Into the Storm

CHAPTER 6

Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory and Lieutenant (j.g.) Perry Brister sat on chairs in Jim Ellis’s cramped quarters on USS Mahan waiting for him to wake. Ellis’s fever had finally broken the night before, and Pam Cross assured them he’d be fine-he just had to sleep it off. And so they waited, playing hand after hand of acey-deucey on the tiny table between them. Eventually, a groggy groan escaped the patient and he slowly came awake. His eyes seemed confused when he saw them, but he smacked his lips and croaked: “Thirsty.”

In seconds the nurse appeared with a cup of water. “Here,” she said in her brusque Brooklyn way. “Drink.” Jim drank. When he spoke again, his voice was more normal.

“How long?” he asked simply.

“Almost two weeks since the fever hit. How much do you remember?” Brister asked.

“Not much,” Jim admitted and tried to rise, but his expression contorted with pain and he settled back. “But I do remember that crazy bastard Kaufman shot me!”

It all came flooding back: the dinosaurs on Bali, the mysterious contact in the strait, the urgent signal for him to take Mahan east-which he did, but not for long. What was the point? There were dinosaurs on Bali! He didn’t know what was going on, but there’d been no Japanese ships or planes since they came through the Squall, and he had a hunch there wouldn’t be. He decided to turn around, to go back and rejoin Walker.

Kaufman argued with him, right there on the bridge. At first he remained reasonable, advocating that they continue to the rendezvous point off Alor. But when Jim gave the order to come about, Kaufman began to insist. He said Jim was risking all their lives and they’d die if they turned around. Jim ordered him off the bridge and that’s when he just… lost it. He had a pistol and he took it out. Immediately, Jim and a couple of others jumped him and in the ensuing struggle, the gun went off. It probably wasn’t even deliberate. Regardless, the bullet entered Jim’s left leg, just below the knee, and exited the other side of his calf, right above the ankle. The men would have thrown Kaufman over the side right then, but he had the gun and time to talk. He said turning back was suicide; they’d done everything they could. The ship was a wreck and the men were exhausted. They deserved to live. Then Mr. Monroe, the only other officer besides Brister-in engineering at the time-took his side. He said they should listen to Kaufman, who was a captain, after all, and it was nuts to go back after all they’d been through. The crew began to go for it. They were angry about Jim being shot, but it wasn’t like he was their captain or anything. He was just a strange officer who’d been put in charge. Kaufman only wanted to do what they’d been told to do, so that’s how it was. Before Brister or Mallory even knew what happened, Captain Kaufman had the ship.

What he did next was inexplicable. Instead of heading for Alor, which had been his original purpose, he didn’t make for Perth at all. He was convinced that there were carriers between them and Australia, so that left only Ceylon. They steamed east for the day, hugging the coast, and that night they shot the Lombok Strait. They’d still seen no sign of the enemy, but that made no difference to Kaufman. He’d become obsessed with reaching Ceylon and-Jim guessed-terrified of meeting Walker. He wasn’t about to go anywhere the other ship might be. Jim was in the wardroom the entire time, undergoing treatment. Not under arrest, but more or less in exile. He kept up with events as best he could, mostly through Mallory and Brister. Much of the rest of the crew seemed hesitant to look him in the eye. There were exceptions, like Bosun’s Mate Frankie Steele and Torpedoman Russ Chapelle, but not nearly enough to recapture the ship. Then, in spite of the best the surgeon and nurses could do, he lapsed into a fever. His last conscious recollection was they were nearing Tjilatjap, hoping to find some fuel. He cleared his throat.

“What happened at Tjilatjap?” His voice grew soft. “Was it even there?”

Brister and Mallory looked at each other, and finally Ben shook his head.

“No, sir. You don’t remember any of that? We told you about it after we came aboard.”

Jim just shook his head. “Pretend I wasn’t there,” he said, attempting to grin. “Start over. What did you find?”

“Nothing, sir. At least nothing that looked like Tjilatjap,” said Brister. Like others who’d been there before, he pronounced it “Chilachap.”

“What did you see?”

“Some strange, huge village-almost a city. I don’t really know how to describe it. It was pretty big. Multistory structures, built on some kind of bamboo pilings. It was deserted, and most had been burned to the ground.”

“Deserted?”

“Yes, sir. Well, sort of deserted. It wasn’t abandoned willingly; it looked like there’d been a fight. Bones, sir. Bones everywhere, and a few mostly scavenged bodies off in the jungle. They were furry and had tails and… they weren’t human.”

“Sir,” said Mallory stiffly, “there was nothing left alive out of a city of hundreds, easily, and it looked like whatever got them ate them. Not just scavengers either. Most of the bones were… piled up.”

Pam Cross had left and reentered with a thermometer during the conversation. Her face was hard.

“Did you see it too?” Ellis asked.

“I did,” she said simply and poked the device in his mouth.

Brister cleared his throat. “Well, sir, we got the hell out. Kaufman became even more unhinged. He insisted our only hope was Ceylon and had us pour it on. He wouldn’t listen to reason. By then, almost everyone wanted to look for Walker, in spite of the consequences, but he said the next man who suggested it would be left in the whaleboat to look on his own.” He wiped at the sweat beading his brow, and the nurse removed the thermometer from Jim’s lips. She made a noncommittal sound. “Anyway, a storm kicked up and we shipped a lot of water. It wasn’t much of a storm, but shot up like we are, we were lucky to survive. Things settled down by morning, but we had to pump out and make repairs, so we ducked into this little bay on Panaitan Island-”

“That’s how we found the plane!” interrupted Mallory, a grin splitting his face.

“Plane?”

“Yes, sir. A PBY Catalina! If you can look out that porthole beside you, you might be able to see her!” Ellis struggled to rise, but he was very weak. Mallory immediately regretted the suggestion, but with a heavy sigh and rolling eyes, Nurse Cross helped him up. His head swam and his vision was blurred, but through the porthole, sure as the world, a familiar, battered seaplane was half beached on the island.

“You weren’t kidding!” he exclaimed. “Where’d it come from?”

The two men shrugged. “Same place we did, I guess,” said Mallory. “We steamed into the bay and there it was on the beach, its crew nowhere in sight. The place is crawling with lizards like bit your man on Menjangan…” He didn’t need to speculate on the air crew’s likely fate. “There were bullet holes all in it and it was full of water, but otherwise it seemed in pretty good shape-just out of gas. The radio’s crapped out- we checked that right off. Salt water corroded all the connections was Signalman Palmer’s guess. He’s been working with us. Anyway, we figure the same thing happened to it that happened to us, and it made it as far as the Sunda Strait before it ran out of fuel.”

“Maybe it was one of the PBYs that broke up the air attack on our ships when Houston took that bomb hit,” speculated Jim. “Bravest thing I ever saw, three flying boats diving among fighters and bombers, trying to throw ’em off their aim.” He shook his head. “Crazy.”

“Could be,” said Brister, “but that was a while before whatever happened to us… happened. Anyway, the good news is Mahan has high-octane gas in drums, aft, just like Walker-ironically, in case they ever need to refuel a seaplane. We put some in her and ran up the engines; no problem there, at least. The three of us’ve been working on her while everyone else works on the ship. My place is really here, I guess, but I don’t think Kaufman trusts me.”

“How long have we been here, and how long have you been working on it? Will it fly?” Everyone saw the hope kindle in his eyes.

“A week or so, and”-he lowered his voice-“another couple days’ll have her in the air.”

The general alarm sounded and they all jumped. “Battle stations, battle stations! Make all preparations for getting under way!” They looked at each other, perplexed by the commands. Suddenly Frankie Steele skidded to a stop outside the compartment.

“There’re ships in the strait!”

“Ships?” demanded Jim.

“Aye, sir… Glad to see you better! But big sailing ships, like in the movies-only these are real-and they’re headed this way!”

Jim looked at Brister and Mallory. “Go!” he said. “Save that plane! Don’t let Kaufman leave it!” Without another word, the men charged out of the compartment. On the weather deck they met Ed Palmer, rushing down to meet them.

“Go!” said Brister. “Get what you can. Food, water, whatever you can think of, and meet us at the whaleboat!”

“What are you going to do?”

“Make a deal with the devil!” he snarled and mounted the steps to the bridge. Kaufman was staring at the distant ships through binoculars, and his hands were shaking. “Captain Kaufman! What about the plane? We can’t just leave it here! Hell, we can have it flying by the end of the day! What are we running from?” Kaufman looked at him, and his bloodshot eyes were wide and glassy. He hadn’t shaved or even combed his hair in days. There was nothing left of the cocky aviator Brister had first met when he came aboard off Menjangan. His face had the look of a hunted, panicked animal, and his condition had infected much of the crew.

“Here!” Kaufman said, handing him the binoculars. His voice was shrill. In the distance, three red-hulled sailing ships struggled to beat up toward them. He focused a little more, and a chill swept down his back. “Those aren’t people,” he said lamely. They were monsters.

“Now you see why we have to go?” Kaufman insisted with manic sarcasm. “Hoist that boat aboard!”

“Wait,” said Brister, licking his lips. “The current and wind are both against them. It’ll be hours before they reach us. Let us try to finish the plane.” He paused and tried a different tack. “If we do, we’ll fly to Ceylon. Get help! Maybe they’ll send an escort.” That got through.

“Will you stake your life you can take off before they get here?”

Brister nodded.

“Good, because we won’t wait. Mr. Monroe!” he said, raising his voice. “Take Mr. Brister and his assistants ashore, then return as quick as you can!”

”You won’t even leave us a boat?” Brister asked, incredulous.

“No. You can go ashore, destroy the plane, and come back with Mr. Monroe, or you can try to fly it out. The choice is yours.”

Perry shook his head. “Captain Kaufman, you are a coward, sir.”

Without another word, he turned and dashed down the ladder. On the way to shore, he told the others what had happened.

“The hell with him. I’d rather take my chances with the plane,” Mallory exclaimed. Palmer said nothing, but his face was grim.

“You didn’t see what I saw,” Brister said. “I think our visitors are the same ones that wiped out… whatever they were at Chilachap. It’s either fly or die.”

The coxswain with Monroe giggled.

They reached the shore and tossed their gear on the beach beside the plane. “At least give us a hand bailing!” shouted Perry as the whaleboat pulled away.

“Mahan’s already pullin’ the hook!” shouted Monroe. “I’m not going to be left behind.” He threw a mocking salute. “It’s your funeral!”

“Bastard!” Palmer was seething.

They turned to look at the plane. Brister hoped he could make good on his vow. He didn’t know what was coming, but that one look had scared the hell out of him. “Well, what are we waiting for?”

They dove into their task with frantic abandon. They were too busy even to notice when Mahan steamed away, but when they did pause for a quick look, it seemed that one of the strange ships was trying to follow her. It was no use, of course, and it quickly turned back toward the bay. They’d seen the Catalina, and either the tide was making or the wind shifted just enough, because they were getting closer.

“Bail, damn it!” Brister yelled, and buckets of water flew from the observation blisters. The tide was making, because suddenly they were floating, but they were still too heavy to fly. Mallory leaned on his bucket, gasping, and watched the closing ships.

“No way,” he said. “We have to get off this beach before they box us in.”

“She’s still too heavy!”

“Yeah, but not too heavy to move.” He scrambled up to the flight deck. “Palmer, throw off the mooring line!”

Ed hesitated. “But the fish might get me!”

“Those things’ll get us all if you don’t! You can reach it through the nose turret! Can you operate the gun?” A. 30-caliber machine gun was enclosed in a Plexiglas turret in the nose of the plane.

“Yeah…” he said, a little uncertainly, but he dodged his way forward. The plane was floating almost freely now. A few nerve-racking moments passed.

“Got it!” came Palmer’s muffled shout, and the nose immediately swung away from the beach.

“C’mon, babies!” Mallory said, and then whooped when both engines coughed to life. With throttles and rudder, he pointed the nose at the bay. The ships were much closer, and now he could see the creatures upon them with unaided eyes. “Oh, boy!” he shouted. “Here they come! I’m gonna try to motor around them, so keep bailing till I tell you, but be ready to get on a gun as quick as you can!” There was also a. 50-caliber machine gun in each observation blister, but that was the extent of the PBY’s armaments.

“Jeez, they’re scary-lookin’,” breathed Palmer, glancing forward.

“Yeah,” panted Brister. “Bail!” Mallory advanced the throttles, and the big plane began to move.

“They’re almost making a lane for us, like they want at us from both sides!” he shouted. “I’ll make for it. Be ready on those fifties, in case they try to close the gap!”

Closer and closer the roaring engines took them. Soon they edged between the two ships, and the details they beheld were nightmarish.

“Shit!” Palmer screamed when something “thunked” into the thick aluminum beside him. It was an arrow! As quick as that, the plane drummed with impacts. “Shit!” he repeated. “They’re shootin’ at us!”

“Let ’em have it!” Brister yelled, and they opened fire on both of the terrible ships. Clouds of splinters flew where the tracers pointed, and bodies fell from the rails. A keening shriek reached them even over the guns, the engines, and the clattering, heavy brass cases that fell around them. “Pour it in!” he shouted as the incoming barrage began to slack off. A big greasy ball of flame erupted right behind the starboard wing and actually singed his hair. “What the hell was that? Step on it, Ben!”

Mallory needed no encouragement. He’d watched the “bomb” all the way in. He pushed the throttles to their stops. Sluggishly, the waterlogged plane picked up speed. The roar of the engines and hammering guns made it too loud to think. Another explosion washed the sea, but it missed them safely aft. The faster target must have spoiled their aim. Then, as quickly as the battle had begun, they sped clear of the monsters’ ships and Brister shouted to hold their fire. The other ship was closing still, but at their current heading, it would never reach them in time to cut them off. Water from the massive wake they made splashed in through the blisters and hissed on the barrels of the superheated guns.

Brister turned to Palmer, eyes wide. “Wow!”

There was still a lot of water in the plane, but they plowed upwind as far as they could before they powered down. Mallory left the motors idling, props feathered, and helped them bail some more.

“Talk about your floating freak shows!” he gasped, throwing water past the gun. “Damn plane looks like a pincushion! Goddamn arrows!”

“Just be glad they weren’t muskets or cannons,” said Brister. “We wouldn’t have had a chance! Arrows and firebombs were bad enough!”

“I’ll say! What now?” Palmer asked.

“Keep bailing,” Ben replied. “A few hundred more pounds and we’ll get her in the air. Then we can dump what’s left.” He grinned. “Once we do that, start looking for holes!”

Less than an hour later, the battered seaplane clawed into the air and followed after Mahan. Mallory didn’t know if the monsters saw them or not, now they were stuck in the bay. If they did, he wondered what they thought. The plane quickly overtook Mahan and landed at her side. Brister seethed with rage at the man who’d left them to their fate, but to his surprise Kaufman met them himself in the whaleboat with smiles and waves.

“Keep hold of yourself,” Mallory said. “Remember, we’re going to fly to Ceylon and save the day. Stick to the plan!” Brister simmered down, but all he wanted to do was kill the Army captain with his bare hands.

“Let’s just shoot him with the thirty in the nose,” Palmer said through a clenched-teeth grin.

“Won’t work. Like Mr. Ellis said before he got sick, he’s got too many on his side. Even if we got him, there might be a bloodbath. Some of ’em are crazy as he is, and they have all the guns.”

“Okay,” said Mallory, adjusting the throttles so he wouldn’t smack the boat as it came alongside. “I’ll stay with the plane-I have to. Get all the fuel and anything else you can think of. Maps, more food, whatever. Maybe even more people, but don’t be too obvious. We know he won’t let Mr. Ellis come.”

“Right.” Together, Perry and Ed jumped in the whaleboat.

“You really did it!” Kaufman gushed. “Did you have much trouble?”

“No,” lied Brister cheerfully. “Piece of cake. Let’s hurry up and get the fuel on board. The quicker we’re back in the air, the quicker we’ll be in Ceylon!”

Kaufman refused to allow anyone to accompany them. Three was enough, he said, to risk on such a dangerous flight. Perry did manage to slip away to “get some gear,” and he went to see Jim Ellis before he left the ship. Jim was trying to climb the companionway stairs when he found him, supported by crutches and Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy. Beth Grizzel wasn’t there.

“You made it,” he said. “Thank God.”

“Yes, sir. Thank God. No thanks to that bastard Kaufman. He left us to die.”

“I know. Listen, you must find Walker! Kaufman’s nuts; half the crew’s nuts. It’s just a matter of time before he kills us all. You know as well as I do, Ceylon’s not there. There’s no telling what is. Find Walker, find Captain Reddy…” He gasped from the effort of his words and exertions.

“We will.”

