Firestorm

CHAPTER 12

USS Walker December 30, 1943

T he sky was almost black in the west, and the clouds above were dark, high, and huge. In the east, the horizon around the rising sun was clear and golden. Long, choppy swells rolled in from the northwest, hitting the old destroyer on the port bow. The downdraft of the storm’s leading edge sent cold, shattered spray against the windows of the pilothouse and the port side of the chart house. Walker was pitching and rolling in a corkscrew motion guaranteed to achieve vomit from all but her most seasoned crew. The cold, damp wind added to the misery. Few Lemurians other than “far rangers” or those from the Great South Island had ever experienced temperatures much below the seventies at night, and now, with the wind and humidity, along with a weak but genuine cold front, it felt like the fifties. ’Cats all over the ship were wearing Lemurian-made copies of “peacoats” that few had ever expected to need, and even the humans, so accustomed to the constant heat, were wearing peacoats and jackets off-loaded before the Battle of Baalkpan. The old wool smelled musty, and even Matt’s leather jacket had him sneezing occasionally at the mildew.

Courtney was happy as a clam, standing on the starboard bridgewing with Jenks, bouncing up and down to keep his binoculars steady as he cheerfully described a flight of perhaps a dozen giant lizard birds, or “dragons” stooping and whirling on something far to the east. Jenks was fascinated too, but mainly because the beasts had never been seen this far north, and so far out at sea. Obviously, they were dogging something in or on the water; perhaps some wandering school of fish?

“They must be out of Guadalupe Island,” Harvey Jenks speculated. “Dragons are somewhat migratory and often cooperate with one another, as you see,” he said.

“Maybe,” said Matt. Guadalupe was their “waypoint.” They meant to turn north after sighting it on the chance the suspected Dom fleet would use it for the same purpose as it worked north along the coast. Jenks said the island might provide a decent anchorage, depending on the wind, and if the Doms were waiting anywhere for things to “automatically happen,” it was as good a place as any. Putting a dogleg in their trip with their fuel so limited had been a difficult decision, but they needed to know what they were facing. They had six days until the cryptic date of January 5, plenty of time to reach their destination, with a few days to spare, but it was imperative they have something concrete to present to the authorities at the colonial port of Saint Francis-better remembered by the human destroyermen as San Francisco.

That’s going to be a… weird landfall, Matt reflected. Jenks’s description of the place didn’t sound very familiar, and that made sense with the lower sea level. They certainly wouldn’t pass under the Golden Gate Bridge. Still, it would be their first contact with what should have been their continental home, their own country. It would probably be even more painful than their arrival in the “New Britain Isles.” Besides, it was cold. Sure, it was winter here, but the weather was more like Seattle. Jenks said the “North Coast” was under ice for much of the year, and pack ice could be a problem as far south as where Matt showed him Astoria to be on their own charts. A genuine ice sheet wasn’t possible because of the tumultuous sea, but it wasn’t right at all.

“I wish we could throw Reynolds and his plane over the side to fly over there and have a look; see if that’s Guadalupe and if there’re any Dom ships there,” Matt said, looking at the sea. “Tangerous. The trouble is, if we get too close and the enemy is there, they might see us before we see them, with their higher masts and lookouts.”

“Not necessarily, Skipper,” said the Bosun, who’d been watching the darkness in the west. He gestured toward it. “We’ll have that as a backdrop, liable to blend right in. And we have better lookouts than they do.”

“Hmm.” Matt strode aft, starboard of the chart house, and stared up at the funnels. “Minnie,” he said, addressing the diminutive talker, “get Tabby on the horn and tell her number three is making too much smoke.” He looked around the pilothouse. “Might as well have a look.”

Very shortly afterward, the lookout sighted land to the east, what looked like a peak rising from the sea. The threatening storm had dissipated somewhat, becoming more benign as one front surrendered to another, but the entire sky was gray. Walker approached the landfall at fifteen knots, and soon the peak of what had to be Mount Augusta, maybe five thousand feet high, sprawled out on the horizon into a rugged island about fifteen miles long, north to south. Careful scrutiny revealed no Dominion ships along its western coast, and Jenks suggested they pass to the north and see what might lie in what he called the “northeast anchorage.”

The dragons Courtney watched earlier had disappeared, but similar shapes fluttered around the highest volcanic peak. Another peak brooded to the south, not quite as high, but shrouded by steamy clouds. It was probably active, Matt surmised. By early afternoon, they’d passed the sharp, northeast point and had an unobstructed view of the anchorage beyond. Almost at the same instant the lookout reported-his view as obscured by the point as theirs until now-those on the bridge caught their first sight of a forest of masts.

“My God, there they are!” Matt muttered. So much for sneaking in for a look. The first Dom ship, clearly distinguished by the red flag with the gold cross whipping at her stern, was only five thousand yards away. Beyond it lay more ships than they’d seen gathered since the Battle of Baalkpan; maybe a hundred. Most, particularly those anchored closest to the scant shoreline at the base of the high cliffs, were probably transports. Through his Bausch amp; Lomb’s, thousands of white dots-tents-were scattered in orderly clumps across the exposed slopes of the mountain. Apparently, they’d been here a while. The vessels encompassing the inner transports had to be warships, however, and all those would have guns. “Sound general quarters! Stand by for surface action, starboard!” he said loudly. The laryngitic duck of the general alarm squalled, and there was a short bustle in the pilothouse as men and ’Cats exchanged their hats for helmets.

