Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556) Read online

  Commodore Jim Ellis from USS Dowden collected Alan Letts and came out to the massive ship, joining them in Keje’s spacious “admiral’s quarters,” now substituting for Big Sal‘s old “Great Hall.” As the evening progressed, more commanders gathered of their own accord. Generals Rolak and Maraan returned, and Captain Jis-Tikkar (Tikker)—commander (COFO) of Big Sal’s 1st Air Wing—“drifted by.” Geran-Eras and Al Vernon arrived from Humfra-Dar, and that set off a flood of other naval officers. Soon, Cablaas-Rag-Laan from USS Scott, Jarrik-Fas from USS Nakja-Mur, and Mescus-Ricum from Kas-Ra-Ar joined them, as did the captains of all the other DDs in port; Haakar-Faask, Naga, Bowles, Felts, Saak-Fas, Clark, Davis, and Ramic-Sa-Ar. All the warships in First Fleet except Tassa’—and those in Task Force Garrett, of course—were now represented. Finally, realizing the “big meeting” was forming up regardless of how the Donaghey and Tolson situation turned out, Pete Alden went ahead and sent for the commanders of the various land forces as well. It was good to have everyone together; it was rare that such meetings took place. For the time, however, there was little for anyone to talk about, and there was an awkward air in the vast compartment.

  Scrawny, redheaded “Colonel” Billy Flynn approached Pete through the crowd. His mustache and chin whiskers were going white, and he was twisting the ends of the mustache unconsciously, in the Imperial style. At least he hasn’t started braiding it, Pete thought. This was only the second time he’d seen the fortyish former submariner since the man arrived with his “Amalgamated” regiment a few weeks before. Since then, the regiment, composed of volunteers from a wide variety of Homes and settlements not yet official members of the Grand Alliance, had been on training maneuvers in the hills.

  “Evening, General,” Flynn said, with only a trace of irony. He remembered when Pete was just a sergeant. Of course, Pete recalled when Flynn was just the chief of the boat on S-19.

  “Billy,” Pete greeted him. “How are your fellas shaping up?”

  “Swell, although more than half aren’t ‘fellas.’ ” Flynn lowered his voice. “Female troops sure take getting used to!”

  “Tell me,” Pete agreed. “That’s the way these ’Cats are. Most of them, anyway. You won’t catch me complaining about how they fight, though. How about you? How are you doing since you traded your flippers for a bayonet?”

  “You can have my flippers, and my dolphins too, in this kooky sea,” Flynn replied. “I’ll take a bayonet any day. I saw my share of shore fighting at Baalkpan as you’ll recall, and that wasn’t nearly as scary as swimming with fish that could eat my old boat.” He shook his head. “You know, I was in the Army once. In the Great War, back home. I was seventeen. The only part of France I ever saw was covered with trenches, shell holes, and rotten body parts. Next thing you know, they snatched me up, put me in the British Army, and made me fight Bolsheviks in the snow and ice! I didn’t really mind that so much, you know? Fightin’ those Red devils was kind of like fighting Grik—they’d just come at you in swarms. The Brit commanders weren’t much account; the only guys you could really rely on besides ours were these Canuk artillerymen. . . .” Billy shrugged. “Anyway, after that was over with, they cut us loose, and if a kid wanted to stay in the service and get fed regular, he had to be willing to do scary, unusual stuff.” He grinned. “So I joined the Navy and went in subs.”

  “You probably could have had a ship, here,” Pete said.

  “Nah. I like what I’m doing. My ‘Amalgamated’ may not be Marines, but I’d stack them up against any Army regiment!”

  “I bet Queen Maraan would argue that!”

  Flynn chuckled. “Now, Pete, the Black and Silver Battalions of her ‘Six Hundred’ might as well be Marines! They train with ’em, after all.”

  “So? Everybody trains the same now. The Marines spend more time on landing ops and close quarters melee combat like they might run into on a ship, but that’s about it.” He paused. “And, of course, your ‘Amalgamated’ is ‘elite’ in the sense that they have the first rifles.” Pete shook his head. “I still don’t think that’s fair!”

  “I thought you were hot for ‘smoothbores,’ and ‘buck and ball.’ ”

  “I am . . . for these ‘line up and blast away’ tactics we have to use, but if everybody had rifles—especially the breechloaders Bernie Sandison’s been promising—we could kill the bastards before they get close. What’s the latest dope on that, anyway?”

