5
The War Room in Adar’s Great Hall grew more crowded all the time. The small office where the military ministers once gathered to quietly discuss the conduct of the “Great War” had been abandoned, and the name War Room now described the greater part of the entire lower level of the hall. There were still offices for all the original ministers, of course—Defensive Works, Communications and Electrical Contrivances, Medicine, Naval Engineering, Science, Ordnance, and so forth—but now there were offices for Logistics and Planning, Personnel, Manufacture, Finance, and Strategic Intelligence as well. New offices were constantly required as the bureaucracy of war expanded, and Adar, High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, became increasingly confused and annoyed by it all. Yet as he’d recently, forcefully reminded everyone, he was Chairman, and would henceforth remain engaged in all things pertaining to the unimaginably vast war facing his people, of whatever race or clan. That meant he must not only be present but also decisive at all meetings—such as the one about to commence.
The Great Hall was once elevated, in the Lemurian way, and built to encompass the mighty Galla tree that symbolized the ancient Lemurian homeland on, it was now believed, Madagascar. The many branches of the tree represented the different directions the People fled to escape the ancient Grik enemy so long ago that few could even guess at the time that had passed. The tree was believed to be a legacy of the fabled land of their ancestors, planted by the first arrivals on southeastern Borno to establish this land Home in the first place. There were other . . . almost-Galla trees around Baalkpan, but they’d been crossbred by local flora to some degree. The only pure Gallas were in the Fil-pin Lands, aboard some of the seagoing Homes, or on Great South Island.
No longer elevated, the Hall had “grown” all the way to the ground. Expanding upward had been deemed structurally difficult, and it was impossible to build outward into the surrounding Parade Ground; that peaceful, shady expanse had become a cemetery for the growing number of war dead that preferred burial to cremation. Even if that number remained a minority, the Parade Ground would remain a memorial park to all those who’d given their lives, human and Lemurian. Building to the ground was contrary to custom and even the Sacred Scrolls, which strongly suggested structures be elevated to protect from predators and floods, but Baalkpan was so well fortified against both now as to virtually eliminate that concern. Besides, they needed more room.
Adar sat on his favorite stiffly stuffed cushion in the noisy War Room and looked about at the animated blinking of Mi-Anaaka, and the still-more-animated human faces. Many present were good friends, but others he hardly knew. Some were new enough to their posts that he didn’t know them at all, and he felt a sudden longing for the old days, when Baalkpan was surrounded by Grik and faced extermination. Those were desperate times and he didn’t long for the situation, but he missed the . . . intimacy of the smaller cadre that successfully defended the city. He sighed. So many of those heroes were lost to this life forever, and others were scattered across the known world, in terrible danger he couldn’t share. Finally, when he could endure the time-wasting chatter no longer and was fairly sure all were present who needed to be, he touched the bronze gong for attention.
“My friends,” he said in the sudden silence. “My friends,” he repeated, “we have much to discuss. I shall begin by saying that things go well in the East. The Enchanted Isles are firmly in Allied hands, and the colonial possessions and resources of the Empire of the New Britain Isles are secure. The buildup for an invasion of the mainland and the final destruction of the evil Dominion has begun.” This was already known, but there were cheers and stamping feet. “In addition, I am pleased to announce that our own dear Governor-Empress Rebecca Anne McDonald has consolidated her power under the guardianship of Mr. Sean Bates, whom most of you remember as ‘O’Casey,’ when he was among us.” The cheers were more enthusiastic now. “Princess Becky,” as she’d been known in Baalkpan, was much loved, and her parents’ murder had shaken the Alliance with fury. “Our ambassador and Minister of Science, Courtney Braad-furd, has performed heroically, and secured the firmest friendship between our people and the Empire that we could desire. He is returning to Baalkpan for a time, and a diplomatic contingent including Sister Audry is on its way to replace him. I understand Mr. Braad-furd will collect the Imperial Ambassador in Maa-ni-la, a Lord Forester, and bring him here.”
Adar took a breath. “That is the good news. Now, this is the first general meeting we have convened since the initial shock of our . . . setback in the West. Most of you now realize our early fears of total disaster were unfounded, and, in fact, Gen-er-aal Aalden has stabilized his perimeter quite successfully.” Adar allowed his gaze to linger on Commander Simon Herring. Herring, a survivor of a Japanese prison ship that came through another evident “Squall” with the destroyer Hidoiame that Walker recently fought. The gaunt man was new to his Ministry of Strategic Intelligence, but even so, Adar thought he’d said some very unintelligent things at that last meeting. Herring nodded, apparently accepting the implied rebuke.
“That said, the situation there remains perilous, if not desperate. I do not consider it desperate, because we will do something about it very soon. The preparations have already begun. Before we discuss those and form a final plan of action, I must tell you”—he looked at Herring again—“that I have sent a personal message to Gen-er-aal Aalden assuring him of our undiminished, unanimous support. I also directed him to order General Queen Safir Maraan to Saa-lon. . . .” He sighed, then actually chuckled. “But the wireless office informs me that Gen-er-aal Maraan regrets that Queen Maraan must decline the, ah, request. She will not abandon her corps, and I cannot say I blame her.”