“What will we do?” Courtney asked.

“You’re going to assume your battle station in the wardroom,” Matt said. “Without Selass here, all we have is a pharmacist’s mate. You’re our surgeon now, remember?”

“W-why, yes,” Bradford stammered unenthusiastically, “and I shall do my duty… but what are we going to do?”

“We’re going to stay out of range and hit ’em as hard as we can. They’re at anchor, and we’ll never have a better opportunity. See all those tents ashore? Those represent who knows how many troops. We sink their transports, and the invasion of the colonies is off.”

“Attack… without warning?” Courtney gasped.

“Damn straight,” the Bosun growled. “What do you think they’re here to do? re h

“Still…”

“Go below, Courtney,” Matt said with an edge. Bradford vanished in a huff, but when he was gone, Jenks leaned toward Matt and whispered, “Actually, though I hate to say it, he has a point.”

Matt goggled at him. “What?”

“We’re at war with the Dominion, no question, but those people over there, aboard those ships, don’t know it yet.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gray demanded, equally shocked. “You want to run up a white flag, steam over there and tell ’em we’re at war? They’ll thrash us! Our only advantage is speed and range. We’ve got ’em served up on a platter, and you want to give that up? Did you forget how they started this war? They murdered women and children! Civilians!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Jenks said bitterly, “but are we to start a war with them the same way?”

“It’s already started!” Matt almost shouted in frustration.

Jenks pointed at the ships, still serene at anchor in the island’s lee. Surely they’d seen them by now, but as yet, there was no visible reaction. “Not for them!”

Matt removed his hat and raked his hair back. “Talker,” he snapped. “What does the lookout see?”

“Ahh, confusion aboard enemy ships,” Minnie reported, and Matt slapped his leg with his hat.

“Mr. Kutas, come right thirty degrees. Slow to one-third. Stand by for flank. Pack Rat? Hoist the battle flag, if you please.”

“Right thirty, aye,” Kutas replied, and repeated the order to the helmsman. Staas-Fin (Finny) confirmed he’d rung the engine room and was ready to signal the increase. “Tabasco” scrambled up the ladder aft with Matt’s pistol and sword belt. He snatched the battered hat from his captain and handed over a helmet. Matt put it on but gestured for his steward to keep the belt for now.

“Cap-i-taan,” said Minnie, “all stations manned an’ ready. Mr. Spaanky has auxiliary conn an’ asks what the hell we doing.”

“Tell him that, to suit the sensibilities of our allies, we’re going to give the enemy a chance to shoot first. Tell Campeti not to return fire immediately but to wait for the command!”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Minnie replied nervously.

“This is nuts,” Gray said, glaring at Jenks.

“Cap-i-taan,” Minnie cried, “lookout say rockets-flares-burst over enemy ships!”

Matt looked through the window to starboard as Walker steered to run parallel to the anchorage. He saw the dwindling sparkles in the sky. “I guess they’re passing the word,” he said, with a glance of his own at Jenks. Most of the Dominion ships were stern-on to the old destroyer as she steamed south, angling to cross down the line of anchored vessels, at a range of roughly fifteen hundred yards; close enough to entice a shot, but not close enough to make it easy. A few were starting to get their act together, cutting their cables and beginning to move backward, blossoming headsails pulling them around. Finally, one ship, its broadside clear, vanished behind a rolling cloud of smoke.

“All ahead flank!” Matt yelled. “Left full rudder!”

The helmsman spun the wheel and with a deep, vibrating groan, Walkerrrrrrrrr’s screws clawed at the sea. A wide cluster of waterspouts erupted in her wake, and one shot struck the ship with a hollow boom.

“Damage report!” Matt demanded. “Rudder amidships.”

Minnie shook her head. “Mr. Spaanky say a big ball whacked the stern at starboard propeller guard. It falling when it hit, an’ splash in sea. Maybe just a dent.”

“My rudder amidships,” announced the ’Cat at the wheel.

“Very well. Hold your course. Damage control to the steering engine room!”

Another ship fired an erratic broadside, but Walker was picking up speed. At this range, few balls would skate off the wavetops, and all the geysers erupted aft. They waited a few minutes. Evidently, the enemy believed they’d chased the strange ship away, because there was no more firing. Nearing four thousand yards again, they had no chance of hitting, anyway.

“Helm, come to course one, six, zero!” Matt said. He looked at Finny. “Slow to two-thirds before we suck the bunkers dry. Minnie, tell Campeti we’re about to settle down and when we do, I want him to punish those bastards!” Finally, he looked at Jenks. “Satisfied, Commodore?” He waited for a nod, then resumed. “Harvey, I consider you a friend, amazingly enough. Particularly considering the foot we started on. But there’s only so much you can ask of this ship and her crew, especially with what’s at stake-here and elsewhere. We all need Walker, and she needs her crew. I’ll risk them both; I have many times, but what we just did was plain stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any rules in this damn war. You can say fighting like the enemy makes us like them, but that’s not true. We didn’t start it, and we can’t hold ourselves to an artificial standard they don’t even recognize.” He straightened and took a breath. “So I went ahead and proved it to you again. But here’s the deal: friends or not, that was the last time. Expecting more stunts like that one, to prove a point, to show we’re better than they are, is pushing too far. We are better than they are, and I don’t feel like proving it again!”

