CHAPTER 1
////// Madras
HQ First Fleet North AEF
“Go . . . osh dang it!” Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, captain of the old Asiatic Fleet “four-stacker” destroyer USS Walker (DD-163), and commander in chief of all Allied forces (CINCAF) united beneath or beside the Banner of the Trees, semi-swore. His left foot had strayed from the planked pathway and his shoe was caught in the sticky mud. The stronger curse he stifled would’ve been inappropriate in present company, and even uncharacteristic of him for something so trivial, but he was genuinely annoyed—at himself. It had taken only a second of inattention to stray from the boards, and his wife, Nurse Lieutenant (now Surgeon Commander) Sandra Tucker Reddy, was very good at distracting him. In this instance, it merely took a toss of her head to produce the enchanting bounce of her long ponytail. She did it unconsciously, but it was one of those little things about her that always melted his heart.
“Damn,” he said, his frustration escalating as he tugged carefully against the black east Indian mud.
“Clumsy,” Sandra scolded with a grin, kneeling to see if she could help him save the shoe. It was one of a new pair, specially made, just arrived from Baalkpan with the latest supply convoy. And unlike the usual Lemurian-made “boondockers,” these shoes were smooth and highly polished. At least they had been. Carefully, together, they teased the shoe out of the mud, and Matt stamped his foot several times to knock off the worst of the black blob.
“Damn Clumsy!” Petey cawed, earning a resentful glare. Petey was a small, tree-gliding reptile from Yap Island. Discarded by the Governor-Empress of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, Rebecca Anne McDonald, as “inappropriate,” Sandra had adopted him by default. He most often lay coiled around the back of her neck like a fuzzy, feathery squirrel—with an insatiable appetite and a filthy mouth.
“They were such pretty shoes too,” Sandra said, ignoring Petey’s parrotlike outburst, as usual.
“Yeah. But I guess the best thing about them is what they represent,” Matt pointed out, still scraping. “Even with all the new ship construction, weapons manufacture, logistical support necessary to maintain and supply two major fleets—more than two, counting the Imperials’—we can still scrape up enough resources to make a pair of fancy shoes!” He shrugged. “Of course, we’re also supporting large armies in multiple theaters, and running what’s turned into a world war!” He nodded ruefully at the shoe that was starting to turn gray as it dried. “I don’t know whether to be proud of these or embarrassed.”
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Sandra scolded, “except for maybe ruining them. And yours aren’t the only ‘shiny’ ones. Just be glad we’ve got enough shoes and sandals for all our troops. That’s something to be proud of.”
Matt supposed she was right—as usual. It wasn’t as if the supply of ships, planes, weapons, ammunition, rations, or anything else he could think of had slowed. If anything, it was speeding up. The only real shortage was personnel, and with more troops beginning to arrive from the Empire of the New Britain Isles—what would’ve been Hawaii, California, and countless Pacific isles in the world they left—and the growing addition of Lemurian troops from the Great South Isle—essentially Australia—even their numbers were starting to improve. But here, on the “western front,” they faced potentially endless numbers of furry/feathery, somewhat reptilian, and entirely lethal Grik.
And the eastern front, aimed at the rabidly fanatical human “Holy Dominion” in the Americas, did have serious supply problems, particularly when it came to the more modern weapons the Alliance was producing, because of the vast distances involved. Worse, it appeared that a major battle was brewing there, and Lord High Admiral Harvey Jenks, commander in chief of all Allied forces in the East (CINCEAST), had just been handed some unpleasant surprises. He was jockeying to counter them even while his forces were overextended by a strategy based on an outdated understanding of the situation.
Matt shook his head. Jenks was on his own. Half a world away, there was nothing Matt could do to help him, and he was about to embark on a major, extremely risky operation of his own. He’d always believed the old saying that “fortune favors the bold.” He couldn’t remember who said it first, and recognized that history was replete with examples of the opposite. . . . Still, though the Grand Alliance was just beginning to hit its stride, it couldn’t afford a long war of attrition against the Grik; Grik bred much too fast, and the Allies just didn’t have, and couldn’t get the numbers for that. Now was the time for a crushing blow, while the Grik were on their heels. The Doms were bad, maybe worse than the Grik in some ways, but they were people—well, human, at least—and couldn’t replace losses any faster than the Allies. So, if the war in the East wasn’t exactly on a back burner, the primary focus of the Alliance was—and had to be, in Matt’s view—against the Grik for now.
Jenks had a formidable, if somewhat outdated force at his disposal, and he was getting at least a few of the new weapons. He also had General Shinya. The former Japanese naval officer who’d become Matt’s friend was maturing into an excellent infantry commander. He had a carrier commanded by the Lemurian Admiral Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, with Matt’s own cousin, Lieutenant Orrin Reddy as COFO (Commander of Flight Operations). Orrin had been in the Army Air Corps in the Philippines before being captured by the Japanese and also winding up here, and by all accounts he was shaping up well. Jenks also had a lot of other veterans of hard fighting under his command: Colonel Blair, Captain Blas-Ma-Ar, even a few of Walker’s “old” Lemurian hands. He’d do fine; Matt was sure. Right now, he had to concentrate on his own mission.