“But who else can command the army in Saa-lon if it is to relieve Gen-er-aal Aalden?” a colonel in the B’mbaadan delegation cried. That strategy had been the most discussed so far, and Safir Maraan was the Queen Protector of B’mbaado. Adar held up a hand. “Whether that army moves or not has yet to be decided, and we do have other experienced gen-er-aals now, you know. Besides, I have not given up on her. You forget, we control the sky.” He smiled at the irony of a Sky Priest saying such a sacrilegious thing, but it was true in this context. “We can fly people in and out of the perimeter at will. She or Gen-er-aal Rolak—perhaps even Gen-er-aal Aalden himself may accept another command when we are nearer ready to strike, although I would rather Gen-er-aal Aalden coordinate the entire campaign from Salissa when the time comes.”
“Fat chance,” Commander Alan Letts blurted, then blinked apology, his fair skin turning red with embarrassment. Letts was chief of staff to both Adar and Captain Reddy, in Matt Reddy’s persona of Supreme Commander of all Allied Forces. He’d also evolved from an arguably lazy supply officer to become Minister of Logistics and Planning.
“My sentiments as well,” Adar agreed, “but with the miracle of wireless and the new tee-bee-ess voice communications, I suppose he can coordinate the fight from wherever he prefers.”
“Discussing commands and who should have them strikes me as premature when our armies have been savaged and our fleets blown from the sea!” shouted the Sularan representative.
The crowd erupted in protest. The outburst was absurd, particularly coming from someone who, like most landed families across the strait on Saa-leebs, fled the Grik when they came against Baalkpan. A regiment of Sularans had stayed and even fought in that terrible battle. Many more Sularans were in the Allied armies and Amer-i-caan Navy now. But somehow, Adar thought with an almost embarrassed flash, the excrement always floats to the top.
“Our armies suffered, true,” he conceded. “But the Grik did not destroy them, despite a numerical advantage on a scale we have never faced before. The Navy was far from ‘blown from the sea,’ and we lost only three ships outright in the Battle of Ma-draas. Others were damaged, but counting the transports, the Navy destroyed perhaps a hundred enemy vessels! All our armies and the Amer-i-caan Navy and Maa-reens are already prepared to fight again—and we are sending them a great deal more with which to do it!” He gestured at Alan but continued. “Our shipbuilding continues to surge at a pace that frankly astonishes me,” he confessed. “You all have seen it. The sheer scope of the new construction has taken on a life of its own, and I honestly concern myself most with how we shall ever crew the Navy!” He smiled, but blinked sadness, looking around the room. “The old world is entirely gone, I fear, and sometimes I feel I could hate our Amer-i-caan allies for what they have done—if I did not love them so for what they have done.” There were murmurs, from both humans and Lemurians.
Alan Letts nodded silently. He hated that they’d had to subvert the fascinating . . . fun Lemurian culture to such a wild extent in order to save its people from extermination. Adar was right: the old ways were gone forever. All Alan could do was hope that someday the free, happy spirit of the Mi-Anaaka they first met might reemerge and thrive.
Adar continued. “Regarding small arms for our troops, the fast-shooting Blitzer Bugs, similar to the Thompson of the Amer-i-caans, only lighter and simpler, will soon outpace the Allin-Silva breechloaders we are issuing to our armies. They cannot replace the longer weapons, because they are for short-range only, but they have their place. For now they have been issued to Cap-i-taan Risa-Sab-At’s Maa-reen commaandos, and enough were sent to Maa-ni-la for Chack’s commaandos there to become familiar with them. The new . . . pistols—again, copies of the Amer-i-caan Colt Forty-Five, have been perfected at last”—Adar glanced at Bernie Sandison, who nodded—“and will soon be issued as well.”
“Can we feed ’em all?” Letts asked.
“Ammunition production’s on target, if you’ll pardon the expression,” Bernie Sandison, the dark-haired former torpedo officer and acting Minister of Ordnance in Sonny Campeti’s absence said with confident pride. “I’d still like the troops to make an effort to pick up their brass, though.”
“I hope they’re on target better than the torpedoes!” said Letts, and there were chuckles. The results of the torpedo tests Bernie performed in front of the whole city several weeks before had been mixed at best.
Bernie flushed. “We’ll have torps by the time the skipper gets here and wants Walker’s tubes back. I think we’ve finally got the guidance issues on the MK-3 hot-air fish sorted out. It’s the same as it was on the other two we tried, but the fish is so much faster, I think it tended to overcontrol.”
“I’ll say!” said Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, smiling archly beneath his Pancho Villa mustache and making a motion with his hand like a porpoise jumping out of the water.
“It was better than your dud electric job!” Bernie snapped, and Ronson cringed.
“We’ll make better batteries,” Commander Steve Riggs defended. They would too. Steve was Minister of Communications and Electrical Contrivances and he’d worked wonders. They all had. But, realistically, it would be a while before they had good enough batteries for electric torpedoes. “Besides,” Riggs continued, “what about Laumer? He wants torpedoes too.” No one answered, and Irvin Laumer wasn’t there. He was still working night and day converting the old, virtually useless submarine S-19 into a surface ship. He envisioned her as a torpedo gunboat, and the jury was out whether he was wasting his time or not.
“I am sure Mr. Sandison will soon have enough torpedoes for everyone,” Adar said, his voice more positive. “Enough torpedoes—and many other new contrivances that were not yet ready for the ‘torpedo day’ demonstration. But we must now discuss what we shall do with them—and all the other wonders I spoke of. What will the Grik do now, and what shall we do about it?”
