack. Unfortunately, she was still clearly under way and in no apparent danger of sinking. They’d done all they could and she was still afloat. Ed didn’t think they’d get another “surprise” chance like the one last night, and they were out of torpedoes anyway, weren’t they? There was no way Walker and Mahan, even together, could stop her in a stand-up gunnery duel. They would have to think of something else.

Fortunately, it looked like they were going to have time to do that. Walker had clearly pounded the Grik fleet the night before. Several ships could be seen under tow, while more than a dozen had apparently been abandoned as beyond repair, or unable to make the voyage to Aryaal. A couple didn’t look too bad to Ed. He’d mark their positions. Maybe they could come out and tow them in. There was no telling how many ships Walker sent to the bottom. Regardless, however many Grik ships the old destroyer sank or damaged the night before, it was an insignificant percentage of the whole. If the Grik had wanted to, they could have come straight on. They would be mauled, but they would probably win. But they weren’t coming on. Just like what they had originally taken to be the “leading edge” of the Grik fleet, Amagi had reversed her course. Like those of the hundreds of sailing ships around her, the battle cruiser’s rather jagged, uneven wake proved she was headed back in the direction of Aryaal.

Perhaps Amagi was the reason they’d stopped! After last night, they might think they had to have her and if that was the case, they might attempt major repairs! That could take a long, long time. There was no question the Grik threat would only grow during that period, but if Walker’s desperate torpedo attack hadn’t destroyed Amagi, it had certainly bought them some time. Time they desperately needed.

Ed relinquished his vantage point to the Lemurian waist gunner and made his way forward. After he relayed his observations and deductions to Ben, he returned to his post at the radio and began signaling Walker with the news. Ben flew on a while longer, taking in the scope of the enemy fleet, then banked the plane until it pointed in an almost due-northerly direction. Once the battle cruiser was safely behind them, he began a slow descent. At 7,000 feet, the Catalina’s most efficient cruising altitude, he leveled off and asked Ed for some coffee. They’d already secured the oxygen masks.

Ed poked his head up between the two seats on the flight deck. “Sure thing. I’ll have some too.” He looked at the sable-furred Lemurian. “How ’bout you?” Tikker just grimaced and shook his head.

“Just give it a chance,” urged Ben. “It’ll grow on you.” wi>

“Like a great, hideous tumor, I suspect,” retorted the ’Cat. They all laughed. Suddenly there was a sound like heavy gravel being thrown hard against the plane’s aft fuselage, followed by a high-pitched shriek.

“What the hell!”

“Plane! Plane! Behind us shooting!” came the panicked cry from one of the Lemurians in the waist.

“Shoot back at him!” Mallory bellowed as he instinctively shoved the oval wheel forward to the stop. With the nose pointed at the sea—too close—he slammed the throttles forward and began banking right. He had no idea what was on their tail except it must have come from Amagi. That meant it was an observation plane of some sort and had to be dragging floats. The thing was, the Japanese had seaplane versions of almost all their first-line fighters—including the notorious Zeke. If that was what was after them . . . All he could do was what he’d done. The dope coming out of China and the Philippines was that the Zeke couldn’t dive, and if it did it had a hard time turning right against the torque of its radial engine. “Ed,” he shouted over the roar of engines, the rattling moan of the stressed airframe and the screech of terrified Lemurians, “get an eyeball on that guy and see what we’re up against!”

Palmer dragged himself aft and upward. It seemed like forever before he reached the waist gunner’s compartment, but when he did, he was greeted by a dreadful sight. Daylight streamed through a dozen bullet holes in the ceiling of the compartment and he knew there were probably many more aft. The Plexiglas in the starboard observation blister was shattered and a hurricane of wind swirled around him. There were brains spattered all over the forward bulkhead and the deck, and blood seemed to have been smeared over every surface with a mop. The dead Lemurian was sprawled in the middle of the aisle, his partner curled in a fetal position on the port side of the bulkhead, rocking back and forth and emitting a keening moan. Ed barely controlled his reflex to retch and snatched the headset off the live Lemurian. “Snap out of it!” he yelled, somewhat shakily. He leaned into the intact blister. First he looked down—he couldn’t help it—at the rapidly approaching water. He was no pilot, but he damn sure would have been pulling up by now. He took a deep breath and faced aft. Nothing but sky. Their maneuver should have caused their pursuer to overshoot and dump some speed before trying to match their turn. He should have been able to see it.

More “gravel” slammed into the plane. Many of the impacts were quieter that the first and he felt them more than heard them. They must have been in the wings. A final burst sounded directly overhead and it ended with an explosion of sound up forward.

