Crusade (5 page)

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Authors: TAYLOR ANDERSON

BOOK: Crusade
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In the meantime, he contented himself with a surge of relief over its safe return from this scout, at least, and he looked forward to hearing what Ben Mallory had seen. “Very well,” he said. “Ask Lieutenant Dowden to close
Big Sal
and signal the fleet for all captains to repair aboard her for a conference. Please inform Captain Keje, with my respects; we’ll come alongside as soon as they’ve hoisted the plane aboard. Ask him to rig hoses as well. I want to keep the bunkers topped off.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Garrett replied and spoke into his mouthpiece.
Matt watched the PBY grow larger as it neared, its thundering engines loud and reassuringly smooth. Mallory waggled his wings as he roared by the destroyer and began a wide, banking descent that brought him down alongside
Big Sal
. Matt dropped down the ladder to the wooden strakes below and stepped into the pilothouse.
“Captain on the bridge!”
“As you were,” replied Matt and smiled as the ship heeled into a tight turn toward the fleet. Juan, the diminutive but supremely dignified Filipino officer’s steward, had just arrived with the midwatch coffee, and he was desperately attempting to stabilize the serving tray so the coffee wouldn’t slide off onto the deck.
“Juan, Mr. Dowden and I will be crossing over to
Big Sal
at eighteen hundred. Would you present my compliments to Mr. Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker and ask them to accompany us?”
Juan finally got control of the carafe with an exasperated sigh as
Walker
steadied on her new heading. “Of course, Cap-tan Reddy. Might I recommend formal dress?”
Matt thought for a moment, then nodded, a grin stretching his face. “By all means, Juan. As formal as we can manage, at any rate. We must set an example.” He glanced around at the quizzical expressions. “We
are
the flagship, after all!”
 
Lieutenant—now Lieutenant Commander—“Spanky” McFarlane stood in the aft fireroom with his hands on his skinny hips and his eyes closed. He was
feeling
the ship and her machinery around him. The Mice watched expressionlessly, but two of the new “monkey-cat” snipes stared at him with reverential awe, as if they were in the very presence of some diminutive but allficulty staying awake.
It had been a long day for Ben and his crew. They’d flown out of Baalkpan early that morning to make a final aerial observation of the objective. For the first time, Mallory was allowed to fly directly over the city—and the enemy forces. His observations weren’t reassuring. Almost forty Grik ships were now in the bay before Surabaya and they’d dispatched a sizable landing force. Unlike Baalkpan, the defenders had a sturdy wall all around their city, with what appeared to be formidable defenses. But the Grik army was more than large enough to encircle most of the settlement. The only exception to complete investiture was a stretch of waterfront and a portion of the bay between the city and the island of Madura, about three miles from the mainland. A large assemblage of native small craft was concentrated in the passage, and another fortification, as yet unengaged, was constructed on the point of land on the island closest to Surabaya. A dense cloud of smoke from burning buildings—probably set alight by what everyone was calling Grik Fire—hung over everything, and Mallory couldn’t see much detail. But this time there was no question whether the Grik saw the PBY.
Matt disliked allowing the plane to be seen by the enemy, but they had to know what they faced. Perhaps the unnatural thundering apparition that swooped low overhead had unnerved the Grik, Matt consoled himself. In order to avoid doing the same to the Aryaalans, Mallory’s crew had dropped hundreds of “pamphlets” over the defenders’ main position. These pamphlets consisted of light wooden shakes etched with a Lemurian phrase that said: “Your brothers to the north will aid you. We bring powerful friends. Do not fear.” It was all they could do to assure the defenders help was on the way. With his mission complete, Mallory returned to join the task force. Tomorrow, he would fly back to Baalkpan, since they dared not risk the plane in the fight to come. Once there, he’d stay in radio contact with
Walker
.