“Tell him I’m sorry I failed him. I’m sorry I let the men down.”

“It’s not your fault, sir!”

“Isn’t it?” Jim sighed. “Maybe not, but it’s my responsibility.”

“He shot you!”

Jim laughed bitterly. “A good commander would have shot him first! Now get your ass out of here before Kaufman starts nosing around!”

Perry looked at the two nurses. He hated to leave them behind, but Kaufman wouldn’t part with them. The surgeon was acting funny, and the nurses were it. There were still a lot of wounded on the ship. Besides, their errand might be doomed from the start. They had only so much fuel and they had no idea where Walker was.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Perry Brister said, and shook Jim Ellis’s hand. Pam stepped quickly forward and planted a kiss lightly on his cheek.

“For luck!” she said, then punched his shoulder. Hard. “Tell Lieutenant Tucker we’re keeping the faith.” She glanced at Kathy and grimaced. “Two out of three anyway. Beth’s as crazy as Kaufman.” She shrugged and kissed him again, on the mouth this time. “Double luck! Now git out’a heah!” Blushing, Perry saluted Lieutenant Ellis and raced for the boat.

Later, when they thundered into the darkening sky and circled the lonely, misguided ship for the last time, Brister thought he caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Ellis leaning on his crutches by the rail, a small group gathered around him.

The two and a half weeks since Walker’s arrival had been a whirlwind of frantic activity. Despite acknowledging the danger they faced, Matt suspected the ’Cats weren’t quite prepared for the pace the destroyermen set. The trauma of getting their economy and society on a war footing was causing a stir, but Matt and his crew knew what had happened at Pearl Harbor and Clark Field. They’d seen what happened at Cavite. They’d learned a hard lesson in preparedness, and as long as their fortunes were tied to those of their new friends, they wouldn’t let them waste time they might later regret. Big Sal’s crew was equally motivated, and repairs to the big ship moved apace. The very day after the “party,” Walker was moved to the pier and as extensive an overhaul as possible began. The number three gun was repaired, and all the circuits coordinating the main battery were checked and spliced. Steaming on only the number four boiler to maintain electrical power, they checked the other boilers and repaired firebrick. There was nothing to be done for number one so it was stripped and prepared for disassembly and removal. Spanky wanted the space for more fuel bunkerage-once they got fuel.

The Baalkpan Lemurians were just as amazed as Big Sal’s that Walker was made of steel. Whenever the welders went to work, the pier lined with spectators watching the sparks and eye-burning torches with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a fireworks display. Iron wasn’t unknown to the People, but it was so hard to smelt that it was little used. Dave Elden had spent two years in a steel mill in Pittsburgh. He’d already talked to the proprietors of the foundry on the northeast of town, where he’d gone to have brass fittings cast. He reported they used the sand-cast method almost exclusively but were very good at it and there would be almost nothing they couldn’t cast with a larger furnace and a little guidance. He even figured he could get them started on iron if a source for ore could be found.

Half the snipes set out into the jungle with Courtney Bradford and about a hundred natives in search of oil. The procession had looked like a nineteenth-century safari. They hadn’t searched long before they found a likely place. Bradford’s charts and journals were helpful, and he had most of the Dutch surveys. As long as everything was the same geographically, there was every reason to believe that oil could be found in the same places it had been back “home.” He hadn’t yet shared his theory, but they’d all been very busy. Matt already suspected what the gist of it was and looked forward to the discussion, but for now there was too much to do.

Materials were rafted upriver to the site, where, under the direction of the Mice, the men were constructing something called a Fort Worth Spudder. Captain Reddy had heard of the device but never seen one. His interview with the strange firemen was… an experience. He’d seen them many times, of course, but he didn’t remember ever speaking with them. Their conversation about the rig was what he imagined it would be like to talk to an opossum with a parrot on its shoulder. But they convinced him they knew what to do and how to do it. He just hoped they could explain it to others in a coherent fashion.

At the same time, men worked hard converting the tubes of the number three torpedo mount into a condensation tower. A place was being prepared near the drill site for their little refinery. A fueling pier with water deep enough for Walker to clear the silty riverbed was already under construction. The torpedo tubes were just a temporary expedient. Eventually they would build larger towers with greater capacity. But for now the empty tubes would have to do.

Lemurians scampered all over the ship, helping as best they could. Often they got in the way, but shorthanded as the crew was, the benefit of their curious, good-natured assistance outweighed the aggravation. Chack became like a Lemurian bosun’s mate, and his coordination of the native labor was indispensable.

One morning, a large cart pulled by a “brontosarry” and driven by Alan Letts arrived, much to the delight of those aboard. The sight of the fair-skinned supply officer sitting on a seat under a colorful parasol- behind a dinosaur’s rump-even brought a smile to the Chief’s face. The crew’s amusement quickly waned when they discovered what the cart was so heavily laden with. Somewhere the suddenly surprisingly resourceful supply officer had discovered keg after keg of white paint. Gray was guardedly ecstatic. He insisted on testing it, since nobody knew what was in it, or whether it would stick to steel. He wasn’t about to let them smear a “bunch of whitewash” all over his topsides. When it proved satisfactory, he immediately began pestering Letts to find something they could mix it with to make a proper gray.

“Hell, Bosun,” Letts replied, “this bucket’s spent more of her life white than gray. It’s not like we’re hiding from airplanes anymore.”

“Yah, but there’s a war on, Mr. Letts. White’s for peacetime.”

The torpedo repairs were put aside. They still had the three that hadn’t fired during their escape from Surabaya, but the others would have to wait. Under the supervision of Chief Donaghey and Bernard Sandison- who’d become quite a machinist in his own right-the machine shop was constantly in use making parts for the ship. They had little scrap steel, though, and wherever it would serve, they used copper or brass-both of which were readily available from local sources. Shinya had been reassigned as Alden’s assistant-training the militia-but he still liked to help in the shop when he could.

It was in this maelstrom of apparent chaos, of flying sparks and paint chips, a fog of red rust dust, mazes of hoses and wires and a dozen different projects all over the ship, that they had their first visit by the High Chief of Baalkpan, Nakja-Mur.

Matt had seen him many times since their first meeting, and someone, usually Garrett or Dowden, went ashore to talk with him every day. But until now, the closest Nakja-Mur had come to Walker was to pace her length on the pier alongside, the morning after she tied up. He was fascinated by the ship, and Keje said he never tired of hearing about Walker’s role in the battle, but he’d never made an “official” visit and many were curious why. Now, with no warning whatsoever-a shocking impropriety among the People-the crowd of watchers and helpers on the dock parted and Nakja-Mur appeared at the gangway.

Keje and Adar, Naga, and a dozen guardsmen accompanied him. Despite the wonder that nearly forced a grin when he gained the deck, and the pleased curiosity he displayed when piped aboard by Gray’s hastily assembled side party, Nakja-Mur wasn’t happy.

“You are breaking me!” he growled when the captain met him with a salute. Matt blinked questioningly like Chack had taught him to do.

“Breaking you, my lord? I thought here, just as on the great sea Homes, the High Chief was the steward of the people’s surplus-to be spent for the safety and benefit of all.” Chack had quickly trotted up to join them and he translated the captain’s words. Keje and Adar’s subtle blinks of amusement indicated they no longer needed Chack’s help.

“Of course you’re breaking me! It’s my duty to be a good steward, as you say, but it’s also my duty to see the surplus wisely spent!” He looked about, speechless, and seized upon the sight of the paint kegs lining the pier. “There, do you see? Do you realize that’s half a season’s production of paint base? Do you have any idea what that costs?”

Matt shook his head. “You agreed that Walker should have anything Baalkpan could offer in the way of provisions and supplies if we would help you prepare for the Grik.”

“Yes, but… paint?!” Adar leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Yes, of course I know iron rusts, but…” He stopped, and looking around again, he shook his head. “I apologize. They said your ship was iron, but I only now truly realized it. But, come, what difference does a little rust make?”

“My Brother,” interrupted Keje, “once rust takes hold of iron it is not easily discouraged. That’s one reason it’s rarely used at sea. By us, at any rate.”

“Well, but what of the scores of workers toiling northeast of the city, pounding a hole into the earth! What’s the meaning of that?”

“Fuel, my lord. As we discussed. Walker must have… I believe you call it ‘gish,’ for fuel. Without it she can’t move. She can’t fight.”

“But gish is plentiful in the north, in the coastal marshes. It bubbles from the ground, it pools, it reeks! It’s of little use to any but seam sealers and makers of rope. New holes need not be made to take it up!”

“I’m afraid so. Walker needs more gish than can easily be imagined, and there must be a ready source close by.”

“The People use wind to good effect,” Nakja-Mur grumped.

“No doubt. So do the Grik. But Walker’s much faster than either- that’s one reason she fights so well. To do that she needs gish, and lots of it. I told you all this,” Matt said with some frustration.

“He doesn’t know, my friend. He hasn’t seen,” soothed Keje. “He looks out for his people.” He grinned. “And your ship is costing far more than the Grik yet have.”

“He can pay now, with treasure, or later with blood,” Matt snapped.

“He knows. He just doesn’t like it. Believe me, on the whole, he’s pleased. He’s had many complaints, however, not least about the training your Marine person started. These land folk don’t have strong bodies and are not used to the exertion required of warriors.”

“Sergeant Alden knows the best warrior skills of our people, at least as far as land tactics are concerned. Lieutenant Shinya knows swordsmanship, and his methods are quicker and more lethal than yours.” Gray suppressed a snort. He still thought Shinya belonged in the chain locker.

“True, but since Nakja-Mur decreed that all should learn rudimentary warrior skills, some ask why they must learn to fight when their treasure is paying you to do it for them.”

Matt shook his head. “That wasn’t the deal. I said we’d train them and help them fight. We won’t fight the Grik alone.”

“He knows.”

Nakja-Mur spoke and Chack translated once again. “Two flasher-fishers arrived this morning with news of three Grik ships, nosing about in the strait. They didn’t believe they were seen, but the Grik have never been so close. We’re not ready to fight and I fear we will never be. All these preparations you make-the paint!-do not seem to make us more ready to fight!”

“We’ll fight them first, if we must, until your people are ready. That was the plan from the start. But to fight, my ship must be ready!”

Off in the distance, they heard the low rumble of thunder.

“What will you do about the Grik in the strait?”

“If they enter the bay, we’ll destroy them. If they linger nearby until we have fuel, we’ll hunt them down and destroy them. You have my word. But you must talk sense to these complainers!”

Nakja-Mur looked steadily at him for a moment, then jerked his head downward in a Lemurian nod. The distant thunder continued to build, but it was drowned out by the number four boiler blowing tubes. They all looked aft and skyward as the soot settled on the deck and those working there.

“Goddamn snipes!” bellowed Gray, striding purposefully toward the aft fireroom hatch. “There’s wet paint up here!” Captain Reddy stifled a grin. The thunderous drone rose a little higher in his consciousness.

“Maybe the High Chief of Baalkpan would like to tour the ship?” he said, but tilted his head, listening. With a start, his eyes widened in recognition and he glanced at the crow’s nest. Empty, of course. Garrett was on the fire-control platform, however, and he’d heard it too. Their eyes met as realization dawned. The general alarm began to sound.

“General quarters! General quarters! This is no drill!” came Larry Dowden’s voice over the speaker. “Captain to the bridge!”

Matt darted from the midst of the Lemurian delegation, ran through the chaos of the weather deck, and clattered up the ladder to the bridge. With no one to tell them different, the Lemurians followed after him. Men and ’Cats scampered everywhere, some purposefully, others less so, and Nakja-Mur was nearly sent sprawling by an ordnance striker carrying ammunition belts as he rocketed up from the companionway.

“What’s happening?!” he angrily demanded.

“Something interesting, certainly,” Adar replied.

Matt was gasping by the time he reached the fire-control platform. He snatched the binoculars someone offered and began scanning the sky.

“There, sir. Aft, bearing one two oh! Coming right up the bay from the strait! It’s… it’s an aircraft!”

“Agreed!” Matt snapped. “But what’s it doing here and whose is it? Stand by all machine guns, Mr. Garrett, but hold your fire!”

They waited tensely, the men exchanging nervous glances while the clattery radial engine drone slowly grew more pronounced. Chack and Keje had joined them.

“What is that flying thing?” Keje’s voice held an edge.

“Airplane,” Matt murmured absently.

Keje glanced at the defensive preparations under way. “And I thought the Grik were a strange menace,” he muttered. “You will fight this aarplane? It will attack?” Keje cast a quick glance at Big Sal, moored helplessly to the pier. He’d never heard of a flying creature large enough to threaten people, but he’d seen coast raptors snatch fish from the water, and he suspected how vulnerable they would be to something as big as what he saw now. Obviously, by their actions, the destroyermen believed it might be dangerous. “Will it attack?” he asked again, more insistently.

Matt lowered the binoculars and a small, wondering smile played across his features. “I don’t think so,” he said, and added as an aside to Lieutenant Garrett, “PBY.”

The plane grew larger, and the sun glinted dully off the dingy blue paint as it banked over the bay. The wings waggled a little, as if the pilot was unfamiliar with the controls-or maybe not. Only one engine was running. The big seaplane thundered low over the water, just a little higher than the small boats’ masts. Sheets went flying, and there were many near-collisions as the unearthly monstrosity lumbered by. Matt couldn’t help but grin at the startled antics of the fishermen. All the Lemurians on the pier or the destroyer stopped what they were doing and clustered uncertainly together.

The pilot plainly saw them now; he banked the plane harder and then steadied up, aiming for a clear patch of water off Walker’s starboard side. The big rudder kicked rapidly back and forth to compensate for the uneven thrust of the single engine. Wing-tip floats came down and the bull-nose with the Plexiglas turret seemed to sniff tentatively at the water. The blue roundels with the white star and red dot stood out against the salt streaks and the stained, off-color paint. It was the most beautiful thing Matt had ever seen. With a great splashing thump, the flying boat struck the water, and its forward progress was almost immediately arrested by the unskilled or underpowered arrival. It wallowed to a stop as the pilot cut power, then increased it. The noise of the port engine was tremendous as the plane gathered speed in their direction.

Nakja-Mur had joined them. “What is that dreadful thing?” he demanded in a shrill voice.

“I suspect it’s a friend of ours,” Matt replied when Chack translated. The pilot cut the engine about fifty yards away, and the noise abruptly lessened as the propeller wound down. Matt felt the relief around him. “Prepare to fend off!” he shouted as the plane drifted closer. “Launch the whaleboat!” In less than a minute, the boat slid down the falls and slapped into the water. As they watched, a windscreen on the side of the pitching aircraft’s cockpit slid back and a grinning, bearded face emerged.

“Another Amer-i-caan!” Nakja-Mur exclaimed. “One that flies! Flies!” He was silent for a moment of sheer amazement, then turned to Matt and grinned. “I suppose I will have to feed that thing as well?”

“How many more… unusual friends are you expecting, Cap-i-taan Reddy?” Keje quietly asked. Big Sal’s “captain” was staring at the PBY with open wonder, but it was a serious question.

“I wasn’t expecting this one. C’mon, let’s meet our mystery aviator.”

Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory’s entire lower body felt numb and tingly from the long hours in the thinly padded metal seat of the shuddering aircraft. He had difficulty with his feet on the rungs as he ascended to the deck. He couldn’t stop grinning, though. An hour before, he’d shut down the starboard engine and feathered its prop to stretch their fuel enough to reach this very bay. It was their final hope. They’d checked Menjangan, and pushed all the way to Alor before turning back. If Walker hadn’t been at Balikpapan, he, Perry, and Ed would have been doomed, at best, to a lingering, miserable existence of solitude and privation without hope of rescue. More likely, some unfamiliar denizen would have quickly saved them the trouble. The sight of the old four-stacker nestled snugly against the pier amid the bustle of native people and shipping brought tears to Mallory’s eyes. The smoke curling lazily from her aft funnel and the proud flag over her deck convinced him that, whatever the situation, Walker was here voluntarily and therefore they were safe.

He made it to the deck with the help of eager hands and threw a shaky salute at the flag, and another at Captain Reddy. He was startled by the sight of the… natives, but not like he would have been a few weeks before.

“Lieutenant Benjamin Mallory, United States Army Air Corps. I request permission to come aboard, sir.” He took a wobbly step to make room for those behind him as they also gained the deck.

“Ed Palmer, Signalman, glad to be back aboard, sir,” said the second man, his voice hoarse with emotion. The blond-headed signalman from Oklahoma had expected to remain on Mahan only until they reached Perth. His inclusion in the unlucky destroyer’s odyssey had taken a toll.