“Caam-pee-tee has a solution, Skipper,” Minnie said.

“Very well. Commence firing.”

The salvo buzzer rang, and the foredeck lit up under the overcast sky as the number one gun bucked and spit flame and white smoke. They had no tracers for the new ammunition yet, but the rhino-pig lard they lubed the projectiles with to keep the fouling soft left a spiraling smoke trail. It didn’t matter. Matt had no doubt that the shells from numbers one, three, and four would converge either short or long of the target. The EMs had replaced all the ships old, corroded, electrical fire control systems and connections, and they’d finally compensated for the different velocity of the 4.7-inch dual-purpose Japanese gun that had replaced number four. They also had sharp eyes to watch for the fall of shot. A moment later came the cry from the fire control platform above to adjust “Down fifty! Match pointers! Fire!” This time the three exploding shells, two with black powder bursting charges and one with high explosive, demolished the first target, a Dom heavy of some sort, the first one that fired at them. Campeti immediately shifted to the next. In moments, perhaps a dozen enemy ships were burning or destroyed, and still the pounding continued. Walker ceased firing at the southern end of the anchorage and reversed course, to continue flailing at the enemy. The dark cliffs of the distant island glowed with the flames of burning ships.

“Damn,” breathed Kutas with satisfaction. “It’s almost like ‘Makas-sar Strait’ all over again,” he said, referencing their only real success in their “old” war against the Japanese.

Some of the enemy was making sail at last, trying to escape the growing inferno, but none could succeed as long as Walker had ammunition. Matt knew he couldn’t destroy them all-they simply didn’t have enough shells-but they could break the force destined for Saint Francis and leave it too weak to accomplish its mission. As soon as enough of the warships were dealt with, he meant to move in closer and shatter as many transports as he could. For a while, he watched the slaughter with his jaw grimly set, oblivious to all but the destruction he wrought.

“Captain Reddy!” He finally heard his name over the booming guns and diminishing swoosh of shells. It was Jenks.

“What?”

“Your ‘talker’!”

Matt spun. “What is it?”

“Cap-i-taan,” Minnie repeated, “the lookout says those giant lizard birds are back. Dozens of ’em, an’ they flying this way!”

Matt, Jenks, and the Bosun ran out on the starboard bridgewing and focused their binoculars. High above, and ignoring the enemy ships, came a ragged formation of the oversize creatures.

“My God,” Jenks muttered. “I’ve never seen so many together!”

“Will they attack?” Matt asked.

“It appears that’s their intent. Look, some have large stones in their claws!”

“Why ain’t they dumpin’ ’em on those Doms?” Gray demanded.

“I’ve no idea.” Jenks paused nervously. “Captain Reddy, those dragons really shouldn’t tolerate the Doms on ‘their’ island while they inhabit it!”

“Then what the hell?”

“I can’t answer. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Matt tore his eyes from the binoculars. “Air action starboard!” he roared. “All hands not on gun’s crews will take small arms and prepare to repel boarders, but try to stay undercover!”

It was incredible. There were forty or fifty of the things winging toward them. In most respects they looked like their smaller cousins the destroyermen had grown accustomed to, pacing the ship and shitting on the decks whenever they ventured near land. These “lizard birds” were bigger than Grik, however, and had a lot in common with the Ancient Enemy except for their wings and the bright colors of their furry plumage. The closer they came, the more terrifying they appeared.

Behind him, Matt heard the muffled thumping of feet on metal rungs as ’Cats raced up the ladder to the fire control platform, draped with belts of. 30-cal for the machine guns mounted there. Others brought extra ammo to the. 50s on the amidships deckhouse; beyond that, the Japanese pom-poms where the aft torpedo tubes used to be were made ready as well. Sailors scrambled to the rails with Springfields and muskets, passed out by Lanier, Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites, and Stumpy. The “dragon birds” were getting closer.

“Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Mr. Spaanky requests permission for the number four gun to engage the flying lizards!” Matt was surprised. He hadn’t known they had time-fused shells for the dual-purpose gun. He’d never considered asking since the idea of shooting at airborne tarll arms hadn’t occurred to him before. If they had the shells, it was time to use them. “Absolutely,” he said. Almost immediately, the aft gun boomed and an instant later, a black puff appeared in front of the advancing flock. The creatures nearest the detonation veered past it and kept coming. The rounds pumped out, in rapid fire, throwing a blanket of steel in their path. One puff shredded a monster’s wing and killed another outright with slashing fragments. The dead one folded and dropped, and the wounded one spiraled downward, shrieking. There were short-lived cheers, but the creatures were close enough for the machine guns now.

All the while, numbers one and two continued firing at the enemy ships, but seeing the oncoming creatures, Matt couldn’t leave the gun’s crews out in the open.

“Cease firing and secure main battery, all but number four!” he ordered. “Helm, come to course zero, two, zero, all ahead full! Secondary battery and small arms will commence firing at targets of opportunity!” He gestured at Tabasco to hand him his belt.

