14
////// USS Walker
April 16, 1944
For five days, USS Walker had steamed carefully south, avoiding the numberless Fil-pin islands to the east, across the treacherous depths of the Sulu Sea, then west-southwest along the Sulu Archipelago. Finally, she turned south to cross the equally dangerous Saa-leebs Sea, pounding the depths with her sonar to discourage the monstrous but sound-sensitive denizens lurking there. By the time she steered southwest into the Makassar Strait, even Earl and Isak were more resigned to the superficial newness of their ship, and, weird as they were, they couldn’t completely resist the sense of excitement animating the rest of the crew. At long last, after all they’d endured, through battles and storms across uncounted thousands of miles that many of Walker’s Lemurians once hadn’t believed possible to cross or even exist upon, the old destroyer passed beneath the formidable defenses of Fort Atkinson and reentered her home port of Baalkpan Bay.
Matt was on the bridge with Sandra, Spanky, Gray, Courtney Bradford, and Tabby, and with the strangely more-than-essential watch standers present, the pilothouse was crowded. Both wings were packed, and most of Walker’s officers and new POs had found some vantage point from which to view the busy harbor so stunningly different from how they remembered it. The fire-control platform, amidships deckhouse, and aft deckhouse were packed with gawkers, and whatever crew could find a pretext to be on deck lined the rails.
Baalkpan Bay had always been a busy seaport, but the activity, structures, and sheer volume of shipping both moored and moving within its confines had increased exponentially. Matt was both elated and a little saddened by the sight. It clearly indicated that their adopted home was all in for the war effort, and the combat power, supporting infrastructure, and industrial might he saw encouraged him in the face of the increasingly global war forced upon them. At the same time, his mind’s eye poignantly reminded him what Baalkpan looked like when his battered, war-weary ship arrived there the very first time, in company with a savagely mauled Big Sal just two short years before. The place had been busy then, but happily so, and there hadn’t been the least warlike aspect to any endeavor in view. The innocent, inherent peacefulness of Baalkpan was gone, perhaps forever, and if Matt and his people weren’t to blame for that, they’d certainly facilitated it.
“It ain’t our fault, Skipper,” Gray grumbled, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s the Grik’s. They were comin’ if we were here or not. Nobody here would even be alive if we hadn’t showed up.”
“He’s right, of course,” Courtney said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “But it doesn’t make the sense of it all any easier to swallow.”
“I don’t know what you all upset for,” Tabby scoffed. “Baalkpan’s different, sure. Not as pretty either. I always thought it was pretty here, when my Home come to visit. But it’s still here, an’ that’s to be proud of, not so sad.”
“Yep,” agreed Spanky around a mouthful of the yellowish tobacco leaves. “Personally, I’m fairly proud to be alive instead of the swarms of Grik we’ve shoveled into hell, and if Baalkpan had to quit bein’ such a vacation retreat so we—and everybody here—can say that, I got no regrets.” He glanced at Gray. “I don’t know about Chief Bashear, but I know your notions of entering port were never so lax.” He nodded meaningfully at the throng down on the fo’c’sle.
Gray grunted, but just then a bosun’s pipe squealed and its call was taken up by whistles the ’Cats could manage. As usual, Petey was draped across the back of Sandra’s neck, and he tensed at the commotion. “Goddam!” he practically mumbled, apparently aware that shrieks of any sort on the bridge drew more attention than he wanted. Almost reluctantly at first, but with increasing purpose as Chief Bosun Carl Bashear’s nasal but forceful voice mounted, the crew of USS Walker scampered to line the rails more properly.
“The main battery will stand by to salute the flag of the Grand Alliance,” Matt commanded. The newest “stainless banner” had changed a little, but only in ornamentation. It was a gold-edged field of white, with a circle of stylized gold and green trees representing its member Homes, or states. All surrounded a gold-edged blue star signifying the Amer-i-caan Naa-vy clan that brought them all together. All clans were considered equal, but the Navy clan—Matt’s (which included the Marines)—was the only one composed of every clan and that, despite its losses, continued to grow.
“All guns crews report maanned an’ ready to fire salute,” Minnie, the talker, announced a few minutes later.
“Very well. Stand by,” Matt replied. He paused. “Have Mr. Campeti acknowledge that all guns will fire five salvos, except number one, which will fire six.”
