Distant Thunders

CHAPTER 16

M att looked at the message form Clancy had handed him. The fact they now had relatively reliable communications was a godsend in many ways. He could keep track of all the various operations under way and he could even exchange semi-private correspondence with Sandra back in Baalkpan. He got daily updates-when atmospherics didn’t interfere-on the progress made on Walker and all the other projects of the Alliance. He was a little worried about the silence from Laumer, but not too worried. The ex-Grik “tankers” they’d sent with both bunker-grade and diesel fuel should arrive there soon. Still, he’d received so much bad, sometimes calamitous news typed as neatly as their battered typewriters could manage on the dwindling message forms, he always accepted them with a trace of apprehension.

The news today was anything but bad. In fact, it was almost horrifyingly good. Jim Ellis had discovered Rasik’s secret in the form of a battered freighter marooned in the swamps north of Chill-chaap. Clearly, the ship had somehow come through the same Squall they had. Jim hadn’t found the ship’s log, but her manifest told the story. She’d been attempting a mission similar to the one doomed Langley and a few old freighters had been trying to accomplish: a last-ditch effort to beef up Java’s air defenses. Langley and the freighters-including Santa Catalina -had been ferrying P-40 fighters, spare engines, tires, parts, fuel tanks, and millions of rounds of ammunition to the beleaguered island. Langley was caught short and bombed into a sinking wreck. Matt had heard one of the other freighters made it to Tjilatjap, but since there was no nearby airfield, they’d actually assembled the planes dockside and were attempting to tow them overland on refugee-choked roads! He didn’t know if they’d ever made it to an airstrip or not. Judging by Jim’s report, Santa Catalina had been trying to do the same thing.

The only explanation for her condition, position, her very presence in this world, was that she too must have been damaged at sea, passed through the Squall, and arrived at a far different Tjilatjap. The Grik must have already sacked Chill-Chaap and the ship’s captain, likely wondering where he was, proceeded as far upriver as he could to preserve his cargo and his ship from the deeper waters. Jim found no trace of the crew or the pilots who would have accompanied the planes. Maybe they were still out there somewhere, but more likely they hadn’t survived their contact with this terrible world. Matt shook his head. Much the same would probably have happened to Walker and her crew if she hadn’t made friends so quickly.

The existence of the ship and her cargo was an incredible stroke of luck, however, maybe even a war winner if they could salvage any of the planes. Jim thought it likely. The manifest totaled twenty-eight aircraft. Curtiss P-40Es! If they saved only half of them, they’d have more than the Philippines had after the first few days of the war. The reason it was horrifying was that Matt wanted those planes now and he had no way of getting them. Isak Rueben had said that the ship’s engines were probably okay, but the fireroom was a shambles. She was also “kind of sunk,” according to the report, so there’d be no salvaging her on a shoestring. An ecstatic Ben Mallory quickly fired back a suggestion from Baalkpan that they immediately launch an expedition to recover the planes. If they could hack an airstrip out of the jungle alongside the ship and somehow power her cargo cranes, they could simply assemble the planes and fly them out.

Matt knew there’d be nothing “simple” about it. The project would require a small army and there’d be no way to keep that secret. They’d also need a higher-grade fuel than the PBY had required and they’d have to cut airstrips everywhere they went to accommodate the planes. He’d been impressed by Jim’s initial reaction to remain tight-lipped about the find, but realistically, it probably didn’t matter. There was no risk of the Grik or even the Japanese infiltrating their ranks, and if they had spies on the island, they were just as likely to find the ship on their own. If the current Allied offensive was successful, they’d soon have the Grik pushed back almost to Ceylon, making long forays by enemy vessels into the Allied rear even more unlikely. Right now, every ship in Matt’s squadron was essential where it was. They’d bottled up the approaches to Singapore and captured or destroyed a few ships-mostly leaving. His assault was essentially awaiting only Ellis and Dowden, and the extra weight of metal her broadside might add to the fight. He’d recommend to Adar that they send a small garrison to Tjilatjap and maybe at least begin recovery and stabilization efforts. That made good sense. But right now, his own plate was heaping full.

“A hell of a thing,” Garrett commented, reading over his shoulder. “If we’d had those planes in the Philippines, we might still be there.”