The third was a dark-haired man in ragged khakis who looked vaguely familiar. “Lieutenant jay-gee Perry Brister, request perm-”

“Brister! You’re engineering officer on Mahan-you all came from Mahan! Where is she?” Matt demanded.

“We don’t know, sir,” Mallory replied. “The last we saw, she was off the west coast of Sumatra.”

“Sumatra? My God. What was Jim Ellis thinking?”

All three men shook their heads together. “Not Mr. Ellis, sir,” Brister said.

“Right,” confirmed Mallory. The aviator’s grin was gone. “Captain Reddy, it’s a long story and you need to hear it now.” He gestured at himself and the others. “Could we have some cold water? Or… maybe even a Coke?”

“Certainly. Let’s carry this conversation to the wardroom and you can tell me all about it after some refreshment.” He turned to Dowden as the exec approached. “Is Mr. McFarlane back aboard? No? Then pass the word for Mr. Bradford-he returned from the well site this morning, did he not?” Dowden nodded. “Very well. Ask him, Mr. Letts, Mr. Tolsen, and Mr. Garrett to join us in the wardroom. Better ask Lieutenant Tucker and Lieutenant Shinya as well.”

“Sir, Lieutenant Shinya and Sergeant Alden are drilling the militia.”

Matt nodded. “Of course.” He glanced at the Lemurians. He’d practically forgotten they were there. For a moment he contemplated excusing himself, but realized that if he did, they might suspect he was keeping secrets. That might not be best. They knew something important was going on; after all, it wasn’t every day a PBY flew into Baalkpan and landed in the bay. “Our guests may accompany us, if they please, but space in the wardroom’s limited. They’ll have to leave their escorts behind.” He spoke to Dowden, but his words were for Keje. They implied that this needed to remain an upper-level meeting. Keje understood, and spoke to Nakja-Mur.

Carafes of iced tea were on the wardroom table when they filed in. Like Keje and Adar had been, Nakja-Mur and Naga were unfamiliar with human chairs, but watching Keje’s more experienced motions, they managed to make themselves relatively comfortable. Of more interest to them was the egalitarian way the Americans gathered around the same table and drank from the same carafes. Lemurians prided themselves on their social tolerance, and they knew the Americans operated within a system of strict official stratification. For the first time, Nakja-Mur and Naga saw that the American hierarchy had more to do with tradition and institutional discipline than with a concept that anyone, even their captain, was intrinsically superior. Somehow, in spite of their surprise, they were strangely comforted.

They sat for a long moment, drinking, while an oscillating fan stirred the tepid air. The Lemurians drained their tea with relish and then waited patiently while the haggard newcomers rehydrated themselves. Finally, Mallory wiped his mouth and cleared his throat.

“My God, sir, that was welcome. We only carried a little water, to save on weight. Enough to last a few more days, but… Anyway, thanks, sir. Your ship was a sight for sore eyes!”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Seeing that plane was pretty exciting for us. But what about Mahan? Where the hell is she and what happened?”

The three men glanced at each other, then haltingly, together, told how Kaufman took over the ship. Matt and the other humans listened in stunned amazement. They just couldn’t believe it. Not only was it blatant mutiny, but under the circumstances it was insane. Brister told how Jim tried to take Kaufman’s gun away, and he saw the rage on Matt’s face when he told him Jim had been shot.

“He didn’t kill him, sir,” he hastened to add. “In fact, I think it was more an accident than anything.” He almost smiled. “I heard Mr. Ellis was beating the shit out of him, if you’ll pardon the expression. But Kaufman did shoot him. In the leg.” There was a pause while the lieutenant’s words sank in around the table.

“Go on,” Matt ordered harshly.

They told how the mutiny had proceeded, and of Kaufman’s obsession with Ceylon. Jim Ellis lapsed into fever and they put into Tjilatjap for fuel-only Tjilatjap wasn’t there, and they told of the horrors they saw.

Keje stiffened in his seat. “Chill-chaap? This Amer-i-caan speaks of Chill-chaap?” Larry Dowden had excused himself, and now he hurried back in with a chart that showed South Java and the waters nearby. Nakja-Mur and the Sky Priest fairly bristled at the way he spread the chart across the table, condensation rings and all, but Keje and Adar had prepared them somewhat, so they didn’t cry out in protest. Brister was looking at Keje when he put his finger on the South Java port of Tjilatjap. “Here, sir,” he said.

“Gone,” muttered Keje. “Chill-chaap is gone.” He spoke to the other Lemurians in his own tongue. Nakja-Mur rose to his feet and shouted something at Keje, then continued shouting at everyone in the compartment. “He is… excited,” explained Keje in a subdued tone, barely audible over Nakja-Mur’s rant.

“Well, tell… ask him to control himself! We must hear what else these men have to say!”

“I will try, Cap-i-taan. But forgive him… us. Chill-chaap is nearly as large as Baalkpan. It was one of the oldest colonies, and the only one on Jaa-va that remained friendly to us. Many thousands of people-our people-lived there.” Keje turned to Nakja-Mur and spoke in soothing tones. Slowly, the High Chief of Baalkpan eased into his seat. But his rage had only been contained, not extinguished. A moody, uncomfortable silence filled the compartment, and the quiet, after Nakja-Mur’s outburst, was particularly profound.

“Lieutenant Brister,” Matt prompted.

“Sir,” continued Brister after a last look at their guests. “Tjilatchap, or Chill-chaap, is gone. Nothing left alive. And it looked like the people there were eaten, and not just by scavengers.”

“My God,” gasped Sandra.

“Yes,” Keje growled. “Did I not tell you? We are mere prey to them.” He looked at the nurse. “You asked once why we threw them into the sea.” He shook his head.

Brister cleared his throat and resumed his tale. With Mallory’s help he brought them through the storm and the discovery of the plane. Then he spoke of the monsters.

“Grik,” Keje snarled.

“How many ships?” Matt asked.

“Three, sir.”

Matt looked at Keje. “They can’t have been the same ones we tangled with. It was at least two weeks later and hundreds of miles apart!” He turned back to Mallory. “What happened then?”

Ben described the hair-raising effort to get the plane off the beach. Between the three of them again, they told how they ultimately fought clear of the “monsters” and finally flew back to Mahan.

“They just left you?” Bradford asked incredulously. “Without a boat?”

“Yeah. Even if we’d changed our minds, it wouldn’t have done any good. We had plenty of motivation. Those creatures-I’ve never seen anything like ’em, sir. They were… pretty scary.”

Matt nodded. “We’ve seen them too, and they are pretty scary. I congratulate you all on your escape.”

“Thank you, sir,” they chorused.

“Did the lizards see you fly?”

“Maybe,” answered Mallory. “We could still see them when we took off. Why?”

Matt smiled at him. “Nothing, Lieutenant. Don’t worry about it. It might’ve been a handy surprise for later, that’s all.”

Mallory looked at his hands. “Sorry, Captain. I didn’t think of that. Not till later. We saw half a dozen more of their ships while we were looking for you, but we were pretty high and far. If they heard us, I doubt they saw us.”

“My God,” murmured Bradford. “As many as nine ships, then. Perhaps a dozen, if the ones seen in the strait are still others.” He looked at Keje, who seemed stricken. “Your enemy is here at last, and in force. We’ve not a moment to lose!”

Matt held up his hand. “I’m afraid we must lose a few more moments, Mr. Bradford. Lieutenant Mallory? What happened next?”

“Kaufman wanted us to fly to Ceylon, and we didn’t say squat, but ‘Yes, sir, will do.’ We took on all the fuel we could and then came looking for you.”

“I saw Mr. Ellis before we left,” Brister said. “The nurses were all fine and were taking good care of him.” He looked at Sandra. “Nurse Cross said they were keeping the faith. We talked a couple of minutes, and Mr. Ellis said…” He turned to Matt. “He said to tell you he’s sorry-but, Captain, it wasn’t his fault!” Perry’s gaze was emphatic. “Anyway, they probably all know we went looking for you by now. At least the ones that aren’t crazy will have some hope.”

Keje cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “These flying men bring momentous news. We learn Chill-chaap has been sacked and the Grik are indeed rampant, worse than we’d even feared. The dark time we’ve dreaded seems at hand. Now is when we will learn if all we’ve worked for, for generations-our colonies, our culture, our very way of life-will survive, or be cast to the winds once more. This… is important to us.” The irony of his understatement wasn’t lost. “I would think it would be important to you, our allies, as well. Yet you seem more concerned with this ship, this Mahan. What is Mahan, and what, or where, is Say-lon?”

Matt took off his hat in the awkward silence. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and slicked back his greasy hair. “Forgive me, my friend. I am concerned, and this news means our preparations are even more urgent. The significance of Mahan, however, is this.” He looked around at all of them, but rested his gaze on Keje and Nakja-Mur. “Mahan and Walker are the same. They’re just alike, and she has the same capabilities we have. What’s more, her people are my people, and I’m responsible for them. I’m obligated to help them any way I can, just as I’m obligated, now, to help your people to the best of my ability. The reason Mahan should concern you, however, besides-like you said, we’re allies-is there’s another ship just like this one, apparently steaming as fast as she can directly toward the Grik. What if they take her? You say they’re mimics; they copy the works of others. How long to copy Mahan? A while, surely. Maybe a generation or two. But what of the meantime? How will they use her? At the very least, they might figure out ways to counteract our superiority.” He stopped and looked around. “We’ve got to get her back.” He paused. “Or destroy her.”

Nakja-Mur rose to his feet and, after regarding them all with a steady gaze, he began to speak. Keje translated as he did so. “You Amer-i-caans, you know us now. You may not know us well, but we’ve kept no secrets from you and our desperation is clear. Yet we know almost nothing about you. At long last, tell us where you come from. If you have two smoking ships, why not summon more? The flying boat outside is clearly made of metal, and yet it floats! It flies! With but three Amer-i-caans on board, it is a match for three Grik ships! We’ve never seen such wonders! Surely you can do anything! You can save us from the Grik! Please, summon more of your people. Together, we could destroy the Grik menace completely, and our two peoples could live in peace for all time!”

Matt looked at Nakja-Mur when Keje completed the translation. Conflicting emotions swirled through him, but he knew, in spite of his desire to pass as little information as he could-the same desire he suspected the first “Tail-less Ones” had-the Lemurians who’d taken them in and now depended on them so heavily had a right to know. He glanced at Sandra and caught a nod of encouragement.

“We can’t send for help,” he said, “because there’s no one to send to.” He looked at Sandra and smiled resignedly. Then he held the gaze of each American for a moment before returning his attention to the Lemurians. “Remember how the first Tail-less Ones said their home was gone? Ours is too. Whether that makes us like them or not, I’ll leave up to you to decide. But I think it’s time you heard a story about a war that was bigger than anything you can possibly imagine. A war so big, the entire world was engulfed in fire and millions had already died… and it was only starting. This ship that seems so impressive and full of wonders to you was only the smallest, most insignificant part of that war, in the grand scheme of things.” He took a deep breath. ”And it was a war we were losing. Then something happened and somehow, we were… here.”

Keje managed an expression of confusion. “But you’ve told us you come from near the Edge of the World, from a land so distant we’ve no

… ah, charts that show its position.”

“That’s true. We do. But the war we fought-the part we were fighting, that is-was here. Right here.”

There was no sound but the voices on deck and the paint chippers plying their tools on a scaffold rigged alongside.

Courtney Bradford leaned forward in his chair. “My dear friends, Mi-Anakka and Americans, there’s no question we all spring from the same world. There’s no other explanation.” He laid his hand on the chart before him. “These are the same, for the most part, as the Scrolls the People revere. The land shapes are mostly the same, although we’ve noticed a few slight differences. But the water is water and the air is the air and the heavens are no different. But in the world Captain Reddy described, where all upon it were at war-the ‘world,’ if you will, we come from-all this”-he gestured at the charts-“was the same except for one thing: the people and creatures that inhabit it. Where we come from-evidently an entirely other ‘here’-there are no Grik, no mountain fish, and… no People.” He leaned back in his chair and it creaked beneath him.

“Personally, I don’t come from ‘the Edge of the World,’ like my American friends. I come from…” He glanced at the chart and put his finger on the small piece of coastline southeast of the Sunda Islands, right on the edge of the paper. “I think your Scrolls call this place ‘New Holland’ or something like that, although I assure you there were few Dutchmen when I left.”

Keje was looking at him like he’d just crawled out of a gri-kakka’s mouth with its stomach in his teeth. “I’ve been to that land,” he said quietly. “There are colonies there, and in the south, they build some sea homes as well. I’ve never seen an Amer-i-caan.”

Bradford sighed. “I’m not a bloody American, but that’s beside the point. By your charts, everything’s the same, but there aren’t any of us. By our charts, everything’s the same, but there aren’t any of you. The only explanation is that, somehow, there are two worlds… parallel worlds…” He stopped and looked around. “Two worlds side by side, perhaps even occupying the same space at the same time, only on which life has developed, for some reason, in two entirely different directions.”

“But-but-” Keje stammered, “that cannot be.”

Bradford sniffed and leaned back again. “Perhaps not, but it’s all I’ve been able to come up with. Captain?”

“No, Mr. Bradford, that’s a better explanation than I’d have managed, but the idea’s essentially the same.”

Nakja-Mur said something and Keje spoke for him. “If that is true, then how did you get here?”

Matt spread his hands. “We have no idea. All we know is Mahan and Walker were together, fighting a battle against a powerful enemy ship. We entered a strange squall, and the next thing we knew… No-” He looked thoughtful. “We didn’t really know for a while. But somehow we were here. In your world.” Abruptly, his expression hardened, and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the chart. “Which means, since we’ve no idea how we got here, we haven’t got a clue how to get back. However it happened, we’re stuck with each other. Unlike the old ‘Tail-less Ones,’ we’re not going to run off and leave you. Even if we wanted to, we can’t. Our fates are intertwined. The survival of our people, yours and mine, depends on defeating the Grik. So you better explain to your complainers, Nakja-Mur, U-Amaki Ay Baalkpan, they have not yet begun to be inconvenienced! After the information we’ve received today, we’re going to have to kick into high gear.”

“High Gear. It means, All Out? Sink or Swim? Same?” Keje asked.

“That’s right.”

Keje blinked solemn assent. “Your man, Silva? He told me these, and I agree. He also told me another.” He looked around the table with quiet dignity and determination, then looked directly at Nakja-Mur. “However the Amer-i-caans came to us, it’s clear only the Maker of All Things could have arranged it as they say. If that is so, then surely we must all either Shit, or Get Off the Pot.”

For once, it was a beautiful day on Baalkpan Bay. The humidity was low and it couldn’t have been much over eighty degrees. There was a cooling breeze out of the south-southwest, and the launch’s motor droned pleasantly with the sound of good health and proper maintenance. The water had a slight chop, stirred by the wind, and the occasional packet of spray spritzed Matt, Letts, Bradford, and Shinya in the cockpit of the launch. To them, it was refreshing. But to Tony Scott, at the wheel, each drop that struck him made him shudder as if he’d been sprayed with caustic acid.

Matt knew something had come over his once fearless coxswain, who’d acquired a deep and abiding terror of the water. All he could do was hope he got over it. They were too shorthanded to put him on the beach, at least until their Lemurian “cadets” were fully trained, and the man stoically refused to be relieved from his primary duty. He clearly hated the water now and he constantly cast worried looks over the side as if expecting to see some huge, ravenous fish pacing the boat. But he was, after all, the coxswain, and he wouldn’t shirk his duty.

For Matt’s part, he was enjoying the outing. Walker had been laid up for more than a month, and he’d grown anxious and irritable over her immobility. Her refit had gone as well as conditions allowed, and he expected she was in better shape now than when they’d left Surabaya ahead of the Japanese. But his anxiety over Mahan and the growing Grik menace left him feeling frustrated and impotent. It was good to be moving over water again.

He looked back across the bay, toward his ship, but he couldn’t see her. Seven of the huge Lemurian Homes lay at anchor off Baalkpan now, crowding the area near the shipyard. More were expected within the next few days. Nakja-Mur had sent word as far as his fishing fleet could reach, for a “Great Gathering,” or in essence, a council of war, to be held. Many of the Homes were intercepted already on their way. The threat was apparent to all by now. There’d been other fights like Big Sal’s, although none against so many Grik, but at least one Home was overrun. Its smoldering, half-sunken carcass was seen aground on the northeast coast of Java, near where Batavia would have been. That news threw Keje into a frenzy, and he’d been willing, at last, to perform the modifications to Big Sal that Alan Letts had suggested. Even now, as the launch nosed into the estuary of the river the locals called the Sungaa, Alan was discussing his plan with Bradford. Captain Reddy was deeply interested in whatever scheme the recently hypermotivated supply officer came up with, but for the moment he couldn’t help but be overcome by the primordial landscape surrounding them.