  “My regiment carries muzzle-loading rifle-muskets,” Flynn confirmed, “but they’re only fifty caliber instead of the standard sixty-two. Ordnance has settled on a fifty-eighty cartridge that I understand will kick like a mule but still uses the same bullet and rifling twist as the guns in my regiment. That way, when the time comes to convert ’em, all they have to do is install that trapdoorlike breechblock Silva came up with, ream a chamber, and alter the hammer. Simple. Your smoothbores’ll have to be rebarreled, or have a rifled liner installed. In fact, it’s my understanding the plan is to send out hammers and ‘barreled actions’ for replacement in the field to save the time and effort of shipping the guns back and forth. You’ll get the new stuff and send back the old. They’ll convert ’em and either build new guns around them, or send them out to another unit to do the same.”

  Pete was impressed. “Say, that makes sense!” He shook his head. “It still isn’t fair. I’ve got one whole corps of veteran troops still armed with bows and spears, and you show up with rifles!”

  “It helps to have friends in high places,” Flynn said, “and to become operational right when a batch of rifles is ready to be sent out!”

  “Well . . . just remember, your troops are riflemen! I know they’ve got bayonets, but I don’t want them close enough to the enemy to use them unless it’s absolutely necessary, got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Commodore” Jim Ellis brought Alan Letts, Lord General Rolak, and Safir Maraan to join Flynn and Alden. He was looking around the crowd. “You know, Keje’s going to have to feed this bunch, or run them off.”

  “Hello, Jim. Rolak.” Pete bowed to Queen Maraan. “Your Highness.” He shook Alan’s offered hand. “Mr. Letts.” He gestured around. “When I suggested we bring you out here, I envisioned a . . . less crowded environment where we could put our heads together. It looks like you might’ve parachuted right into a swamp full of alligators. I wish you could’ve had more time to get your bearings.”

  Letts nodded. His fair skin had suffered during the long flight from Baalkpan and his face looked like a radish. In a few days, he’d start to peel. “It’s liable to be a challenge,” he agreed, “but this is exactly the sort of thing I pitched at Adar to get him to let me come. I guess we still haven’t heard anything?”

  Pete shook his head but looked around the compartment for Keje. He located him near the big, ornately carved table, talking with Geran-Eras from Humfra-Dar, Tikker, Al, Lieutenant Leedom, and other wing leaders. He noticed a few stewards had begun to circulate with trays and large pitchers.

  “I fear we will have to cancel the game,” Safir interjected, trying to lighten the conversation. Lemurians had recently taken to baseball like fiends, and upon learning it was traditional, nearly every ship in the “new” Navy had formed a team. Some of the Army and Marine regiments followed suit. Most weren’t very good yet, and their grasp of the rules was still somewhat vague, but there’d been an ongoing tournament on Andaman, and Safir’s Silver Battalion team had been slated to take on Dowden’s the following evening.

  “We may have to postpone it,” Jim allowed. As its coach, he was justifiably proud of Dowden’s team. The Dowdens and Silvers were the best in the “First Fleet League,” and it had promised to be a great game. “Maybe we’ll reschedule it to be the first ball game in the history of Ceylon.”

  “Hear, hear!” Rolak growled. The old warrior wasn’t much interested in baseball. It struck him as a confusing waste of energy for adults to “play” what resembled a “youngling’s game” when they could be training
for battle, but he wasn’t insensitive to the genuine entertainment it appeared to provide everyone. Safir called him a “grump” and implied he didn’t like the game because he couldn’t understand it. Maybe she was right, but he was utterly in favor of playing baseball on Ceylon, because that would mean they’d taken it.

  The snack trays gave way to a full-meal spread, laid out buffet style, as the night progressed. There were consistent reports from Donaghey, carried by a short little orange-furred female ’Cat in the comm division. She was as anxious as everyone to hear the news, and she’d been on duty far longer than the roster prescribed; yet regardless of Garrett’s reports, the issue remained in doubt. Everyone present in Salissa’s admiral’s quarters seemed to sense a growing fatalism in the periodic messages, however, and the atmosphere and conversations among the leaders of First Fleet began to resemble a deathbed vigil. Garrett’s words remained hopeful, but his position estimates, plotted on the big map in the compartment for everyone to see, kept showing Donaghey and Tolson inexorably closer to the enemy shore.