“No, no, you idiot!” yelled Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites around a wad of yellowish Lemurian tobacco. “You gotta lead ’em! Shoot where they’re gonna be, not where they are! You’re just wastin’ bullets!”

“How I know where they gonna be?” yelled the ’Cat striker behind the ’fifty, beside the “pom-pom pit.” “I not see future!”

The “dragon birds” were splitting up, trying to encircle the ship, it seemed. But Walker ’s speed must have come as a big surprise, and they appeared to be having trouble adjusting their approach as the old destroyer sped up. All the machine guns were stuttering now; the wind-muffled, crackling prattle of the. 30s on the fire control platform, the throatier, deafening bursts of the. 50s amidships. Reynolds directed his “Special Air Detail” on the pom-poms protecting his plane, and the numbing bam-bam-bam ming of the things was starting to really hurt. Stites was directing the fifties just aft of the pom-poms, under the overhang of the aft deckhouse where the 4.7-inch dual-purpose was banging away, and the position was… detrimental to normal conversation.

Most of the “secondary battery” was giving a good account of itself. Tracers rose and converged on their targets, staggering the beasts in midair. The things were fast, but they weren’t Japanese planes. Some plummeted into the sea with roaring, surprised, wails of terror, where they floundered until something like flashies began tearing at them. Maybe they were flashies. The wails became… worse… then; like horses burning alive. Others flew on, little fazed by holes in their furry, membranous wings.

“Get away from that thing!” Stites roared at the ’Cat gunner when a higher-flying creature suddenly darted over the ship and released a large rock amid a flurry of Springfield and musket fire. The rock struck between the “Nancy” and the searchlight tower, barely missing the aft engine room skylights. It shattered on impact, leaving a dent in the deck and spraying sharp shards of stone. Stites realized that many of the creatures carried rocks, and others carried… something else… in each eagle-clawed foot. He finished shoving the ’Cat from the gun that had once been in one of the waist blisters of the old PBY and grabbed the handles himself. “Everything in naval gunnery’s about shooting where something’s going to be, Genius,” he ranted. “If you haven’t figured that out yet, you might as well strike for snipe-or go to work for Lanier!” he added as the ultimate insult. He wrenched the. 50 around and crouched bend the sights just as he felt the deck shiver with multiple impacts. The damn things are bombing us! With rocks!

The 4.7-inch went silent, and a fusillade of small arms erupted from that position. Stites swung the gun aft and up and saw a trio of dragon birds coming in astern. These he could shoot directly at because they were making a beeline for him. He depressed the trigger. A stream of tracers from his gun and the one to port swept across the things, spattering gobbets of flesh and bone. Two dropped in the wake, but one bore in, crippled. It slammed into the aft deckhouse where the old three-incher would have been, and he felt another tremor. Immediately, ’Cats fired down on it from above, and his spine tingled as he prayed they had enough sense to watch for the depth charges in the racks. A quiver started at his neck and ended at his tailbone, but he shook his head when the stern wasn’t blown off.

“Look out!” someone cried when a dragon bird actually lit on the searchlight tower and attacked the rail with its teeth.

“Shoot it, but for God’s sake, don’t hit the light!” Stites yelled. Lanier himself waddled from under the amidships deckhouse and hosed the thing with a Thompson. It squealed and tried to lunge at him, but it fell to the deck instead, flailing with wings, teeth, tail, and claws. “Son of a bitch!” It was the closest look Stites had had at the things and he suspected it must be light for its size, but it probably still weighed three or four hundred pounds. Its body and wings were a bright, fuzzy, bluish gray on top, and white-gray underneath. The head was almost orange, with streaks of purple-blue and yellow radiating from liquid yellow eyes. Oddly, the head colors were reflected in the tail plumage to a remarkable degree.

“Goddamn, creepy-ass…” He looked up. The dragon birds were having more trouble keeping up now, maybe tiring, and some began to fall astern as the ship accelerated past twenty-five knots, smoke gushing from her funnels. Faster ones still dropped things, however, but these objects made metallic sounds when they hit. There were screams from forward, and he saw a couple of ’Cats tumble off the amidships deckhouse. With a sick feeling, he realized one went into the water alongside. Another dragon bird swooped low and snatched one of the fallen ’Cats, a female, who shrieked horribly when the thing leaped back into the air, clutching her in its claws. She must have been too heavy for it, because it immediately lost altitude, though no one would shoot at it-until it dropped its screaming victim in the sea and frantically beat its wings. Probably everyone on the starboard side of the ship shot at it then, and it crashed into the water.

Stites snatched a ’Cat by the scruff of the neck. “Can you hit anything besides the goddamn ocean with this thing?” he demanded. The ’Cat nodded, and Stites flung him at the gun, snatching up his “personal” BAR. “Keep at ’em,” he yelled, “but watch where you’re shooting! They’re starting to get on the ship!”

Maybe they were tired, or maybe that was just what they did, but more and more of the surviving attackers lit on Walker and attacked her crew on her own deck. Many converged on the bridge as if sensing that was the “head” of their victim. Stites glanced back at Reynolds. The aviator looked terrified, but he was holding his own, a 1911 Colt smoking in his hand.