Sandra Tucker sat primly at Matt’s side, also on one of the stools, and showed no discomfort whatsoever. He wondered what she was thinking. He’d come to rely more and more on her intuition as time went by, but he had to admit he also just liked having her around. They’d evolved an unspoken understanding after they declared their love for one another. Aboard ship, a wall of strict propriety always stood between them in spite of their mutual attraction. They thought they hid it well. But sometimes when they were alone, a more . . . comfortable . . . familiarity existed between them. They both felt compelled to restrict any further exploration of their feelings, and Matt felt almost guilty that they shared as much as they did when the rest of the men had no prospects at all . . . unless you believed Silva and Risa really . . . He shook his head. Perhaps someday they’d find more people; even the Lemurian legends hinted at the possibility, but right now there was a war to fight. Terrible as it was, at least it had released some of the pressure-cooker tension caused by the “dame famine.”
In the meantime, for the sake of the men, Matt and Sandra must control their passions. That didn’t mean Matt intended to ignore her excellent insight. He leaned over and whispered in her ear: “What do you think of that Anai-Sa?” he asked, referring to the High Chief of the
Fristar
Home. The black-furred Lemurian had arrived at the conference late, as usual, and now sat hunched on a cushion in sulky disdain while the rest of the attendees finished the refreshments that were a prerequisite to any council.
“I think he only volunteered so he could get the cannons that were promised to the Homes that take part in the campaign,” she whispered back. “I don’t trust him. Iiv>
Matt nodded. Anai-Sa had been the most outspoken proponent of just packing up and sailing off, but to possess the power of the guns was a mighty incentive to hypocrisy. “Do you have any less vague impressions about our other commanders?” he asked with heavy irony.
A quiet chuckle escaped her, but she nodded. “They seem pretty solid for the most part. You know you can count on Rick, on
Revenge,
and Keje, of course.” She paused, considering. “I really like Ramic-Sa-Ar of
Aracca
and Tassat-Ay-Aracca of
Nerracca
.”
“They’re father and son, aren’t they?” Matt asked, referring to the pair of Lemurians who sat close together talking animatedly among themselves. There was certainly a strong resemblance. The younger one seemed a virtual replica of the older.
“Yes,” she confirmed, “and Tassat is actually younger than Anai, even though you could hardly tell by the way they act.” She sniffed. “As far as Geran-Eras of
Humfra-Dar,
it’s hard to say.” She was referring to the only female High Chief present. “She’s been a vocal supporter of the expedition from the start,” Sandra continued. “You may even remember her showing rather . . . energetic approval of your plan?”
Matt did remember then, and cringed. Even Lemurian females had surprising upper body strength, and Geran-Eras had actually embraced him after he made his pitch for the relief of Surabaya. He was sure she’d almost cracked some ribs.
“I think, as your Mr. Silva would say, ‘she has more than one dog in this hunt.’ Adar told me her mate and one of her children were killed in a Grik attack right before they came to Baalkpan. Might’ve even been one of the ships we destroyed, so she
really
likes you. Also, I imagine she sees this expedition as a chance for revenge. You might need to keep an eye on her.”
Matt nodded soberly and glanced around. The refreshments had been consumed and Keje was looking at him expectantly. “Better get started,” he said to Sandra, and cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began aloud. “We have a battle to plan.”
Standing on
Walker
’s bridge with his binoculars raised, Matt reflected that his return to Surabaya wasn’t altogether unlike his departure so long ago. Once again, the clouds above the distant city glowed and flickered with the reflected light of fires caused by an enemy bombardment. This time, the spectacle was all the more surreal.
Walker
’s blowers roared at a pitch consistent with her ten knots, but in spite of that, even at this distance, the loud
whump
and overpressure of Japanese bombs would have been felt and heard. Instead, only an eerie silence accompanied the distant battle. They’d opened the bay from the east at 0120 and picked their way carefully through the Sapudi Islands, which were scattered haphazardly there. The last time Matt traversed these waters,
Walker
had had the services of a fat Dutch pilot, and Matt wondered suddenly where the man was now. Had he even survived? He banished the thought. All
Walker
had this time was a waning crescent moon. Of course, this time there was no minefield either.