The Sungaa wasn’t long and was navigable for only a short distance before it choked into a narrow, swampy stream. But the waters that fled into the bay from the Lohr Mountains to the north provided a quicker, more convenient passage to the site where they’d sunk their first well. Except for his brief, tragic foray on Bali, Matt had stepped on land only for frequent trips into the city to see Nakja-Mur. Now, after passing the last hardy outposts of fishing huts and “frontier” hunters-only a few miles from town-he beheld Lemurian Borneo in all its savage beauty.

Amid raucous cries, dozens of species of colorful birdlike creatures whirled and darted with the erratic grace of flying insects. Their short, furry feathers covered streamlined and exotically lethal leathery bodies. They incessantly chased small fish, insects, and any “bird” smaller than they were. Vicious aerial combat flared when one of the creatures caught something another wanted or thought it could take. Unlike similar battles that Matt had seen among birds back home, the losers here rarely survived. The bodies of the slain never even made it to the water.

The deadly flasher-fish weren’t nearly as numerous in the fresher water of the bay, and they didn’t venture upriver at all. Matt’s party passed a herd of large animals marching solemnly through the shallows near shore. They were the size of hippos, but looked like spiky armadillos with longer necks and forelegs. Here and there, ordinary crocodiles lounged on the muddy banks. For all Matt knew, the trees hanging over the water were quite normal as well, but he knew little about trees of any sort, so their wide, palmated leaves looked exotic to him regardless. Bradford said they were as unusual as the fauna and Matt took his word for it. The whole scene was simultaneously shockingly beautiful and horrifying in a deep, secret, instinctual way.

He tore himself from his reverie and saw that Shinya was equally absorbed by their surroundings, but Letts, and even Bradford, seemed unaffected. Of course, they’d both been to the wellhead several times. Letts must have asked him a question, because he and the Australian both looked at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Letts. Could you repeat that, please?”

Alan grinned. “Sure, Skipper. What I asked is, should we concentrate all the guns on one side of Big Sal, like a floating battery, and just counterweight the other, or mount guns on both sides? We may not have time or materials to make enough for both.”

Matt shook his head. “I’m not convinced there’re going to be any guns.” Letts assumed a wounded expression.

“Sure there will, Skipper, if we have enough time. I’ve been working with the guys at the foundry”-the “guys at the foundry” were two Lemurian brothers who owned and ran it-“and they say it’s no problem. They cast anchors for ships like Big Sal all the time, so they’re used to throwing lots of metal. You could cast five or six guns from the metal that goes into one of those babies. Labor’s not an issue. The latest news has everybody fired up, and Nakja-Mur had kittens over the prospect of cannons of his very own. The only two stumbling blocks, well, three, really, were getting somebody to let us cut gunports in the side of their ship, finding enough metal to make the guns-a truly hellacious amount of copper and tin-and, of course, ammunition.

“Gunpowder’s not a problem. All the components are readily available and sulfur’s all over these volcanic islands. The real pain’s building a powder mill. That’s taking time. We can’t use water power, since there’re no swift rivers. Maybe we can try what the Mice came up with? Anyway, we’ll get it sorted out. We can use copper for cannonballs-that’s a cinch-but training gunners to hit something with them might be a little harder.”

“What about boring true?” Matt asked, and Letts shrugged a little hesitantly.

“I have a few ideas along that line.”

Matt shook his head. He didn’t know what had cracked Alan Letts out of his amiable go-with-the-flow shell, but whatever it was, he’d become a dynamo. Maybe it was just that he, like the rest of them, had finally come to grips with the situation. “I bet Keje wasn’t happy about chopping holes in the side of Big Sal,” he mused. “How many guns are you planning to put on her, anyway?”

“I’m hoping on twenty per side, eventually. That may not seem like many, given her size, compared to the ships of the line back in the seventeen hundreds, but…” He shrugged.

Matt looked at him and blinked with surprise. It was a habit he’d picked up from their new friends. “Twenty! I thought you were ambitious thinking about two or three! How big are you planning to make them?”

“Well, that depends on what size we ultimately bore them out. I’m meeting with Mr. McFarlane and Bernie Sandison this evening and we’ll kick that around.”

Matt chuckled. “Very well, Mr. Letts. Keep me informed, but be sure you don’t use anything the ship needs to make your tools!” A wry grin spread across Letts’s face, as if he’d been about to ask permission to do that very thing. “As to what to do with them if you get the cannons made?” Matt paused. “Keje’ll have to decide. It’s his ship. A floating battery in the bay would be tough to get around, but if anything ever did, the whole defense might collapse. I’ve never been a big believer in static defenses, and I doubt Keje would be either.”

Bradford nodded vigorously. “Yes! Yes! Look how much good the Maginot Line did the French! And I’m not even going to start on Singapore! As for Keje’s opinion, I assure you you’re right. With some quite obvious exceptions, the Lemurians are seagoing nomads. The very idea of being semi-permanently moored in any defensive position would be utterly alien, and perhaps hateful to them. I imagine they’d do it as an expedient during battle, but to actively prepare for such a thing? You might lose all credibility if you made the suggestion. So far, they’re willing to take your advice on matters of defense, but that’s all any of us really are. Advisors. We have no official status in the chain of command. I’m not sure there really is one. Nakja-Mur is the overall leader of the People of Balik-I mean Baalkpan-but Keje and any other ship captain who comes ashore, I suppose, all seem to be equals. They command their own People, but are subject to the laws and customs of the territory or ship they set foot on. It’s all so very chaotic! It would be far more convenient if they had a king, and all the various ships and places were part of some grand commonwealth!”

“Like the British Empire?” Letts goaded.

“Well… yes! Precisely! This current arrangement is far too much like your own various states. Always squabbling, and never agreeing to work together toward a common goal!”

Matt smiled tolerantly at the Australian. “The United States usually manages to pull together over the important things.”

“Yes, but it takes wars to make it happen, I might remind you!”

“That may be,” Matt confessed, “but it looks like the Lemurians have their war too.”

No one spoke for a while as the launch crept farther upriver. Once, Scott almost lost control when a crocodile bumped the boat and he flailed madly for the Thompson submachine gun he always carried slung over his shoulder. “Hold your fire, Mr. Scott,” Matt said, just loud enough to be heard. The croc was swimming disinterestedly away, and Tony gave him a sheepish glance as he regained control of the boat.

“How are things going ashore, Lieutenant?” Matt asked Shinya. He’d been shaken from his trancelike study of the wildlife by the launch’s capering.

“If you mean the preparation of the militia, Captain Reddy, I must report progress is poor, but improving.” Nakja-Mur had decreed that all able-bodied People, male and female, should take training with Sergeant Alden and Lieutenant Shinya, as well as some of their own few warriors every other day. Attendance was mandatory, but from the beginning, participation was somewhat sparse. Many of the younger, more adventurous townsfolk turned out with a will, and some had achieved a level of training that let them perform as NCOs for the less-proficient attendees. Alden had even begun training an “elite” force of a hundred of the sharpest and toughest, which would, of course, become his “Marines.”

The vast majority managed to avoid service at first, however, due to exemptions granted almost as a matter of course whenever they complained to the High Chief’s secretaries that their occupations should be protected as “vital to the defense of the People.” Some even had a point, and to be fair, many of the young, able-bodied Lemurians had been conscripted into the projects being undertaken for or by the Americans. All those were subject to military discipline, however, and put through a daily regimen of close-order drill and basic weapons training. As the Grik threat became more real, particularly over the last couple of weeks, Shinya had noticed an increasing number of faces at drill that he’d never seen before.

“What kind of numbers are we looking at?” Matt asked.

“It’s difficult to say. Sergeant Alden and I drill them each day, but with a few exceptions, we only see them every other day.” Drill took place on a large “common” at the foot of Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall, and the High Chief often watched the proceedings. The place had once been, for lack of a better term, a “park” near the center of town. But the ground had now been so churned by marching feet and maneuvering troops that they’d taken to calling it the parade ground. It wasn’t big enough for everybody, however, so roughly half the militia drilled one day, and the other half the next. It was dreadfully inefficient, but with the dearth of open ground in Baalkpan, it was the only answer. Shinya gazed thoughtfully at the water and turned back to the captain. “I think it’s not impossible, right now, to field nearly fifteen hundred Baalkpan troops, reasonably well trained for the type of fighting we saw upon Big Sal. In two weeks, we can perhaps double that number. In six months, we could put ten thousand in the field, but that would include virtually the entire adult population of the city. To assemble such a force, however, will take an even greater sense of… urgency than they now have.”

“You mean we’d have to be literally under attack, here, to expect that level of participation?” Matt muttered in resignation.

Shinya nodded. “I fear so. Of course, by then it would be much too late to organize them properly. A few of Sergeant Alden’s ‘Marines’ have gone aboard the Lemurian ships to get them to learn our drill so coordination would be possible at need. They’ve received… a mixed welcome. As for the tactics we’re teaching them, without the benefit of firearms, the only real options are those you suggested. A ‘Roman’ shield wall, backed by spearmen, backed in turn by archers.” He shook his head. “One of the most difficult things was to get them to abandon their crossbows. These people are made for shooting bows, and a longbow has a greater range and rate of fire than a crossbow, but they didn’t understand why we, a people with such technology, should advocate such simple weapons.” He grinned. “Once they saw the superiority of longbows, it wasn’t difficult to convince them.” Shinya’s expression became grim. “Of course, they want firearms.”

Matt nodded. “I wish they had them, but without steel…” He sighed. “Once we drag them out of the Bronze Age, we can have a look at flintlock muskets or something, but for now?” He held his hands out at his sides. “I know Alden’s training some of his ‘Marines’ to use our weapons. How’s he doing?”

“Yes, he’s training fifty of them, but they only get to fire a few rounds each. Mr. Sandison has solved the projectile problem-I think he called it swaging? But the difficulty remains making new cartridge cases if the empty ones are damaged or lost. And, of course, the primers. No one seems to think gunpowder will be a problem”-he bowed toward Letts- “but it won’t be smokeless at first, so the automatic weapons won’t function well.” He shook his head. “Of course, all these logistics matters are not my concern, particularly since I know nothing about them. But I understand that one of Mr. Sandison’s concerns is replacing Walker’s depleted ammunition stores for her main battery. His experiments with the small arms are the ‘test bed’ for the four-inch guns.”

“Lieutenant Shinya, I don’t know how it worked in your navy, but logistics is the concern of any officer, infantry officers included-which is what you’ve become. I’m glad you’re keeping up with it.” Matt’s gaze drifted forward, and he saw massive wooden pilings set in the riverbed some distance out from shore. As they neared, he saw that a framework connected them and a party of ’Cats was working to lay down a plank deck. They’d arrived at the fueling pier.

They secured the launch and trooped ashore. All were armed in spite of the small army of laborers nearby. Bradford had insisted, explaining that unlike in their own world, the large number of workers going about their business here wouldn’t frighten predators away; they would only alert them to a smorgasbord. A fair percentage of the Lemurians present were, in fact, dedicated to security. They were armed primarily with oversized crossbows that threw a bolt two feet long and an inch in diameter. Matt remembered Bradford telling him there were some truly astonishing predators lurking in the jungles of this new Borneo, but he’d paid only passing attention at the time, preoccupied with the refit of his ship. Now he tried to remember some of the creatures Bradford had described. They must be pretty big, he mused, if it took a handheld ballista to bring one down.

At the edge of the clearing, three large cylinders stood atop adobe furnaces with a maze of heavy, local copper pipe twisting among them. Matt recognized the cylinders as the ill-fated torpedo tubes of the number three mount. He hoped they would prove more useful here than they had aboard the ship. Furry, kilted workers scampered around the apparatus that they hoped would become a functioning refinery-if they found anything to refine. Chief Donaghey and Mahan’s Perry Brister were supervising the project, and by their filthy appearance, they’d done more than that. Matt waved at them to carry on as the party continued past the high tower set in the center of the clearing. In it was a now fully recovered Leo Davis and one of their precious BARs. He looked like a prison guard overseeing a chain gang, but the obvious distinction was that he was there to protect the workers, not to prevent escape. More Lemurians stood guard at intervals along the trail leading from the fueling pier into the dense jungle surrounding it.

The wellhead lay almost a mile inland. The trail was wide, and down the center was a pipeline constructed from the curious oversized bamboo that seemed, in every respect except for its massive size, just like bamboo “back home.” They’d seen it used extensively in local construction and for masts, of course, and it was a natural choice for those applications, being generally the diameter and length of a telephone pole. Matt hadn’t known they were going to use it to transport the crude. Bradford and Letts noticed him appraising the arrangement as they walked alongside.

“Bound to leak like a sieve, Skipper,” said Letts resignedly. “The couplings are short pieces of tin pipe pounded into the ends and sealed with pitch. I guess we can build something better once we have the time.”

“No, Mr. Letts. It’s ingenious. I hadn’t even thought how we’d move the oil from the well to the refinery. Well done.”

Letts looked embarrassed. “Well, it was really Spanky’s idea,” he demurred.

“A good idea, no matter whose it was.” Matt paused, looking at the pipeline with a thoughtful expression. “I can’t help but wonder, though. A fueling pier, a pipeline, even a refinery-all situated where they are just because of the wellhead. Are you sure we’re not taking one small detail a little too much for granted?”

Bradford blinked at him and wiped the ever-present sweat from his brow with a handkerchief that might once have been white. Then he grinned mischievously. “Never fear, my dear captain. As you Americans would so quaintly say, the fix is in.” He stopped and glanced at the sky. It was visible above the quadruple-canopy jungle only because of the pipeline cut. As so often happened at this time of day, the bright blue they’d basked beneath much of the morning had been replaced by a sodden gray.

“Oh, dear.”

Isak Reuben took a final, long drag off his cigarette, and it burned fiercely almost to his lips. He flipped the tiny butt off the platform, where it hissed and drowned in a puddle. The deluge had become a gentle drizzle, but it fell long and hard enough to soak him completely. Not that it mattered. He was always soaked, with sweat, and his filthy T-shirt clung to his skinny torso like a slimy, splotched, translucent leech. His fireroom pallor was gone, as was Gilbert’s, replaced by the harsh reddish brown he remembered so well from his life in the oil fields. It was a color he’d hoped never to see on his own body again.

“Goddamn,” he exclaimed matter-of-factly, “ain’t White Mice now.” He grabbed the cable that dropped down from one end of the walking beam and disappeared into the hole at his feet. The slack felt about right. “Wind ’er up, Gilbert,” he croaked at his companion, who made a rotating motion with his hand.

A short distance away, a pair of young ’Cats sat on a brontosarry’s back, and one made a trilling sound and whacked its flank with a stout bamboo shoot. With a guttural groan of protest, the beast began to move. It was harnessed to a giant windlass, and as it trudged through a slurry of mud, round and round, a belt running from a large-diameter central shaft transferred its meager rotation to a smaller, faster wheel. Another belt ran to yet another wheel, between the two in diameter. This one turned a crank that raised and lowered a pitman, causing the walking beam to go up and down. As it did so, it raised the cable-tool bit far down in the hole and then dropped it with a resounding “thud.” The bit drove a few inches deeper every time.

Isak looked at the sky, beyond the eighty-foot bamboo derrick that still struck him as just… wrong somehow, and saw patches of blue struggling to disperse the clouds. He shook his head unhappily. Every time a squall blew up, he hoped subconsciously that it, like the one that had brought them here, would take them home. Home to the real world, where he could bask in the honest warmth and isolation of his beloved boilers, where steam was magically made. Steam that turned honest turbines. He frowned. Anywhere but here, where steam rose from the ground because the sun cooked it out, and where stinkin’ dinosaurs pretended to be motors! He groped for another cigarette and frowned even deeper, staring at the massive animal trudging slowly around. “RPMs ain’t much, but the torque’s pretty respectable.”

Gilbert touched the cable himself at the bottom of its stroke, as he walked over to join him. “What?” he asked.

“Nothin’.”

Gilbert nodded. “Quiet rig.” Both were used to loud engines doing the work of the dinosaur.

“Too quiet,” complained Isak. “Ain’t natural.”

Gilbert nodded again, in solemn agreement. “Gimme a smoke, will ya?” His customary monotone was as close to a wheedle as it ever got.

“No.”

“Why not? I shared mine with you.”

“Yeah, and now yer out, ain’t ya? Stupid.”

Gilbert stared down at the well as the cable went slack, pondering. No question about it, Isak was the smart one.

The other fireman sighed heavily, shook a soggy cigarette out of the pack, and handed it over. Then he peered inside. “Now I’m as dumb as you. Only one left.”