“If you’re finished with your mud pies, we’re running a little late,” Sandra reminded him.
“Yeah,” Matt muttered, and with a final scrape of his shoe, he joined her to proceed down the walkway.
The storm, a genuine “strakka,”—essentially a particularly vigorous typhoon—had battered them for the better part of a week, but now it had passed entirely, leaving the sky bright and clear. More, it was as if the great storm had finally swept away the lingering “rainy season” that had plagued the region, and made the prelude to the great Battle of Madras, or Alden’s Perimeter as it was interchangeably called, so miserable for its participants. It had also hindered rescue efforts for those wounded in the jungle combat, as well as repairs to the ships damaged in the battle at sea. Now, the humidity remained terrible, but that wasn’t unusual, and the Lemurian Sky Priests predicted that they might actually be rewarded with several sunny days in a row.
The storm had been a bad one, but Matt was still awed by the sheer scope of the battle—and the victory. Serious problems still faced the Allied occupation of south and east Indiaa, and there were still a hell of a lot of Grik beyond their frontier, but a major Grik army had been decimated and a fleet that took two years to build had been destroyed. Madras was the prize, though: a major port with access to abundant raw materials. North of the city were stands of trees with interlocking root systems that produced a kind of rubber that would be a great help. There were coal, copper, tin, and many other metals, minerals, and chemicals the Allies needed, and, just as important, had now been denied to the Grik. There was also iron in preexisting mines stretching like battered moonscapes northwest of town, and hundreds of tons of processed plate had been stockpiled for Grik ironclads. It appeared to be even better stuff than they’d originally used on their ships, which spoke disturbing volumes about what the enemy had achieved technologically. The earlier Grik armor was thick but brittle, and having actually captured a couple of the monster ships fairly intact at the anchorage, they could directly compare the quality. Those ships now floated, also under repair, but Matt wasn’t sure what good they’d be. That was where he and Sandra were headed first—to finally inspect one of the behemoths before attending a staff meeting aboard the even bigger aircraft carrier/tender, USNRS Salissa. It was there that Matt would announce his decision regarding the composition of his audacious mission, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. A lot of his friends were going to be disappointed.
Nearing the pier, Matt was reminded that many Allied ships had been lost or damaged in the battle as well, including his own USS Walker. Rust streaks marred her sides, and she was fire-blackened aft of the amidships gun platform. At least most of her more serious damage had already been attended to, and so soon after a major overhaul, they’d had a lot more to work with than usual. Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, Walker’s former engineering officer and now Matt’s exec—as well as Minister of Naval Engineering—had assured him they’d even start painting over the old ship’s sores as soon as the weather permitted. Matt was content with the pace of repairs, considering the constraints. Walker would be ready.
Other ships weren’t so lucky. Poor Mahan (DD-102), Walker’s only recently reanimated sister, had nearly been sunk by one of Walker’s own errant torpedoes! The new weapons worked amazingly well, arguably winning the naval battle largely by themselves, but they weren’t perfect. Their range remained limited to a couple of thousand yards, and they still had some guidance issues that Bernie Sandison, Walker’s torpedo officer and Minister for Experimental Ordnance, blamed on himself. Matt—everyone—assured the dark-haired young man that it wasn’t his fault, and the torpedoes still worked better than any they’d had to use against the Japanese. It didn’t matter. Bernie was working himself to death, night and day, trying to solve the problem. Part of his difficulty was that the torpedoes had gone into mass production back in Baalkpan (headquarters of the Grand Alliance on the south coast of “Borno”), and all he could manage were simple field modifications. If he figured it out, the fix could be incorporated at the factory, but he had only finished weapons to tinker with. Matt wasn’t worried. The dreary sight of Mahan sagging at the dock, her new bow blown off, was a sad, cautionary example to them all. It also put a kink in his operational planning for the upcoming mission. But as far as he was concerned, the torpedoes were a success.
Beyond Mahan lay the “Protected Cruiser” (CA-P-1), Santa Catalina. She remained whole, but had arguably been in greater danger of sinking than Mahan after the beating she took. She’d been the main focus of the whole battle line of massive Grik dreadnaughts and had suffered serious casualties. Among the killed was Commodore James Ellis, Walker’s old exec, and Matt’s best friend. She suffered even more later that night when Kurokawa and the last of the Grik fleet broke out of Madras in conjunction with a mass attack by Grik zeppelins and their damn “suicider” bombs. She’d been riddled with heavy shot at close range, and her consort, the old submarine-turned torpedo gunboat, S-19, had been rammed and sunk with nearly half her crew. It had been a terrible, shocking exclamation point to the otherwise successful operation, and Matt took savage satisfaction from the subsequent, personal destruction of every ship they could find that broke out that night. He was morally certain they’d finally killed that Japanese madman, Hisashi Kurokawa, the architect of so many of their woes, and it was impossible not to be pleased by his destruction. Matt supposed Kurokawa would never really be “dead” to him, since he’d never seen him dead, but considering how complete the slaughter of his force had been, he wouldn’t lie awake worrying about him anymore either.
