Maelstrom (50 page)

“Down!” Letts screamed, and for the next several moments there was nothing but the overwhelming sound and pressure of titanic detonations. The entire massive structure of the Great Hall sagged beneath them, and there was a terrific crash from above. Oil lamps fell from the walls and rolled away down the sloping floor. One came to rest beside a crumpled tapestry that once adorned the wall of the entrance chamber, and the beautifully woven fabric began to burn. In the eerie silence immediately following the salvo, a deep, rumbling groan could be heard.

Letts scrambled to his feet and looked quickly around. One of the runners had been crushed by a massive limb. It had fallen from the tree far above and crashed down through all three levels of the hall, driving him through the deck on which Alan stood with its jagged stump. The others rose shakily, but Nakja-Mur still lay sprawled. “Quickly!” he shouted at O’Casey. “We’ve got to get him out now! There may be only seconds before the next salvo!”

Between them and the staff members who’d gathered their wits, they managed to heave the High Chief through the opening and lower him quickly to the ground. By then Nakja-Mur was recovering his senses, and he looked around, blinking surprise. People were running in all directions, and the Great Hall no longer looked quite right. Flames leaped up from nearby structures, and over all there was a wailing, keening sound.

“Take his legs!” Alan yelled. O’Casey could only grab one, but there was plenty of help now. They ran as fast as they could toward the edge of the parade ground, while a sound like a roaring gale and tearing canvas descended upon them.

“Down!”

Even as they dropped, there came again the avalanche of deafening sound and mighty flashes of searing fire as the earth heaved into the sky.

Letts tried to stand, but fell to his knees, stunned by the proximity of the blast. He looked back. Somehow the Great Hall and Sacred Tree still stood, but the building was engulfed in flames. Any shells that actually struck it must have passed right through and detonated on the ground or against the tree itself. Flames licked up and across the huge sloping roof, clawing greedily at the branches above. Smoldering leaves and drifting ash descended all around. Up beyond the light of the fire where the tree disappeared into darkness, they could only just hear Naga’s plaintive, wailing chant.

“So now I see war as you are accustomed to it,” Nakja-Mur rasped beside him.

Letts glanced down and saw that the High Chief had risen to a sitting position. O’Casey just looked stunned. At least he’d acted, though.

“Nobody ever gets accustomed to it,” Alan said, managing to stand. “But yeah, this is the war we left behind when we came here.”

“You all tried to tell me, but I never . . .” Nakja-Mur’s eyes reflected an expression almost of wonder. He looked back in the direction they’d come. “The Tree . . . !”

Letts motioned the others to grab him. “Never mind the tree! We have to keep moving away from it, in case they aren’t satisfied with their handiwork yet.”

“The Tree . . .”

The arrival of the wounded at the central hospital had slowed to a trickle. Not that there was any shortage of them, but with the sound of battle coming from everywhere now, Sandra knew more should be arriving, not less. She saw Courtney Bradford talking with one of the young runners, and she quickly finished bandaging an Aryaalan’s wounded shoulder and jogged over to where he stood.

“What is it? What’s happening?” she demanded. Bradford turned to her, and his face seemed pasty in the torchlight.

“It’s . . . it’s all going according to plan,” he repeated once more.

She glared at him. “It’s not!” she snarled. “It can’t possibly be! There are no more wounded coming in. Have the field hospitals been overrun?”

“No—no, that’s not it at all. Most of the wounded are returning to the fight, and those who cannot must remain where they are for now. The ambulance corps have gone to strengthen the walls.”

“But . . . how . . .” She stopped. “We’re losing then?”

“Not as you would say
losing
, precisely,” Bradford hedged.

“What were you and that messenger just talking about?”

“Um. Well, you see, I’ve been asked to send whoever can still wield a weapon up to the east wall. It’s not engaged—and probably won’t be,” he quickly added, “but they’ve taken everyone off it to reinforce those areas that are.” He stopped. “We’ve also been told to prepare to evacuate into the jungle if the word should come. If it does, we must move quickly.”

Sandra felt numb. “Is there any word of
Walker
, or . . . or Captain Reddy?” she asked quietly.