“You got this, sir?” Stites asked. Reynolds jerked a nod. “Watch out for Spanky!” Stites yelled, pointing up at the auxiliary conn, forward of the dual-purpose gun. A pair of monsters had landed there, and Spanky was shooting his own pistol now. Stites aimed and fired a burst at the head of one of the things. It fell on the starboard propeller guard and vanished in the roiling wake. Spanky, or someone, apparently killed the other, but more were trying to land. “Watch him!” Stites yelled again, “and watch yourself! I’m going forward!”

“This just about beats all!” Kutas cried when a “dragon bird” threw something that ricocheted off the number one gun’s splinter shield, then flared out for a landing on the fo’c’sle. The Bosun had run down there with his Thompson to protect two ’Cats who hadn’t made it to cover and were trying to conceal themselves around the gun. The. 30s up above were still chattering loudly, but either they had problems of their own or were afraid to shoot so near their shipmates. Gray ran at the thing, roaring like a demon to distract it from the helpless ’Cats. It whirled on him and snarled, and he fired a burst that sent it tumbling into the sea.

Matt ran to the aft rail and looked up and aft. They’d made a dent-a big one-in the terrifying creatures, and many had finally peeled off and headed back toward the island. But now the stubborn ones, maybe twenty or more, seemed intent on attacking the bridge. He leaned over the signal flag locker to see down on the weather deck below. One creature lay dead beside the base of the number one funnel. Carl “Boats” Bashear was carrying a ’Cat toward the companionway to the wardroom, and he almost slammed into Bradford who was apparently coming up to see what was going on. The Australian froze, despite Bashear’s harsh bellow, and just stood there, staring around, enchanted.

“Get below!” Matt yelled. Instead, Bradford seemed to notice the dead creature for the first time and started in its direction. A dull shadow fell across him. “Damn it, Courtney,” Matt roared, “get below!”

Bradford looked up, and that was all he needed to break his trance. Instantly, he whirled and chased Bashear down the companionway. The signal halyard ropes slapped Matt across the face and chest and sent him reeling back into the pilothouse, stumbling, and finally falling on his back. A dragon bird, still trailing the parted lines, landed in the cramped space where he’d been. Minnie squeaked and started to duck behind the chart house bulkhead, but she reversed course in an instant to try to drag her seemingly stunned captain to safety. She was half his size and just couldn’t do it. Jenks shouted and ran past her, sword in hand. Slashing at the monster’s face, he didn’t see the wicked claw at the bend of its wing slash in from the left, across his shoulder, sending him sprawling as well. The thing hopped forward, squalling, trying to shake off the halyard lines. Matt, now kicking with his heels to help Minnie, fumbled for his pistol. The Colt came out, and flipping off the thumb safety, he emptied the magazine at the creature. It screamed and flailed more violently, but now Matt had time to stand. Inserting another magazine, he took more careful aim and shot the dragon bird dead with a pair of shots.

Another flared just above him, going for the fire control platform. He shot at it too, but what probably brought it down, almost on top of the other one, was a staccato of Thompson and BAR fire that sprayed blood all over Matt and the side of the chart house, and sent a cloud of downy fuzz drifting quickly aft. There were more shots from both guns, but Matt couldn’t see the targets. He grabbed Jenks, and with Minnie’s help, dragged the Imperial underneath the overhead.

“I’m fine,” Jenks protested, “I’m quite all right!”

“You’ve got a pretty good cut there, Commodore,” Matt said, peeling back the bloody coat and weskit beneath. Jenks had been slashed f but Matt shoulder, across his chest, and upward across his chin. The firing finally began to slack outside, and Stites and the Bosun crawled gingerly over the dead beasts clogging the space at the top of the ladder, pointing their muzzles at them as they crossed.

“You okay, Skipper?” Stites demanded anxiously.

“Swell. Commodore Jenks is wounded.”

Gray pulled a field dressing from a small pouch on his belt and tore it open. Ripping an envelope with his teeth, he leaned down and sprinkled the contents on Jenks’s wound.

“What’s that?” Jenks demanded.

“Sulfonamide,” grunted the Bosun. “We’ll get you fixed up with some polta paste pretty quick, but who knows what kinda germs is smeared all over them devils. Better get started on ’em.” Gray fluffed out a wad of gauze and handed it to the man. “Here, you’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig. Hold this on, there on your chest-that looks the worst-and keep pressure on it.”

“Help me up,” Jenks insisted. Together, they assisted him to his feet. “That was… extraordinary!”

“You said it,” confirmed Stites in a loud voice. He shook his head and moved his jaw, trying to pop his ears. “Flyin’ Grik! What about that?”

“Dragons,” Jenks corrected, wincing, “but perhaps ‘flying Grik’ describes this group better,” he acknowledged. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Never.”

“Lookout,” Matt said, “what’s he see, Minnie? What are those damn dragon things doing, and what of the enemy fleet?”

“There no answer from crow nest, Cap-i-taan,” reported the diminutive talker. “Spanky say Grik birds go ’way, fly back to island. He no shoot number four at them no more, you say so. Run low on time fuse shells.”

“Of course. Tell him to cease firing and secure. Can he see the enemy?”

