Maelstrom (55 page)

He knew it was a pointless gesture, as futile as his own had been.
Walker
could never finish the monster with only her lonely number one gun, and clearly that was all she had left to fight with. Even so, in spite of his despair, he felt a thrill of pride. In the flickering light he saw that
Walker
’s foremast was down, but someone had removed the big flag and run it up to the top of the shorter mast, aft. It was scorched and torn, but it streamed with a stately, defiant grace. The sight brought tears to his eyes.

He staggered painfully to his feet with the Lemurians’ help, and stood unsteadily on the canted deck. The vibration of the engine had subsided at last, and the screw stopped thrashing at the water as it rose into the air. Far across the bay his friend pursued
Amagi
, an occasional flash from the four-inch gun amid the tracers proclaiming that, however hopeless,
Walker
was still in the fight.

The deck lurched beneath his feet.
Mahan
was going fast. He looked down at the unconscious torpedo officer and was grateful that Bernie wouldn’t suffer what was to come. He hugged the ’Cat supporting him tightly against his side.

“Cap’n Ellis!” came a cry. Jim whirled and caught a glimpse of a dull white reflection in the water alongside. It was the launch! There was movement aboard, and it was full of men and ’Cats. He’d forgotten all about it—other than a brief suspicion that it had been sunk by the blast.

“Mr. Steele? Is that you?” he cried.

“Aye, sir. Sorry it took so long to come back for you, but with that screw churnin’ up the water, we couldn’t get close. Better hurry, sir; the old girl’s goin’!”

“There’s a wounded man up here. Can you give us a hand?”

At that moment his dying ship lurched again, but almost before it registered, he heard a momentous blast. He jerked his head back to the south.
Walker
’s now distant shape was outlined by
Amagi
’s flames, and an enormous cataract of luminous water engulfing the enemy ship.

Wild cheering erupted in the launch, but Frankie Steele’s voice remained intent.

“Just slide him down the deck and we’ll take him on the boat, Cap’n.” He turned to the other occupants of the launch. “Shut up, you guys! I know it’s a hell of a thing, but we gotta save the skipper!”

With a final magical image of the sinking battle cruiser etched on his mind, Jim and the Lemurian pushed Sandison down the sloping deck, toward the rising water and waiting hands.

Sandra Tucker and Sean O’Casey sprinted down the pathways of Baalkpan as the all-pervading, haze-gray world began to brighten almost imperceptibly. Fires still burned fiercely in many parts of the city, and soldiers and firefighters with buckets and skin bags of water raced to and fro. Even in the face of the ongoing disaster, however, the mood of those they met was jubilant. They’d won. In spite of everything, they’d won. Bradford ran with them, wheezing from exertion and the weight of the Krag he still carried. He’d come along ostensibly to protect them from marauding Grik—several hundred had broken into the inner city from the waterfront—but Sandra doubted they’d be much of a threat. Most had probably already been killed. She wouldn’t have waited regardless. The casualties from the fight for the docks were proportionately greater than anywhere else. The Grik had attempted to land almost a hundred ships there, and
Amagi
had concentrated much of her fire in the area as well. Somewhere behind, the rest of the medical team she’d assembled followed as fast as they could, but she wouldn’t wait. Her duty to the wounded would have drawn her anyway, but she’d heard
Walker
was coming in.

Across the cratered parade ground they ran, oblivious to the smoking ashes of the Great Hall and the blackened wreckage of the Sacred Tree, through throngs of celebrating People, and into the desolated trading sector. They finally emerged behind the battered seawall and stared in wonder and horror at the scene before them. It was like the very pit of hell. The colorful, cheerful ambience of the area was entirely gone. In its place was a gray, blood-washed ruin that must have resembled the Great War battlefields of France and Belgium. Bodies were everywhere, friend and foe, but the Grik corpses were beyond number. The earth behind the wall had been churned into a slush of gore, and the stench of death was overpowering. One of the huge cannons still poked through its embrasure, its exhausted crew leaning on it or lying nearby. They were covered in mud and blood, and their pelts were a uniform matted reddish brown. But their white teeth flashed incongruous grins as Sandra approached. They were alive, and they’d won.