Bradford’s expression became even more strained, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “
Walker
is afire, my dear,” he said gently, “and dead in the water.” He gestured vaguely. “She gave a lovely account of herself but . . .” He shook his head. “The Japs aren’t even shooting at her anymore.”

Sandra could only stand and stare at him as hot tears came to her eyes. “Mr. Bradford,” she said very formally, voice brittle as glass, “would you be so kind as to cover for me here awhile?”

He gawked at her and then looked helplessly around. “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t have the faintest idea—”

“Oh, but you do! You’ve been a tremendous help!” she pleaded.

“I am
not
a doctor!”

Sandra giggled hysterically. “Neither am I!”

Bradford’s face became severe. “Listen to me, young lady! You
are
a doctor—the best in the world! There are hundreds of people here who need your help. If you leave now, many may die!” His voice softened slightly. “There’s nothing you can do for him, my dear.”

Suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest, and all he could do was stare straight ahead and pat her lightly on the back. A suspicious sensation caused his own eyes to blink.

“There, there. There, there,” he said over and over. “All is not lost. I told you there was a plan. That young man of yours may surprise us yet.”

A disturbance nearby alerted them to the arrival of several figures, carrying another. A few of the closest wounded recognized the burden, and a cry of alarm rose up.

“What is it?” Sandra demanded, wiping her face on her shirtsleeve. “Let me through!”

“Quick!” said Alan Letts. “It’s Nakja-Mur! We got him out of the Great Hall when the Japs started shelling it. He was a little roughed up, but he seemed okay. He even walked a little. Then, all of a sudden, he just collapsed!”

“Get him on the table!” commanded Sandra. Letts, O’Casey, and a couple others set him down, and she shone a light into the High Chief’s face. His mouth was slack and his eyes moved lazily from side to side. He seemed unable to focus. She plugged the stethoscope into her ears and listened to his chest. Lemurian hearts sounded different from humans’, but she’d learned to recognize those differences. What she heard now wasn’t just different; it was wrong. In the midst of all the turmoil and strife, Nakja-Mur’s noble heart was fighting a battle of its own.

“Where is Rebecca?” O’Casey suddenly demanded, and Sandra, momentarily distracted, glared at him with wide eyes.

“I thought she was with you!”

Lawrence lay coiled on Captain Reddy’s bunk, panting in the heat. He’d heard the sounds of battle and been curious, but then came the tremendous blast, seemingly just aft of where he lay, and he’d grown concerned—mainly that the ship of Rebecca’s new friends might have been seriously damaged—and maybe a little that he might have been forgotten. But he wasn’t afraid—not in the way Bradford and even, he suspected, the “Grik” might be afraid in a similar situation. He’d endured the Trial, after all. If this was where his existence would end, that was too bad, but so be it. It was getting very hot, though, and he’d have liked to leave the room he was in, but he’d been ordered not to. So there he stayed . . . and panted.

The green curtain parted suddenly, and he blinked in shock when Rebecca’s small head poked inside.

“There you are, you silly thing! Come out of there this instant! You will be cooked alive!”

“’Ecky! Here?”

“Of course I’m here,” she answered severely. “Where did you expect I’d be? Now come along!”

Without objection, Lawrence obeyed. He’d been given an order, after all. As they passed down the short hallway, they heard the roaring flames and shouted commands nearby. “Do they know you’re here?” he asked, already sure of the answer.

“Well, probably not, I suppose. Not everyone, anyway. Mr. Miller and a few of the wounded in the wardroom do—that’s where I stowed away! Some of the cabinets are quite spacious. When I popped out and came looking for you, I’m sure he saw me, but he was somewhat busy.” Her voice turned grim. “This battle has cost our friends severely, I’m afraid. We must discover some way to be of help.”

“How?”

Rebecca chewed her lip. “That’s the thing; I haven’t the slightest idea. But we’ll think of something; we must!”