The well was situated in another artificial clearing, and one of their Lemurian security guards trilled a call from his watchtower near the pipeline cut.

“What’s he jabberin’ about?” Isak asked, irritably reaching for one of the old Krag rifles they always kept nearby. “I hope it ain’t another one of them Big Ones. We really need bigger guns for huntin’ around here.”

The “Big Ones” he referred to were forty-foot monsters Bradford insisted were allosaurs. Unlike most of the other dinosaur species they’d encountered, Bradford’s modern allosaurs were not stunted. They’d hardly changed at all from those in the fossil record-the only difference he could see, if anything, was they were bigger than their prehistoric ancestors. There weren’t many of them, though, and even if they looked built for speed, they preferred to lurk along well-used trails in the dense jungle and let their prey come to them. The destroyermen called them “super lizards” in spite of Bradford’s protests. Isak only knew they were hard as hell to kill and they scared the shit out of him.

“Hold on, Isak,” Gilbert said. “They all sound like monkeys to me, but that don’t sound like a lawsey-me-there’s-a-Big-One-a’comin’ yell.”

They both stared toward the cut for a few moments more, then relaxed a little when they saw humans emerge into the clearing.

“It was too,” Isak said. “That’s the Skipper.”

Matt waved at the Lemurian peering down from the tower. It was one of Alden’s Marines, armed with a Krag. This was arguably one of the most important parts of the “fuel project,” but aside from the sentry, there were fewer than a dozen people, including the Mice, working the site. Most of the labor currently involved cleaning and stacking the “bamboo” pipes they were using to case the well. At this stage, few hands were really needed to operate the rig and most were needed only when it was time to bail, or pull the bits for sharpening.

A pair of bits lay across hefty sawhorses now, and two workers held them down while another vigorously worked them over with a file. The bits were Spanky’s idea. He’d used a heavy I beam meant for shoring up buckled hull plates. He cut the twelve-foot beam into three segments and cast heavy copper slugs on the ends to give them more weight. By all accounts, they worked well, but they didn’t hold an edge and had to be sharpened a lot.

Matt stared, fascinated, at the bamboo derrick and the ingenious contraption operating it. He’d seen oil wells, but he didn’t know much about them. All he could say about this one was… it resembled an oil well. That the derrick was a strange greenish yellow did a lot to undermine the impression, however. His gaze swept to the platform and he saw the two firemen staring back. That’s probably another reason there’s not more workers here, he conceded. It took special people to voluntarily spend much time with the irascible Mice. Even if those people had tails. Together, he and his party slogged through the swampy ooze surrounding the rig until they reached the platform and clambered up.

“Good afternoon, men,” Matt began amiably. “Thought I’d see for myself how things are going.” Isak just shrugged and looked around as if to say, “Well, here it is.”

Bradford stifled a cough. “Yes, well, I think you can see they’ve done a marvelous job. Marvelous!” He beamed at the two men. “How deep are we now?”

Gilbert had retreated a few feet and stood next to the sampson post that supported the walking beam. Neither he nor Isak had been spoken to by officers more than a dozen times in their lives-not counting Spanky-and it always unnerved them a little. For the most part, throughout their Navy careers they’d lived in the fireroom, and officers lived… someplace else.

“Three hundred and sixty-nine feet, when the cable goes tight this time,” Isak said, and he glanced furtively between the visitors. He suddenly yanked the filthy hat off of his head. “If you please.”

“Excellent, excellent!” Bradford exclaimed. “Can’t be far now!” He turned to face Matt. “As I said, the fix is in! I happen to know oil was found on this very spot in 1938! A respectable deposit, too. Quite adequate for our needs!”

Matt smiled at him. “But what makes you so sure it’s here… here?”

Bradford blinked. “Why, you did, of course! As you said, the geography is the same. As we’ve all discussed at some length now,” he smiled patiently, “this is our very same earth. Only a few inhabitants have been changed about. The very same oil found here in 1938 should still be down there, since no one’s ever drilled for it!”

“I sure hope you’re right, Mr. Bradford. I’m not certain it’s the same thing. Just because Borneo’s here, does that mean the same oil’s under it?” A trace of sadness touched Matt’s smile. “I’m morally certain the North American continent exists… here. Its shores and distinctive landmarks are probably like those we remember. The Paluxy River may still run where my folks’ ranch should be. Do the same catfish I used to catch still swim that river, Mr. Bradford? I doubt it. If they do, they’d probably eat you.” He held up his hand before Bradford could protest. “I’m just saying if we don’t find oil here, we need to keep an open mind about where to look next. Above all, we mustn’t get everyone’s hopes up that finding it here’s a sure thing.” Matt’s smile twisted into a grin. “Always remember, gentlemen, oil is where you find it-but it may not be where you left it!”

Gilbert nodded solemn agreement with the captain’s words. What was that damned Aussie trying to do? Jinx them? He reached over and felt the cable. “Tight,” he announced. Isak nodded. He addressed the Lemurians on the draft beast.

“Hey, you monkeys!” he shouted. “Stop-o el dinosaur-o now-o! Time to bail! Chop, chop!” The two young ’cats gave very human nods and hopped down.

“Been picking up the local lingo, I see,” Letts commented dryly.

Isak shrugged. “Yep. Got to, I guess.”

In the launch, Captain Reddy was thoughtful. He was encouraged by how far along the “fuel project” seemed, and if Bradford was right, it was just a matter of finding the right depth at the rig before Walker’s bunkers were full to bursting. The thought felt good, even though he couldn’t shake his nagging concern. Contrary to what everybody seemed to take for granted, there actually were subtle differences in geography. Nothing pronounced, but enough to make him worry. For example, the land around Baalkpan Bay was higher than he remembered “back home.” Less erosion? Lower sea level? Or something else? If everything in the world was different now, why not oil deposits?

Bradford said it didn’t work that way. He said the ground under the well was geologically predisposed to form a reservoir for crude. Matt hoped he was right. In any event, now that he’d been there, he was confident that if there was any oil, it would be found. The strange firemen had everything well in hand. He sighed. Of course, then the refinery had to work. It was one thing to find oil and something else to turn it into fuel they could burn.

He listened to the others chatting about the wildlife they’d seen as the launch left the river behind and reentered the bay. A few colorful flying reptiles paced the boat and shrieked and swooped at the small fish churned up in its wake. Matt tuned out the conversation and, as he often did of late, found himself thinking about Sandra Tucker as he stared at the feathery whitecaps. He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. Who wouldn’t be? For that matter, with so few women and a ship full of men, who, in fact, wasn’t attracted to her? In spite of the situation, he really liked her a lot and believed he wasn’t unduly influenced by the scarcity of females. He was sure that under normal circumstances he’d have already made a move. But these weren’t normal circumstances.

So far, in spite of everything, the crew had stuck together. There was friction aboard-there always was-but not much more than normal.. . yet. He couldn’t imagine how everything fell apart so fast on Mahan. Jim was a good leader and he should have sorted it out. Probably would have if he hadn’t been shot. Brister thought the breakdown was due to Kaufman’s hysteria and the stress of their ordeal. At all costs, he had to prevent that kind of stress from taking root here. Right now the biggest stress to Walker’s crew was a lack of “dames.” He honestly believed they’d eventually find more humans, and the two Indiamen that had sailed east so long ago were a solid lead. But in the meantime it was hard to dispel the sense that they were all alone. All alone, with only two women. He’d always believed in leading by example, and regardless of his feelings, he thought it wouldn’t be fair to the men if he pressed his suit now. How could he expect them to show restraint if he didn’t set the example? At the very least, it would undermine his moral authority-and that was really the only authority he had left. The men sure weren’t getting paid. The situation was far too tense to risk jealousy and resentment by chasing one of the only two eligible females.

He glanced at Alan Letts. Maybe the only eligible female. Letts and Karen Theimer were seeing a lot of each other. Maybe that was why he’d been so industrious of late. Letts had better watch out, though. Matt knew Bernie and Greg were both sweet on the young nurse too. That was probably why his young officers were so formal to each other lately. There’d be trouble down the line, and the more he thought about it, the more disquieted he became. The “dame famine,” as the crew referred to the situation, was likely to be more explosive in the long term than any shortage of fuel or ammunition.

He wished, for the thousandth time, that he hadn’t sent the other nurses off in Mahan. Not just because of the dame famine, of course, but their presence might have taken a little pressure off. What it boiled down to was that somehow they had to find more people, and the sooner the better. He owed it to his men. He took a deep breath. But that would have to wait, and in regard to Sandra, he would have to wait as well. And so would Mahan, wherever she’d gone-at least until they had fuel to search for her-or other humans. Right now they had a war to prepare for and to fight. That was a kind of stress his men were accustomed to and one he knew they could handle.

“Some kind of regatta or somethin’ goin’ on today?” shouted Tony Scott over the engine and the spray they were making. Captain Reddy grunted and looked where the coxswain indicated. Across the bay, fishing boats pelted toward town as fast as they could. The growing mass of boats seemed to gather in all they came across, and sheets flew as more fishermen came about or set a new tack toward the wharves. On instinct, Matt glanced at his ship. He saw her now; the off-white experimental gray that the Chief had mixed was clear against the riotous color of the city and jungle beyond. Perplexed, he looked back toward the mouth of the bay and the Makassar Strait.

Standing in toward them under a fair press of sail was one of the red-hulled Indiamen of the Grik. All over the bay, the large conch-like shells the People used to sound the alarm began to blow, and the men in the boat heard the dull bass hum even over the exhaust of the engine.

“Step on it, Scott! To the ship, as fast as you can!”

Sandra peered over the top of her book as her next patient entered the wardroom. She was reading a battered copy of Henry Thomas’s Wonder Book of History, Science, Nature, Literature, Art, Religion, Philosophy, which was making the rounds. It reminded her a little of Courtney Bradford: engagingly pompous and full of a little information on quite a lot. The old book came from the large, eccentric library of the dead surgeon, Stevens. She closed it and regarded her visitor with raised eyebrows.

“Dennis Silva, as I live and breathe.”

Silva merely stood, staring stoically straight ahead and she looked at him more closely. The refit had exacted a toll on the destroyermen and their Lemurian helpers, mostly minor injuries and torch burns, but there were occasional serious hurts-crushed fingers and lacerations requiring stitches, for example. The complaints constituted a steady enough stream that she and Karen stood alternating watches in the wardroom, tending the wounded as they presented themselves. They usually shooed them back to their duties. The big gunner’s mate had no obvious injury, however.

“Well?” she demanded impatiently. “What’s the matter with you?”

Silva’s face reddened even beneath his short, dense beard and savage tan. “’M sick, ma’am.”

She looked at him incredulously. “Sick! You?” Silva’s constitution was legendary. His record showed his only previous appearances before the ship’s surgeon had been of the type to be expected of a rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyerman. She doubted that was his problem today, although with Silva… There had been rumors some of the men were experimenting with local females. Both species were certainly adventurous enough to try. She shuddered involuntarily and shook her head to clear the thought.

“Sick how?” she asked. Then she felt a chill. So far they’d been lucky, but she lived in perpetual dread of some unidentifiable plague sweeping the ship, something they had no immunity to.

Silva actually looked at his feet. “Got the screamers,” he muttered.

“The screamers?”

He nodded. “Been in the head since yesterday afternoon, and I.. . kinda need to go now.” Her eyes flicked down the passageway behind her, and he looked at her as if she were nuts. That was the officers’ head! “I, ah, can hold it.”

“What seems to be the cause of your discomfort? Something you ate?”

“Well, you see, tobacco’s worth its weight in gold, and that damn Chack-”

Sandra slapped her forehead and felt a smile of relief cross her face. Silva’s expression became more wooden at her sudden lack of compassion. “Has had you running around chewing on every dead leaf he can convince you to stick in your mouth!” she finished for him and laughed out loud. “Oh, that’s rich! I heard about that! You should watch out for that boy! He’s not the ‘simpleminded wog’ some of you guys think he is!” She giggled, then looked thoughtful. “It seems our Mr. Chack has a wicked sense of humor!” She made a mental note to tell Chack that some things that didn’t bother Lemurians at all might be poisonous to humans-and that he’d better grow eyes in the back of his head and expect retaliation.

“I’m sure you’ll be all right eventually, Mr. Silva. I know your. .. experiments have been solely in the interests of science and the benefit of your fellow man, but why not take this opportunity to liberate yourself from your disgusting habit?”

Silva’s expression could have been described as plaintive in a lesser mortal. “But what are we supposed to do? No tobacco, almost no coffee, no… um.” He paused, but quickly recovered himself. “It was bad enough fightin’ the Nips, and now this? It’s more than a fella can stand without a chew!”

Sandra nodded slowly. He had a point. Almost everyone aboard used tobacco. She knew that wasn’t the only… frustration, but she’d noticed tempers flaring more easily, and there’d even been some fights. Despite her feelings on the subject, there was morale to consider. She sighed. “Very well, Mr. Silva. I’ll look into it. But I warn you, there may not be anything to replace tobacco.”

He nodded gratefully. “Just as long as somebody’s lookin’. Hell, these ’Cats don’t even have betel nuts!”

Secretly, Sandra expected they probably did use some kind of stimulant besides the fermented polta fruit. Seep was already well known and much used when the men went ashore on the limited liberties Matt allowed, but it had some undesirable aftereffects. She still wasn’t satisfied that it was even safe for humans, given the severity and duration of the hangovers, but Captain Reddy was right. Never give an order you know will be disobeyed. The only way to keep them from drinking the stuff was to confine everyone to the ship, which was unfair and would be worse for morale than the lack of tobacco.

As a replacement for the noxious weed… She again determined to speak to Chack. She was willing to bet that he, and many other young Lemurians, were enjoying their joke too much to share the knowledge if there was one. She would ask, she promised herself. And warn. If the rumors were true, Silva’s pranks were not funny.

“Now, as to your complaint-” She held out her hands in resignation. “I don’t even have anything left to relieve the symptoms. You’ll just have to let it run its course. Be sure to stay properly hydrated, though.”

“Hydrated? What’s that?” he inquired darkly.

“Water. Drink plenty of water!” She paused. “But only ship’s water. I don’t even want to think about what the local water will do to you yet. Talk about the screamers!” She made another mental note to see McFarlane again. As long as they were burning the number four boiler, the condensers would manufacture fresh water in small quantities. Barely enough to drink, but nothing else. Everyone was constantly reminded not to drink anything that even might have local water in it. If they ever ran entirely out of fuel, they’d have to figure out something else. Boil local water, she supposed. At least there was local water and they could use it for cooking-and bathing-thank God!

Silva’s expression became pinched. “I might, ah, better visit the officers’ head after all, ma’am. Don’t think I’ll make it aft.”

Sandra nodded and smiled. “By all means.”

The general alarm began to sound.

The launch’s occupants scurried onto the pier and raced for the gangway. They were nearly trampled by Lemurians scampering everywhere on the docks. The huge draft beasts bawled as their drivers whipped their flanks in panic. One of the elephantine brontosauruses bugled in fear at the commotion and reared up on its hind legs, upsetting the cart it was hitched to and then crushing it under its haunches. The driver barely jumped clear. Somehow, they managed to weave through the terrified crowd and run up the gangway. No side party waited and they hastily saluted the colors.

Chief Gray met them, puffing. “I have the deck, sir, I suppose,” he said. “Mr. Dowden left about an hour ago with Spanky to talk to the yard-apes. Should be back any time.”

“Never mind. Single up all lines and make all preparations for getting under way.”

Gray glanced about helplessly at the chaos around them for just an instant, then saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

Matt turned to Shinya. “Marines are on parade today?” Shinya nodded. “How long to fetch Alden and a company of Marines?” Shinya scanned the mob choking the wharf and the pathways into the city. He shook his head. One Grik ship had appeared in the bay and the population acted like the enemy was loose among them.

“Sergeant Alden may already be trying to make his way here, but to go get him now? Impossible.”

“I concur. Try to make it to Big Sal. Ask Keje for a hundred of his best warriors and get them here as fast as you can!” Matt didn’t even ponder the irony of the Japanese officer’s salute as he returned it and watched Shinya race back down the gangway. He turned and ran to the bridge.

“Captain on deck!” shouted Lieutenant Garrett. Matt nodded and stepped quickly on the bridgewing with his binoculars in hand. The Grik ship’s dash toward the city had slowed, and it was practically hove to about four miles away. As if studying them. This ran contrary to everything he’d heard about their tactics. He’d expected them to charge right in.

“All stations report manned and ready, Captain,” Garrett announced.

“Very well. Prepare to get under way.”

Garret seemed surprised. “But Captain… the fuel? We can sink him from here.”