“Certainly we need to consider what the Grik will do.” Simon Herring spoke for the first time. “But perhaps the better question should be, What are we going to do, and what can the Grik do about it?”
Adar nodded slowly. “I like that question better.” He looked at Herring. “And if the question is not so different from the one you posed at the last meeting such as this, your emphasis on recrimination and withdrawal seems . . . changed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Herring replied, and it was his turn to blush as he looked at Alan Letts. “And as my understanding of the situation has improved, I hope my analysis has as well.” He shook his head. “You were right. Based on the sheer numbers of Grik and their apparently improved capacity for innovation, we can’t surrender the initiative. Not anywhere or in any respect.” He paused, looking at the large gathering. “I still believe we must plan our strategies in greater secrecy, however. Not only because of the Grik, but because we must also consider the Dominion—an enemy with an even greater capacity to learn our secrets. With the influx of Imperial personnel, particularly the formerly indentured females with no reason to love the Empire, we can’t assume the Dominion hasn’t already infiltrated us to some degree.”
“Do you propose there may be disloyal elements in this very room?” Adar asked with an incredulous edge. “People who would aid our enemies?”
Herring looked around at the suddenly hard stares, human and Lemurian. “Of course not, Mr. Chairman. But my post as minister of Strategic Intelligence is little different from my duties in the old world. It’s my job—and nature, I suppose—to be suspicious. I can’t imagine anyone here being disloyal, but the possibility exists that someone may come in contact with agents of the enemy. Any of our enemies, even the Grik. Baalkpan’s a very open society, and, don’t forget, both we and the Grik have Japs on our sides. . . .”
Alan Letts rolled his eyes. “I object, Mr. Chairman! First, Commander Herring wanted to pull General Alden out of the game for a goof-up anybody would’ve made. God knows how bad that would’ve been for the war effort! Now he’s picking on our Japs!” Alan looked at Herring. If he’d ever been “brass blind” toward the man, as Silva once suggested, he wasn’t anymore. “There are precisely two Japs in this city right now, both of whom we saved from the Grik at Singapore. They’re delegates from our Allied Home of Yokohama and were led by a man who gave his life for the Alliance! The only other Jap we’ve got in the information loop is General Tamatsu Shinya, commanding all Allied land forces in the East . . . and I’ll take Shinya over you any day, Commander!”
Adar touched his gong to silence the roar of approval. “Please, Mr. Letts. Consider Mr. Herring’s own admission: it is his nature to be suspicious, and perhaps he is even right about the need for greater care—particularly as far as the Dominion is concerned. As you all know, the Empire of the New Britain Isles has had serious trouble from Dom informants, spies, and even assassins.” Adar shook his head. “The Grik are a terrible enemy, the most ancient enemy of our people, but the . . . insidious capacity for treachery demonstrated by the Dominion—and even elements within the Empire itself—must never be discounted. In their own way, the Doms are just as fanatical as the Grik, and being hu-maan, they can infiltrate us more easily.” He sighed and nodded. “Everyone here must have a care that nothing discussed in the War Room leaves its confines!”
Adar shifted uneasily on his cushion. “I have a night terror,” he confessed softly, “that often disturbs my sleep. I do not expect the Grik and Dominion could ever actively cooperate. The Grik might be willing to consider the Doms ‘other hunters,’ and even join them against us, but the Doms could probably never accept the Grik as allies . . . from what I understand of them. Still, if the one enemy ever learns of the other—of how embroiled and far-flung our forces are—they might certainly take advantage, even independently. My most horrifying night terror is that they could combine against us, but just knowing of each other would be bad enough.”
There were nods and thoughtful, blinking agreement.
“I guess that’s a good enough reason in itself to maintain secrecy and be careful who we let come and go—from the East in particular,” Letts agreed. “But it’s possible the ship’s already sailed on that.”
“Whaat you mean?” asked General Linnaa-Fas-Ra, of the newly formed 12th Division, composed mostly of Baalkpan, Sularan, and Maa-ni-la regiments. The 12th was preparing to deploy west. Linnaa had been a promising lieutenant during the Battle of Baalkpan but had seen no action since.
“Only that the news may have slipped east, through Dom spies. It’s believed that damn Blood Cardinal Don Hernan made it out of the Empire somehow, and nobody thinks he knew the real score—but it’s no secret what we’re up against in the Empire anymore. Others might’ve snuck out with the news. . . .” Alan grimaced. “And there’s another possibility: prisoners. The Doms could’ve taken some during the fighting that chased them out of California—I mean, the Imperial colonies in the Americas. Chances are, anybody they took didn’t know the score either, but . . . well, we never found Lieutenant Fred Reynolds or Ensign Kari-Faask, even though a search party found parts of their plane on a beach. They’re presumed dead—almost certainly are. But what if the Doms got ’em somehow?” He rubbed his forehead. “Anyway, I guess I agree with Commander Herring on that, at least. We need to keep our lips zipped.”
There seemed to be universal approval for this almost-unprecedented step.