On the pier itself, they passed Walker, Mahan, and Santa Catalina, self-consciously waving at the cheering men and Lemurian “’Cats” working on board. More cheers came from the wooden-hulled steam frigates, or “DDs,” beyond, and they finally reached the gangway leading aboard the dark, malignant shape of the first Grik ironclad.
The thing was huge, over eight hundred feet long, and powerfully armed. The dark iron casemate protecting its armament sloped upward and away, towering high above the harbor water, and resembled nothing more than a gigantic version of the old Confederate ironclad Virginia—or “Merrimac.” Besides being much larger, however, there were other differences. There were two gun decks instead of one, for example, and four slender funnels protruded high above the casemate. So close, the thing seemed invincible—until one observed the deep-shot dents and shattered plates, as well as the heavy streaks and blotches of rust that proved the thing was mortal after all. And of course, Matt had seen torpedoes make very short work of the massive ships with his own eyes. No, it’s not invincible, he told himself. It may not even be good for anything, now, he decided. He might’ve considered it a dinosaur if it weren’t for the fact that there were real dinosaurs on this world, and some remained extremely formidable.
“What are we here to see?” Sandra asked, somewhat reluctant to go aboard. The Grik kept captives as rations on their ships, and she never wanted to see the . . . aftermath . . . of that again.
“Actually, we’re here to see Spanky, and hear what he has to say about this thing,” Matt replied. “Besides, I’d kind of like to have a look. Chances are, we’ll run into more of them.” He saw her expression. “No, I don’t expect we need to go down in the hold.”
They mounted the gangplank and saluted the Stars and Stripes streaming above the perverted version of a Japanese flag, its rising sun embraced by a pair of Grik-like swords that appeared to have been adopted as a kind of Grik naval jack. They turned and saluted a ’Cat guard at the top of the gangway.
“Permission to come aboard?”
“O’ course, Cap-i-taan Reddy! Mister Maac-Faar-lane is wait-een for you!”
Matt and Sandra passed through the crude, heavy hatch that, like all the gunports, had been left open for ventilation. Inside, they found themselves on a cramped, gloomy, open deck on a level with the weather deck outside the casemate. Does that make this part of the weather deck too? Or the orlop? Matt wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it seemed to have served as a berthing space for countless Grik, and even with the fresh air, the dark, dank interior reeked of death, mold, and rot. It would’ve been unbearably creepy if they’d been there all alone, but the dozen or so Lemurians working within their view helped a lot.
“Gonna have to scour this thing out with bleach,” Spanky grouched as if reading their minds. He approached, ducking under the massive beams supporting the lower gun deck overhead. Spanky was a short, wiry guy, but the power of his personality always left people remembering him bigger than he was. “You better watch your head in here, Skipper.” Matt was more than six feet tall and already had to crouch, even between the beams. “You smack your forehead, no tellin’ what you’ll get infected with!”
“I’ll be careful. What can you show me?”
Spanky scratched the whiskers on his chin. “Well, some of it you can see right here. Look at those casemate timbers, backing the armor plate.” Spanky raised a lantern. “Recognize the design?”
“Sure. I’ll be derned. The timbers are diagonally laminated, just like Lemurian Homes. No wonder they can build something this size out of wood! How many layers?”
“Four below the waterline, and six on the casemate under the iron—and the way they’ve got the iron bolted on every few inches or so just adds to the structural strength.” He patted a beam, not with affection, but respect. “Other Grik ships have always been surprisingly well made. That new Jap, Miyata, that showed up at Diego Garcia with those . . . other folks, told Mr. Garrett he’d been at a Grik shipyard on the Africa coast. Apparently, the lizards’ve been assembly-linin’ their ships for a long time. That could explain how a buncha idiot Uul turn out a decent hull; all they need is a few of their smarter lizards, their Hij, hangin’ around to make sure all the pieces go together right.” He swayed the lantern at the casemate timbers. “This is the first time we’ve seen ’em use this, though. I’d say it was Kurokawa’s idea, or one of the Japs workin’ for him. Good thing for us they put so much faith in protection that they never gave much thought to what would happen if we did knock holes in ’em. No watertight compartmentalization at all. If they can’t pump water out of the whole damn thing, they ain’t stoppin’ it until it fills the whole damn thing!”
“I take it you’ve got a fix for that?”