Minnie hesitated, listening. “They make sail,” she said. “Warships get between us and transports, transports make smoke-maybe steamers-we too far now to see what tents do, but he think enemy going on transports.”

Matt nodded. The enemy was moving. But where would they go? They’d done some serious damage, but not enough.

“Spanky say there even more flying Grik now,” Minnie continued. “He send ’Cat up aft mast wit bin-oculaars. More flying Grik over enemy fleet, but not attacking them.”

“Amazing!” Jenks said. “It must be true, then.”

“What?”

“Think on it! Somehow the Doms have the dragons in their power! They command the beasts! I would’ve never believed it.”

“What do you mean, ‘in their power’?” Gray grumbled.

“Why, they’ve trained them somehow, of course! Perhaps from birth. That must be it.”

“Makes sense, Skipper,” Stites said. “Raise ’em from a chick-or whatever…”

“Yes!” Jenks agreed. “And feed them, tend their wants, train them to consider you their masters… Amazing!”

“Yeah, but scary as hell,” Matt said. “We were in the middle of maybe winning the war, and got chased off by giant flying lizards!”

“We can go back, Skipper,” Kutas said gamely.

“Noo… As Spanky said, there’re even more back there. We’re going to have to play something new. We can’t fight the Doms and those things,” he said, gesturing at the corpses behind them. “The gun’s crews would be sitting ducks.” He looked at Jenks. “What kind of range do they have?”

“The dragons?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s an interesting question. They’re rarely seen more than thirty or forty miles offshore.”

“Guadalupe’s a hell of a lot farther than that from Baja,” Gray said.

“Indeed,” Jenks agreed. “Perhaps a hundred and fifty miles. No doubt it was a one-way trip, straight out.”

“Which means there almost had to be ‘handlers,’ or some kind of support for them practically due east.”

“Which means they’ve been preparing for this a very long time,” noted Jenks darkly. “I begin to fear there may be more than we bargained for, even on New Ireland. I so wish we could pass a message back to the Governor-Emperor!”

Ed Palmer had appeared on the bridge, staring wide-eyed at the dead, winged… things. He shook his head. “I still have nothing from Admiral McClain… sirs… or any of our ships either. We took a dogleg course, but they were supposed to come straight on to Saint Francis. Maybe they got caught up in the storm northeast of us, or it’s interfering, but I’m thinking they should’ve been in range for us to hear something by now. Our transmitter’s a lot more powerful, and I keep sending our position and intentions…” He held out his hands. “Maybe they’re hearing us, but I haven’t heard a peep back.”

“We’ll hear something in a few days,” Matt said with conviction, “even if only from ‘our’ ships. Simms, Tindal, Mertz, and the oilers are on their way, even if McClain dawdled. They had their orders.”

Jenks looked at Matt. “I’d like to apologize, Captain Reddy,” he said.

Matt blinked. “What for? McClain’s probably on his way, as he promised. Even if he is goofing around, it’s not your fault. Besides, you probably saved my life when you went at that… dragon bird with a sword -and got cut up for it.”

“That’s not what I meant. I must apologize for… influencing you and your crew to take an unreasonable risk. You were right. They did know we are at war. They can only have trained dragons for the attack we withstood today, and they’d only have gathered at Guadalupe Island to prepare an assault on the colonies. I shouldn’t have made you feel… compelled to follow outdated rules.”

Matt shook his head. “Doing the right thing should never be outdated, but in this war, the ‘right thing’ gets… blurry. Don’t worry about it. It took us a while to get used to it too. Maybe it was easier because we were fighting a ‘mean’ war before we ever wound up here.” He frowned. “We would’ve gotten a few more of their ships if we’d shot first, but not many more, and not enough to make a real difference. Only sinking the transports might have done that, and they were too well screened. The dragon birds made the difference in the end.”

“What’ll we do, Skipper?” the Bosun asked. “We gonna shadow the Doms, keep an eye on what they do, or make for Saint Francis?”

“rancis. We know it’s got to be their objective, even if we don’t know their plan. Better to warn the colonies and help them prepare for as many contingencies as we can think of. Besides, we burned a lot of fuel today. Shadowing them will cost more-especially if they throw those… things at us again. For all we know, they’ve got them as tame as puppies, feeding them and letting them roost on their ships!” He stared hard at the dead creatures on the bridge, their blood beginning to congeal in long, lumpy puddles on the strakes. “We’ll have to do something about them.”

“What?”

Matt sighed. “Right now, I have no idea. However they did it, the enemy has air cover and we don’t, basically.” He looked at Minnie. “Secure from general quarters, but maintain condition three… as always. Helm, make your course three, five, five, if you please. Two-thirds. Boats, get with Bashear and form a detail to clear my ship of these flying vermin. I want casualty and damage reports as soon as possible.” He looked around. “Does anybody know if the ‘Nancy’ made it through in one piece?”

Lieutenant Fred Reynolds sat on the deck, leaning on the light gauge “tub” encircling the gun position while its crew cleaned and secured it. His pistol was still in his hand, but the slide was locked back on an empty magazine. His eyes rested on the shattered head of one of the giant lizard birds that lay in the gap at the back of the tub and he shuddered. Suddenly, the exec, Spanky McFarlane, appeared, looking down at him.