“Good,” Adar murmured. “Now let us get down to business. The war in the East will remain a largely Imperial operation for the time being, now that our Allies have sorted out many of their domestic problems. Saan-Kakja and the Fil-pin Lands will continue to materially support that, while most of her troops come west. We also have more troops arriving from Great South Island, and a formal alliance may soon exist between us!” As for the situation in Indi-aa, we will support Ahd-mi-raal Keje, Gen-er-aal Aalden, and Col-nol Maallory with everything in our power. The precise use to which those commanders put our support will be up to them, but I am confident they will use it wisely and successfully.” He looked around. “Keje has his repairs well in hand, and with all we are sending him and Gen-er-aal Aalden, I am confident that not only will the situation in Indi-aa soon be reversed, but the entire resource-rich region will be denied the enemy, as originally planned.”
“There is one detail,” interjected the Sularan attaché. “We may control the sky, as you say, but the Grik control the sea with their monstrous iron ships! Our entire navy has been rendered impotent at a stroke!” Cries of concern and agreement echoed his words.
“Untrue.” Adar said simply. “Mr. Letts?”
“Thanks, Mr. Chairman.” Letts scratched the stubble on his chin. “Sure, the Grik have battleships. At last report, there’s twelve of ’em stopping up Madras now, and we have to get rid of them. Keje knocked the first ones around pretty hard with Big Sal, but our DDs had a rough time and toe-to-toe isn’t the way to do it. We’ve concentrated on a fleet of frigates—DDs—and I think that’s still a sound policy. They don’t belong in a stand-up fight with battleships, but they’re a hell of a lot more practical in the grand scheme of things. They’re faster, more fuel efficient—particularly since we’ve retained auxiliary sail—and our fire-control efforts, while still crude, did let us give the enemy a pounding. That speed and versatility will largely negate the greater size and protection of the enemy ships once we make further improvements—particularly in torpedoes.” He looked at Bernie Sandison. “Besides, as has been mentioned, we have the air for now. The Grik suicider flying bombs came as a hell of a shock, but if we keep their zeppelins away, they can’t drop the damn things. That’s air again.” He looked back at the Sularan. “Don’t worry; our navy’s far from impotent!”
“Actually,” added Adar, “we have reason to believe Col-nol Maallory’s P-Forties should be able to help in respect to the Grik baattleships. He has ten Warhawks on Saa-lon now, near Trin-con-lee. One of his planes and pilots went down in the sea, flying from Andamaan, and he remains . . . rather angrily unhappy about that. He also complains that only three of his ‘ships’ are currently airworthy, and cannot promise more until his ground support consists of more than, quote, ‘five scruffy ’Cats with a hose, a gas can, and a screwdriver.’ Sergeant Dixon and a full complement of mechanics and spares are on their way, as are special antiship bombs. The Third Pursuit Squadron should be ready by the time the new campaign is ready to proceed.”
Alan nodded. “That’s right. And, finally, on our old world, in our Old War . . . we’d already figured out that even battleships can’t stand up to air power when it’s got bombs designed to deal with ’em. All we had at the Battle of Madras was antipersonnel stuff . . . bombs we’d designed to kill Grik in the open. Well, they work swell for that, but they aren’t much good against battleships. They surprised us. None of us ever dreamed they’d build giant ironclads, but we will sort them out!”
“That all sounds swell. . . . But when do we go?” asked Commander Russ Chapelle. Russ had started as a torpedoman aboard USS Mahan and had become a talented and aggressive naval officer. He’d been awaiting the completion of a new, armored steam frigate, or DD in Baalkpan, when the current emergency arose. As the most experienced combat skipper in the city, he’d immediately been given command of Santa Catalina. The ship was an old freighter Russ himself had rescued from the swamps near Tjilatjap (Chill-Chaap) on South Java, along with her cargo of Curtiss P-40E fighters that Ben Mallory now had. Santa Catalina had spent many months in dry dock and along the fitting-out pier becoming a powerful “protected cruiser.” “You say we’re gonna do something, Mr. Chairman,” Russ continued. “So when?”
Adar recognized Russ’s question had a double meaning. Santa Catalina had been ready for sea for several weeks. “Only the Heavens know for certain,” Adar said. “Much preparation remains. As you know, Six Corps has already sailed for Andamaan. But you and your ship specifically are waiting for Baalkpan Bay to finish the alterations necessary to launch and recover the new pursuit planes—I think you call them Fleashooters? Baalkpan Bay will also carry the newly constituted Seven Corps, and its components must be finalized and embarked. You will escort her and her battle group to Andamaan.”
Russ whistled. Baalkpan Bay was the newest purpose-built carrier in the Alliance, the first of a new, standardized class. And with the exception of Maaka-Kakja in Second Fleet, it had been decided to follow the American example of naming new carriers after battles. Baalkpan Bay wasn’t as big as the converted Homes, but she incorporated all the latest refinements and safety measures, including electric lights! Her ship-to-ship armament was limited, but she could carry a lot of planes and had made sixteen knots on her trials. Russ knew they were rigging her for direct, on-deck recovery of the new little fighters—that did look a lot like P-26 Peashooters—and his feelings were a little mixed about that. It would be damn convenient, but he wasn’t sure he’d want to fly anything that didn’t float, if it was forced down on the predator-rich seas of this world. He wouldn’t have to, thank God. Fleashooters were single-seat jobs, and he didn’t know how to fly. That realization didn’t keep him from worrying about the ’Cats who would have to fly them. By all accounts, the new five-cylinder radials powering the tiny craft were almost idiot-proof, but if he’d learned anything in his twenty-four years, relying on “reliable” things only made it more traumatic when they crapped out.