“Goddamn it! What the hell is he?” Mallory screamed.

Ed lunged to the shattered blister, his hat instantly disappearing in the slipstream. Through squinted and watering eyes, he caught a glimpse of a winged shape swerving from starboard to port. He leaped back across the dead Lemurian and finally caught a good view of their tormentor. “It’s a biplane,” he cried into his borrowed microphone, incredulously. “Radial engine and three floats. One big one under the fuselage and two smaller ones under the wings. I swear to God it looks like a Stearman with floats! Two crew—pilot and spotter. The spotter has a gun too.” Ed grabbed hold of the .50-caliber machine gun in its pintle mount and prepared to open fire. There were flashes of light from the Japanese spotter’s gun before the plane began to bank toward quietehim.

He berated himself. That’s exactly what he should have done from the start, if he’d known what was after them. The Japanese pilot must have used their leisurely exploration of the enemy fleet to work himself into what he thought was a one-chance attack. If Ben had thrown the throttles to the stops and slowly climbed, they would have had a forty-knot and ten-thousand-foot advantage. As it was, he, Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory, trained fighter pilot, had been bested in his first aerial combat by what was essentially an obsolete trainer with floats. It didn’t matter that he’d assumed the enemy was far more capable. He shouldn’t have assumed anything. Hindsight could hurt.

“Ed,” he called over the intercom.

“Thanks for remembering me,” came the sarcastic reply. “I see you have at least stopped our uncontrolled plummet to the sea and the smoke’s not quite as bad.”

“Sorry about that,” Ben replied in his best upper-crust British accent. “One of our engines developed a bit of a . . . stitch and we thought it best to let it rest a while. We only have one other one, you know.” His voice turned serious. “What’s our troublesome little friend been up to?”

“He’s been coming in on our flanks, trying to get an angle on our engines, I guess. His last few tries have been to port. I guess he knows the other one’s out.”

“How are things back there?”

“One of the gunners is dead. I’ve been alone back here most of the time. I finally got the other one to snap out of it and he’s doing okay. I think he got a piece of the bastard on his last attack. He’s on the port side. Starboard’s a little unpleasant.”

“Understood.”

“Other than that, things are about the same. We’re a long way from home and almost out of ammo.”

“Can the gunner back there handle things for now?”

“Well . . . I guess.”

“Good. Then I want you in the nose turret.”

“The nose turret! Ben, this guy hasn’t come anywhere near the nose since he started.”

“That’s about to change. Give all your bullets to the port gunner and tell him to hammer away the next time that Jap gets in range. He’s got all the bullets in the world, got it?”

“Sure, but . . .”

“That’s when I’m going to lower the wing floats.”

“What! Damn, Ben! That’ll just slow us down even further. We’ll be sitting ducks!”

“No, listen! If he thinks we’re about to set down, he’ll pull out all the stops. He has to shoot this plane down to destroy it. Once we’re down, he can shoot at it till he runs out of fuel or bullets—which he has to be getting low on—and not do any appreciable damage unless he gets another lucky hit on an engine. Besides, he’s bound to know our marksmanship would improve dramatically. Hitting a moving target from a stationary one is a lot easier than moving versus moving.”

“Are we going to land on the water?”

“Not unless we have to,” Ben confessed.

“Why not? It sounds like the perfect plan. We’d have all the advantages. If we don’t shoot him down, we just wait till he flies away.” Ben cleared hlf the time I don’t know how I do it with two. You keep forgetting—I’m not a seaplane pilot. I’m still making most of this up as I go.”

Ed groaned. “Okay, Ben. I’m with you. And here comes our little friend, right on cue.”

“Get in the nose, Ed. As soon as he starts shooting, I’m lowering the floats. Anything could happen after that.”

Ed rushed forward. When he arrived, he was reminded just how much he hated the nose turret. It was built for guys a lot smaller than he was and it seemed like a stupid design. He had actually given it a lot of thought and believed he could have come up with something better. The first change would have been the emplacement of something more powerful than a measly .30-cal. It might have been a little cramped with a .50, but they could get a smaller guy. If they got a smaller guy to work the plane’s radios and help with navigation, that would be fine too. He put on the headset and racked the bolt, chambering a round.

“Aaaa-eeesh!” cried the gunner in the waist. “I chop him up good that time! Shoot up tail! Maybe kill gunner. Get even for my friend!”

“Where’d he go?” questioned Ben.

“Straight out, away. Direction . . . nine . . . nine clocks?”

“You get that, Ed? I think it’s working. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“I got it.” Palmer strained his eyes through the cloudy Plexiglas. The plane and all its components had been through so much, looking for a plane through the turret was like looking for a minnow in four feet of murky water.

