Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen (5 page)

Matt felt his square jaw while Juan finished his rounds. Juan was much better at shaving him than Tabasco had ever been. After finally relenting and letting the Filipino perform that delicate duty, he couldn’t very well prevent Tabasco from doing the same after Juan was wounded, and the young ’Cat’s hand wasn’t nearly as steady. Matt shuddered.

“Uh, thanks,” he managed when Juan triumphantly and with surprising agility, swooped back by and topped off his cup, replacing the single, obligatory sip he’d taken. Matt set the cup on the green linoleum-topped table and gazed at the others in the compartment, almost daring them to grin or snicker. Suddenly, he was reminded of other, often desperate, times when he and
Walker
’s officers had met like this. There was a more relaxed atmosphere today, but there were important matters to discuss; matters that would affect the prosecution of the war on its various fronts, and that would require scattering these people—his friends—to remote places once again.

He looked at Marine Major (or Bosun’s Mate, if he was at sea) Chack-Sab-At and smiled. The young Lemurian had become one of the rocks of the Alliance, and his brindled tail was swishing slightly in anticipation. They’d discussed his assignment before, and not only was he excited by it, but he also knew that ultimately it would take him nearer his beloved Safir Maraan, General-Queen Protector of B’mbaado. The stunning Safir was a corps commander now in the First Fleet Expeditionary Element.

“Chack, you’ll be stopping in Manila, where you’ll be joined by Major Jindal and his regiment of Imperial Marines aboard those Dom steam transports captured at New Ireland. They sailed before we did, and took a straighter shot. They should arrive there shortly, and this way, maybe you’ll be there to meet them.”

“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan,” Chack said.

“There’s more. Twenty of the forty-odd POW survivors of
Mizuki Maru
—Army, some China Marines, others too, I’m told—are fit enough and willing to join the cause.” He frowned. “Not much else for ’em, poor guys. They’re in the same boat we are now.”

“Still better than the boat they were in, from what I hear,” Spanky practically snarled. “Goddamn Japs!”

“Maybe so,” Matt agreed.

“What about the others?” Sandra asked.

“Some are nuts,” Matt said simply. “No wonder. Others are physical wrecks.” He shrugged. “Some say their war’s over, and I can’t say I blame them.” His jaw worked. “Much as we may need their expertise, we all have to do our best to make sure
nobody
blames them if they choose to sit this one out. Those guys fought like hell, and now we know they were
ordered
to surrender. After that . . . My God, the Japs treated ’em more like you’d expect the Grik would have than . . . people ever would.” He glanced at Sandra, then stared back at his cup.

“What will they do?” Sandra asked softly.

“With all the war industry in Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la, and, well, just about everywhere, I bet they can write their own ticket. There’s no shortage of work. Even if they can’t fight anymore, they can still help. Hey, let’s skip it for now. . . . But don’t forget it!” Matt looked back at Chack. “That leaves the others who do want to join us. Somebody, one of them, probably, talked High Chief Saan-Kakja into forming some kind of Brit-style commando outfit.” He arched his brows bemusedly. “Maybe they can use some more of Chinakru’s lizards for advisors or an opposition force to train against. Anyway, there’s that. Ultimately, you’ll take those forces and a new Manila regiment and go to Baalkpan, where you’ll incorporate a regiment of ’Cat Marines your sister Risa is raising into a division.” Matt paused. “You’ll command.”

Chack blinked and bowed. “Thank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

“Who’s going straight to Baalkpan, sir?” Lieutenant Irvin Laumer asked politely but intently. He had a very personal reason to be curious. Like most submariners, Laumer wasn’t tall or physically remarkable in any way, but Matt had learned he had an extra helping of guts. He’d successfully led the effort to salvage his old submarine, S-19, off a Talaud Island beach—a beach that no longer existed, since the whole island had blown itself apart in a volcanic fit reminiscent of Krakatoa on the “old earth.” More recently, he’d been acting exec of
Maaka-Kakja
, a prestigious post, but one he’d relinquished so he could go back to his old sub. He seemed to feel, despite all he’d accomplished, that he still had something to prove, and he could only really do that with S-19.