Matt grunted. “We had a hell of a lot more than that to start with and it didn’t matter much. I don’t know. MacArthur might have been some kind of Army genius, but he understood even less about his own Air Corps than he did about naval operations.” He frowned. “I kind of wish we had him with us now, though. How’s Pete’s attack plan coming?”

“Pretty good, I think.” Garrett looked at Matt. “Pete’s done a swell job. I wouldn’t be pining for that Army prima donna if I were you.”

Matt laughed. “Not ‘pining,’ but I do wish I had someone else to bounce Pete’s plans off of.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Skipper. You’ve done fine onshore.” Garrett looked thoughtful. “Besides, you have Rolak and Queen Maraan. Unlike our sea folk friends, they’ve been fighting on land all their lives. Pete and Safir did a good job chopping up that Grik force on Madura… I mean, B’mbaado.”

“They sure did,” Matt reflected. He took a breath. “Jim should be here in three days. Four at the outside-if the weather holds. Don’t forget, this is the stormy time of year!” He chuckled grimly. Protection from the terrible “Strakkas” that struck the region was another reason they needed Singapore in their hands. “We’ll pass the word via wireless or couriers for all ships to assemble just west of Bintan Island at that time. We’ll have a final conference before we kick off the show.”

“You want to invite Jenks?”

Matt nodded. “He’s seen why we fight now and I think he’s more sympathetic than ever before. He’ll want to see how we fight. I think I’ll give him a chance to get in closer this time, if he likes.”

Captain Jim Ellis was piped aboard Donaghey and received a warm welcome. Dowden had made a quick passage, mostly under sail with the stout winds of some distant storm. He was a little surprised to be openly congratulated for his find-he still hadn’t told his crew what he’d seen-and only his wireless operator and exec knew what the flurry of transmissions, prodded mostly by Ben Mallory, were about.

“Doesn’t matter, Jim,” Matt told him. “Adar has already sent a small force to secure the area. He wouldn’t let Mallory go; he’s still training pilots for the Nancys and he’s fit to bust! But if we’re successful, he’ll have plenty of time to go play with his new toys.”

“You’re not going to give him a squadron, or wing, or whatever?” Jim asked.

“Hell, no! He’s taught some guys and ’Cats to fly, but he’s the only man we’ve got who’s ever actually had real pilot training. He majored in aeronautical engineering at West Point, too. Even flew with Colonel Doolittle a few times. How do you think he got the Nancys up so fast?”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah. He doesn’t brag on it. I didn’t know it either until he started pitching for the Nancys in the first place. In hindsight, we never should’ve let him risk his neck so much in that old PBY Catalina.”

“But then we’d all be dead.”

Matt nodded philosophically. “True. As a matter of fact, if we still had the damn thing, I’d tell him to take it up and scout Singapore for us.”

“What do we know?”

“Not much. C’mon, let’s adjourn to the wardroom. Juan’ll fix you something cool to drink while the rest of the captains and commanders arrive.”

Dennis Silva was hunting, as usual, during his free time. Besides being a pleasant diversion for him, it was an increasingly important chore. With so many foreign troops, artisans, and laborers in Baalkpan, the city needed more fresh meat than ever before, and the depleted fishing fleet was stretched to the limit. The ubiquitous polta fruit supplied a wide variety of nutrients the ’Cats, and apparently humans, needed, and other fruits and some vegetables were used as well, but both species needed plenty of animal protein. That left Silva with all the justification he needed to “go a-huntin’ ” regularly.

He did sometimes find himself craving some of the strangest things, though-stuff he’d always hated. Like beets. The killing grounds around Baalkpan had been planted with many different varieties of tuber and there was a root that tasted a little like beets that he sort of liked. It was odd. He’d always shunned vegetables as superfluous, useless things that took up space on his plate where more meat could have been. Now, some days, he figured he’d kill for a tomato-or a mess of black-eyed peas. Regardless, hunting was necessary. It got him out of the “house,” away from the women, and let him kill things on a regular basis.

Pam and Risa were swell, but they had a tendency to coddle him. That could get old, despite the benefits. Technically, he was still sort of convalescing, but he felt as good as he figured he ever would. He was up to full speed working in the factory for Campeti or fooling around with Bernie’s projects, but when he had any spare time at all, he headed for the jungle with the Hunter.