In any event, it took much longer than any of them expected for the Dave to get around in front of them. Maybe it was being careful, or maybe it truly was damaged and had lost some speed. Whatever the reason, when Ed first saw the enemy plane, it was already closer than they’d hoped to spot it, but it was doing exactly what they’d expected: going for the PBY’s remaining engine from the front.

“There he is,” Ed announced, more calmly than he felt. “I can’t judge distance through this crummy glass, though. You’re going to have to tell me when he’s in range.”

“Uh, he’s already shooting at us, so whenever you’re ready . . .”

“Have you seen this can of ammo down here?” he demanded hotly. “This one can of ammo? I need him closer!” A few bullets began to strike the plane.

“He’s getting closer!”

“Just a few more seconds!” Ed could see the plane clearly now. If it was damaged aft, he couldn’t tell, but it was coming straight in, yellow flashing from its single forward firing machine gun. More bullets were hitting the PBY and Ben’s voice grew more insistent. Even Tikker’s voice rose in an indignant shriek. Ed paid no attention—even when one bullet grazed the curved Plexiglas mere inches in front of his face. He was concentrating on the sights. They were crude and pretty much limited to known ranges, but he aimed carefully at the steady target of the biplane’s round engine, raised the sights a little, and started to fire. He wasn’t using short bursts like he ought to have; he was trying to hose out a solid wall of lead that the seemingly flimsy biplane couldn’t survive. Evidently, by the sounds of impact, that’s what the enemy hoped as well.

Finally, exultantly, he saw a flash and a gout of smoke erupt from the Dave’s engine, and the plane seemed to wobble as if the pilot was struggling for control. Ed let out a whoop, but an instan secondaries or fragments. Beyond the fortifications, Matt saw little change to the city he’d come to think of almost as home, but the fortifications themselves made a profound difference.

In the distance, tied to the old fitting-out pier, was Mahan. A wisp of smoke coiled from her number one stack and she seemed to be nearly half covered by Chief Gray’s new light gray paint scheme. Matt knew Jim wouldn’t be goofing around with paint if a lot of his ship’s other issues hadn’t already been resolved.

By contrast, if the city and its surroundings looked different now than they had when Walker led the Allied Expeditionary Force to raise the siege of Aryaal, the destroyer had changed just as much. Gone was her own dazzling light gray paint. Instead, the elderly ship was almost a uniform orange color, with heavy, darker streaks down her sides. Harsh red rust shone through the smoke-blackened sections, and the large numbers, 163, that had stood so tall and proud at her bow were nearly obliterated. Clusters of splinter wounds and a few larger holes were visible in her flanks, and streams of water coursed over the side as beleaguered pumps struggled to force it out of the overloaded, battered hull. Alone she would have been a dismal, dispiriting sight, but the hundreds of hollow-eyed, bedraggled Lemurians packing her top-heavy deck gave testimony to the greater tragedy.

Because of her arrival, even with all the preparations under way, thousands of people were on hand to witness her slow approach to the dock. The contents of the radio message detailing the events of the night had rapidly spread. There was no reason to conceal the fact that Nerracca and most of the people aboard her were lost. It would have been a greater shock to the morale of the defenders if they’d known nothing until Walker came in alone. The one thing that mitigated against total despair was the obvious fact that Walker had put up a hell of a fight and had saved as many as she could. So strong was the Lemurian faith in the old destroyer’s power, they felt sure if Walker looked this bad, surely Amagi was in much worse condition—if she had in fact survived. Most of them couldn’t conceive of the difference between the two ships’ relative size and power, and Walker’s daring, vengeful counterattack had been duly reported as well. It was still a somber crowd that waited to greet the survivors.

Finally, a sharp, congratulatory toot! toot! and a cloud of steam issued from Mahan’s repaired whistle and the trancelike immobility of the crowd was broken. Dockworkers shouldered their way through and positioned themselves to catch lines thrown by destroyermen on the ship. Up close, Walker looked even worse and the smoke and steam that rose from her aft stacks resembled nothing so much as an exhausted gasp. Gangplanks were rigged and the stunned survivors began to disembark. Some were met by family or acquaintances who had already arrived on Humfra-Dar. Big Sal was in the bay but hadn’t yet reached the dock. No one aboard her would have any idea what had taken place. Walker flew only a cryptic signal as she churned past her lumbering old friend. “Glad to see you. Must off-load passengers before we sink.”