Spanky looked at him strangely. Twenty-one guns were usually reserved for entering a foreign port.
“What’s that about?” Sandra asked.
“Just a subtle hint to Adar that even united, the Alliance still consists of sovereign clans—and the Navy’s mine.” He shrugged. “I doubt he’ll even catch it, and, besides, it’ll show we’re glad to be home!”
“Oh, he’ll catch it!” Gray murmured to Courtney, who glanced at Matt, concerned.
Walker had already steamed past the oldest, most prominent part of Fort Atkinson, but the fort had been enlarged all the way to the high, reinforced berm protecting the southern part of the city itself. Matt was waiting until the salute would carry to the greatest number of people ashore. “Commence firing,” he said at last.
Five perfect salvos boomed out from Walker’s four main guns, then number one added a single shot. Almost immediately, every gun along the Baalkpan waterfront thundered out, one after the other, and the answering salute went on and on. Matt started to grin when the number passed their own, and didn’t end until more than seventy great guns had choked the harbor with dense white smoke.
“Don’t you feel just a bit petty now, Captain Reddy?” Courtney sniffed.
“No. Even if I wasn’t making a point, seventy-odd rounds would have emptied our magazines.” He chuckled. “Not much point in bringing a full load of the new shells back here from the Fil-pin Lands! I’m glad everybody seems happy to see us, though.”
Walker slowed to a crawl as fishing feluccas jockeyed near, and every manner of small craft from steam barges to motor launches paced her progress. All were filled with excited ’Cats, ex-pat Impie women, and even a few teary-eyed members of her original crew who’d remained behind, running various industries and projects. They approached the same dock they’d tied up to after their first arrival in Baalkpan, the one that served the waterfront bazaar that remained the most familiar aspect of the city. It was bigger now, expanded to accommodate the growing population, but just as boisterous and colorful as the first time Matt laid eyes on it. The bazaar endured as an island of normalcy in the surrounding sea of change. And such change! The city had surely quadrupled in size, mostly with the addition of massive warehouses and factory buildings backing the expanded docks, repair slips, and fitting-out piers. Yet another mighty aircraft carrier was rising in the huge dry dock, and half a dozen floating dry docks, festooned with cranes, were building other ships. Walker had just missed the newest carrier, Baalkpan Bay, and her battle group including the rebuilt Santa Catalina. They’d sailed to join First Fleet just a few days before. Nancys from one of the patrol wings swooped and sported over the bay, joined by a few of the new P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or Fleashooters, that no one on Walker had ever seen.
Bashear’s bosun’s pipe twittered, calling the sea-and-anchor detail as the ship inched toward the dock. Lines were thrown to handlers, and the cheering throng redoubled their voices when Walker’s whistle sounded, deep and exuberant, amid a cloud of steam. Matt turned to Sandra and squeezed her hand. “Home, I guess,” he said with a wry smile.
Sandra squeezed back. “Home,” she agreed more forcefully.
“Captain Reddy,” came Juan’s voice from behind. “Your best uniform is ready.” He looked at Sandra. “An’ your Miss Diania has prepared yours as well.” He sniffed. “I helped her, but she is learning.”
“What about my fancy duds?” Gray demanded.
Juan looked at the Super Bosun down his long nose. “I believe that chore has been accomplished,” he said a bit coldly. “Though I cannot say for certain.” He waved a hand. “I passed the word that you desired it done.” He smiled at Spanky. “Yours are ready as well, Mr. McFarlane, as are Mr. Campeti’s.” He looked back at Gray. “I saw to it myself.”
There was good-natured laughing while Gray grumbled.
“And what of my things?” Courtney asked eagerly.
“I did my best to brush and press that bizarre . . . Imperial costume you presented to me,” Juan replied in a long-suffering tone, “but I cannot answer for the results.” He sighed dramatically. “Such oddly placed seams! And the shoulders are quite ridiculous.” He paused, peering hard at Bradford. “Was that . . . thing . . . truly a cravat? Why can’t you just wear a proper uniform like everyone else?”
“Because I’m not in the Navy, my dear Mr. Marcos!” Courtney replied cheerfully. “And that cravat, for indeed it is one, most likely saved my life. I will wear it—loosely in this climate—for no other reason than that.” He looked down his own stubby nose. “And the ensemble you so haughtily term a costume is the height of fashion in New London. No doubt it will be all the rage here soon enough!”