Spanky’s face turned sour. “Sure. It’s no big deal. Some transverse bulkheads’ll do the trick. Can’t really make ’em watertight, but they’ll survive a lot bigger hole. Put in our better Lemurian pumps, and they’ll only have to handle the seepage past the flooded compartment.”
“You don’t sound enthusiastic,” Matt observed. “We’ve used captured Grik ships before, particularly after you and our ’Cat friends made improvements. The cut-down ‘Indiamen’ make good DEs.”
“Yeah, but this is different.” Spanky rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “Maybe I’m too much of an old destroyerman,” he allowed. “I like fast an’ skinny over slow an’ fat, and with the weapons we’ve got now, these things are sitting ducks. They’re god-awful big and powerfully armed—though the guns are still rough as hell. As liable to burst as shoot. And wait till you see the power plant! The boilers aren’t bad, maybe even as good as Imperial boilers, but the engines are so crude, they look like some blind Chinaman sculpted ’em out o’ river mud an’ baked ’em in a kiln!”
“They do seem to work, though, don’t they?”
“I don’t see how, unless they’re constantly squirtin’ gallons o’ grease on ’em.”
“But they do work, Spanky,” Matt insisted sternly.
“I guess,” Spanky grudged. “Some of ’em. The ones aboard here don’t, and I figure that’s why they left her. Same on the other ‘prize,’ though it was kinda sunk in the shallows too. No big holes, so we were able to pump her out. I bet some of our bombs opened enough seams that the onboard pumps couldn’t handle the flow.”
Matt looked at his watch, then glanced at Sandra. “Okay, Spanky. Give us the nickel tour. Then we’ve got to get over to Big Sal.”
“Eat?” Petey inquired, almost politely. He’d risen from his perch, sniffing around, but the mention of Big Sal got his attention. He always associated her with good food.
“Soon,” Sandra assured him, patting his head.
Spanky quickly led them to the engineering spaces, and Matt realized he hadn’t been exaggerating. All the great iron castings were amazingly crude, complete with voids and bubbles. But the contraption had clearly worked, and he remembered that a lot of their own early machinery hadn’t looked much better. They toured the gun decks and walked among the monstrous, rough-cast guns. If anything, the headroom was even more limited there. Matt paused several times to look at splintered timbers that showed where Allied shot had struck the armor on the other side. This ship must’ve been one of the first to arrive, a veteran of the First Battle of Madras that drove the Allies out. He wondered briefly if Jim Ellis’s lost Dowden had done this damage. He shook his head. It didn’t matter.
“Skipper?” Spanky asked in a tone that implied he was repeating himself.
“Mr. McFarlane?”
“You want to go to the bridge? Not much there but a wheel and a repeater.”
“No. Not unless there’s anything unusual. We really need to get going.”
“Okay. Actually, the only ‘unusual’ stuff we found is the wireless shack, aft, I told you about already, and . . . well, I think I found the captain’s cabin. Pretty sure there was a Jap in there, judging by the bed and a few personal items. Bastard must’ve left in a hurry.”
“So your survey’s complete?”
“Aye, sir.”
“And your recommendation?”
Spanky spread his hands. “I don’t really know. I’m tryin’ to keep an open mind. The engine’s junk, like I said, and so’s the main armament. You probably noticed all those empty slots where guns used to be? I bet they burst, and that makes ’em as dangerous to the crews servin’ ’em as to the enemy. Frankly, I gotta recommend we break her up for the iron.” He paused before continuing. “That said, the hull’s sound. Just because I can’t think of anything to use it for right off doesn’t mean our ’Cat engineers can’t. One of ’em even suggested we make a kind of ‘attack carrier’ out of her, sorta like Big Sal acted like during First Madras. Protect her against long-range fire, maybe plate the flight deck, and put some of our new four-inch-fifties on her, as they come out of Baalkpan. They might even add some of the heavier rifled guns they’re working on—though I don’t think they’ve settled on muzzle-loaders or bag guns. Muzzle-loaders are easier to make, but you can load the bag guns from the breech, behind protection. Either way, make something like that out of both prizes, reengine ’em, and convert ’em to burn oil. That might be pretty slick.”
Matt nodded, smiling. “Okay, that’s what we’ll do: give the ’Cat engineers their head. They know what they’re doing, and they’ve earned the chance. God knows they’re coming up with new angles on old ideas faster than we are nowadays.”
“With respect, Skipper, for you and them, part of that might be because there’s a lot fewer of us left to experiment on stuff.”
“Could be, Spanky,” Matt answered sadly, his smile vanishing, “and liable to be fewer after this next push. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Matt was still in a dark mood when they emerged on the gangway, back in the clean air and bright sunshine. When he turned to salute the colors again, however, he paused and pointed at the Jap-Grik flag. “Have somebody run up there and tear that damn rag down!” he told the Lemurian still stationed there.
“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!”