Jim Ellis watched the battle from
Mahan
’s stark, rebuilt bridge, almost five miles from where
Amagi
loomed, outlined against the burning city beyond. His ship had spent the battle carefully concealed along the shore in the west inlet, covered by foliage and low-hanging branches, in case an inquisitive Grik sneaked past
Walker
for a look, or the enemy spotting plane was a factor after all. Her topsides were blackened with tar and soot mixed with fat, so she’d be virtually invisible in the dark. Now, slowly, she made her way into the bay. The frustrating wait was over at last, and finally it was
Mahan
’s turn.

Amagi
’s attention had been firmly fixed on
Walker
, just as they’d hoped, but whatever catastrophic injury
Mahan
’s sister had suffered was definitely not part of the plan. The other four-stacker was supposed to be clear, “chased” into the dark, dead-end reaches of the north inlet. Jim watched her burn with a sick, wrenching sense of loss.

The effect was the same, however. With
Walker
afire and apparently no further threat, the last obstacle had been removed, and the Japanese diverted all their attention to reducing Baalkpan to rubble. With any luck, no one would even suspect
Mahan
’s approach. Bernard Sandison stood on the starboard bridge wing, running a final check on the sole surviving torpedo director. Everything had been carefully examined over and over, but it never hurt to check again. They’d have only one chance, and all their hopes were riding on the single MK-10 torpedo in the number one mount.
Almost
all their hopes, Jim amended grimly to himself. If all else failed, he’d added one small addition to the plan.

Mahan
had only a skeleton crew aboard, more than half of them Lemurians. All were volunteers. The crew was actually leaner than Jim had led Matt to believe it would be, and damage control might be a problem, but that couldn’t be helped. There were full crews for the numbers one and two, four-inch-fifties, as well as the number one torpedo mount. Four people were in the boiler room and two at the throttle station. There was no one at all on the fire-control platform, since the equipment was destroyed. The bridge watch consisted of five, including Jim and Bernie, and all weapons except the torpedo mount were in local control. If all went well,
Mahan
would still have a larger crew than she needed for her task. If things didn’t go well . . .
Mahan
’s only launch was towing far astern, beyond the worst of her wake. Just in case.

“Ahead two-thirds,” Jim almost whispered. He sensed the ship respond with a growing vibration he felt through the soles of his shoes and the increased pitch of the blower. To him the ship was very much alive, with feelings and thoughts of her own. In spite of everything, he’d come to love her in a way he’d never expected when he first set foot on her shattered decks. Even more, he believed she somehow knew how he felt, and what, exactly, was expected of her that night. The two were of one mind, and each had become an extension of the other.
Mahan
was, after all, Jim Ellis’s first command.

The closer they got, the larger and more formidable the enemy ship appeared. Blooms of fire erupted from her ten-inch guns as she continued pounding the city. At first
Amagi
had concentrated on the center of Baalkpan, where the Great Hall and Sacred Tree stood. They’d expected as much. It was an obvious target because of the excellent view it afforded of the battlefield. Now the great tree was enveloped in flames, burning with a surprising intensity like some great torch, illuminating everything for miles around. Satisfied with that achievement, the giant guns began hammering the harbor defenses. It was like taking a sledgehammer to an anthill. Doubtless far more Grik were being slaughtered by the dreadful salvos than defenders, but it was also clear they were having the desired effect. Already many guns along critical portions of the harbor wall had fallen silent, and fires raged out of control along the wharf and among the warehouses beyond.

Fires that beautifully backlit
Amagi
. She was a perfect target: stationary, unsuspecting, and highly visible.
Mahan
’s approach was from directly abeam of
Amagi
’s port side, and at over eight hundred feet in length, it was unthinkable they could miss her. Even so, the tension Jim felt was so intense, he couldn’t stand in one place any longer. He began to pace.

“Mr. Sandison?” he asked, clutching nervous hands behind his back.

“Range to target is eleven thousand yards,” Bernie replied, his voice strained.

“Very well.”

Together they waited in silence with the others as the range wound down. Even as it did, the battle cruiser began raining destruction on
Big Sal
, but not a single shot was fired in
Mahan
’s direction.

“Eight thousand yards,” Sandison announced.

Jim Ellis stopped his pacing and took a deep breath. “Come left, zero eight zero,” he instructed the Lemurian helmsman.