She scrambled atop the wall, leaving the one-armed O’Casey struggling clumsily to join her. Beyond, the scene was even worse—if that was possible—except in this case almost all the dead were Grik. Forests of masts protruded from the water, and shattered hulks lay half-submerged against the docks. Fires burned out of control, and she saw some of the enemy still dying even now, writhing in the flames or cringing in parts of the ships not yet burning. Past the dock, and a little to the right, lay the massive sunken carcass of
Big Sal
, her pagodalike habitations blackened by fire, the foremost one still burning. All her masts were gone.

“Wait, my dear!” huffed Bradford behind her. “Please wait just a moment!”

She paid him no heed. Running along the top of the wall, she dashed down past the fitting-out pier and emerged among a large assembly of Lemurians gathered near the shipyard. There’d been no fighting there, almost as if the enemy had deliberately avoided damaging the facility. Probably they had. Because it was mostly clear of Grik, many of the wounded had been carried there, but not everyone present had been injured. Many had come just to see. They were staring seaward, and she looked in that direction.

Two motor launches, the whaleboat, numerous feluccas, and boats of every description strained to nudge or tow
Walker
into the large refit basin. With a rush of terror Sandra saw that the old destroyer had been savaged. Her bridge was riddled with holes, and empty windows gaped. An enormous hole in her foredeck was surrounded by jagged plates peeled back like flower petals. The weather deck was a scorched shambles, and the aft deckhouse had been demolished. The gun once perched atop it had collapsed into the debris and lay on its side, muzzle askew. Most of her length was blackened by fire, and the foremast trailed alongside, tangled in a jumble of cables. Smoke still wafted weakly from her aft funnel—the cantankerous number four boiler—but steam was escaping as well. Less than a foot separated the fo’c’sle from the debris-strewn water, as the bow slowly nudged through the flotsam. Her proud number, 163, was already lost to view. From the aft mast the giant flag still flew, almost shredded now, but stirring fitfully in the light morning breeze. Sandra choked back a sob.

The ship’s blood-spattered decks were almost empty, and Sandra assumed most of her survivors had already been removed by the flotilla surrounding her. Several men and ’Cats stood on the fire-control platform, and there was movement on the bridge as well. If Matt still lived, that was where he’d be. She shouldered her way through the throng for a better look, and seeing who she was, most parted and made a lane for her to pass. She didn’t notice them, but if she had, she’d have seen the deferential lowered ears and blinks of respect running through the crowd.

Walker
edged into the basin and slowed to a stop less than fifty yards from the pier. The overtaxed launches tried to pull her closer, but it was clearly no use. The ship was going fast. As Sandra watched, the aft fireroom access trunk opened with a clang, and a mist of steam gushed out. A short female ’Cat crawled onto the deck, then reached back inside the opening. With a mighty heave she pulled first one, then another pale, grimy form into the light. Coughing and leaning on one another, the three quickly shuffled under the amidships deckhouse toward the ladder at the back of the bridge. As if she’d been waiting for that very event,
Walker
finally surrendered herself to the sea. Water crept over the fo’c’sle and coursed into the jagged hole. The rasping blower went silent, but the sound was replaced with a massive, urgent
whoosh
as the bow dipped lower and lower. With a juddering, grinding thump, it struck the silty bottom. There was an almost dying groan as the rest of the ship quickly settled. All that remained above water was the top of the bridge and her four battered funnels resting at a slight angle to port. Most of the flag was still visible too, jostled by the rising, turbulent froth of escaping air.

There was an audible, mournful sigh from the crowd, replaced by a frenzied cheer when a large, bloodied man above the bridge—whom Sandra recognized as Dennis Silva—gave a jaunty wave with one hand, while the other supported a small girl sitting on his shoulders. Tabby and the Mice stiffly ascended the ladder to the crowded platform, and Sandra felt her heart leap into her throat when Matt climbed wearily up from the bridge to join them. She was yelling now too, waving her arms over her head, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Wherever she came from, there was no doubt: USS
Walker
, DD-163, and her lost and lonely crew had found their way home at last.