“Uh, any idea when that will that be, Mr. Chairman?” he asked, then paused. “Look, sir. Mikey Monk had Santa Catalina, and I superseded him because of the emergency. He was okay with it, but I felt like a jerk. He’d done all the work getting her ready. Anyway, the ship I was waiting for has not only been completed, but she steamed out o’ here last night with the supply convoy.”
“Soon,” Adar said. “Mr. Monk may have another ship if he desires, but Commodore Ellis was insistent that you take Saanta Caata-lina, once he learned of her capabilities. It is a matter of combat experience, Commaander.”
Russ said nothing more, and Adar addressed the gathering again. “Speaking of airplanes, even though all but five of the Warhawks have been deployed, production of Fleashooters has exceeded our expectations. The skies above Baalkpan are secure from further attacks by Grik zeppelins. Planes have been shipped to Aryaal and Sing-aa-pore, as well as the Fil-pin Lands, where Saan-Kakja’s people will begin copying them. Nearly all our Naan-cees are now being made in Maa-ni-la, and production of the new ‘Clippers,’ or PB-Fives is improving here.”
He stopped and sipped a mug of nectar that had been placed on a simple wooden table similar to the one he and Keje so often shared during their morning meals aboard Salissa long ago.
“Gen-er-aal Aalden and Col-nol Maallory consider the ‘Clipper’ project essential, not only because the planes can carry more passengers, larger cargoes, and eventually heavier bomb loads than anything yet devised, but they will give us a long-range reconnaissance capability we have not enjoyed since the loss of the noble PBY. We must not let the enemy surprise us again!”
“I guess that means you’re still sending Garrett and Donaghey on their cruise?” Letts asked Adar, but it wasn’t a question.
“Yes, and Cap-i-taan Reddy himself has agreed to the importance of the voyage, as well as the choice of Commaander Gaarr-ett to lead it. Donaghey is nearly ready to depart, and she and the raa-zeed Grik Indiaa-man, or DE, that will accompany her have received numerous updates to help them cope with the threats they will face.” Adar sighed. “I hope they will fare well.”
“Me too,” agreed Letts. “God knows what they’ll run into.”
“Speaking of Cap-i-taan Reddy,” General Linnaa said, “What exactly is his situation, and that of Walker?” Linnaa wasn’t the only one still annoyed that the outcome of Walker’s fight with Hidoiame had been kept from them all for some time. Adar had decided, on the tail of the disaster in the West, that the news should be kept quiet until it was sure Captain Reddy would live.
“As you now know, both Cap-i-taan Reddy and Walker were sorely injured in their fight with Hidoiame. Both are recovering and will soon be back in action. I am assured that the one will likely heal just as quickly as the other. So quickly, in fact, that they may participate in the upcoming campaign . . . in some capacity.” Adar blinked animated excitement. “Cap-i-taan Reddy has even shared a new, quite audacious plan with me that could shorten and perhaps ultimately win the war!”
There was an uproar in the chamber, and Linnaa spoke above it. “Tell us this plan!” he demanded.
Herring cleared his throat. “Sir,” he said to Adar, “in light of all we’ve discussed, particularly about secrecy, I think Captain Reddy’s plan should remain confidential for now.”
Adar slowly nodded. “I am afraid I must agree,” he said. “I apologize for the tantalizing hint. Please put it out of your minds.”
There was muttering, but no one pressed for more . . . yet.
“Well,” said Bernie, “back to ‘explorers.’ What do we know of Silva’s—I mean, Mr. Cook’s—expedition north of the city to contact the indigenous feral Grik on Borno itself?” he asked.
“Mr. Riggs?” Adar asked.
“Communications are sporadic,” Riggs confessed. “It might be interference from the jungle or mountains, or deterioration of their comm gear. I understand they’re moving through some really crappy country. They have orders to turn back if they lose contact completely, but you know how well Silva follows orders—and he’ll likely get Cook to agree to push on regardless.” He shrugged. “That said, I’m not too worried. Silva can take care of himself, and he’s pretty good about including those around him in that blanket of . . .” He grinned. “Lethal defense.”
“Why don’t we send Nancys to fly around where we think they are?” Ronson asked.
“Mr. Cook suggested that aircraft buzzing about might incline the natives toward greater concern or even violence when or if they meet our friends,” Adar replied. “Remembering the first time I ever saw the old PBY land on Baalkpan Bay, I tend to agree with him.”
“But surely they’ve seen planes flying around before,” Ronson persisted.
“Almost certainly. We have mapped the region as best we can from the air, but the flyers and their observers have never seen any of the . . . ‘Injun Jungle Grik’ Mr. Silva described. It follows that they hide from aircraft and may fear them.”
“I guess that makes sense. Moe told Silva that jungle hunters from Baalkpan have killed them on sight for so long that few others even knew about them. They’re liable to fear us—anybody from Baalkpan, flying or not.”