The Hunter was a scrawny, almost ancient Lemurian with a silver-streaked pelt and several missing teeth. He was barely taller than Rebecca, but like most ’Cats, he was incredibly strong. His weapon of choice was a massive crossbow that probably weighed as much as he did, and he carried it with a nonchalant ease Silva could only envy. He had guts too. Silva remembered when “Moe” (he called the Hunter Moe, since if the old ’Cat ever had a real name, he didn’t remember it) had used himself to bait the super lizard that got Tony Scott so Silva could avenge his friend. They’d finally managed to kill the thing, but it was a close call and one of the reasons Dennis had built his massive Super Lizard Gun. So far, he hadn’t found any super lizards to test it on. It killed the absolute, literal hell out of the big, dangerous rhino-pigs he and Moe pursued for their succulent meat, but rhino-pigs weren’t much of a challenge for the thing. He’d taken to waiting for the creatures to bunch up so he could see how many the gun would kill with a single shot. So far, the record was four.

Enjoyable as any day in the woods was, Dennis and Moe rather doubted they’d get much chance to test the big gun’s potential on this trip. In addition to the usual bearers they brought to deal with their kills, Courtney Bradford, Lawrence, and Abel Cook had tagged along. Lawrence’s fieldcraft wasn’t bad. His species were natural predators, and the little guy had an almost childlike desire to please. He also really liked Silva, even though the big man had shot him once. The fact that his adored Rebecca liked him and considered Silva a demented big brother was probably sufficient explanation. Lawrence wasn’t the problem. Courtney Bradford and his young protege, Abel Cook, still had a lot to learn.

The bearers hung back, letting Dennis and Moe do all the hunting, but Bradford and Cook stayed right up with them. It irked Silva a little, but he figured Abel needed to do more “man stuff” and Bradford was, well, Bradford. He didn’t come along often. He was a busy, much-sought-after man. He could be a pain in the ass in the field, making too much noise or chasing after a lizard, but Dennis enjoyed it when he was around. Courtney was a hoot, and too much seriousness was hard on Dennis Silva. He missed the conversation Courtney provided, no matter how bizarre.

“What’s that?” Silva whispered as a small, striped reptile that looked like a fat ribbon snake with legs scampered across their path. They were hunting the pipeline cut where they’d killed the super lizard, and the earth was thick and mushy beneath their feet. Moe murmured something unpronounceable and shrugged. Probably not something fit to eat then, Silva decided. Certainly not worth the abuse of a shot. He wondered what Courtney Bradford would have done if he’d seen it. Chase after it on all fours, most likely. At the moment, Courtney was absorbed by retelling the legendary Super Lizard Safari to Abel.

Moe held up a hand and they all froze. He’d sensed something. Motioning them down to the moldy turf, he beckoned them to follow on their bellies. Slowly scooching along almost soundlessly in the damp, rotting material, they moved ahead. Courtney’s tale had ceased. Maybe he was starting to get it after all. Moe eased a little farther ahead of them, stopped again, then turned to look back, grinning.

“Rhino-pigs, many,” he hissed. “Come up. We have wind so they not smell, but they hear good. Be quiet!”

Even slower, Silva crept forward. Lawrence practically flowed beside him, silent as death. Bradford and Abel brought up the rear. They began to hear the heavy thud of hooves and an incessant, contented grunting. Silva reached Moe’s position and peered over a little mound that might once have been a tree.

“Quite a swarm,” he acknowledged. “They’re just rootin’ along. Don’t seem too worried. I guess you were right. It takes a while for another super lizard to move in on an old one’s territory.”

“Too far?” Moe asked.

Dennis calculated the range. It was only about a hundred yards to the pack of animals, but he wanted to get as many as he could with a single shot. That was part of the game as well as his stated “field test” rationale.

“Nah. It oughta do. If anything, we might be too close. Speed don’t always mean penetration, an’ it ain’t like I can reduce my charge.” Carefully, he eased the big gun forward.