  Shortly after midnight, the orange furred “signalman” appeared once more, and Pete took the message form from her hand and gazed at the words. “Well,” he said, in the suddenly quiet compartment, “they’re going in.” He looked around, and his gaze fastened on Keje. “Both of them.” He strode to the map and pointed. “They can’t make it around this point here, east of Matara. Garrett says the tide’s running, and there’s a sandy shore. . . . They’re going in together—trying to stay close. He says they’ll resume contact if they make it in one piece—and don’t lose the transmitter.” He rubbed his brow. “His best estimate is five degrees, fifty-six north, by eighty degrees, thirty-two east.” Pete glanced at the orange ’Cat. “Run on now. Maybe we’ll get something else.” When she was gone, he faced the gathered officers. “I guess now we know where they’ll be, one way or another. We have good charts of the coast now, and Rolak’s pet has told us where things are.” He paused. “I know some of you haven’t met ‘Hij Geerki’ and probably wonder why we pay attention to him. . . . Well, I won’t try to explain now, but suffice it to say, his advice makes sense. Now we can start making plans.” He nodded at Keje and handed him the message form.

  Keje also scanned the page in the lingering silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “First Fleet will complete preparations for getting underway tomorrow. . . .” He paused and frowned. “Later today, as soon as is practicable. Haste is essential, but so are those preparations. You must spare no important arrangements. If you cannot in conscience sail with the fleet, make it known immediately. There will be no shame—this incident has taken us all by surprise. Mr. Letts will compile a list of any units not entirely ready for embarkation, and which ships, for mechanical or supply reasons, cannot sail today. These will be formed into a secondary squadron and provided with suitable protection to move as soon as possible.” He paused and took a deep breath.

  “My friends, we’ve worked and sacrificed for this moment a long, long time. True, the exact moment may have been forced upon us”—he flicked his large red-brown eyes at Alden—“but it is our moment, regardless.” He paused. “As has recently been pointed out to me, I was not ‘on the ground’ at Raan-goon, though Salissa’s planes participated in that fight, and I understand the nature of our Ancient Enemy grows even darker and more abominable as we strike at their lands. Saa-lon and Indi-aa are long-established territories—perhaps even the jewels of their eastern empire. Wresting them away will not win the war, but it may strangle the enemy of vast resources, just as it undermines their sense of racial superiority—the Grik have never been on the defensive before! Raan-goon was an isolated outpost. They may not even know it’s lost. There will be no way they can hide or ignore the loss of Saa-lon and Indi-aa, and we cannot foresee what effect that will have on their society as a whole.” Keje sipped from a cup of seep a steward had handed him.

  “I can foresee the advantages we will gain! No more will we be fighting on Mi-Anaaka—Lemurian—land, where our younglings and old ones suffer so gravely. No more will our land Homes be ruined by battles! As the Grik are pushed back, our own defenses grow deeper, more secure. We will gain the resources and even the ‘in-dust-rees’ the enemy has developed there, including much steel, and even something like this ‘rubber’ that our makers of things so crave! We must expect the Grik to ‘adapt,’ to make efforts to counter our straa-ti-gees, and it’s essential we keep our eyes peeled for ever more imaginative traps such as that set for Task Force Garrett. Do not grow complacent; do not expect the Grik to continue always as before. We are invading his world now, and just as we made changes with the help of the first Amer-i-caan destroyermen, to defend our Homes, we have to expect the Grik to do the same—perhaps with the aid of their ‘Jaaps,’ their ‘Cap-i-taan Kuro-kaawa.” He took another sip, and held his cup high. “May the Heavens protect and guide us in this noble endeavor, just as they always so unfailingly direct us through all the perilous seas of life!”

  There rose a determined cheer, and the enthusiastic stamping on the deck reverberated throughout the abbreviated superstructure of Salissa Home—USS Salissa (CV-1).