“I know, Mr. Garrett, but he’s acting like he knows it too.” He barked a dry laugh. “I think our reputation has preceded us. Besides, I don’t think he’s by himself.” As he watched, brightly colored signal flags raced up the Grik’s mast. “Yep,” he said. “I bet there’s at least one more hanging outside the mouth of the bay. Have engineering light number three and honk the horn. We’ll give anyone close enough five more minutes to make it back on board.”

“Light number three, sir?” Garrett cringed. Now he knew their fuel wouldn’t outlast the day.

Matt sighed. “I’m afraid so. We also have to stop whoever that one signaled to. We can only make about ten knots on one boiler, but with this breeze picking up, maybe more out in the strait, I bet those Grik can make twelve.” They’d taken on firewood for just such an emergency. He hoped they wouldn’t have to use it.

“Aye, aye, Captain. Sound the horn, light number three, and cast off all lines in five minutes.”

Two minutes later, Shinya and Keje asked permission to come on the bridge. Matt felt a surge of warmth at the sight of his Lemurian friend. Keje was dressed as Matt had first seen him, with his copper-scaled armor and a broad-bladed scota at his side. Shinya had found the time to buckle on his longer, thinner version that Sandison made from one of the cutlasses. It wasn’t exactly a katana, but he could use it like one now that the guard had been cut down and the handle extended. Shinya still mourned his own ceremonial sword-lost when his destroyer went down-and the cutlass was a crude replacement. But he’d been moved by Bernie’s gift.

Larry Dowden raced onto the bridge, breathing hard. In the background Matt heard the commotion of Lemurian warriors thundering aboard amid bellowed commands from the Bosun. “Sorry, Skipper,” Larry apologized. “We nearly didn’t make it. Spanky’s aboard too-headed for the fireroom. He said with his two best guys ashore, he better bat the burners himself.”

“Very well. Cast off the stern line. Left full rudder! Port engine ahead one-third!”

With a vibrating moan, Walker came to life beneath his feet once more. Ever so slowly, amid a churning froth of dark, musty-smelling seawater that sloshed up around the port propeller guard, the destroyer’s stern eased away from the dock. “All stop. Rudder amidships. Cast off bow line!” Matt paused until he saw his last command obeyed. “All back one-third!” With a distinct, juddering groan, Walker backed away from the pier and Big Sal, tied up just ahead. When they’d made a suitable gap, Matt spoke again. “Right full rudder, all ahead two-thirds.”

Throughout the maneuver Keje was silent. Now he just shook his head. “Amazing,” he said aloud. He turned his inscrutable gaze upon the captain. “I’ve brought you one hundred of my finest warriors, Cap-i-taan Reddy.” He grinned. “All were anxious to fight, of course, but I had the most trouble limiting their numbers when they learned they would go to battle on your magnificent ship!”

Matt clapped him on the shoulder. “They may be less enthusiastic if we have to paddle home. We really don’t have the fuel for this!”

“Ah!” Keje sniffed and blinked. “A nothing! Once again we’ll kill Grik together!”

Greasy black smoke belched briefly from the number three funnel and Walker gathered way. Matt looked through his binoculars. “Oh, boy, that’s done it! He’s going about. Piling on more sail.”

Keje stood beside him, binoculars raised to his eyes as well. Unobtrusively, Larry Dowden helped him fold them to fit his face and showed him how to focus. Keje exclaimed in delight but continued to stare at the enemy. “Yes. He’s running. I see the signal flags myself.” He looked at Matt. “Twice now I have seen the enemy flee, and both times because of your ship. The one that escaped after the great fight must have passed word to others, or perhaps that’s the very ship that eluded us. Regardless, there’s clearly another in the strait, and beyond that, perhaps another. They must all be destroyed! If they carry news of Baalkpan to the place where they assemble fleets, they will return in force. We are not ready for that.” Keje’s ears and tail twitched with annoyance. “I am sure you must agree after witnessing that disgraceful display on the waterfront.”

“They’ll be ready, Keje,” Matt assured him. “What I saw on the dock was the natural reaction of people who’ve suddenly been confronted with their worst nightmare. Remember, for a lot of people in Baalkpan, the Grik weren’t real until today. They were creatures of myth-boogeymen. They’ve never faced them. They’ve never seen with their own eyes the terrible way they make war. Now they know the enemy is real and we haven’t been training them for hoots.” Matt gestured out the windows at the distant Grik. “In a way, this might be just what we needed to make the land folk take things seriously.”

“I hope you’re right,” Keje grumbled. “It looked to me that all it did was turn their bowels to water.”

Matt arched an eyebrow. “You should’ve seen us when the Japs bombed Cavite.”

Walker steadied on course and gradually increased speed. Spanky was fully aware of the state of their bunkers and there was no pell-mell acceleration. Matt glanced about, trying to find something to use as a gauge for wind direction and speed. He settled on one of the fishing feluccas that pelted by in the opposite direction. The small, beamy ship sailed admirably close to the wind. Keje saw him studying it.

“Yes. The enemy has a favorable wind with their… I think you call it ‘square rig’? It’s much the same principle as our ‘wings,’ and it serves best running with the wind on a quarter from behind, ah, quartering? Astern?” He shook his head. “I learn your language good, I think, but some words don’t work yet.”

Matt grinned at him. “They work fine, as far as I can tell.”

Keje bowed in thanks. “Still, I think you could catch him before he makes it into the strait.” Matt glanced at Garrett, who cast a quick look at the Lemurian. Matt nodded.

“He’s in easy range, Skipper,” Garrett confirmed. The Grik ship was less than two miles away, gaining speed. But the course reversal had cost him. Keje grunted as if to say, “I thought so.”

“Very well. Let’s let him get some more water under his keel, though. I don’t want to sink him in the channel. Tell Spanky he can ease off the juice. Make him think he’s keeping the distance.” Matt smiled ruefully. “By the way, Mr. Garrett, my apologies. I have the deck. Please take your post on the fire-control platform. If there’s another one, we might have some fancy shooting to do.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Captain has the deck,” he announced. After he was gone, Matt shook his head. Got excited, he chided himself. Not too good for the image of the stoic, all-knowing captain.

“What about me, sir?” asked Dowden. “You want me aft?”

“Not yet. This’ll probably be as close to shooting fish in a barrel as we’ll ever get. But I may have a chore for you. Helm,” he said to Tolson, “keep us dead astern of the enemy, if you please. Adjust speed as needed.”

“Dead astern and as needed, aye.”

The Grik ship was leaning on her wide beam, the pyramid of white canvas contrasting sharply with the dark red hull and the blue, white-capped waves. A long, foaming trail spread astern. “You can say what you like about those damn lizards,” he said, “but they make pretty ships.”

The mouth of the bay widened. Beyond the Grik, the open ocean of the Makassar Strait looked vast and empty. A few high clouds moved with deliberation across the otherwise clear blue sky. A touch of gray brooded over Celebes, but the local visibility was near perfect. Where was the other ship?

“Lookout reports a sail beyond the headland, bearing two two five,” proclaimed the talker. Matt shifted his glass, but saw nothing because of the dense jungle that grew right down to the shoreline off the starboard bow. The lookout had a better vantage point, and the high masts of the Grik allowed them to see and signal at an even greater distance.

“Well, two for sure,” Matt said speculatively. “Question now is whether the one we’re chasing will turn to join her consort or continue on, leading us away. It might tell us a lot about them.”

“Will it make a difference?” Keje asked anxiously.

“It shouldn’t, in the short term.” Matt was silent for a moment. “Say you had two or three fast ships and had just found the home of the Grik. They pursue. There’s no way you can win a fight, but it’s vitally important that someone get away with the information. What would you do?”

Theoretical speculation wasn’t always a Lemurian strong point, Matt had noticed, but now Keje stared at the stern of the Grik ship while his mind sorted possibilities.

“I’d flee in a direction different than my consorts and hope they might chase me or one of the others. Perhaps one might escape. Much like the original Leaving. If the herd splinters, the hunters cannot get them all.”

Matt nodded. “Or the hunters might get them all one at a time. But what else might you try? If it looked like none would escape?”

“I might fight them, to delay them. Or ask one of the others to do so.”

“Yeah.” He paced to the helmsman and glanced at the compass pelorus in front of the wheel. Then he returned and looked at the sky, gauging the wind again. The Grik ship was in the strait. They also saw the other enemy ship, crowding more sail and hugging the coastline, sailing south-southwest. If the closer ship intended to follow, now was the time to turn. “The question is,” Matt continued, “would you have ever thought the Grik might do such a thing?”

Keje was flabbergasted by the thought. He found it difficult enough to believe they were running away at all. The idea of any strategic or self-sacrificing thought entering a Grik head was so foreign and horrifying that it left him momentarily speechless. And yet he’d been watching the wind. Unlike the destroyerman, who relied so much on his engines, Keje was always conscious of the wind. He didn’t need a compass to tell him the Grik should have already turned.

“If they think information about Baalkpan is more important than their lives, it would imply a more sophisticated enemy than the ‘rear up and run at ’em’ sort we thought we faced.” Matt was watching the lizard ship as he spoke, and then he suddenly peered through the binoculars again. “Damn,” he muttered as sails shivered and the enemy’s hull changed aspect. “I sure hoped I was wrong. They can’t get away, but they’re not changing course to follow their friend-a heading that would give them more speed, by the way. Anyway”-he looked at Keje-“they want to fight. To ‘delay’ us.” He shook his head. “Not happy about that at all.” To the talker: “Have Mr. Garrett commence firing. Helm? Let’s go after the other one. We don’t have the fuel to screw around.”

The salvo buzzer screeched. While Walker described a leisurely turn to starboard, three rounds from the number two gun left the large, once beautiful ship a shattered, smoking wreck, sinking in their wake. A four-inch projectile isn’t very large in the grand scheme of naval riflery, but high-explosive against a wooden hull is no contest. Two rounds should have been enough, but Silva was pointer and his crewmates had noticed he wasn’t quite himself. Good-natured ribbing followed his first inexplicable miss, but the ’Cats on board were suitably impressed by the effect of the second and third shells. Now Walker loped after the other red ship… and Silva glared at Chack. A moment later he grinned.

Keje stood beside Matt, sitting in his sacred chair on the starboard side of the pilothouse. Far ahead, but slowly growing, was their next quarry. Matt was impressed by its speed. There was a fine breeze and it must have been making close to thirteen knots. A short while before, they’d passed half-submerged casks and other objects and it was clear the Grik were lightening ship. He gauged the distance.

“Keje,” he said, “I’d like to take that ship. They came snooping around to find out about us, and I want to return the favor. There’s just too much about them we don’t know, like where they come from, what they’re doing and what they want. Do they really have a dozen ships in the Java Sea? More? I’m sick of never knowing what my people have to face!” He paused. “After we take out her masts, I’ll have the machine guns and rifles kill as many as they can. Then we’ll board. My question to you is do you think we can do it with a minimal… loss of life? My guess is they’ll mass in the open, to receive us, and we’ll be able to whittle them down considerably. But I have to rely on your people to do the bulk of the fighting. I can’t spare many men for the boarding party and still operate the ship. Besides”-he gestured at the scota at Keje’s side-“few of us are skilled in this type of fighting. Most who are were at the parade ground when we left.” He took a deep breath and saw the gleam of anticipation in Keje’s eyes. No one had boarded a Grik ship! The glory for Salissa would be beyond compare. The deed would be recorded in the very Scrolls!

Matt held up a hand. “I said I’d like to take it. One thing I’ve got to check first.” He got up, stepped to the aft bulkhead, and activated the engine room comm. “Engineering, this is the captain. Let me speak to Mr. McFarlane.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” A moment later the engineer’s gruff voice said, “McFarlane here.”

“Fuel, Spanky.”

There was a momentary pause, then a sigh. “Captain, if we reduce speed, secure number three and turn back right now, we might make it in without a tow.”

“What about the wood?”

There was silence on the other end.

“We can burn the wood, Spanky.”

Lieutenant McFarlane responded resignedly. “Aye, sir, we can burn the wood, but then the boiler’ll be down for however long it takes to clean out all the ash, and I can’t answer for whether or not it’ll screw anything up.” His voice was almost pleading. “Captain, by some miracle we’ve managed to keep three boilers operational. But there’re no major repair parts in the entire frigging world.”

Matt’s shoulders slumped and he nodded at the intercom as if Spanky was standing before him. “Very well. Prepare to secure number three.” He turned to the expectant faces in the pilothouse, then glanced out the windows at the Grik ship little more than a mile ahead. “Damn.” He saw disappointment on Keje’s face, in spite of the feline lack of expression. “We’ll get another chance. It’s time we learned something about your ‘Ancient Enemy.’ We must!” He strode back to his chair and looked at the ship ahead.

“Sink it.”

It was dusk when they crept back into the bay. The fuel bunkers were entirely empty and the steam pressure had dropped to the point that maneuvering alongside the dock was out of the question. They dropped anchor close to where they had when they first arrived, and Matt wearily rubbed his eyes. None of the locals came out to see what was happening in the strait in case they needed assistance, and he’d been afraid they’d have to burn the wood anyway. The PBY was floating in its usual spot by the pier and he wondered how much longer it would have been before Lieutenant Mallory squandered some of the precious fuel they’d topped it off with to come and look for them. He saw several figures standing on the wing in the gloom, staring at them even now.

“We’ll start ferrying Keje’s people ashore immediately,” he said. “We’ll warp the ship over in the morning.”

“Do not be discouraged!” Keje admonished him. He’d gotten over his own disappointment and was now almost giddy with their easy success. “You’ve won a great victory, and for my own sake, I’m glad Salissa was with you!”

“He’s right,” said Sandra. She’d been with them on the bridge ever since it became clear that there’d be no battle casualties. She gestured at the city, the lights even now beginning to burn. The dock was again lined with a chaotic throng, only this time instead of panic there was jubilation. “Those people saw their enemy for the first time today, many of them, and now they know that enemy isn’t invincible. It’ll mean a lot.”

“It would have meant more if we could’ve gotten some information, and we still don’t know about that third ship.” In the last moments before Walker destroyed it, the Grik hoisted the same signal the first one had. Nothing was seen by the lookout, so even if there had been another Grik nearby, it probably wasn’t close enough to see the flags. Still…

“As you told me earlier,” Keje reminded Matt, “there will be another time.”

Matt turned to Bernie Sandison. “You have the watch. I’ll escort Captain Keje ashore, or to his ship, if he pleases.” He shifted his gaze to Sandra. “Would you care to accompany us, Lieutenant?”

Sandra smiled. “Of course, Captain. Just let me change.” She took a step away from him and held her arms out. She was still dressed in the surgical smock she’d put on when the ship went to quarters.

“I don’t think-” he began, but Keje put his clawed hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, she should. And so should you, my friend.” Keje looked at him appraisingly. “Wear your fine sword and your finest hat. You.. .” He grinned. “We have just won a great victory! We must look the part!”

Isak Reuben and Gilbert Yager sat on the huge wooden cleat the Catalina was tied to and smoked. They were indifferent to the bustle as well as the repeated calls by Lieutenant Mallory out on the plane to put out their cigarettes. Occasionally, a reveling Lemurian coughed in surprise as it passed through the blue cloud surrounding them. The Mice paid no heed. Finally, Mallory squatted near the wingtip of the flying boat, almost at eye level and just a few yards away. He decided to try reason.

“Look, fellas,” he said, almost shouting over the throng, “if you don’t give a damn about yourselves, think of the plane. Nobody smokes around airplanes!”

Another boatload of Big Sal’s warriors arrived on the dock to be received with cheering calls and stamping feet. Isak took another puff and looked at him. “Don’t care about your damn plane, Army Man,” he said. “All it did was sit there and… float, while our home was out there by itself!”

“Typical,” snorted Gilbert.

Mallory was in no mood to be harsh with the men-especially now. He did wonder where they’d gotten all the smokes, though. For the last hour, all they’d done was sit there and chain-smoke the damn things. Must’ve been Alden. The big Marine always had cigarettes. Some said when he came aboard in Surabaya, his duffel was stuffed with them. He must have loaded them down. And no wonder. Both the men were covered from head to foot with thick, sticky crude. It was matted in their hair and saturated their clothes. All that showed through the slimy black ooze was the whites of their eyes and, of course, the cherries on the ends of their cigarettes. He tried a different approach.

“But, fellas. This is a Navy plane!”

The next time the launch maneuvered to the pier it unloaded to a renewed crescendo of acclaim, which reached a furious peak when Matt, Sandra, and Keje climbed onto the dock. The triumphant crowd immediately mobbed them. Nobody really knew yet what had happened in the strait, but Walker was back and the enemy was gone. For now, that was enough. Sergeant Alden forced his way through the press and spoke briefly in the captain’s ear. Matt stood at least a head taller than most of those around, and he looked about for a moment, his gaze finally settling on the Mice. Isak sucked down a last lungful of smoke.