Rhino-pigs looked much like their cousins back home. Sort of like giant razorbacks with bigger tusks and an odd-looking horn on the top of their heads. At first glance, Dennis hadn’t really thought the horn would be good for much, but once he’d seen one take off like a hot torpedo, he’d realized that the forward-hooking horn would be bad news for a taller predator’s exposed underbelly. The tusks would slash a man as wickedly as their Alabama brethren. Of course, at six hundred to a thousand pounds, they could just stomp you into paste, too.

“How exciting!” murmured Bradford, joining them at last. “Which one will you take?” Abel said nothing, but he was clearly fascinated.

Dennis eased the gun farther forward until the butt plate rested against his shoulder. He really wasn’t looking forward to firing the thing from a prone position. He reached forward and adjusted the rear sight’s elevation. As powerful as the weapon was, it had a markedly high trajectory and he’d sighted it in for fifty-yard intervals. When raised, the rear sight stood about four inches high, and the range markers were considerably farther apart the higher they went.

“I’ll take ’em as they come,” he announced. He was trying a new bullet today. It was essentially the same lead slug he’d used before, but it was capped and cored with a pointed bronze “penetrator.” The penetrator made the bullet a little longer, to keep the same weight, and he wasn’t entirely sure it would be as stable in flight. He settled in on the stock and peered through the sights. A mighty boar was shoveling great snoutfuls of turf aside as it searched for insects and roots. The clacking, gnashing sounds of tusks were constant.

“You go for big bull… boar…” Moe said. “I tell when most are best.”

“Sure.”

“Why not shoot now?” Abel asked. “There are half a dozen behind him.”

“Gotta line up their vitals, not just their bodies,” Silva answered absently. He checked his priming powder and thumbed the hammer to full cock. Settling back in, he caressed the trigger, waiting for the word.

The wait seemed interminable. A couple of times, Moe tensed, and it seemed like he was about to give the signal, but then he relaxed slightly. Through it all, Silva was as still as stone except for the tiny adjustments he made to his aim, following the vitals of the big boar. Sweat dripped unnoticed down his face and soaked the black patch covering his left eye.

“Now,” said Moe, without any warning at all. Almost before the word was fully uttered, Silva squeezed the trigger. The flint leaped forward, scraping a shower of yellow-hot sparks from the frizzen and kicking it open to expose the priming powder. A jet of flame and white smoke erupted in front of Silva’s face, and with a horrendous cracking roar, the main charge vomited the quarter pound missile from the barrel-and heaved Silva’s shoulder a foot backward. There was a nightmarish shrieking squeal that reverberated in the cut, and through the smoke they saw the big boar perform an almost vertical leaping lunge. He collapsed in the turf, back feet kicking spastically. There was pandemonium among the rest of the herd. Two other dark shapes lay where they’d fallen; another was performing writhing cartwheels. The rest were thundering in all directions like small locomotives gone amok. One large beast came directly at them, and Moe let fly with his massive crossbow, driving a shaft through the charging creature’s snout and probably straight into its brain. It collapsed in a heap perhaps a dozen yards short of their position. That fast, all the surviving rhino-pigs were gone, vanishing into the dense growth on either side of the cut.

Silva was standing, already pouring another charge of powder down the massive gun. “Whoo-ee!” he said excitedly. “Good stick, Moe! I figgered I was gonna hafta poke that last one off us with my rifle muzzle!” He shook his head and slapped the holstered 1911 Colt at his side. “Never would’ve even got my pistol out!”

Lawrence scampered forward with nothing but a short spear. With a peculiar cry, he plunged it into the one still-thrashing pig.

Dennis nodded toward him, smiling. “Junior’s growin’ up,” he said, almost wistfully. “Come on, fellas. Let’s see how many we got besides ol’ Moe’s there!”

Having heard the shot, the bearers were already approaching. They knew whenever Silva fired his big gun, there’d be work to do.

Abel stared at Moe’s rhino-pig as they passed it. “Will they clean the beasts here?” he asked.

“Sure. No sense waggin’ their guts back. Makes ’em lighter.”

“I’d like to watch.” He looked at Silva. “Not that I’m finished watching you, sir! You are every bit as fascinating as any entrails, I’m sure!”