EPILOGUE

Disaster,” Tsalka hissed mournfully. “Utter and complete disaster.” The rising sun presided over the beginnings of a bright, brisk morning in the Makassar Strait, and of the almost four hundred ships comprising the Invincible Swarm, less than seventy now accompanied the
Giorsh
, Esshk’s flagship, as it sailed back toward Aryaal. To make matters even worse, most of those ships were empty of all but their crews, since they’d been the ones that launched the southern assault. Never in the millennia-long history of the Grik had there been such a catastrophe. Tsalka sighed. “I did not command here, but that will make little difference to the Celestial Mother. I am regent consort of this territory now, and I am responsible. Would you care to join me, General Esshk, for a final repast? I intend to destroy myself at the midday, with all proper ceremony while it is still due me. You may join me in that as well, if you like.”

Esshk leaned on the rail, his claws gouging the white-painted wood as he stared aft at the mighty plume of smoke still hovering over distant Baalkpan. He sighed as well. “I am honored, Lord Regent, but I shall not destroy myself today, nor, I believe, should you. To do so would be selfish, and possibly even a crime against our race.”

“But, General,” Tsalka hissed in shock, “you know I am no one’s prey, and I fear nothing of this world, but surely a quick, clean, honorable death is preferable to what we can expect from the Celestial Mother amid such disgrace?”

“We are disgraced,” Esshk agreed, “but not by our actions. We attacked our prey as we have always done, as we have been raised and trained to do: with overwhelming numbers and even more overwhelming arrogance. We are no more disgraced by our actions than the countless Uul we sent to be slaughtered. Our disgrace lies in our arrogance and our stubborn, rote-dominated, unimaginative ignorance! Don’t you see? This prey is different from any we have faced before. We thought they were the same as those that escaped us long ago, but we were wrong. Perhaps it was the ‘Americans’ that changed them, but it really doesn’t matter. The point is, they
have
changed, and we have not. You accused me of being a philosopher, and perhaps I am. I hope so, at any rate, because it will take philosophers, not mindless Uul, to defeat this prey in the end—and we must defeat them! Having beaten us, do you think they will be content? Of course not! They will destroy us all if we do not ready ourselves to meet them, and to do that we will have to change.” He paused. “And some of those changes must be fundamental.”

“But why must we be the ones to attempt this change?” Tsalka almost wailed. “Better to destroy ourselves than face such an impossible challenge!”

“It must be we,” Esshk replied, “because we were here. Only we know the truth. Perhaps bearing that truth, knowing the end we face, we will convince the Celestial Mother it
is
truth. That, and something more.” He snapped his claws and his personal guards disappeared. They returned escorting a haggard, stained, and bloodied Captain Hisashi Kurokawa, who stood tensely before his “hosts.”

“Captain Kurokawa,” Esshk greeted him pleasantly, and Kurokawa looked at him in surprise. “You failed to bring the victory we relied on you to achieve, but you are not entirely to blame. I pushed you when you were not ready, I failed to heed what I now believe was your excellent advice, and I forced you to attack in a way not of your choosing. You did not, as you claimed, destroy the flying machine of the prey, but again, that effort was poorly planned and against your more . . . experienced judgment. At any rate, its contribution to their defense was negligible this time, and numerous witnesses attest that it is now, in fact, destroyed. We will speak no more of that. As I said, we relied far too heavily upon your one ship—magnificent as it was—and I have come to accept your radical argument that when the ground from which the hunter strikes disappears from under him, he is not necessarily made prey, or even to blame. I will therefore suffer your continued existence.” Kurokawa stifled a gasp, but Esshk continued. “Only one in ten of your Uul shall go to the cook fires for your part in this terrible failure. Far more of our own will feed our remaining host, I assure you, since ours was the greatest failure of all. Choose the food yourself, and choose them wisely, because now we need your knowledge more than ever. We
must have
the wondrous things you promised: the smoking ships, the airplanes, the guns. . . . They are no longer mere trifles to amuse ourselves with; they are essential. You will make them for us.”

Kurokawa cared nothing for the additional losses he’d sustain. Barely four hundred of his crew still survived, rescued by
Giorsh
and other ships as they retreated from the bay, but he could spare another forty if he must, if it meant he himself would live. He was just beginning to accept what he’d considered impossible: he would
live
! His fate was now tied inextricably to Esshk’s and Tsalka’s, and he doubted they were entirely safe themselves, but one thing was certain: he’d just been following orders. On second thought, maybe their fates weren’t inextricable. He assumed now they would take him to meet this “Celestial Mother” of theirs, and if she was astute enough to recognize the wonders he could provide, and the threat that made them necessary, perhaps Esshk and Tsalka needed him more than he needed them. He smiled.