As they drew closer, they could discern the stern lanterns of dozens of Grik ships moored in the bay, close to the city. All were ablaze with light and all rode secure at their anchors, never suspecting any threat might descend from the sea. A few, closer in, kept up a continuous desultory bombardment with their catapults, flinging “Grik Fire”rs. Usually, a red gout of flame mushroomed upward into the sky. The festive, brightly lit ships in the bay provided a stark contrast to the suffering inside the city beyond.
Matt carefully refocused the binoculars dead ahead, watching one Grik ship in particular. Alone among its identical sisters, this one was under plain sail, creeping slowly among its brethren on a light southerly wind. Apparently accepted without fanfare as yet another reinforcement, the ship with the unusual blue glass in its lanterns moved deep into the enemy formation. Matt marked its progress by that blue light that identified it as
Revenge
.
He stepped onto the bridgewing and glanced aft. The Homes were hanging in there, totally darkened, as was
Walker
. He could see the occasional flash of white water alongside them as the hundred mighty sweeps propelled each huge ship forward at close to the ten knots
Walker
was making. He marveled yet again at the strength and determination that took.
Fristar
was lagging behind the others, leaving a small but growing gap between her and
Humfra-Dar,
but otherwise his “battle line” was holding together. The shoal of feluccas brought up the rear. He stepped back into the pilothouse and resumed his post beside his chair.
The bridge watch was silent other than an occasional whispered command, and he felt a tension that was different from any he’d sensed since the battle of the Makassar Strait. Like that night, there was fear and tension, but there was also a certain . . . predatory eagerness. A realization that they’d caught their overwhelming enemy with his britches down, coupled with a determination to make him pay. General quarters had been sounded long ago, and all stations were manned and ready except the torpedo director. Sandison’s “torpedo project” to repair the two condemned torpedoes they’d filched from a warehouse in Surabaya was still on hold, and they wouldn’t be using any of the three “definites” tonight. Sandison and his torpedomen had filled out the crews of the numbers one and four guns.
Matt turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who was in quiet conversation with Courtney Bradford. “Assemble your riflemen amidships and hold them as a reserve for any point of contact if the enemy try to board,” Matt instructed. Virtually everyone topside had a rifle handy, but at their stations, the crew was too spread out to mass their small-arms fire. Shinya saluted him with a serious expression and turned to comply with the order. It would be the first time he’d commanded any of the destroyermen in action, and his self-consciousness was evident. He was directly in charge of close defense of the ship and had half a dozen Americans assigned to his reserve. Matt doubted there’d be any friction. Most of the destroyermen still didn’t like him, but his abilities were evident. Some had even begun to consider him just another part of
Walker
’s increasingly diverse extended family. They never would forgive the Japanese, but Shinya wasn’t just a Jap anymore. Besides, they were all on the same side now. It even seemed as though Dennis Silva kind of liked the former enemy lieutenant, and if Silva would put up with him, the rest of the crew certainly could.
“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Matt cautioned as Shinya departed the bridge.
“Not long now, I should think,” commented Bradford when they were alone. Matt nodded. He hadn’t really wanted the Australian on the bridge during the action. He would have preferred that Bradford stay in the wardroom with Sandra, but the man had practically insisted. Chief Gray had just as “practically” offered to force him to go below, but the captain allowed him to remain. It was probably better this way. In spite of his peculiar manner, Bradford ofn awe-inspiring. A number of ships continued burning furiously, and many more Grik were so involved in preventing their own ships from catching fire, they were unable to contribute to the fight. Matt knew
Walker
had savaged them and he had no idea how many Grik she’d sunk. The number of burning ships was surprising even so, and he realized some of them must have set fire to each other, flinging their bombs haphazardly in the midst of battle.
The battle line was almost through to them now, their massive guns spitting hate at the Ancient Enemy, blasting great gaping holes in hulls and smashing masts and bodies on any vessel that dared draw near. Some still did, regardless of damage, in the predictable Grik style. The very waters of the bay burned with Grik Fire as bomb after bomb exploded against the stout, scorched sides of the Homes or spilled their burning contents onto the sea. Any fires that were started on the great wooden fortresses were quickly extinguished, and very little had been left exposed that would burn. The decks were soaked before the battle and the huge fabric wings had been stowed, leaving only the massive sweep-oars for propulsion. One by one, the blackened and smoldering but otherwise unscathed leviathans crashed through the final obstacles separating them from
Walker
and
Revenge
and slowly took up positions lengthening the line with their port batteries bearing on the bay.