Silva blinked. “Yeah, well, thanks.” With his rifle fully loaded and at the ready, Silva marched forward to view the carnage he’d created. “Four for sure.” He beamed. “Big sumbitches line up, little sumbitches bunch up!” He held out the Doom Whomper. “What a gun!”

“Two ’lood trails!” Lawrence announced. His voice was a little shaky, but he seemed excited. He was spattered with the blood of the pig he’d finished. Dennis sobered.

“Rats. We’ll hafta go after ’em, and they’re dangerous enough when they ain’t hurt and sore at you. Mr. Bradford, why don’t you and young Abel here stay and study these boogers while the bearers cut ’em up. Me and Moe”-he glanced at the “lizard”-“and Larry’ll track these other ones.”

They quickly found the first rhino-pig. It hadn’t gone far and had probably bled out within moments of being hit. Silva wasn’t sure which one it was in the lineup, but the entry and exit wounds were quite large and about the same size, so he figured it was toward the back. Moe trilled a call to the bearers and, returning to the cut, the three trackers commenced following the final blood trail. This one put them a little on edge, and they’d saved it for last for a reason. Moe said the color of the blood indicated a liver hit. A fatal wound certainly, but not necessarily immediately fatal. The more time they gave the beast to die in peace, the less likely it would be to kill one of them when they found it.

They advanced carefully. Rhino-pigs were notorious for playing dead when wounded. Sometimes, their last act was to charge a tracker, taking revenge with its final breath. Moe always said never to approach a “dead” rhino-pig lying on his belly. One that was really dead couldn’t lie like that; it would always lie on its side. If it was on its belly, it was poised to strike.

They crept along a considerable distance, the blood trail clear and dark, the ground disturbance unmistakable. This was some of the densest jungle Dennis had been in yet. The path they’d once followed while tracking the super lizard was on the east side of the cut and had been fairly easy going, in retrospect. It had been made by an animal dozens of times as big as a rhino-pig. This path wasn’t much larger than the animal that left it, and sometimes all of them were forced to their hands and knees. It was like following a shark down a tunnel, Dennis thought uncomfortably. At some point you knew you were bound to run into the bastard, and by then, he was probably turned around and waiting. Raucous cries permeated the jungle and harsh coughs and snorts stopped their progress occasionally. Dennis knew about super lizards and rhino-pigs and many other creatures by now, but only Moe had a real idea what other dangerous predators they were likely to meet. Lawrence proceeded, alert to every movement, his short spear held before him like a sword. Little lizard’s really a pretty good guy to have with you, times like this, Dennis decided. He knew he was in over his depth. He’d never been this far from the cut before.

With considerable relief, they noticed the jungle begin to thin as they approached one of the many clearings probably created by lightning fires. This one was recent, and blackened stumps protruded through the lush, fresh undergrowth. The foliage was really a type of long-leafed grass, Dennis realized, and it was damp and clingy to walk through, even though it was barely calf-high. Lots of herbivores probably frequented places like this, he thought. They heard a squeal. Then another. Lawrence’s fur bristled and his eyes became intense as he sniffed the air.

“Just ahead!” Moe told them.

“Not just rhino-’ig,” hissed Lawrence with a note of caution.

“What else?” asked Dennis.

“Not sure. Strange, ’ut’ a’iliar.” He shook his head in frustration. “Like thing I should know.”

As quietly as possible, they picked up the pace. There was a little rise, probably formed by burned and rotten deadfall, and they crept up to the peak.

Below them, little more than sixty yards away, three rust-colored Grik, or lizards… or something stood around a dead rhino-pig. Their clawed hands held spears that were no more than sharpened sticks, but the points were black with blood. They seemed to be resting from their exertions, or complimenting one another on their prowess, and for the moment, at least, their guard was down.

With a Lemurian curse, Moe brought his crossbow up.

“What the… Hey, wait a goddamn minute!” Silva said, pushing the crossbow down. “What the hell? There might be dozens of the bastards!”

“No, just those,” Moe said, trying to wrench his weapon free. “They steal our meat! They just big skuggiks!”

“You mean they live here?” Silva whispered savagely. “You never said there was jungle Griks on Borno!”

“Like Griks, but not!” Moe insisted. “I tell. Others tell! There not many on Borno, but we kill them when we see them! Let them live on little islands! Not here!”