“There you are, Reynolds!” he said. “I was starting to think one of those boogers carried you off!” He looked down at the creature at his feet. “Got this one, did you? Well done!”

Reynolds stood, a little shakily.

“Here, gimme that,” Spanky said, motioning for the pistol. Fred handed it over, and Spanky released the empty magazine and stuffed it in a pouch on Reynolds’s belt. Taking another, he inserted it, dropped the slide, and flipped the thumb safety up. He handed the pistol back. “Keep that handy,” he said. “Damn things might come back.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Spanky looked around. The day was still cool, but his face glistened with sweat. “A hell of a thing. Listen, round up your crew chief-Jeek, right?-and go over the plane. It looks like it’s mostly in one piece. Skipper wants it ready to fly as soon as possible.” He noticed Reynolds’s suddenly pale expression. “ Ready to fly. You ain’t going up with the sea like this. Send any of your fellas that ain’t hurt to Bashear-you got any hurt?”

“Ah, I’ll find out immediately, sir.”

“Okay. Make sure they go to the wardroom, even if it’s just a scratch. No tellin’ what they’ll catch from these nasty bastards.” He kicked the dead beast. “Any others you don’t need right away, send ’em to Bashear so we can clear all this buzzard bait off the ship.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. McFarlane,” Reynolds said to Spanky’s back as the man moved on. He took a breath. “Okay, you heard him. Wounded to the wardroom.” The crew from the portside gun had joined them, and he called out a couple of names. “You’re with me,” he said. “We’ll satisfy the ‘condition three’ requirement. The rest, find Bashear. He’ll tell you what to do.” He saw Kari Faask gingerly making her way through the corpses on deck, past the departing ’Cats.

“You okayshe asked.

“Swell.”

A little hesitantly, she hugged him with one arm. The healing wound in her side was still stiff and painful. “You not look swell.”

“I’m fine. You?”

“I was in comm shack, safe enough. Mr. Paalmer kept us all there. No weapons.” She shook her head, and her eyes blinked loathing. “Them things sure look like flying Grik!”

“Yeah.”

“We fly with them things?” Her tail twitched nervously.

“Maybe. We need to look the plane over.”

“I hope it’s busted.”

Fred snorted and looked at her. “Me too.”

It wasn’t, at least not too badly. They discovered that, in addition to rocks, some of the “dragon birds” had been carrying and throwing cannonballs! This was further proof they were in league, in some way at least, with the Doms. A big volcanic rock had exploded on impact with the deck and sent some easily patched shards into the fuselage of the “Nancy,” and a cannonball had punched a hole in the starboard wing, just forward of the aileron. Jeek said the hole would take a couple days to fix because it had damaged a stringer and the glue to fix it would take that long to dry-longer if it rained. Kari was clearly disappointed the plane wasn’t wrecked beyond repair.

The rest of the ship hadn’t suffered too badly. The heavy roundshot had dented the deck like giant hailstones but caused little damage otherwise. A ’Cat had been killed by one, and another had landed on Earl Lanier’s foot, smashing two of his toes. He was hobbling around now, tormenting a single crutch far beyond its capacity and bellowing for somebody to get the “damn, stinking things” cleared away from around the galley “if anybody ever wants to eat again.” Fred saw Tabby come on deck, look around, and seeing Spanky, rush to him and leap at him, enfolding him in a crushing embrace. Awful lot of hugging on this ship today, he mused, feeling a little uncomfortable. He wasn’t the traditionalist some were-like Spanky. Fred was young enough that tradition hadn’t yet seeped into his bones. But even he knew hugging just wasn’t right on a destroyer. Spanky obviously agreed, because he glanced around self-consciously while he peeled Tabby off. Everyone knew he considered her like a daughter, but proprieties must be maintained. Spanky didn’t scold the scarred Lemurian engineering officer, though; he just stood there, listening to her report on the leakage in the steering engine room, which Fred overheard was under control.

It wasn’t all rosy. Six ’Cats were killed in the aerial attack, and three were “missing,” including the lookout who’d been in the crow’s nest. Doubtless, the “missing” were dead too. Nobody even saw what happened to the lookout. A few men and ’Cats had been wounded, but unless they’d been poisoned or got infected with something the polta paste couldn’t handle, they’d be fine. The light nature of the injuries was confirmed when Fred saw Courtney Bradford on deck, apparently content to let his pharmacist’s mate deal with the “scratches” while he defended a relatively undamaged specimen of the new enemy from Bashear’s detail. Eventually, Captain Reddy himself came in response to Courtney’s shrill cries of outrage and interceded on his behalf, saying, “Cut it up; learn what you can. I particularly want to know what it eats, and your opinion of its intelligence. But get it over the side before dark. Their guts can’t be much different from Grik, and you’ve played with those pl, ap of times.”

Courtney set to work, and Fred and Kari moved aft.

“We fly with those things, what we do?” Kari asked.

Fred shrugged. “We’re faster, I think. We need to have a weapon, though-besides a pistol. Let’s find Campeti or Stites and see what they have to say.”