“Indeed,” agreed Adar. “I never knew the creatures existed, and am confident that if the great Nakja-Mur knew of them, he considered them an almost mythical remnant of earlier times. Jungle hunters such as . . . the one called Moe had become rare before the War, before so much meat was needed to supply our armies and Navy—not to mention the expanding population of Baalkpan itself. Many new hunters scour the jungles now, and there have been reports of . . . contact between our people and these Grik-like beings. Some of those contacts have been violent.” Adar blinked regretfully. Then he blinked irony. “Ultimately, if not for the peaceful outcome of Mr. Silva’s meeting with the creatures, I never would have agreed to the expedition in the first place.”
The conference continued a while longer, but finally dispersed. Alan Letts had the sense that it was a dissatisfied group that left the War Room and was pretty sure it had most to do with this new policy of secrecy. The People were used to openness, and keeping secrets left them feeling slightly dishonest. More importantly, they wanted to know everything that was going on, and Letts could understand that. He did too—and wasn’t sure why he felt a little weird leaving the Great Hall to join his wife and daughter for supper while Bernie Sandison remained behind with Adar and Commander Herring. Doubtless they had more questions about Bernie’s new ordnance schemes, questions he and Bernie had already discussed at length. But Alan couldn’t completely forget it.
A few things at Ordnance weren’t adding up, like what exactly some of its people and equipment were doing. Logistics was Alan’s job, and he knew Bernie had more people working for him than were ever at the shops and mills. The thing was, Bernie had a lot of shops and mills, and a lot of projects going on. Alan might be wrong, but he didn’t think so. If he wasn’t, what difference did it make? Bernie was doing good work, and if he had an extra project or two lying around that he hadn’t reported—maybe out of fear of another very public failure—was it really Alan’s concern? Yes. When Alan suddenly became responsible, a transition from his old self to the new, as clear as their passage to this earth from the old, he’d jumped in with both feet. If Bernie was up to something he didn’t know about, he needed to find out what it was. Tomorrow, he decided. It had been a long day—they all were lately—and right now he was going home to his wife and daughter. Bernie would keep until tomorrow.
Alan walked along the bustling, muddy pathway leading down to the shipyard. The relatively elegant quarters he inhabited with his wife, Karen, former Navy nurse and acting Minister of Medicine in Sandra’s absence, and daughter, Allison Verdia, no longer stood alone. There were other married officers now—mostly Lemurians, certainly, but a few of the first surviving destroyermen had gotten hitched to ex-pat Impie gals that had streamed into the city for a while to escape the institution of indenture. The Impie gals were almost all lithe, dusky-skinned beauties, even if they had a tendency toward plumpness in later years, and there were more human infants in Baalkpan now. Almost all the married women, and quite a few unmarried ones, bulged with child, and Alan foresaw an explosion in the human population of Baalkpan. He chuckled. He was a lucky man to have caught Karen Theimer when there were only a few known women in the world, but with the “dame famine” broken, a little money in their pockets, and a real war to occupy their thoughts, many of his old comrades had quickly reverted to the lifestyle they’d loved and lost in the Philippines.
Alan decided to go down to the shipyard proper and have a look around. The shipyard was a mass of noise and motion. Smoke and steam streamed skyward from boilers that powered engines in the big cranes and heavy machinery. Masts and smokestacks jutted everywhere, and yelling ’Cats heaved on taglines as heavy timbers, steel plates, guns, deck machinery, even engines were shifted about, raised, lowered, or mounted in place. At the moment, he was most interested in the new construction or alterations underway, and he moved to a pair of floating dry docks that occupied a long stretch of the pier.
Yellow-hot rivets arced through the air from furnaces situated almost everywhere, to be expertly caught in tin scoops by ’Cats or Impie women high on scaffolds. Tongs fished the rivets out and drove them into holes, where ’Cats with heavy mauls waited to pound them home. It was a scene Alan had witnessed many times, wherever he’d been during his relatively short Navy career, but to see it here now gave him a proud, but almost wistful sense of nostalgic unreality. Industry—and life—had been so simple here just a few short years before, but he realized that had been an illusion as well. An inexorable force had been gathering in the West to exterminate all these people. Walker’s—and Letts’s—arrival may have altered the culture, but the people still had a chance to be free—and survive. That would have to be enough, and Letts was proud he’d helped.
The first ship Alan focused on was Irvin Laumer’s pet project: the conversion of S-19 into something “useful.” Even he had finally agreed there was no way the submarine could ever again be trusted to rise to the surface once she went underwater. She was just too complex and too badly damaged. Alan could still see the old boat beneath what she was becoming, but an untrained eye would scarcely recognize the sub. Right now Irvin was reconfiguring her hull to make a better, more stable sea boat. The pressure hull remained the foundation of the new vessel, but Irvin had raised her freeboard and increased her beam for a larger deck, while keeping her center of gravity low. The . . . thing ought to be fairly quick on its feet now they’d gutted all the stuff out of her that she didn’t need anymore, and both her diesels—and all four of her torpedo tubes—were operational. Alan still wasn’t sure how much good she’d be, and it probably would’ve been easier and made more sense to scrap her and start from scratch. But Irvin and some of his mixed human/’Cat crew had gone through so much to save her, the skipper had given him his head on the project. The trouble was, there was so much other construction underway that it was hard for Irvin to keep the workforce and materials he needed.