Most of the survivors weren’t met by anyone. They just wandered around in small, confused groups as though in a daze. Most were females or younglings who’d lost everything they ever knew. They’d suffered the trauma of leaving their homes and had nearly been killed at sea. Many of their loved ones were dead. Now they were cast on the shores of an unknown, alien land. Fortunately, someone in a position of authority had their wits about them, and squads of way. At the urging of officers, the crowd began to disperse and return to their now even more insistent chores. When a lane was cleared, the wounded were carried ashore. There were quite a few.

Matt watched from the port bridgewing while Sandra supervised below. Beside her still was Queen Maraan, giving support and encouragement to the injured—no matter where they were from. Matt’s admiration for the Orphan Queen had grown even greater than before. He knew she was a strong and respected leader to the people of B’mbaado, but she’d also shown herself to be wise and compassionate to her former Aryaalan enemies and strangers as well. He was certain she’d be a major unifying figure and a force to be reckoned with in the events that were to come. Beside him stood Chack, watching as well. The young Lemurian was tired but surprisingly alert after spending virtually the entire night in the crow’s nest. Matt nodded toward the queen.

“Go give them a hand if you want,” he said with a small smile. “Or you can hit the rack. It’s your choice.”

“If it makes no difference to you, Cap-i-taan, I will help the ladies.” He grinned.

“That’s fine, but be back aboard by the first watch. We’ve got a hell of a mess and the Chief’s going to need your help. Try to get some sleep between now and then. It’s going to be a busy night.”

“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.” Chack saluted him and bailed down the ladder. Matt shook his head. Very carefully, he tried to stretch. Not long before they opened Baalkpan Bay, he’d finally convinced Sandra to remove the rigid strapping that held his arm immobilized. He felt no pain at all from his ribs and the wound through his shoulder had healed remarkably well. That seemed to be the case with every patient treated with the infection-fighting goo. Sandra knew where it came from now—fermented polta fruit that was further processed in some seemingly mystical way—but she still didn’t know what made it work and she yearned for a microscope to study it with. Matt didn’t care what the stuff was so long as it worked and he was eager to get his considerably atrophied arm back in service. He stretched a little farther, tensing the muscles, and tried to raise the arm from his side. Salvos of pain shot in all directions, and with a wince he let the arm drop. The pain lingered, throbbing with heat, but as it began to subside, he tried again.

“Ahh!”

Deciding to delay his therapy a little longer, he looked back down at the dock. A procession of Guardsmen dressed in the colors of Nakja-Mur’s clan had arrived and Nakja-Mur himself was ascending the gangway with Alan Letts and Jim Ellis. Despite the mess and the chaos on deck, Chief Gray managed to assemble a side party to receive them and the sound of his bosun’s pipe twittered from below. A few moments later, the two men and the rotund Lemurian leader were admitted to the bridge. Out in the open air, salutes were exchanged and Jim and Alan extended their hands in heartfelt relief. To Matt’s surprise, Nakja-Mur enveloped him in a crushing embrace.

“Ah!” Matt said again, clenching his eyes shut.

“I am so glad you and your ship did not die!” the High Chief exclaimed in much improved English. He was oblivious to the pain he’d accidentally caused.

“Me too,” Matt agreed, once he could trust his voice. “Nerracca wasn’t so lucky.”

Nakja-Mur nodded grimly. “A terrible thing. I am deeply grieved and angered by its loss. As I am for Revenge.” Matt remembered that almost the entire crew of Revenge had come from Baalkpan.

“Revenge died wchine, the damn Japs got my spice locker! The last black pepper in the whole wide world’s just . . . gone! Sneakiest stunt they’ve pulled since Pearl Harbor!” Lanier’s tone began to return to normal as he seethed. “Bastards!”

Tabby was surprised by the cook’s priorities, but Isak and Gilbert both nodded solemnly. “It’s a hell of a thing,” Isak agreed. “How’s your gut feelin’, Earl?” Lanier glared up at him.

“None of your goddamn business, snipe!” He straightened up on the stool as best he could and pulled his shirt closed over his grimy bandage. “Now you’ve stolen the best sammiches I had left, why don’t you quit goofin’ off and get back to work! I can’t fix the whole ship by myself!”

They crossed the deck and ducked under the bridge beside the radio shack. Clancy was inside with the hatch open. His earphones were on his head and he nodded as they passed. Who knew what he was listening for. Going through the hatchway that led onto the foredeck, they emerged into sunlight again. Finally they’d found a place that hadn’t been damaged the night before—beyond a few dents and scratches from shell fragments—and so, for now at least, it was probably the quietest place on the ship. They crawled up under the splinter shield of the number one gun and stretched out in the sparse shade beneath it.

“Laan-yeer is a strange man,” Tabby observed at length. “He think whole ship—just so he have galley.”