“Crap. I bet he makes us put ’em out.” Both men stood, leaving sticky blotches of tar on the cleat where they’d been. The captain was moving toward them. Finally, he stopped a few yards away, as if afraid to come any closer with his high-collar white uniform on. The contrast between them couldn’t have been more profound. A strange, instinctual awareness blossomed in the back of Isak’s mind, and his right hand moved upward in an unfamiliar, half-forgotten fashion, gluing his index finger to his forehead.

“We found oil, Skipper, if you please. Not an hour after you left this morning. Right where that Aussie said it’d be.” He paused suddenly, at a loss. He didn’t think he had ever spoken to an officer before he’d been spoken to. The smile that spread across the captain’s face emboldened him, however. “Good thing you weren’t there, sir. ’Specially dressed like that.”

Gilbert nodded in solemn agreement. “Can we come home now?”

The din of celebration ashore had died down to some degree. Earl Lanier didn’t know whether that meant the party was winding down or just moving farther away. He shrugged and wiped sweat from his eyebrows with his furry forearm. The small galley situated beneath the amidships gun platform was his private domain, but sometimes he wondered about the old saying that it was better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. Next to the boiler rooms, the galley was the hottest place on the ship. He might rule there, but he also served, and so as far as he was concerned, it was just hell without any perks at all. Groaning a little, because his stomach always made it inconvenient to stoop, he peered at the loaves baking in the big oven that traversed the aft bulkhead. They were ready. The smell of the bread made with what passed among the locals for flour was strange but not unpleasant, and the taste hinted of pumpkin. The crew complained, of course. Anything different was always the subject of complaint-which struck him as particularly ridiculous under the present circumstances. Lanier didn’t care. As long as it made bread, of a sort, that filled the bellies of the men as they filed by, he was content. They’d have complained if it didn’t taste weird. It was their duty to complain, he supposed, and it didn’t bother him anymore. He knew they’d complain more if there wasn’t anything to eat.

He opened the oven and removed the loaves and set them aside to cool. Then he went to his big copper cauldron and lifted the lid. A rush of wet steam flooded the galley and he grimaced. Inside the cauldron roiled a stew made from one of the local land creatures. He didn’t know what it was, but it looked like a turkey with a tail. A short, stubby tail, to be sure, but a tail by any definition. It also didn’t smell anything like a turkey. He plunged a ladle into the stew and stirred. Dark, unrecognizable chunks of meat pursued one another in the vortex. He raised the ladle to his lips, blew, and sampled the broth. His eyes went wide. “They won’t complain about that,” he muttered. “They won’t even say a word. They’ll just hang me.”

He wiped his greasy hands on his apron and opened the spice cupboard. Not much left, he lamented. Plenty of salt, some curry, but almost no black pepper. Better save that, he judged. He pulled out a large tray heaped with little dried peppers he’d acquired in Java before the Squall and looked at them speculatively. He’d never tried one, but Juan said they were hot as hell. He picked one out and sniffed. Nothing. He touched it with the tip of his tongue. There was a little tingling sensation, but that was all. He grunted.

“What the hell?”

He grabbed a double handful of the peppers and pitched them in the stew. “Sure can’t make it worse,” he said to himself. He also shoveled in another cup of salt. “Fellas need salt,” he muttered piously. “They sweat it out fast enough.”

He stirred the cauldron’s contents and replaced the lid with a metallic clunk. Then he wiped his hands on his apron again and checked the heat. Satisfied, he stepped to the other side of the galley and retrieved his fishing pole. It was a relatively short, stout rod made of a shoot from the curious Baalkpan bamboo. The line was rolled around it with about two feet of woven wire for a leader at the end. The hook was stuck in the handle. He took a stringy piece of the “turkey” innards and impaled it on the hook. The mess attendant, Ray Mertz, slept in a chair near the hatch. He was leaning against the bulkhead with the front legs off the deck. Lanier was tempted to knock the others out from under him, but settled for kicking his foot. The younger man nearly fell anyway when his eyes fluttered open.

“Watch the fires,” said Earl. “Time to get my breakfast.” Ignoring tradition, he whistled “The Krawdad Song” happily but quietly off-key as he strode from under the gun platform. “Bad enough I have to cook the shit,” he told himself. “They can’t expect me to eat it.” Eat it he rarely did. He, almost alone among the crew, liked the silvery flasher-fish. Fried, mostly. The men were just squeamish, he decided. Sure, they’d eat anything that went over the side, from people to turds, but a catfish would too. Fried fish was his favorite food in the world and had been since he was a kid, near Pinedale, Wyoming. There the trout could be had with little effort, and they fulfilled their purpose in life only when they simmered in his skillet.

He stepped to the rail on the starboard side, next to the number one torpedo mount. Not far away, the lights of the city cast their ceaselessly shifting reflection on the small waves around the darkened ship. It was almost eerily quiet. The boilers were cold, and for the first time he could remember, the blowers were silent as well. The only sounds besides water lapping against Walker’s plates were the snores. Most of the crew was ashore on liberty, celebrating the victory, and there was still an hour or more before the first wave of drunken revelers returned to the ship. Many who hadn’t been so fortunate, or who simply decided to forgo the festivities-including some Lemurian “cadets”-were scattered about, sleeping on deck, away from the stifling confines of the berthing spaces. But they were exhausted, and Lanier’s quiet whistling disturbed no one. He rotated the pole in his hand and the “turkey” innards began their slow descent to the water.

“Fishin’?” inquired a quiet voice from behind.

“No,” Lanier sneered, “I’m rootin’ up taters.”

Tom Felts eased up beside him in the gloom. The scrawny gunner’s mate must have the watch, Lanier thought.

“Did you hear them Mice found oil after all?” Felts asked.

The cook nodded. He felt genuine relief over that. “I wonder how long it’ll be before we have any to burn?”

“Not too long, they say. Something about it being ‘sweet,’ or something. ’Cats already have storage tanks built. All they have to do is ship ’em over there and set ’em up. Few days, maybe.” Felts sighed. “Sure hope so. I only thought I felt helpless before the fires went out.”

Lanier nodded in the darkness. He cooked over charcoal, but with the lights out, it was hard to see in the galley. All he had were a couple of little lamps fired by the stinky oil of those big fish the ’cats hunted.

“Yup,” he said, wishing Felts would go away. Suddenly, his pole jerked downward. There was no need to set the hook. Whatever had it, had it. He held on tight as the line whipped back and forth and the end of the pole jerked erratically. He didn’t have a reel, so all he could do was keep tension while the fish tired and when it was spent, he’d drag it aboard. With the leader in the fish’s jaws, the braided line would hold as long as the fish wasn’t much over forty or fifty pounds. He grunted under the strain as it tried to go deep, under the hull.

“Whatcha got?” Felts whispered excitedly.

Lanier risked a quick, incredulous glance. “A fish, you idiot.”

“No, I mean what kind?”

“Christ, Felts,” the cook rasped, still trying to control his voice, “I don’t know what kind any I’ve already caught are! It might be another one of them or it might not. Lay off!”

The fight went on a while longer, Lanier puffing with exertion and the gunner’s mate peering expectantly over the side.

“I think he’s runnin’ out of steam,” offered Felts encouragingly.

Lanier jerked a nod and blew sweat off his upper lip. He glanced behind to make sure the coast was clear. He didn’t want to trample anybody. “Here we go,” he wheezed. He turned and grasped the pole more firmly with his hands and under his arm and lumbered to port.

“Hey!” Felts exclaimed as something thrashed at the surface of the water and thumped and thudded up the side of the ship. Right next to him, less than a yard from his feet, some… thing right out of Felts’s most fevered nightmare squirmed out of the darkness and onto the deck. It was six feet long, with the body of a flat snake except for a feathery “fin” that ran its length, top and bottom. Very much like an eel-except for the head. Its head looked sort of like a normal fish, but its eyes were huge and dark and full of malice and its mouth was stuffed with what seemed like hundreds of ridiculously long, needle-sharp teeth, flashing in jaws that opened impossibly wide. The lights from shore showed a rainbow color that shimmered as it flailed in spastic rage, snapping at the line, the deck… and Felts as it slithered past.

“Goddamn!” he squeaked and jerked back against the rail. Fumbling at his side for the pistol strapped there, he pulled it out, thumbing the safety off. An earsplitting roar shattered the night as he fired at the thing, again and again. Bullets spanged off the deck plates and whined over the water. Pieces of fish and flakes of paint rained down on the men who’d been sleeping nearby. The automatic’s slide locked back, empty, and still Felts pointed it at the fish, jerking the trigger in convulsive panic.

Lanier flung down his pole. “You stupid son of a bitch!” he shrieked. Heads were coming up slowly off the deck as men raised them with understandable caution, and voices called out to one another. The sound of shoes running on steel approached and Chief Campeti arrived with a battle lantern in one hand and a pistol in the other. The Bosun wasn’t far behind, dressed only in T-shirt and skivvies.

“What the hell’s goin’ on here?” Campeti bellowed. “Who fired a weapon?” He shined the lantern around. Eyes, human and Lemurian, squinted in the glare. Finally the beam fell on Felts’s terrified face and the smoking pistol, still outstretched. Campeti redirected the light and involuntarily stepped back. Gray saw the fish too. It was shot to pieces, but its terrible jaws still snapped spasmodically. A hook gleamed brightly, piercing the lower lip, and the line trailed to port.

“Who brought that thing on my deck?” Gray demanded.

“I did!” Lanier snarled, stepping up. ”I work my ass off feeding these goons and I try to catch a little fish for myself and what happens? One of ’em destroys it!” The cook had his filleting knife in his hand and Gray wondered if he meant to use it on Felts. Instead, he knelt beside the twitching fish as if by a dying loved one. The knife moved over the corpse in benediction. “Destroyed,” he lamented. Quite a gathering of half-naked men and entirely naked Lemurians had assembled by now.

“Anybody hurt?” Campeti asked. There were murmured voices, but no replies.

“No eat!” came a voice from the group.

“What?”

“No eat!” One of the cadets edged forward and stared down at the fish. He looked up at Gray. “Bad fish. No eat. Make very… dead sick. Chops? Chopping? Chopper! Chopper fish not food. Eat… dead!”

Gray prodded Lanier with his foot. “You hear that? Felts just saved your worthless life.”

Campeti shined his light at Felts, who’d finally lowered the gun. He was shaking. “You okay?”

Felts gulped. “Snakes, Chief. Ever since I was a kid. Then that thing came whoopin’ up over the side…” He shook his head.

Campeti took the pistol from his hand and nodded. “Me too.” He shook out one of his last cigarettes and handed it over, then lit it for him when the gunner’s mate’s hands shook too much to do it himself.

Lieutenant Garrett had arrived. He wasn’t wearing any more than Gray, but he’d put on his hat. “What’s up, Chief?” he asked, and Gray told him what had happened.

While he was talking, Lanier stood up. “I demand that man be put on report!” he growled. “Shooting a pistol while everyone’s sleepin’, hell, he could’a shot somebody! Not to mention wreckin’ my fish! He’s in your division, Mr. Garrett. What are you gonna do?”

Garrett sighed and looked at Felts. They’d had a tough day and nerves were raw enough. Discipline was essential, but looking at that fish, he probably would have shot at it. “Ahhh…”

“Yeah, and you’re in my division, Lanier,” said Alan Letts, stepping forward. He, like Campeti, was fully dressed, although he hadn’t been on watch. “What am I going to do with you? Creeping around in the middle of the night, releasing dangerous, poisonous creatures to run loose on deck…” There were loud guffaws while Letts shook his head. “I hate to think what the captain would say about that.” More laughter, and Lanier’s chubby face blanched. Letts turned to Gray. “Bosun? Since the deck division seems most affected…” He paused until the laughter died down. “What with the damaged paintwork and the mess…” Even Felts was grinning now. “I suggest if Lieutenant Garrett agrees, you make the call.”

Gray scratched his head and looked at Felts, whose grin immediately faded. Then he glared at Lanier, who wilted about as much as his abrasive personality allowed. When he spoke, his tone was very formal. “Mr. Lanier wouldn’t knowingly allow anything more poisonous than the chow he feeds us aboard the ship”-hoots of glee-“so I hold him blameless so long as he cleans that nasty, slimy thing off my deck.” His glare settled on Felts, who shriveled beneath its intensity. “On the other hand, I think the log should show Gunner’s Mate Felts single-handedly defended the ship and her sleepin’ crew from the sneak attack of a dangerous sea monster- provided I see him hard at work with a chippin’ hammer and a can of paint first thing in the mornin’, erasing all evidence of his heroic deed.” He looked at Garrett. “Lieutenant?”

“If that suits you, Bosun, I guarantee he’ll be here.”

“Mr. Letts?”

“Fine by me. Chief Campeti has the deck, though.”

Campeti shrugged. “Bravest thing I ever saw. Blood everywhere and every shot hit. Boy ought’a get a medal.”

Gray called out to Lanier, shuffling away in disgust. “Let’s see that thing over the side right now, Earl. I don’t want to see it again on my plate.”

As the drama ebbed and the snores resumed, Campeti stayed with Felts. He still had the duty, and he wanted to make sure he was all right.

“That was somethin’,” Felts whispered. “Mr. Letts sure came through. I thought he was ashore. He’s turnin’ into a pretty good guy, for an officer.”

“Yeah,” Campeti muttered. “He was in a mighty good mood.” Sonny Campeti was a man with many faults, and he was honest enough to know it. Spreading rumors wasn’t one of them. Lieutenant Letts had stepped up to the plate beyond anyone’s expectations. He’d gone from a comical, if popular, character to an essential member of the cadre that might get them through this alive. If the lipstick Campeti had seen smeared across his jaw in the light of the battle lantern was responsible for that, he wasn’t going to make a peep. But damn!

Matt and Sandra remained at the celebration long enough to be polite, but the seep and other intoxicants flowed freely enough that they doubted their early departure was even noticed. It was the first time Matt had allowed the crew to really cut loose, and he was a little nervous about that. They’d been told to have a good time (they’d earned it), and there was much to celebrate. He just hoped they wouldn’t celebrate too hard. They’d destroyed two Grik ships and they were beginning to hate the Grik almost as much as the Japanese. The Mice found oil right where Bradford said they would and the Australian’s prestige soared. He was last seen sprawled, insensible, on a pillow with Nakja-Mur. The Mice had disappeared. Matt suspected they’d crept back aboard the ship, and he hated to tell them they were still needed at the well. Again he felt a thrill at the prospect of full bunkers. These long weeks he’d felt so helpless, unable to do anything, and he was haunted by the fact that, somewhere out there, was Mahan. With fuel, they might still save her. What haunted him more, however, was his battle with priorities, and his growing uncertainty over whether Mahan topped the list.

Intensely aware of each other’s presence, Matt and Sandra strolled quietly and companionably in the direction of the pier. When they reached it, the dock was empty, but it hadn’t been for long. A launch burbled slowly to the ship, filled with destroyermen in various states of animation. They were required to report aboard by 0100, and none were to remain ashore overnight. Dowden had gathered a few sober men and formed a “flying” shore patrol and was already sending those who’d become too rowdy back to the ship. He’d make sure they were all rounded up.

They stopped near the cleat where the Mice had been sitting, and Matt remembered to keep his distance. He still wore his sole surviving “dress” uniform. Some men in the launch began a song, and because of Sandra’s presence, he cringed when he recognized it. The words carried over the water even above the boat’s loud motor-it was plain the men were far more interested in volume than quality. The loudest voice sounded suspiciously like Lieutenant McFarlane:

The boys out in the trenches

Have got a lot to say

Of the hardships and the sorrows

That come the soldier’s way.

But we destroyer sailors

Would like their company

On a couple of trips in our skinny ships

When we put out to sea!

“Nice night,” Matt said, lamely trying to distract Sandra from the chorus, but it was no use. It was the men’s favorite part and they always belted it out.

Oh, it’s roll and toss

And pound and pitch

And creak and groan, you son of a bitch!

Oh, boy, it’s a hell of a life on a destroyer!

Matt glanced at Sandra, expecting to see her cover her mouth with her hand in shock or something, but instead she grinned.

Oh, Holy Mike, you ought to see

How it feels to roll through each degree.

The goddamn ships were never meant for sea!

You carry guns, torpedoes, and ash-cans in a bunch,

But the only time you’re sure to fire

Is when you shoot your lunch!

Your food it is the Navy bean,

You hunt the slimy submarine.