Irvin’s most irritating rival for attention was the “wreck” of USS Mahan, right beside S-19 in the floating dry dock, and more fiery rivets arced in her direction. Mahan had been shattered during the Battle of Baalkpan, but her stern section, from amidships aft, had been raised relatively intact. The yard apes were almost finished building a new, shorter bow for the ship, and adjoining a new pilothouse with her amidships deckhouse. She’d have only two boilers and two stacks, but lighter, she might be just as fast. Her armament would remain essentially the same as before, and it was hoped she too could soon deliver Bernard Sandison’s torpedoes.
What might have added insult to Laumer’s injury was that in another floating dry dock alongside, the keels and skeletons of two new, exact copies of Walker and Mahan had been laid. The Lemurian yard workers were intimately familiar with both ships now, having already rebuilt Walker almost from scratch. If anything, with their . . . different notions of shipbuilding, the two new four-stackers might even be better than the originals. There were still technical problems, like how to achieve the precision necessary for steam turbines, but the new destroyers would be cheap in materials while providing priceless shipbuilding experience—and, ultimately, powerful additions to the Allied fleet. There were even plans in the works to lay down an upsize version, like a four-stacker cruiser!
Irvin Laumer might’ve taken it worse than he did, Alan supposed, his attention returning to the fair-haired officer directing the work aboard his old sub. He and S-19 were heroes, after all. What seemed to motivate him most, however, was that despite his adventures and his service as Maaka-Kakja’s exec during the fighting for New Ireland, he hadn’t really seen any action. Letts thought he knew how Laumer felt. Before he’d gone to the “pointy end” in the West for a while, he didn’t feel he’d really contributed much to the war effort. In Laumer’s case, though, Letts suspected the man still yearned to prove himself the equal of those who’d been in so many fights. Like them all, to an extent, Alan supposed, Irvin couldn’t help but feel he’d wound up on this world for a reason, and was somehow destined to do great things. Alan got that, but he’d realized his destiny was to support those at the front. Organization was just as important as troops in the field. But Laumer apparently couldn’t shake the sense that his destiny remained tied to S-19.
Alan saw Irvin looking at him and waved. Laumer waved back a little self-consciously. Maybe he was wondering if Alan was there in his official capacity, comparing the progress on the various projects—and considering which ones to cut. Alan shook his head and moved along. Irvin was a good guy and had a lot of potential. He hoped S-19 was “worth” him—and wouldn’t get him killed for nothing.
* * *
“Speaking of secrets, what about the special weapons?” Adar asked almost hesitantly when he, Herring, Bernie, and Herring’s chief of staff, Lieutenant Henry Stokes, were alone in the War Room. Stokes had been a leading seaman on HMAS Perth on another world, but had been with Herring and a couple of China Marines when they came here. One Marine was with Silva now, but the other worked for Bernie in Ordnance.
“The one is nearly ready to deploy,” Bernie replied nervously, “but there’re still major issues regarding delivery, and some really serious moral and practical implications to consider.” He shook his head. “The more I work with the stuff, the scarier it gets.” He looked accusingly at Adar. “Captain Reddy would not approve, and Mr. Bradford would go absolutely ape if he knew what we were cooking up.”
“Cap-i-taan Reddy and Mr. Braad-furd are not here—and you work on this project in the capacity of Minister of Ordnance to the Grand Alliance, not a naval officer in the Amer-i-caan Clan. Besides, the weapon is not gaas, and that is what Cap-i-taan Reddy was specifically opposed to. Even then, he was not opposed to developing it, only using it—unless as a last resort.”
“With respect, Mr. Chairman, this stuff’s worse than gas! A lot worse. If we turn it loose . . .” Bernie shook his head. “There may be no stopping it.”
“It was well enough contained before,” Herring said dismissively.
Bernie looked at the former Navy snoop and wished Adar hadn’t told the man. Bernie had sworn not to tell anyone, even Letts. Now Herring and this Stokes guy both knew. Bernie liked Stokes, but Herring bugged him. Maybe it was just his attitude?
“That’s because it was isolated,” Bernie insisted. “You turn it loose on a continent and God knows where it’ll stop—if it ever does. Jeez.” He shook his head.
“I understand how you feel, Mr. Saan-di-son,” Adar said softly, “and it will remain a weapon of last resort. You also have my word that I will never order it used without consulting Cap-i-taan Reddy, and even Mr. Braad-furd if possible. Cap-i-taan Reddy or someone under his command, within his clan, would almost certainly have to be involved in deploying it, at any rate, so his agreement and equal appreciation of the necessity would likely be essential. Do not concern yourself, Mr. Saan-di-son. You may discuss the project freely with Cap-i-taan Reddy when you see him. I only desired your secrecy for the same reasons we discussed earlier.”
“But even from Mr. Letts? Do you really want him thinking he’s not trusted, Mr. Chairman? He knows something’s up; he’s not stupid. . . . And others have figured out at least as much as he has.”
“Who?” Herring demanded.
“Well, Silva for one. He smoked it out almost immediately. He was working with me in Ordnance before he left, and noticed some of our brighter bulbs wandering off in the woods toward the secure facility.”
“Did he find out what you were doing there?”
Bernie frowned at Herring and answered sarcastically. “No, and he didn’t much care. He asked if it was something he’d be interested in—and since he’s only really interested in doing personal, hot-blooded, honest violence, not this cold-blooded, remote, insidious—”
“Mr. Saan-di-son,” Adar chided gently.