Suddenly, Silva did remember. He remembered Nakja-Mur mentioning that the Grik on Borneo were primitive and didn’t know tools, and they’d been hunted to near extinction. Only on islands like Bali-small or far away-were they left alone. They had been told, but he, at least, had forgotten.

“ I like Grik, ’ut not,” Lawrence hissed.

The ground beneath them seemed to shake and the foliage near the trio of lizards exploded into the clearing. Within the confetti of leaves and brush charged a young super lizard! The “Grik,” or whatever they were, scattered in three directions. Apparently more interested in live prey than the dead pig, the monster fixed its gaze on one rusty shape and bolted after it with the amazing speed Silva knew the things were capable of.

“Shit!” growled Silva, and rose to a knee. He cocked his big gun and pulled it to his shoulder, raising the stock to his cheek. For an instant, he honestly didn’t know what he was doing, but he didn’t really need to. Threat assessment had always been one of his strong suits, whether the question was whom to throw the first punch at in a bar, or which target to engage. There was that little incident when he’d shot Lawrence, but it was a perfectly understandable mistake and the little guy didn’t hold a grudge… His sights found the pocket behind the super lizard’s right arm. He eased a little right to lead the target and squeezed the trigger.

The recoil nearly tossed him on his back. It did put him on his butt. It was the first time he’d ever fired the Doom Whomper from a kneeling position. Quickly, he reversed the rifle and blew down the barrel, sending a jet of smoke out the vent. Even as he reached for another charge, he was looking to see the results of his shot. At first, there seemed to be no effect. The rusty lizard running for its life dropped to the ground, cowering from the shockingly loud report, most likely. On the other hand, it may have been a final instinctive act of self-preservation. The super lizard was almost upon it. Suddenly, the huge monster just stopped running, as if remembering it had forgotten something in the woods. It swayed a little, caught itself, looked at its prey, and even glared around the clearing. With no further ado, the bulb went out and the beast plummeted to the ground with a rumbling crash.

“Hot damn!” Silva crowed, pouring the charge and seating the bullet atop it. “He may not be a trophy as such critters go, but one shot’s one shot!”

“Have care,” Moe cautioned. The red-brown lizards were gathering near the one who’d almost bought it, helping it to its feet. Dennis didn’t miss the significance of that. All the while, the trio of lizards was staring at them inscrutably. “Those vermin is easy to kill at a… far. Up close, they dangerous.”

“You leave them lizards be,” Silva said.

“Why? We no kill them, them stay here. I telled you, them… they steal! They dangerous scavengers. Dangerous to hunters. They stay, more come. Be dangerous to city.”

“Did ol’ Nakja-Mur know you was killin’ ’em whenever you saw ’em?” Silva asked.

“Of course. We always kill them when get so close to Baalkpan. Borno is big; them no need be here.”

“Does Adar know you’re killin’ ’em? Does he even know about ’em?” Silva asked. “Bradford woulda had puppies just to gawk at ’em if he’d’a known there was anything so much like Griks right here on Borneo.”

Moe didn’t answer at first. Even he seemed to realize Dennis was right. “I no see them,” he said at last. “I no see ‘ungle Griks,’ you call them, for five, six seasons. They gone. Good gone, say me.” He looked at Lawrence, comprehension dawning. “But they not Griks. Like Griks, but not.”

“Larry here looks enough like a Grik that I shot him once,” Silva said. “Here you are huntin’ with him. Then you rear up and start to kill some lizards that look more like him than they do Griks. I guess I’m sorta confused. Did it ever occur to you to try to talk to one of them buggers?” he asked, pointing at the trio still standing, staring back at them. “Did it ever occur to anybody? Lord knows I’m not much of a talker myself and I sure ain’t one to judge. Killin’ a problem’s a quicker, more permanent way to solve one than talkin’ to it any day, you ask me, but knowin’ Larry has made me a little more selective about the lizard problems I kill on sight.”