The storm in the west either dissipated or moved away, because the threatening clouds gave way to glittering stars when the sun finally sank into the sea. Walker churned north through increasingly quartering swells that maintained her sickening, corkscrewing motion, but she was no longer taking such heavy seas over the bow. The mood in the pilothouse was glum. Everyone knew they’d been on the verge of a momentous victory; one that might’ve even finished “this” war, at least for the time being, and allowed them to go “home” and get on with what many considered their “bigger business.” To be deprived of that victory and chased away by animals-and very Grik-like animals at that-left some a little confused, thoughtful, and reevaluating their priorities. Most of Walker ’s crew had fought in the Naval Battle of Scapa Flow, and it had been a bitter contest. Only a few had been ashore to see just how much like the Grik the troops of the Dominion behaved. Now a majority was beginning to realize that, regardless how different in some ways, this was the same war they’d already been fighting: a war against monsters bent on the destruction of people. That’s what it came down to, in the end.

“What’ve you got, Courtney?” Matt asked when Bradford stumped up the stairs from aft. His clothes were bloody, but his hands were clean. Jenks was behind him, walking carefully. His wounds had been treated and he’d be fine, but the curative paste of the Lemurians had a slightly intoxicating effect.

“You were right,” Bradford said. “Very Grik-like in most respects. The same, if even lighter hollow bones. A similar, though more colorful, downy covering. The wing structure is the greatest difference, but even the bones that support it look like radically elongated arm and finger bones! Of course, the musculature of the torso is different and more robust. I’m vaguely reminded of a pigeon.” He shook his head. “The proliferation and adaptation of the basic form is quite astonishing! First we had the various ‘races’ of Grik. Then Mr. Chapelle’s and Mr. Mallory’s expedition to recover Santa Catalina and her cargo revealed an amphibious species… Now we have one that flies!”

“You once said it yourself, Courtney,” Matt reminded him. “On this world, Grik, or creatures like them, have risen to the top of the evolutionary heap.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Bradford agreed with a frown. “Not only are they the most dominant life-form we’ve come across, they’re even more physically adaptable to their various environments than we ever suspected.” He glanced apologetically at the ’Cats in the pilothouse. “ Physically adaptable,” he repeated. “Like us meager humans, our Lemurian friends have had to, and been able to rely on mental adaptability to survive. Hand to hand, no human or Lemurian is a match for any of the… hmm… perhaps semireptilian?” He scratched his balding head.

“Courtney.”

“Excuse me, indeed. As I’ve long maintained, we’re no match for them physically, but we appear to have an advantage when it comes to our capacity for imagination. The enemy in the west has developed a competitive technology only with the aid of humans, past and present. Here, these ‘lying Grik,’ these ‘dragons,’ are the tools of our human enemy. They’re a disconcerting weapon, but that’s all they are. Our enemy here remains the humans that control them.”

“Okay,” agreed Matt, “so how does that work?”

Courtney nodded at Jenks. “The dragons have a similar brain capacity to other Grik. Perhaps slightly less, but not significantly. Still, greater than we’ve ever seen them demonstrate-with the exception of our own dear Lawrence and the rest of his people, no doubt. This is likely due to cultural imperatives and… well, their very physical perfection. Their lethality as predators has perhaps subdued requirements for imaginative thought. In other words, they’re so good at what they do, they don’t need to think about ways to improve!”

“Well… what makes Lawrence different?”

“I can only presume, as an island race, his people have had to imagine more efficient methods of survival than chasing prey and eating it. Their resources were limited, and they had to imagine and learn skills such as boatbuilding, fishing, even agriculture. The same may even be true of the ‘jungle’ Grik Mr. Silva discovered. It’s possible Lawrence’s people might have ultimately evolved along lines similar to those in the swamps of Chill-Chaap and become famous swimmers, but I believe they’d already crossed the figurative ‘Rubicon.’ ”

“That’s amazing,” Matt said, truly impressed, “but that still leaves us with how do the Doms control their lizard birds?”

Courtney frowned, and his eyes suddenly reflected a horrible sight. “There’s some training involved, certainly, but upon opening the specimen, I discovered… human remains.” He stared hard at Matt, then at Jenks. “They feed them people.”

There were gasps in the pilothouse. Courtney Bradford tried at times, but he really didn’t know how to whisper. Invariably, his various dissertations were overheard and spread throughout the ship. It didn’t really matter. Matt wanted his crew as well-informed as possible. “Scuttlebutt” often distorted things and made them worse. In this case, uninformed speculation would’ve probably sugarcoated the truth.

“It’s known that the ‘un-Holy’ Dominion engages in blood sacrifice at the drop of a hat,” Courtney continued, “as part of their ‘native’-inspired perversion of the already rather… insistent.. . early-eighteenth-century version of the Catholic faith they brought to this world, but using people to feed those monsters…!”

“Makes perfect sense from their evil perspective,” Jenks spit, his words slightly slurred. “Feed them the infirm, the sick, the wounded. .. perhaps the laborers they brought with them. Regardless, only able bellies are filled, and the priests probably manufacture ‘divine’ justifications!” He looked at Matt. “Do you think they’ll be kinder to conquered peoples?”

“Relax, Harvey,” Matt said. “We’ll stop them somehow. We would have already, if not for their pets.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, we have to assume they know that too. We can’t count on their being idiots. What’ll they do now that we’ve learned about their ‘secret weapon,’ but they know about Walker?”