Matt reflected that Laumer’s fixation on the old boat could be good . . . or bad . . . and he had no idea which it would ultimately be. He’d been advised that S-19 could never be a submarine again. Most wanted to just scrap her—but that wasn’t right either. Not only would Laumer and all the men and ’Cats who’d worked so hard to save her be crushed, but the boat
did
float and had two running (or repairable) diesels and a four-inch-fifty gun. Matt decided to give the determined submariner his head and ordered Laumer to rebuild S-19 into . . . something else. Even if nobody really knew what that would be yet, Laumer didn’t care. Whatever S-19 was fated to become, she would still be his.

“You are,” Matt answered, “along with Lawrence, and”—he arched an eyebrow at Silva’s looming form, expecting one of the man’s . . . imaginative arguments—“Chief Silva.” To Matt’s surprise, Dennis Silva didn’t do anything other than arch his own eyebrows and form that disconcerting, gap-toothed grin of his. “You’ll resume command of S-19,” he continued to Laumer, “and figure out what to do with her. You may consider that a reward for your efforts, if you like, but I think it’s going to be a bigger chore than you imagine. My only advice is not to get any fixed ideas before you start. Talk to your people who stayed aboard; get with Bernie Sandison, Perry Brister, anybody who might have a notion. Draw pictures. Whatever you do with her though, remember: we need practical warships, not pie in the sky.”

“Or a pigboat in a poke,” Silva murmured down at Lawrence, and Laumer fired a scathing look at him before replying, “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Matt nodded.

“You ain’t gonna stick me on that big, leakin’ weenie, are you, Skipper?” Silva spoke up. It wasn’t really a question.

“No. That would be a waste of your few real talents, and you’d be
much
worse than useless to Lieutenant Laumer. That said, though you are going to Baalkpan, you’re
not
on the loose. When not directly involved in the assignment you’re about to receive, you
belong
to Bernie Sandison in Ordnance. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still AWOL. If you don’t do exactly what he says, he can hang you, for all I care.”

“I swear,” Silva mumbled, barely audible. “How come folks are always shakin’ ropes at me?”

“What was that?” Spanky demanded.

“Nothin’, sir,” Silva said, suddenly making a caricature of the position of attention. “Aye, aye, sir! I’ll stick to Bernie like malaria! Why, he won’t be able to scrape me off with assi-tone—but I’ll be back with
Walker
when her refit’s done . . . Won’t I?”

“We’ll see,” Matt said seriously, stifling a chuckle. “In the meantime, Adar still wants that expedition into the interior of Borno, to make contact with those ‘jungle lizards’ you discovered. I think it’s past time myself, now that we know not everybody who looks Grik
is
Grik.” He grinned at Lawrence, then looked back at Dennis. “We also know for a fact that
looking
Grik doesn’t save them from the Grik either, so they have a stake in this war whether they want it—or know it—or not.” Matt’s eyebrows rose. “According to General Alden, we need jungle fighters, for scouts if nothing else, and we might use them as commandos too. Adar’s already begun accumulating supplies and personnel for the expedition. The ’Cat hunter, Moe, a couple of Chinakru’s Sa’aarans, and even some of the Grik we captured at Aryaal have committed to participate.”

There was a murmur in the wardroom over that. When they left Baalkpan, little progress had been made toward communicating with the creatures.

“So, I guess I’ve also committed to participate?” Silva asked, arousing chuckles.

“Yes, you have,” Matt replied seriously. “You and Lawrence will ensure the safety of the expedition, and do whatever you can to make it a success.”

“Who’s gonna be in charge?”

“Abel Cook has been commissioned an ensign, and he’ll be your superior officer. With Courtney in the east, Mr. Cook is the best-qualified man to lead this . . .” Matt looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “This Corps of Discovery. I know he’s awful young, but as you know, he’s got a level head—and I’m sure he’ll listen to you. I know he’s learned to value your . . . opinions . . . in dangerous situations.”

Cook had been one of a number of civilian refugees from Java, mostly children of diplomats and other big shots, aboard S-19. Since his rescue, he’d been Courtney Bradford’s protégé in the natural sciences. He’d also been abducted and ultimately marooned along with Sandra, Silva, Princess Rebecca, Lawrence, Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Sister Audry . . . and others not as lucky. He’d packed considerable adventure into his barely sixteen years, and the gangly teen had generally comported himself well by all accounts.