They finally reached the gangway to board USNRS Salissa (CV-1). The vessel had once been a great seagoing “Home” for thousands, with high pagoda-like apartments within three tall tripod masts supporting huge sails, or “wings.” Salissa, or “Big Sal” as the first American destroyermen dubbed her, had been rebuilt into the first aircraft carrier on this world after her near destruction by the Japanese Imperial battle cruiser Amagi during the Battle of Baalkpan Bay. Ironically, sunken Amagi’s steel had gone into creating the thousand-foot ship’s power plant, as well as much of her other machinery. Amagi continued contributing a great deal to the cause of defeating her former Grik/Japanese masters. Other carriers had since been converted or purpose built; two more were under repair in this very harbor. But Salissa was the first, and her people had been the first that Walker’s ever met on this world. Matt, Sandra, and Spanky were going aboard now to confer with all the commanders or their representatives on this front, but most especially their dear friends “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa’s High Chief, and Adar, who, though now High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, had once merely been Salissa’s High Sky Priest.
“Good morning, Captain Reddy, Commander Reddy, Commander McFarlane,” came a Brooklyn-accented voice behind them. They turned before mounting the gangway.
“Pam!” Sandra greeted the other woman happily. Pam Cross was Walker’s surgeon, but she’d been ashore in a makeshift hospital ever since the battle—as had Sandra. But there’d been so many wounded, several hospitals had been established, and the two women hadn’t seen much of each other.
“Good morning, Lieutenant Cross,” Matt said with a smile, returning her salute. “Glad you could get away.” The conference was more than just a meeting of commanders. Matt wanted as many department heads as possible from the various ships, particularly those slated for the mission, to attend as well.
“At least we’re not the only ones late!” Sandra giggled.
“Well, yah, maybe you are.” Pam grinned. “I been waitin’ down here for ya, smokin’ these PIG-cigs.” She grimaced and flicked one of the smoldering things into the dirty water alongside. “PIG” was an acronym for the Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co. It was named after the ’Cat and two very strange men who’d perfected a secret process for removing the vile, waxy coating that prevented Lemurian tobacco from being smoked. Considering the terrible, ammonia-tinged taste and smell of the cigarettes Pepper produced (he was in charge of manufacture), the nickname was probably permanent. “Nasty, yucky things,” Pam muttered. “I ain’t sure if you ought’a give those guys a medal for makin’ ’Cat tobacco smokable, er throw ’em in irons! Anyway, I figured I’d just wait here. The big huddle won’t start without you guys.” She looked beyond them. “You all by yourselves? Where’s the ‘Captain’s Guard’?”
“We sent Chief Gray ahead, and the rest of the fellas have plenty to do. No need for them to waste time watching us.” Matt chuckled.
“So Silva ain’t back yet?”
Matt and Sandra both knew Dennis Silva, a powerful, dangerous, and at least moderately depraved chief gunner’s mate, and Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross still had a “thing,” even if they’d tried to hide it.
“Back?” Matt asked, realizing Silva probably would’ve tagged along with them as one of their more dedicated guards if he wasn’t off doing something else.
Pam waved a hand. “Oh, never mind. What’s it to me? I’ll be happy to escort you aboard, now you’re here.”
Big Sal’s spacious admiral’s quarters doubled as a conference room, and it was packed when the four of them entered to applause. Matt’s face heated. He was uncomfortable with that kind of attention, and despite all that had gone before, the level it had reached from here to Maa-ni-la was kind of new. He consoled himself with the rationalization that the recent victory remained cause for celebration and they hadn’t all been together like this since. Besides, he wasn’t necessarily the focus of the praise, as much as he represented—almost personified—his ship, her people, and all they’d accomplished together. That was traditional and normal, and therefore a little more acceptable to him. Furthermore, since Walker’s participation in the most recent battle had been somewhat limited, he suspected the greater share of enthusiasm reflected the popularity of the mission they were about to undertake. Pam peeled off, and Matt, Sandra, and Spanky nodded and smiled as they moved through the crowd toward the large central table.
Keje was standing, grinning hugely. He wore his Navy white tunic and kilt without his armor for once, and his dark, rust-colored fur contrasted starkly with the fabric. Beside him, taller and much thinner than his lifelong friend, stood Chairman Adar. As always, he was dressed in what had long been irreverently referred to as his “Sky Priest suit,” consisting of a hooded robe, dark purple with embroidered stars flecked across the shoulders. The metallic eyes set in the gray fur covering his face looked tired but pleased and excited. Other faces Matt knew well beamed back at him from around the table. Pete Alden, former Marine sergeant aboard the doomed USS Houston, and now general of the Allied armies and Marines, nodded with a smile on his haggard face. He and Matt had spoken often in the last few days. Beside him was General Queen Protector Safir Maraan of B’mbaado, commanding what remained of II Corps. Matt hadn’t seen her since the battle, but he knew she’d been lightly wounded. She didn’t show it, resplendent as always in a new silver-washed cuirass and black cape and kilt that accentuated her shape, deep ebony fur, and bright silver eyes that blinked happily at him from her exotic face. Matt knew she’d been informed that this meeting would confirm that she and her Corps would participate in what had originally been proposed as a strong raid, but was now shaping into something a little more ambitious. Perhaps just as important to her, she’d finally join her long-absent love, Chack-Sab-At, now preparing for their arrival at the island of Diego Garcia.