It’s a son-of-a-bitch of a life on a destroy-er!

Sandra did cover her mouth now, giggling. The boat was nearing the ship. There was no moon and in spite of her new, lighter shade, they only vaguely made out Walker’s form in the darkness. She seemed forlorn out there with no lights, and moored away from the dock like an outcast. The song’s last verse reached them with less vigor, as if the singers sensed the mood of loneliness as they came alongside. Or maybe now, after all they’d been through with the old four-stacker, they were less inclined to hurt her feelings. The last verse was more somber anyway.

We’ve heard of muddy dug-outs,

Of shell holes filled with slime,

Of cootie hunts and other things

That fill a soldier’s time.

But believe me, boys, that’s nothing,

To what it’s like at sea,

When the barometer drops

And the clinometer hops

And the wind blows dismally.

“They’re fine men, Captain Reddy. Your crew,” Sandra said softly.

“Yes, they are.” He sighed. “And that makes it even harder.”

“What? Using them up?”

He looked at her, surprised, but nodded. “Yeah, and that’s what I’m doing. I’ve gotten them into a war I know nothing about.” He shook his head. “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I know there wasn’t a choice. We haven’t had a choice since we went through the Squall. I’m not even complaining about that. However inconvenient it’s made our lives, it saved us. It’s just…” He couldn’t tell her how he felt. Especially couldn’t tell her about the doubts and nightmares and guilt he felt over Mahan. He’d made so many mistakes! And he definitely couldn’t tell her how he felt about her. He changed the subject.

“You came out on the old Langley, right?” She nodded. The Langley was America’s first real aircraft carrier. She’d been built on a merchant’s hull and had a goofy flight deck erected above the superstructure, earning her the nickname Covered Wagon. By modern standards, she looked very strange and was too small and slow to be considered a real carrier anymore, even before the war. She’d been transporting P-40s to Java when Japanese planes hammered her. She was helpless under the assault, and it was the most terrified Sandra had ever been-up to that time.

“We’d been on sweeps off Bawean Island, looking for the Jap invasion fleet for Java when we heard about Langley,” he said. “We were heading to Surabaya to refuel when Doorman turned us around.” Matt’s voice became a quiet monotone as he stared across the water at Walker’s silhouette. “The Japs were off Bawean. We’d just missed them. We took off so fast, Pope couldn’t catch us.” He grimaced. “Not that it made any difference. As soon as we cleared the mines, we came under air attack again and there was nothing we could do but take it. We had a total of eight fighters left, and the Dutch were saving them to use against the invasion as it landed.” He snorted. “Eight planes weren’t going to stop the invasion force, but they might’ve helped us find it, and kept the Jap planes off our backs.” He was silent for several moments before he continued. Sandra waited patiently, quietly.

“The Jap screen for the invasion convoy wasn’t much heavier than us, for once, but we had no air cover at all. The Japs corrected their fire with spotting planes throughout the battle. It was a hell of a thing to see, though. Cruisers aren’t battleships, but even cruisers look damned impressive steaming parallel, blasting away at each other. Of course all we could do was watch.” He took a deep, bitter breath. “Exeter got hit, and a few minutes later, Kortenaer took one of those big Jap torpedoes. She just blew up. Edwards was right on her tail and had to swerve. By the time we went past, she was upside down, folded in half. We didn’t see anybody in the water.

“Electra, one of the Brit destroyers, made a torpedo attack alone, to distract the Japs from finishing Exeter. She was flying the biggest flag I ever saw…” Taking off his hat, he passed his hand over his head and stared at the lights on the water, remembering. “I guess every Jap ship in the line concentrated on her. All we saw was waterspouts, then steam and smoke… then nothing.” He shook his head with sad amazement. “It was getting dark and I guess Doorman’d had enough. We charged in and launched torpedoes while the cruisers turned away, but nobody got a single hit.”

He shrugged. “We did break the Jap formation, though, and Doorman got away. You got to give him credit for guts. As soon as we gave them the slip, Doorman went looking for the transports again. We didn’t. We were out of torpedoes and nearly out of fuel, and our engines were finished after running thirty knots all through the fight. Binford ordered us back to Surabaya.”

The launch’s engine could be heard again as it shoved off to return to the dock and await another load.

“Doorman wasn’t an idiot. I didn’t like the way they put him in charge, but his biggest problem was he never knew what he was up against, never knew what he was facing or even where the enemy was. Now I know how he must’ve felt. We don’t know what we’re facing either, and like I said when we first helped Big Sal…” He stopped and looked at her. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we did! These people, Keje, Adar, Chack, even Nakja-Mur, they’re good people. They’ve helped us and deserve our help in return. I just didn’t feel right getting the men involved in a war we know nothing about. The Grik are bad news, maybe even worse than the Japs. They need to be defeated and, however it happened, we’re here now, and we’ll never be safe until they are. We’ve had it pretty easy so far, but there has to be more to the Grik than these little two- or three-ship task forces. Somehow, we’ve got to find out!”

“How?”

He grinned at her. “I don’t know, but I’m working on it. Any ideas?”

Sandra smiled. She suddenly knew he would never have shown such vulnerability with anyone else on the ship. He wouldn’t have spoken of any of this. What did that mean? “What happened to Doorman?” she asked. Matt’s grin vanished.

“He ran into the Japs again that night. DeRuyter and Java were sunk. Exeter and Encounter made it back to Surabaya-where you came on the stage. Houston and Perth got slaughtered trying to make it through the Sunda Strait.”

“All because they didn’t know what they were up against.” She looked speculatively at the PBY floating nearby. “But now we have air cover and the enemy doesn’t.”

He followed her gaze. “Well, yeah, but unless we can make more fuel for it, it won’t be much help. That’s not out of the question, and we’re going to try. Mallory says it’ll burn gasoline, which we should be able to do, but it needs high-octane stuff. I don’t know squat about that, but Bradford does and as soon as we have a decent reserve for the ship, he’s going to try to sort it out.” He shrugged and looked at the Catalina like one might a worn-out horse, wondering if it had the stamina for a few more miles or not. “Of course, parts to keep it in the air are even more impossible than the things we need for the ship.”

“How much fuel does it have?” Sandra asked. “Enough to look for Mahan?”

When Matt answered, his voice was without inflection. It was a habit she’d noticed he used when he’d agonized over a decision and come to one he didn’t like. “Maybe. But fuel’s not really the issue. We tanked her up, and we have enough in drums on the ship to fill her again. But even if we had all the fuel in the world, I can’t send anyone up in that thing unless Walker’s close behind. Not unless I have to. Riggs thinks he can fix its radio, and that might make a difference. Until then, I won’t chance stranding somebody. It might also be different if we had some idea where Mahan is, but we don’t. ‘West of Sumatra’ a few weeks ago is too damn vague to risk men’s lives. For all we know, she’s sunk… or the Grik have her already.” He sighed. “My conscience tells me to chase her as soon as we have the fuel; she’s my responsibility. But Walker’s my responsibility too, and I won’t risk her on another wild-goose chase until we know the other team’s lineup. Mahan and our friends’ll have to wait-they’d understand.”

“Do Mr. Mallory and Mr. Brister understand?” she asked. “I know they’re pretty hot to look.”

He set his jaw. “It doesn’t matter if they understand. It’s my responsibility.”

“It does matter. They feel like they left them too. I think you should talk to them. Explain.” She hesitated, and bit her lip before she spoke again. “Weren’t you just criticizing the Dutch for being too timid with their planes?”

Matt smiled, acknowledging the hit, but shook his head. “It’s not the same. That plane is precious, beat up as it is. But I will risk it if I have to, and I’m pretty sure I will. But only in coordination with the ship. If I learned anything from Admiral Doorman-or the whole experience of the Asiatic Fleet-it was to never ride a tricycle in front of a steamroller with your eyes closed. Are the Grik a steamroller?” He shrugged. “The ’cats make ’em sound scary enough-and they are scary-but if all they have in the Java Sea is a dozen ships-” He grinned. “Ten now-maybe they’re the tricycle and we don’t have anything to worry about.” He held his fingers apart. “We were that close to maybe finding out today. Just a few gallons of fuel might have set our minds at ease. Now…” He paused. “Unlike Admiral Doorman, I don’t intend to chase shadows or hang ourselves out in the breeze until-” He stopped, and a strange expression crossed his face. “Until they come to us…” He grinned. “Or maybe I will!”

“What?”

“Just an idea. I’ll tell you later.” He gestured at the arriving launch, and one of the men clambered onto the dock. He seemed surprised to see the captain. “Are you ready to go back to the ship, Skipper?”

Matt glanced at Sandra. She shook her head.

“Not just yet.”

Another man climbed from the boat, cursing. It was Tony Scott, trying to get farther from the water-at least until the next load forced him to cross it again. The two destroyermen stayed discreetly out of earshot.

“You’re not using them up,” Sandra said in a quiet voice. “The men, I mean. The world-this world, the one we left-it doesn’t matter. The world uses them up despite anything you do. If you’re not careful, you can use yourself up. You love your men. They know it and so do I.” She looked up at him and, for a moment, he saw the lights of the city shining in her eyes. “And we all love you for it. That and other things.” He swallowed, trying to remain impassive. What did she mean by that?

“We love you because we know you’ll do whatever you can to keep us safe. But we also know we’re at war. No matter what else has changed, that hasn’t, and sometimes you have to risk the thing you love to keep it safe.” She nodded toward the ship. “They know that, and they know because you’re the man you are, you’ll risk them if you have to.” She sighed. “When we have fuel, we could just leave. We could go to the Philippines, or Australia. Maybe find fuel there. Eventually get to Hawaii, or even the West Coast. Maybe there aren’t any Grik there. Maybe there’s something just as bad, but what if there’s not? We’d be ‘safe,’ but what then? We need friends if we’re going to survive, and we’ve been lucky and made some. They happen to be in a fight for their lives. Besides being the best way to keep us safe, in the long run, helping them is the right thing to do. Your men understand that, Captain Reddy, and I bet if you put it to a vote, most would choose to stay. They know they might die. Life on a destroyer’s dangerous work. They could have died ‘back home’ any day of the week, a thousand different ways, before the war even started. So the best way you can ensure that most won’t die is to continue doing your job the best you know how. And when the time comes, fight your ship! Don’t worry about what you can’t control-just fight to win!” She grinned then, her small teeth flashing. “And quit feeling guilty for getting us into this mess! It was an accomplishment, not a failure!”

“I, ah, how…?”

Her grin became a gentle smile. “I live only two doors down, ‘doors’ being thin green curtains, and you talk in your sleep.”

He cleared his throat and looked in the direction of the sailors near the launch.

“No, not bad,” she assured him. “But I know you blame yourself for everything from Marvaney’s death to losing Mahan.” Her smile faded. “That has to stop. If you don’t start getting some rest while you sleep, you will start making mistakes.”

He nodded at her. “I’ll try. And thanks, Lieutenant.”

She gave him a stern look. “You call the other officers by their first names in informal situations, why not me?”

“Well, because…”

“Because I’m a woman? I’m also your friend. At least I hope so. I think Keje even still thinks I’m your wife! Don’t you think we could use first names, at least when no one’s watching?”

Matt felt his cheeks burn, but nodded. He wondered how slippery a slope that would prove to be. “Okay… Sandra. But only when nobody’s watching.” His voice was quite serious as he spoke. “I’m sure you must know why.”

Of course she knew why, and as she suspected, it was duty that kept him distant. Duty to his men. She felt a thrill to realize he really was interested in her, but also a deep sadness that the situation prevented them from acknowledging it. She forced a smile.

“Yes, Matthew. I understand.”

Right then, the look on her face, the tone of her voice-he might have kissed her in spite of everything, to hell with the consequences. If Silva hadn’t intervened. More precisely, if the growing calamity of the spectacle that Silva was generating hadn’t done so.

A rampaging super lizard would have seemed sedate compared to his arrival. He was literally wearing half of Dowden’s “flying” shore patrol. Even as they watched, one of Dowden’s men-Fred Reynolds-went “flying” dangerously close to the edge of the pier. On second glance, he wouldn’t have fallen, since he was chained to Silva’s wrist.

“Lemme go!” he roared. “Where’d you take my girl? I’m in the mood for luuuve!”

“Oh, my God.”

Not to be outdone by his predecessors, Dennis began singing as the men wrestled him closer to the captain: “I joined the Nay-vee to see the world! And what did I see? I saw the sea! I’m not… I won’t?. .. I don’t get seasick, but I’m awful sick of seeeaa!” He vomited on Reynolds, who was lying at his feet. “Archg! Sorry, boy…” He looked wildly around. “Where’s my girl? My lady love! I ain’t through dancin’ yet!” He proceeded into an astonishingly graceful waltz-for a drunk with two men hanging on him and another chained to his arm. He stopped suddenly, as though surprised at himself, and hooted: “I’m a Grammaw!” Then he saw the captain. He came to swaying, exaggerated attention and saluted, dragging poor Reynolds to his feet. “Eav-nin’, Skipper! Lootenit Tucker!”

“Mr. Silva.” Matt nodded. “You seem… true to form.”

“Aye, aye, sir! Cheap seep! Hell, it’s free!” He belched loudly.

“Are you ready to return to the ship? Peacefully?”

Silva blinked, looking around. “Hell, no! These bastards has… adducted… obstructed… swiped me from my wife!”

“What? What? Mr. Dowden, what’s the meaning of this?” Before Larry could even begin to explain, there came a shriek from the darkness.

“Si-vaa!” Two brindled shapes ran toward them, one ahead of the other. The first, obviously female, leaped on the gunner’s mate and, combined with his other passengers, nearly knocked him down at last. Matt thought she was attacking him until she wrapped her arms around his neck and started licking his face.

“There’s my darlin’ angel!” he cooed.

The other brindled shape caught up and slammed to attention, but even in the dark, it was clear that Chack-Sab-At was quivering with rage.

“What the hell’s going on here!” Matt bellowed. “Silva, what have you done?”

“Cap-i-taan!” said Chack, “that’s my sister, Risa. She is unwell. That giant… creature has intoxicated her and…”

“He mate? He marry me!” Risa squealed happily. “He Sab-At clan now!”

“Never!” seethed Chack. Sandra’s hand now covered her mouth in earnest, but Matt couldn’t tell if she was hiding shock or laughter.

“My God, Silva, I swear! If you’ve done anything to damage our relationship with these people, or if you forced… God! Are you insane? I’ll hang you!”

“Skipper, I’ll swear on a Bible or Marvaney’s record stack-whatever you say-”

“You lie!” shouted Chack.

“He no lie!” Risa purred. “Nobody mad but silly Chack. People no mad. People no… embarrassed? By mate! Si-vaa love Risa!”

The shore party, those that could, eased away. Chack’s ears were back and his tail swished like a cobra. He looked about to strike. Matt was preparing another volcanic response when Sandra tugged his sleeve and whispered in his ear. He looked sharply at her and was incredulous when he saw her nod.

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” he promised darkly. “Mr. Chack, please escort your sister to her Home. At the very least, she seems. .. indisposed.”

“But… Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan.”

“What about my weddin’ night?” Silva moaned, and Matt turned to him.

“My orders were that all personnel be back aboard by 0100. Since you had no special permission, you may not stay ashore to… consummate your ‘marriage,’ nor may you do so on my ship! USS Walker is not a honeymoon barge!” He paused. There was one way to find out if Sandra was right. “Tomorrow I’ll speak to Keje and Nakja-Mur and discover what further process, if any, is required to finalize your and Risa’s… nuptials. Perhaps a joint ceremony?”

He was rewarded by a marked widening of Silva’s surprisingly sober eyes. Getting even with Chack was one thing, but he wouldn’t enjoy the consequences of including his captain in the joke.

“Nighty night, sugar-lips!” Silva said, and gave Risa a kiss, which she returned with evident relish.

God, I hope it is a joke! Matt thought with a shudder.

After Chack stiffly led his sister away and a suddenly docile Silva was carried to the ship, Matt removed his hat and rubbed his eyes. “Jesus!”

Sandra laughed. “Is this the way it always was with these guys, back in the Philippines?”

“No! Well, yeah, but… yeah.” He smiled.

“I told Chack to watch his back.” Sandra chuckled. “I wonder when he’ll figure it out?”

“I wonder if it’s over!”

“You don’t think he really…?” Sandra gasped.

“If we’re not surrounded by angry ’cats with torches in the morning, I’m going to pretend it never happened. But I guarantee Silva won’t have the last laugh!” For a moment, the pier was empty again, but the electric tension between them was damped. Just as well.

Sandra cleared her throat. “Earlier, you said you had an idea. What was it?”

“What? Oh. Well, let me see if I can put my thoughts back together!”