“I told him no, and he believed me,” Bernie finished.
Adar paused and looked at Herring. “We should have told Mr. Letts,” he said, then spread his hands, looking back at Bernie. “But I knew he would feel as strongly as you, and his . . . good opinion has become important to me, personally. Once the weapon is more near complete, I will tell him myself.” He bowed his head. “Mr. Letts is a young man, with a mate and new youngling. With his current duties and all he has seen, he has enough to trouble his sleep—if only for this short time longer.”
“Besides,” said Herring, “as has been stated, the fewer who know, the fewer who might inadvertently reveal anything.”
Bernie didn’t feel any better. As if Alan Letts would blow! If Herring knows, why not Alan? He was sharply tempted to tell Alan everything, and to hell with it—maybe just because Herring knew.
“But that is not all I wished to discuss,” Adar continued. “What do you think of Cap-i-taan Reddy’s plan?” Bernie’s discomfort grew. Alan damn sure should’ve been here for this part.
“The main objective of forcing the enemy to redeploy and thereby take some pressure off India is likely to work, but it’s risky,” Herring said.
“He can’t do it alone either,” Bernie interjected. “He’ll have all the commandos, but what ships can he have?”
“S-19 an’ Mahan might be ready by the time Cap’n Reddy gets here,” Stokes suggested in his Aussie twang, much more defined than Bradford’s.
“Ahd-mi-raal Keje craves them for his operation against the Grik fleet at Maa-draas,” Adar pointed out. “More specifically, he craves the torpedoes they will carry.” He looked at Bernie’s fixed expression, and the former torpedo officer nodded.
“They’ll be ready.”
“But will they be needed there?” Herring mused. “Colonel Mallory’s plan might have the best, shorter-term chance of success.” He suddenly stood from his stool and began to pace. “Besides, as CINCWEST, Keje certainly had the need to know of Captain Reddy’s proposed expedition, and now he craves even more for Salissa to accompany Walker on what he considers a masterstroke!” Herring snorted. “I’ve made no secret—among us—that I consider Reddy’s plan little more than a dangerous, possibly very wasteful stunt. The man is a gifted leader”—Herring almost sniffed—“and has been very lucky. But he is, after all, an amateur when it comes to strategic thinking.”
Bernie’s face clouded, but Herring resumed before he could speak. “That said, and as I’ve said before, the ‘stunt’ might very well have the desired effect. To succeed, Reddy will need sufficient forces to deal with whatever he may encounter. Salissa is now, frankly, our least capable carrier, particularly considering her projected state of repair. She’s the best choice to provide Captain Reddy with the more limited air cover his task force should require.”
Adar nodded thoughtfully. “The assignment would please Keje for a number of reasons, but who will then command First Fleet for the Indi-aa campaign?”
“James Ellis would seem the best choice, as Captain Reddy proposed,” Herring said. “I’m sure his broken jaw is painful, but it doesn’t seem to have slowed him down.” He straightened. “And he’s an Annapolis man.”
“So’s the Skipper,” Bernie almost snapped. “So am I. What difference does that make here?”
“Maybe none,” Herring said insincerely. He looked at Adar. “We really need a naval academy of our own, you know.” He blinked humility, as he’d learned to do. “I’d be willing to organize it, somewhat along the lines of the Advanced Training Centers here and on Maara-vella.”
“I’m sure you would,” Bernie muttered under his breath, then raised his voice. “Walker’s served pretty well as an ‘academy’ so far. Many of our best skippers started as cadets aboard her or Mahan.”
“Perhaps. But this recent episode has underlined the fact that she can’t last forever.”
“You may be right, Mr. Herring,” Adar said a little impatiently, “but that is a subject you must discuss with Cap-i-taan Reddy. I may be Chairman of the Grand Alliance, but I am still High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan first, just as Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar remains High Chief of Salissa, a sovereign Home.” He looked at Herring. “Just as Cap-i-taan Reddy remains High Chief of the Navy, Maa-reens, and all the Amer-i-caan Clan to which they belong, human or Lemurian. You are a member of that clan, by oath, if you have not forgotten.”
Herring’s face turned red. “I haven’t forgotten.”
“Good. Then you understand that when it comes to clan matters, you must consult your High Chief. However”—Adar leaned back on his cushion—“just as Mr. Saan-di-son has done as Minister of Ordnance regarding special weapons, as a minister of the Grand Alliance, it is your duty to counsel me on straa-te-gic matters that affect all the Allied clans. It is then my duty to issue straa-te-gic commands that the clans are bound to obey as long as they remain in the Alliance. Perhaps that . . . dual allegiance still confuses you, Mr. Herring?”
“No, Mr. Chairman.”
“Very well.” Adar blinked determination. “As I said at our last meeting, I will be chairman in deed as well as name. No more will I let others suffer for decisions that should have been mine.” He took a long breath. “Cap-i-taan Reddy remains supreme commander of all Allied forces, and if I decide his very dangerous—as you pointed out—plan should proceed, he will command every aspect of it. But before we risk him, Walker, and so many other ships and lives, I must make the final decision to do so, not him.” Adar’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Cap-i-taan Reddy carries a great enough burden as it is.”
Bernie felt a sudden chill. Would Adar really consult the Skipper before using the new weapon he’d cooked up? Would he really be willing to burden him with something like that?