Next to her, his hand protectively on her shoulder, was General Lord Muln Rolak of Aryaal. Enemies before the Great War, they’d grown as close as father and daughter. Matt looked carefully and saw that Rolak’s old, battle-scarred face did not look pleased. He suddenly reflected that Lemurians really were a lot more expressive than he’d originally thought. Their tails, ears, and patterns of blinking conveyed a wealth of body language, but after more than two years among them, he’d learned to spot very subtle facial expressions as well. Rolak, always urbane and stoic, was better at hiding even those small motions than most, but he’d doubtless heard that his I Corps wouldn’t be making the trip. At least not at first.
Elsewhere around the table were other familiar faces. One of them was Colonel Ben Mallory, currently commanding the 3rd Pursuit Squadron, but still in charge of all Army and Navy air. The pride of the 3rd remained a dwindling number of P-40E Warhawks, salvaged from a Chill-chaap swamp. Matt noted that he seemed to be brooding about something. Beside him was Commander Jis-Tikkar, or “Tikker,” COFO of Big Sal’s 1st Naval Air Wing. With them was Lieutenant Commander Mark Leedom, a hot pilot who’d once been a torpedoman, but who’d stay behind to command Pete’s combined Army and Navy air. His expression was a lot like Ben’s, and Matt suspected he knew the source of Colonel Mallory’s displeasure.
There were more, all of them men and ’Cats Matt knew well. Just “regular guys” who’d become heroes, leaders of a generation from two worlds—or was it more? he absently asked himself—caught up in an unimaginably bitter war for survival. He loved most of them like family. They were his family, he realized, and far too many were gone forever. Finally, he nodded at Commander Simon Herring, their “new” director of strategic intelligence. Herring remained inscrutable to Matt. He’d started as an insufferable martinet, opposed to the raid as originally conceived, but now, apparently, one of Matt’s biggest strategic supporters. He shook his head and looked around. Where’s Courtney? He should be here, and a lot of us are waiting to hear his theories about, well, a lot of recent revelations. He frowned.
Courtney Bradford was an Australian petroleum engineer, rescued from Java during the Old War. More important, he was a naturalist and the Allied Minister of Science. He was an extremely valuable and engaging man, but if he had a fault, it was his unruly “stream of consciousness” thought process. Chief Gray, Walker’s “Super Bosun,” once referred to Bradford’s mind as a “BB in a vacuum cleaner,” and it wasn’t a bad metaphor. Matt had a few ideas about the discoveries Chack and Captain Garrett had made, based on his historical background, but Courtney had been hinting a lot lately about the “how” of it all. Matt sighed. Most likely, he’s on his hands and knees, following some bug around the jungle, and has completely forgotten about this meeting. As a matter of fact, that’s probably where Silva is too. Protecting him. But Silva at least should’ve been keeping track of time!
Adar sat, and so did everyone, quickly quieting as the conference began. “My friends, my people,” Adar said, then added, “Gentlemen and ladies,” for the benefit and chagrin of some of the Imperials present. Even Matt felt that jab. All Lemurians fought, male and female, indiscriminately. Many former Imperial women, once virtual slaves, were fighting now as well. Soon, the Empire of the New Britain Isles would have an integrated navy, at least. It was necessary, and only made sense—particularly as far as the ’Cats were concerned. To them, a female not allowed to do whatever a male could do was not as free as the male. It was that simple. “We are here to announce the final dispositions for what I hope might prove a decisive campaign against the hated Grik!” Adar continued. “Much has been decided already, including the straa-ti-gee and objective.” He glanced at Herring. “Doubtless, many of you have guessed those dispositions already, but I must stress the need for secrecy. Not only is it sadly possible the Doms, who can infiltrate our ranks quite easily, might make use of what they learn, but we are now in almost daily contact with the Grik across”—he blinked concern at Alden—“across the cease-fire line that separates our forces from theirs in Indiaa. I do not expect the . . . truce . . . to hold for long, but in the meantime, we must guard our words!”
Alden and Rolak nodded. They’d learned a lot about the Grik from their brief talks with General Halik, and even more from “General” Niwa, Halik’s Japanese friend now in their care. But Halik was sharp. He might’ve learned just as much from them.
“Ultimately, it is most important that Halik not know we shift any focus from him. He will only see our strength here grow, and must not suspect we divert any to another front.” He blinked compassion at Rolak. “This is one reason you and General Alden must remain. He knows you both, and he could miss you from the talks if you leave. But he has not met our dear Queen Protector Safir Maraan. Besides, when we do strike Halik again, we will need you here,” he finished brusquely. He understood why Alden agreed to a cease-fire, but the very thought of an accommodation with the Grik struck him as perverse. He wanted Alden and Rolak to resume the offensive as quickly as possible. Adar looked at Matt. “And, of course, we are not taking a great deal of our strength on this mission in any event. Cap-i-taan Reddy?”