The rusty lizards seemed to decide it was time to go. They gathered their spears but made no move to retrieve the rhino-pig when they went near it. They did look at their multispecies benefactors quite often, however. One of them, maybe the one Silva had saved, pointed at the super lizard with its spear and then pointed it at Silva, adding a resonant cry like a choking goat. Dennis nearly jumped out of his skin when Lawrence replied with something that sounded similar. All three lizards stopped then, looking back, black crests rising on their heads. Another moment passed and then they melted into the trees.

“Goddamn, Larry!” Silva exclaimed. “Don’t do that! Most of the time, you talk better than me. That lizard lingo gives me the creeps!”

There was movement in the jungle behind them, but it was only the bearers coming to the sound of Silva’s gun. Bradford and Abel were with them. All knew Moe would have finished the rhino-pig with his massive crossbow, so Silva must have found them a more substantial load.

“What did you shoot?” puffed Courtney, leading the others and hastening to join them.

“Teenage super lizard,” Silva said offhandedly.

“Splendid, splendid! I do hope you didn’t damage the skull this time! I so want an undamaged skull! I wish I’d been here to see it!”

“Honest to God, I wish you’d been here too,” Silva said. He went on to describe their encounter.

“Amazing, remarkable!” Courtney looked at Moe. “Does Adar know of these creatures?” he asked, echoing Silva’s unanswered question.

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Moe conceded. “Adar is of sea folk. Sea folk know lizards on Bali and other places… maybe not here.”

“I must speak to him about an expedition to make contact!” Bradford declared.

“That may be a little tough,” Silva said. “Ol’ Moe here says he and other hunters been killin’ ’em on sight for years. Kinda like Injuns.” He brightened. “Injun jungle lizards!”

“Oh, dear!” Courtney exclaimed. He turned to Lawrence. “But you spoke to them! What did they say?”

Lawrence flared his new, longer tail plumage and tried to shrug. “I don’t know. They could have said, ‘Thanks ’or killing the ’ig lizard.’ ”

“Well… what did you say to them?”

“ ‘Good day.’ ”

“So, what do we know, sir?” asked Chack. He was sitting as close as-probably closer than-was “decent” to Safir Maraan. His reunion with the Orphan Queen had been brief, but almost electric with suppressed passion when Safir arrived on the flagship for the conference.

Matt glanced at Jim and sighed. “Damn little. A week ago, we put a squad of Marines ashore here.” He indicated the east-southeast coast of the island on a hand-drawn copy of a Navy chart tacked to the bulkhead. “They’ve moved to about here.” He pointed to the vicinity where the map oddly showed the old British fortress garrison buildings. Whoever had drawn it had made an almost exact copy of Walker ’s old chart. “Of course, none of this stuff is there.” He paused. “In fact, the shoreline’s not even exactly the same, and some of these little islands are bigger single islands now. Maybe more proof of Courtney’s ice-age theory. Anyway, we’ll have to watch the depth going in.” He looked around the cramped compartment. “The Marines have set up one of Mr. Riggs’s little generators and have been in intermittent contact. Intermittent because they have to move a lot. Evidently, supplies are running pretty low and the Grik are doing a lot of hunting. That doesn’t mean they’re not expecting us, but it does mean they’re spread out a little. Maybe a lot.”

“ Are they expecting us?” Jim asked.

“They have to be expecting something. Most of the ships we’ve captured or destroyed were headed out, probably for Ceylon. Those ships were packed, friends. That’s why most had to be destroyed. A few supply ships have tried to make it in, but to my knowledge, none has gotten past us. That alone is enough to alarm a savvy Grik Hij that we’ve cut his sea-lanes. Our spotters say there’s a large concentration of enemy troops here.” He pointed again at the chart, near where the British repair facilities would have been. “Apparently, it’s a burgeoning port facility here as well.” He shrugged. “You know, I used to wonder why Lemurians-and this was originally a Lemurian colony of Batavia, I understand-always seemed to pick the same spots for cities that humans did.” He scratched his chin. “The old Scrolls might have had something to do with that, but mainly I figure if a place is a good spot for a city or a port, it’s a good spot for a city or a port, no matter what species you are!” There were a few chuckles. “Anyway, the spotters also say there are a lot of ships anchored off those facilities, more than they can account for.”

“What do you mean?” Jenks asked, speaking for the first time.