“Cook’s a good kid,” Silva said thoughtfully. “And he’s probably been livin’ in a igloo made outta Courtney’s books since he got back to Baalkpan. He’s a good choice.” He chuckled. “I figger his biggest problem’ll be givin’ me orders!”

“You may have to teach him how,” Matt agreed, “and I feel a little guilty inflicting you on him, but he’ll need you. Tell him to feel free to accept a few more volunteers, if he wants.” Matt knew Abel’s friend, Midshipman Brassey, would be begging Ambassador Forester to let him go as soon as the meeting adjourned.

“Sounds like a hoot, and me and Larry’ll do our best for the kid . . .” Silva’s twisted grin spread. “I mean, for
Mister
Cook.” He poked Lawrence with his elbow. “Won’t we?”

“So, who else is leavin’ the ship?” Spanky grumbled. “Not too many more, I hope. We’ve got a lot of work to do when we make Respite, just so we can get the rest of the way home and get to work!”
Walker
’s machinery needed considerable attention after her long voyage and hard fighting; more than they’d been able to give her in the Imperial shipyards. Even more critical than that, however, she needed a dry dock, and the closest one was in Maa-ni-la. She had some damage below her waterline, but what had come to worry Spanky most were the rivets they’d rebuilt her with in Baalkpan. He considered that his fault. They’d formed her new plating from good steel salvaged from
Amagi
, but the rivets were local “iron.” It wasn’t really iron but some of the first steel they’d attempted, and Spanky had thought it would suffice and made the call. Unfortunately, the rivets had proven remarkably brittle. They resisted shearing, so they weren’t apt to fail with the normal working of the ship, but even some of the light roundshot strikes they’d taken had opened seams and launched shattered rivets like bullets. They’d repaired
Walker
’s worst topside damage with good-quality “Impie” rivets at Scapa Flow, but Spanky was increasingly worried they’d pop a bottom seam if they ran into another big storm, or Strakka, like the one they encountered on the voyage out. The ship survived that blow with no hull damage, but real or not, Spanky felt the growing stress on the bottom rivets as if the same ones had been used to hold his guts together.

In response to Spanky’s question, Matt glanced at the Bosun, indecisive. Carl Bashear was
Walker
’s Chief Bosun’s Mate now, and Chief Gray really was needed in Baalkpan. The Alliance had sprouted a lot of “chiefs,” but few had any real leadership experience, especially in combat. Matt envisioned at least a temporary school for Naval NCOs, to deepen that pool of experience and knowledge, and Chief Gray, the Super Bosun, was the natural choice to supervise it. Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites could handle the Captain’s Guard, and Bashear was fully capable of handling all the deck divisions. Matt really ought to send Gray home, but he was reluctant for several reasons. For one thing, he was Matt’s friend and primary—discreet—confidant when it came to matters concerning the crew. Also, like Silva in one respect, Gray thrived under adversity. Despite occasionally proclaiming that he wouldn’t mind settling down for a while, he’d hinted that if Matt shuffled him off to be a “schoolmarm,” or put him out to pasture, he shouldn’t expect him to excel behind a desk or in the classroom. Matt thought the Bosun could and would do the job, but he also knew his heart wouldn’t be in it.
Walker
was his home. Whether or not he remained essential to the old destroyer’s day-to-day operation, supervising and monitoring her well-being was critical to Gray. He needed her just as badly as she’d needed him in the past, and Matt couldn’t shake the feeling—the premonition, almost—that his ship might desperately need her Super Bosun again.

“No. That’s all, Mr. MacFarlane. Except the ambassador and his party—if they don’t mind flying.” Matt regarded Ambassador Forester. “Saan-Kakja, High Chief of All the Fil-pin Lands, and Chairman Adar are both anxious to meet you. In Saan-Kakja’s case, she wants to go back to Baalkpan, as she promised her troops she would—but now she’s got troops fighting Doms in the other direction, helping defend the Empire.” He paused. “Honestly, Ambassador Forester, Saan-Kakja doesn’t like the Empire very much, and you really need to make a good impression on her.”