“That’s right, Mr. Chairman. We’ll take more than originally planned so we’ll be ready if a big opportunity pops, but with more troops coming in here all the time, the departure of Second Corps shouldn’t make a difference.” Matt didn’t point out that II Corps had been decimated, and it too would be composed largely of replacements and new recruits, but he saw Safir’s predatory grin when he confirmed she was going. He smiled at her. “I understand you want to take cavalry. I agree that’s a good idea; the Grik don’t seem to like it at all, and it gives us an edge when it comes to recon, rapid deployment, and screening troop movements. But I’m still not sure how that’s going to work. We’re talking about a long voyage. How will we keep ‘meanies’ from going nuts and trying to eat our crews?”
There was laughter. Me-naaks, or “meanies,” were cavalry mounts indigenous to the Fil-pin Lands, and looked like long-legged crocodiles with an armored case protecting their abdomens. They were notoriously ill-tempered, and usually wore muzzles to keep them from biting even their riders in combat.
Safir smiled back at him. “It required a long voyage to get them here,” she reminded, “and I’m told that they will remain quite happy aboard ship as long as they are well fed.” She glanced at a Lemurian standing behind her. “And besides, I have grown to value Major Saachic’s services—and valor.” By all accounts, Saachic had become one hell of a “cav-’Cat,” but Matt figured he would’ve blushed at the praise if he could.
“What am I supposed to use for cav?” Pete protested. Matt looked down the table at a large, wildly bearded man named Dalibor Svec, and raised his eyebrows. Svec styled himself a colonel in what he called the “Brotherhood of Volunteers,” and even though his “brotherhood” was primarily composed of a previously unknown continental tribe of Lemurians, some of his people were obviously—somehow—aging veterans of what Matt remembered as the Czech Legion. From previous conversations, Matt had learned that Svec’s Czechs and Slovaks had been involved in that bizarre odyssey at the end of the Great War (back home) when sixty-odd thousand of his comrades, fighting with the Russians, had been stranded on the Eastern Front when the Bolsheviks made a separate peace with Germany. His people were promised safe conduct out of their positions, but when Trotsky tried to arrest them and take their arms, they rebelled. The “Legion” had been spread out up and down the Trans-Siberian Railroad by that time, and fought a series of bitter battles against the Bolsheviks to consolidate their forces at Vladivostok. Matt knew what happened next, but Svec and his two hundred or so riflemen never did. It was during that time they’d somehow wound up on this different earth.
Matt was fascinated by Svec’s story of how his people survived, joining forces with Lemurians who’d once inhabited northern India—driven there, and then still farther by the encroaching Grik they didn’t dare confront—and he was anxious to hear more. He was particularly interested to learn why they wound up where they did and, well, how. Svec’s people were the first they’d ever encountered who didn’t come to this world by sea. Irritation flashed. That was another reason he’d wanted Courtney here! The Australian had heard of the legionnaires, but hadn’t talked to them yet. Matt focused back on Svec. Infantryman or not, he and all his people, human and Lemurian, had become outstanding cavalry, riding beasts every bit as frightening-looking as me-naaks, even if they weren’t carnivores. They’d been poorly armed with crude flintlocks for the most part, built in their primitive, nomadic villages, but they also had a few old Moisen Nagants. They retained ancient knowledge of the region, as well as a tradition of surveillance. They even attacked isolated groups of Grik when the opportunity arose to do so without leaving witnesses, so they knew the country very well. They’d just “shown up” at the climax of the battle for Alden’s Perimeter, after apparently watching for some time, waiting to see if the Allies truly had a chance against their hereditary enemy. Convinced now that they did, they were anxious to get on with it, and were just as frustrated as Adar by Pete’s cease-fire.
“What’s your current strength, Colonel Svec?” Matt asked.
“A full brigade,” Svec said proudly in heavily accented English. It was good that he spoke it, since his Lemurians and Matt’s could barely understand one another. “Two regiments as you count such things. More are coming now.”
“Good. You’ve been under Saachic’s command since you arrived, but can you do without him?” What Matt meant was, “Will you cooperate without him watching over you?” Svec smiled. “My volunteers will behave,” he assured, “now that we know the fight is not over, just postponed. We understand well the need to gather one’s strength!” He gestured around. “And we know you do not really make peace with the Gaarik.” His expression darkened. “Our friends have made peace with our enemies before, and at first, we thought that was the case again. Now we know it is not, we will cooperate fully with General Alden, and eagerly await the day we can kill the Gaarik and drive him from this land at last!”