“Well, first you have to understand the sheer number of Grik we killed when they came against Baalkpan.” He shook his head. “Lots of ships got away, but they were mainly the ones that offloaded their troops on the south coast. I bet they came home nearly empty. They didn’t leave them in Aryaal, so they must have brought them here. Second, like I said, the ships we’ve destroyed were packed, maybe with twice their usual number. That convinces me our scouts have been right all along. They’re pulling out of Singapore too.”

“Well, that’s excellent news, certainly,” Jenks proclaimed. “All you need do is wait for them to leave and then take the place over.”

“It’s not that simple. First, and I really don’t expect you to understand this yet, but the Grik don’t act that way. They attack. Period. If they’re pulling out, somebody up the chain has started thinking strategically, and that bugs me. If that’s the case, it lends even more importance to our objectives, or eventually, we’ll be right back where we started.”

“And what are those objectives?”

“Foremost is to kill Grik, of course. The more we kill now, the fewer we’ll have to face later. Second, I want as many of those ships as we can get. They may be foul and full of the… remains of their sick practices, but they’re relatively well made. We need them and I’m afraid they mean to destroy them. Why else send so many troops out on so few ships? Some may have been damaged fighting us, but if they made it here, chances are they’re fit for salvage. Third, again according to our spotters, the Grik spent a lot of time and effort on the port facilities. They may not have a dry dock, or otherwise be up to Baalkpan’s standards, but they’re better than anything in Aryaal. I want those facilities intact.” He looked around the compartment, meeting every gaze. “Finally, the spotters have seen a little compound where a few Japs are being held. We have to save them.”

There were a few mutters of protest and others looked uncomfortable. A few tails swished indignantly. Matt held up his hands. “I know what you’re thinking: what for?” He sighed. “Two reasons, really. No, three. First, chances are, if they were helping the Grik of their own free will they wouldn’t be in a compound. Second, we might be able to get some information out of them. They’ve been to Ceylon and they know what the defenses are like. They’ve had a far different experience than Commander Okada, and they might even be willing to actively help us. Finally, and most important… we just have to, is all. If the spotters had seen a compound full of ’Cats, we’d have to save them, wouldn’t we?”

“Of course,” Safir replied. “But these Jaaps are the enemy too, are they not?”

“Maybe not. Just because some Aryaalans once followed an evil king, are they evil too? Maybe some are, and I’m sure Lord Rolak has his eyes out for any such, but not all. And personally, I’d rather kill each and every one of them with my bare hands than leave them to the fate they might face at the hands of the Grik.”

Finally, there were nods in the room, and a few comments of support.

“Very well,” Matt continued, “with that, I’ll let Generals Alden, Rolak, and Safir Maraan enlighten us with their brilliant plan to accomplish all these objectives.” He winced at Pete. “Sorry about the last addition, but I only just heard.”

“It’s okay, Skipper. I think we can add it in.”

“Do you think, General Alden, you might add in some supporting role for Achilles?” Jenks asked.

Matt had actually been expecting the offer. He and Jenks might never become friends, but they’d developed considerable mutual respect and even admiration during the commodore’s frequent visits aboard Donaghey. Matt also knew that the very savagery of their enemy had gnawed at Jenks since he first set foot on the Aryaal dock. He’d slowly come to the same conviction his princess had: sooner or later, the Empire he served most certainly had a stake in this fight.

Pete glanced at Matt and saw him nod. “Why, of course, Commodore. Always happy for another gun platform, especially one as maneuverable as yours.”

“My Marines are at your disposal too,” Jenks added, “as a reserve if you need it, or possibly as a flanking support of some kind?”

“That’s very generous,” Alden said, recognizing that the offer was smart as well. Throwing Jenks’s untried Marines into a pivotal part of the plan at the last minute might wreck the whole operation, and Pete would never have done it. The Imperial clearly recognized the latter, at least. This way his troops could participate on some level and he avoided the insult of a refusal. Jenks was pretty sharp, Pete decided. “We could use a little more flank security, with all those Grik hunters running around,” he said. He advanced to the chart tacked to the bulkhead. “Now, here’s the deal. The operation”-he grinned-“is called Singapore Swing. At oh one hundred hours tomorrow morning, the fleet elements will be in position off these beaches, here, here, and here…”