  CHAPTER 3

  Off New Scotland, southeast of the New Britain Isles, in the “Eastern Sea”

  USS Walker (DD-163), the old “four-stacker” destroyer and possibly the sole survivor of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet on a lost, increasingly less relevant “earth,” slashed through the brisk, breezy sea off the southwest coast of New Scotland. On that dimming world she’d been swept from—saved from, most likely—by an eerie, anomalous squall, New Scotland would have been several islands, including Maui, Molokai, Lanai, and Kahoolawe. Here, due to lower sea levels (there was now definitive evidence this “earth” was locked in an “ice age”) and the random nature of volcanism, the clustered islands were one. The old destroyer had been healed of the recent damage she’d sustained, and she bounced through the swells on three boilers like a happy puppy racing to meet a massive, full-grown playmate she hadn’t seen in ages.

  At long last, Task Force “Oil Can,” composed of the stupendous Le- murian seagoing Home, Salaama-Na, two more “Amer-i-caan” steam frigates, some sailing tenders and dedicated oilers, and the Imperial steamers Ulysses and Icarus, had arrived. Salaama-Na dominated the squadron with her huge sails, or “wings,” and it was toward her, flagship of the task force, that Walker sped. Unlike some others of the great Homes, Salaama-Na hadn’t been altered into an aircraft carrier, or more appropriately, a seaplane carrier/tender. Her beautiful, awesome lines hadn’t been altered in any way. That was one reason it had taken her so long to arrive—she, like others of her kind, was very, very slow—but it didn’t make her a less welcome sight.

  Captain Matthew Reddy, “High Chief” of the ever-growing “Amer-i-caan” clan, CINCAAF, (Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces—by acclamation), and more specifically—currently—CINCEAST, was grinning broadly at the sight of the huge ship. His green eyes, often capable of icy remorselessness, sparkled with pleasure, and his mood was reflected by the mixed human/Lemurian—“American”—crew around him in Walker’s pilothouse, and indeed, throughout his veteran ship. Matt had been grinning a lot lately, despite the added pressure and responsibility of a “whole new war” here in what their allies considered an impossibly distant “far east.” Nearly two years of constant war and the associated stress had taken their toll, but that was a kind of stress for which he’d always been well equipped. His long funk had suddenly been erased by almost-miraculous news of a very personal nature. Compared to the relief that gave him, even an added theater in an apparently endlessly growing war seemed barely able to touch him.

  “That Salaama-Na is sure a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I’d rather she was one of the flat-tops, converted or new, but I don’t think anything quite as impressive as one of those seagoing Homes has ever put to sea on this world or back home!”

  “She’s a welcome sight, and that’s a fact,” agreed Brad “Spank
y” McFarlane in his gruff but amiable way. Spanky was a little guy; short and skinny, but the power of his personality and supreme engineering authority always left people the impression he was bigger than he was. He’d been Walker’s engineering officer—a “mustang”—ever since she joined the old Asiatic Fleet, and he and Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray had been with the ship longer than anyone now alive. Spanky was Minister of Naval Engineering for the entire Alliance, but he’d also recently become Walker’s executive officer. There was no question which of the two he personally considered the more important job. “I think I’m happier to see the oilers she’s got with her! This little jaunt to meet our friends is liable to leave our bunkers suckin’ air!” he added.

  Chief Gray grunted agreement. In contrast to Spanky, Gray was almost as tall as Captain Reddy and even more powerfully built—despite being “in the vicinity” of sixty. The flab he’d accumulated after years on the China Station had reverted to muscle since “the Squall,” and, physically, he’d thrived on their adventures. He’d also become something far beyond a chief bosun’s mate, although that “something” was still ill-defined. Carl Bashear had taken his old job aboard Walker, but even he considered Gray as something like a “super bosun.” Most of the surviving original destroyermen from Walker and her lost sister Mahan had been promoted, many to a lofty status; so had the survivors of the old submarine S-19. Matt refused to appoint himself anything higher than captain, but he’d been acclaimed commander in chief, and there was only one “Captain Reddy.” For Gray, it was even more complicated. He wore a lot of different hats now; he commanded the Captain’s Guard detail, for example, but he’d been the highest-ranking NCO on Walker, and for his deeds and vast moral authority, he’d become the most exalted NCO in the Alliance. Few officers would’ve even considered actually giving him an order. He’d even refused orders issued by Adar, the High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, because they’d interfered with his Navy oath! What kind of “promotion” could possibly have meaning for the man? Matt thought he finally had it and was toying with the establishment of “Chief Bosun of the Navy,” which would basically confirm Gray’s “super bosun” status.