“Fine,” Matt said, glancing meaningfully at Pete, making sure he’d caught the implied impatience. Now that Svec and his “volunteers” had powerful allies, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that they might precipitate an end to the cease-fire if it dragged on too long. He took a breath and resumed. “Otherwise, besides the assets already at Diego, which I won’t go into, Salissa and her air wing will be going, of course. Repairs to Arracca and Baalkpan Bay are almost complete, and they should be sufficient to protect our naval forces with their air power, particularly with the better bombs.” He looked at Tassanna-Ay-Arracca, Arracca’s High Chief. “As soon as possible, I’d like you to take your battle group and blockade the western ports of Indiaa.” Tassanna blinked appreciation. She was still very young for a High Chief, and what Matt was suggesting amounted to her very first independent command. “As for the battle group that will accompany Salissa . . .” He paused, noting how the tension ratcheted up among the frigate, or “DD” skippers. “Walker goes, obviously, but so does . . . Destroyer Squadron Six,” he announced. The statement was received by whoops and groans. It was interesting that the disappointed ones were those not going. Everyone wanted in on this show. “That’s about it. We sail in ten days. With any luck, we’ll get our licks in before the Grik anywhere else get a clue what’s happened here.” He looked at Keje. “You’ll organize whatever auxiliaries we need, oilers and tenders and such?”
“Of course.” Keje beamed. “I have grown good at that!” He glanced at Atlaan-Fas, Salissa’s Lemurian CO, and Lieutenant Newman, her exec. “Or at least those persons have!” Matt smiled back at him. In the growing noise that followed, Lieutenant Commander Irvin Laumer approached the table and stood by his arm.
“Yes, Commander?” Matt asked, a little surprised. The Skipper of destroyed S-19, who’d put so much of himself into the old sub, looked terrible. He was taking the loss of his ship and much of his crew very hard.
“What about me, sir?” he asked quietly. “I’d . . . I’d like to go.”
Matt studied him. “Honestly, Mr. Laumer, I thought you’d like to have one of the new destroyers building in Baalkpan.” At that moment, two nearly exact copies of Walker and Mahan were within a month or two of launching. The builders had had a lot of practice working on the ships that inspired them, and they’d even come up with improvements. It would take time to fit them out, but the ships should be ready for sea in four months at most. Matt considered the offer a reward for Laumer’s conduct.
“I appreciate it, sir, but”—he leaned down to whisper—“I learned a lot using my boat as a torpedo gun boat, and I’d like one of the PTs waiting at Diego.” Matt pursed his lips. The PTs were probably the worst-kept secret in the Alliance. He leaned back in his chair and arched his eyebrows. “Okay.”
As soon as Laumer stepped away, Adar rose. “Just as Cap-i-taan Reddy has said, that is about it. Thank you for coming. You will receive your orders.” He seemed to be trying to divert further requests, but as soon as Matt stood, Ben Mallory braced him. “So what about me?”
“What about you, Ben?”
Mallory eased Matt away from the table. “You’re jumping right down the shark’s throat on this one, sir. You’re going to need me—and at least a few of my modern birds.”
Matt nodded. “And I wish we could take them, though I think you’d still need to stay here. But the question is, what would we do with them?”
“Well, you can fly ’em off Big Sal if you have to!”
“Once, Ben,” Matt stated flatly. “Just one time. And what then? Where will they land? They can’t set back down on Big Sal!”
“Well . . . there’s got to be someplace on the whole damn island of Madagascar—” He looked around and lowered his voice, as if one or two people in the compartment might not know where they were going. “There’s got to be someplace we can set down!”
“But what if it’s someplace we can’t get to, where we can’t fuel them, where we have to leave them!”
“We wouldn’t leave them in one piece, Captain!”
“I don’t want to leave them at all, damn it!”
“Then take that silly damn thing we put those Jap floats on!” Ben insisted. “It looks weird as hell, but it’ll still be faster than anything else you have, and can carry more ordnance!” One of the P-40s had been damaged, and after the landing gear was removed, a pair of floats salvaged from Amagi’s hangars had been attached.
Matt grinned. “We already did. It went to Diego aboard Respite Island, with the PTs.”
“Then I should go!” Ben repeated. “Who can fly a P-Forty or a floatplane better than me?”
Matt put his hand on his shoulder. “Not you, Ben. Things can still spin out of control here, and nothing we’ve got can hammer the Grik better than your Warhawks. Besides, if we wind up in a situation that needs air power to get us out, I don’t care where it is, I’ll rely on you to come through.” He said the last almost jokingly, but he was serious, and Ben knew it.
The meeting broke up, with officers hurrying toward their commands. Matt and Sandra were stepping back down the gangplank when they caught up with Pam again. She was looking around, scanning the pier and the ruins beyond.
“So,” Matt asked casually, “where did Silva go, anyway?”
“I’m not so sure now. He said he was goin’ fishin’.” She took a deep breath and shrugged.