“Yeah,” Isak agreed from beneath his right arm, which rested across his eyes. “But we’re sort of the same way, I guess. Nothin’ really matters except our boilers. Spanky has it tough. He has to worry about the boilers and the engines. Other stuff too. Chief Gray’s like that with the topsides. But that’s just the way it is. Everybody has a particular part of the ship that it’s their job to take care of. Nobody could do it all.”

“Except the cap-i-taan,” Tabby said thoughtfully. “He have to worry about everything. Not just all ship, but everything.”

They lay quietly for a moment, listening to the racket from aft.

“Yeah,” Yager breathed at last. “I sure wouldn’t want his job.”

Read on for an excerpt from Book III in
the exciting Destroyermen series by Taylor Anderson

MAELSTROM

Coming from Roc in February 2009

There was a new rumbling sound below, but it went unnoticed by the eight-year-old girl swaying in the sailcloth hammock. Her slumber was already filled with the incessant rumbling and groaning of the working hull and the endless, hissing blows of the pounding sea. Then came another rumble and another, each more insistent than the last. Still she didn’t stir from her dream. In it, she’d been swallowed by a leviathan, just as she’d dreaded since before the strange voyage ever began. Every night, as soon as the lids closed over her large, jade-colored eyes, the same terrible dream came again. She was in the very bowels of the leviathan and the rumbling, hissing roar was the sound of its belly digesting the ship. The voices came—there were always voices—excited, urgent. Voices in a tone entirely appropriate. Of course there would be dreadful voices in a dreadful dream. She knew what would happen next . . .

She was facedown on the thundering deck and only her tangled bedding protected her delicate nose from the fall. Her eyes were instan feet.

“We must put her in a boat this instant!” he cried. His voice had returned to what was surely a more normal growl.

“My thanks, good sir,” Kearley replied. “I appreciate your assistance.” The man spared him an incredulous glance. Now that he recognized the girl, there was no question he would die to save her.

The girl was oblivious to the exchange. Around her in the darkness there was no longer any doubt: her terrible dream had come to life. Helpless canvas flailed and snapped and the once fascinating scientific intricacy of the rigging was a hopeless mare’s nest of tangled lines. A constant, deadly hail of blocks and debris fell from above. Beyond her immediate surroundings, she dimly saw the bow, twisting and bent, jackknifing ever upward until the bowsprit pointed at the sky. The fragile paddle wheels on either side, amidships, resembled twisted flowers, shorn of their petals. Steam and smoke jetted from the funnel. In the center of this catastrophe, the deadly sea coursed into the ship.

Then, past the bow, coal dark against the starry horizon, she saw a monstrous form. It was clearly the great leviathan that had destroyed the ship—possibly entirely by accident. It may have simply risen from the depths, unknowing and unconcerned, to inhale a cavernous lungful of air. Perhaps only then did it discover the water bug on its back. No matter, it noticed it now. Even as the girl watched with unspeakable dread, the island-sized creature completed its leisurely turn and came back to inspect the wounded morsel in its wake. The big man saw it too.

“Into a boat!” he bellowed, carrying her to the larboard rail, where a dozen men frantically tore at the quarter-boat tackle. “Make way, damn ye! Can ye not see who I bear?” A wide-eyed young officer motioned them through the gathering throng that regarded the boat with frantic, greedy eyes.

“Are you a sailor?” the officer demanded of the big man. “You are not one of the crew.”

“I was a sailor once,” he admitted. “And a soldier. I’m a shipwright now, bound for the yard at the company factory.”

The officer considered. “Right. Take her aboard under your protection. As soon as you launch, you must hold the boat close so we may put more people aboard.” He cast an appraising glance. “You do look strong enough.”

Before the girl could form a protest, she was hoisted over the rail by the man’s powerful arms and deposited in the boat. Quick as a goat, he followed her and turned to accept the bundles hastily passed to him. A sailor jumped aboard too, encumbered by a double armful of muskets, which he quickly stowed. The girl found her voice.

“Master Kearley!” she wailed. “Master Kearley, you must come too!”

“I will, my dear,” came a muted cry beyond the desperate mass.

“Lower away!”

The boat dropped swiftly to the water and struck with a resounding smack.

“Fend off, you lubbers!” came the cry from above. “Hold her steady, now! I will send them down two at a time on the falls!” The big man looped a rope around his powerful forearm and pulled with all his might while the seaman pushed against the hull with an oar.

“Let ’em come!”

The girl gave voice to such a sudden, piercing, gut-wrenching shriek of terror that for an instant, in spite of their own fear, everyone froze to look. A massive

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4 -

EPILOGUE

Teaser chapter