Even then they continued to fire, without nearly as great an effect at the increased range, but with just as much determination. The surviving Grik that could began to flee. At least half the enemy’s fleet of forty ships had been destroyed, and most of those remaining afloat were damaged to varying degrees. Matt was tempted to allow
Walker
’s main battery to continue firing, but he knew he had to conserve ammunition. This was but the opening stroke, and he inwardly cringed at his expectation of what they had expended.
“Cease firing,” he said, but the guns had already fallen silent, probably at Garrett’s command. After the noise and turmoil of battle, his voice sounded strange . . . disassociated. He glanced at his watch and experienced the usual sense of disorientation when he realized the seemingly hours-long battle had lasted less than forty minutes. The rest of the fleet’s cannonade became more desultory as the remaining targets drew away, and a great tide of cheering voices from thousands of throats rose and washed over him.
Larry Dowden appeared at his side. He’d been at his battle station on the aft deckhouse and was black with soot and sweat from the fire that came too close. He stood with Matt and stared at the scene of destruction as the roar of exultation continued. “Even better than Balikpapan . . . in the old war,” he finally managed. His voice held a trace of wonder. Matt nodded. The enormity of the victory was beginning to sink in. “This even
feels
better,” Dowden continued. “God knows I hate the Japs . . . except Shinya, I guess, but he’s the proof. At least Japs are
people
. This feels more like . . . killing snakes.”
“What is it, Mr. Garrett?”
“Listen, sir,” he said, almost shouting, and pointed at the city. Matt turned back toward shore and strained his ears to hear over the cheering. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Garrett wanted him to hear over—then it hit him. The cheering of the fleet wasn’t just echoing off the walls of the city, it was being answered from within! Even at this distance, and in the dark, he saw hundreds of figures standing on the walls, waving banners and weapons in triumph and shouting their defiance to the massive Grik army encamped outside their walls. From that army there came only a shocked, sullen silence.
Matt clasped his hands behind his back and strained to keep his relief in check. Underlying all the concerns he’d felt over the meeting with the Grik had been not knowing how the people here would receive them. They’d still have to guard against friction, but for now . . . “It seems the Aryaalans are glad to see us after all, wouldn’t you say, Mr.
Dowden?” His statement was met with a few hopeful chuckles.
“Captain!” cried the talker, who’d come as close as his cord would allow. “Lookout says there’s a small boat coming up to starboard!”
Matt heard the bolt rack back on the .30-cal above his head. “Hold your fire!” he shouted, looking up. “Mr. Garrett, inform all stations to hold fire!” He turned and peered into the darkness that lay between them and the shore. The blazing wrecks threw a lot of light on the fleet and the fortress, but the space between them was in shadow, cast by the battle line. Even so, he saw what looked like a barge approaching from landward. It was about thirty feet long and broad in the beam. There were six banks of oars on each side and they rose and dipped with admirable precision. “Get Chack up here, on the double,” he said, glancing forward. In less than twenty seconds, Chack and Chief Gray were both beside him. Matt was looking through his binoculars and when he noticed their arrival, he handed the glasses to Chack. “What do you make of them?” Chack looked through the binoculars, mainly because he liked to. He didn’t really need them to see who was approaching.
“Aryaalans, Captain,” he said simply. Then he looked at Matt, inscrutable and expressionless as always, but he was blinking a sequence reserved for surprise. Intense surprise. “And others.”
Matt had started to turn and issue an order, but stopped and looked back at Chack. “What do you . . . ? Just a moment.” He did turn then. “Signal the fleet ‘Well done’ and compliments. Also, all battle line captains please report aboard
Walker
. They can send a representative if they have damage or other pressing concerns.” His gaze returned to Chack. “What were you saying?”

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