Five days after the terrible battle that would be added to the Sacred Scrolls, and ever after remembered as the Battle of Baalkpan, there was a gathering of friends at the shipyard. The air still smelled of smoke, not only from battle, but from the incessant pyres that had burned for the dead. Uncountable Grik bodies had simply been rolled into the sea, and the shoreline seethed with flasher fish as they did their grisly work. Even so, the scent of death lingered, and the mood of those who gathered near the sunken destroyer was already somber.

The great Nakja-Mur, U-Amaki ay Baalkpan, had been carried to the sky along with an unimaginable eleven thousand others. Sandra said his heart failed in the stress and excitement, but most believed it simply broke. Never in the recorded history of the People had there been such traumatic loss of life. The only consolation was that he’d died knowing his people were safe and the victory he’d given everything for was at hand. Along with him, the flames had carried Naga and Ramic-Sa-Ar to the Heavens. Ramic died in the final fighting, knowing at least part of his vengeance was complete. Young Tassana was now High Chief of
Aracca
.

The destroyermen had lost dearly too, and there were graves in Baalkpan now. Thirteen just from
Walker
, including Larry Dowden, Dave Elden, and Leo Davis. They’d been laid beside Tony Scott’s empty grave on the parade ground. Several others had gone down with
Mahan
, and their names would be added to a plaque listing all the destroyermen—human and Lemurian—who’d been lost from the start.

Adar wasn’t with them. As long as the funeral pyres burned, he’d be very busy. He was High Sky Priest of Baalkpan now, as well as acting High Chief. He’d continue to perform those duties, by acclaim, at least until the rest of the city’s people returned. Few doubted his elevation would be permanent. The views of the “runaways” weren’t highly regarded, and Adar had made it clear he intended to press the Grik. The vengeance-minded People were more than happy to support that position. At least for now.

Chack and Queen Maraan were expected shortly. It was understood they were betrothed, and they were even more inseparable now than they’d been before the battle. The funeral pyre for
Big Sal
’s dead had already burned but today, B’mbaadan and Aryaalan souls flew together. Chack and Rolak were escorting Safir.

Sandison and Garrett were in the hospital suffering from serious wounds, but both were expected to recover. Others were still there as well: Kutas, Aubrey, Newman, Rodriguez. . . . Silva had lost his eye—and immediately gone AWOL. Only Risa and Pam Cross knew where he was, but no one really worried. It was clear the nurse was taking care of him herself, when she wasn’t on duty, and sooner or later he’d turn back up.

Many others were present, however, for what felt like it was shaping into a service for
Walker
and
Mahan
and their many dead. Saan-Kakja, U-Amaki ay Maa-ni-la, was there. She’d come herself, leading her personal Guard of a thousand warriors. It had been her timely arrival off the southern coast that bolstered Brister and Shinya’s forces, tipping the balance in their desperate attack on the Grik rear. She’d apologized profusely for arriving so late, but Maa-ni-la was now a firm member of the Alliance, and she pledged that more troops and supplies were on the way.

Keje was using the same crutches Gray once hobbled on, shortened to fit his physique. Somehow he’d survived the almost total destruction of
Big Sal
’s upper levels, and was found by a rescue party the morning after the battle still sitting on his beloved stool. When Adar tried to suggest he should be High Chief of Baalkpan, he’d refused.
Big Sal
was his Home. With the sophisticated Lemurian pumps, coupled with the concept of hoses they’d learned from the Americans, he was sure she’d float again. For now he was content to recuperate, aided by the diligent attention of his daughter.

Shinya, Brister, Flynn, and Alden were there, as were Alan and Karen Letts. Letts’s quick thinking in sending out rescue craft had undoubtedly saved most of
Walker
’s crew. Not only had they taken her people off, they’d helped get the ship into shallow water. The happy addition of
Mahan
’s and
Walker’s
launches—once the survivors were transferred—aided in that considerably, and Jim Ellis and Frankie Steele piloted the launch-turned-tugboats throughout.

To everyone’s surprise,
Walker
’s launch had actually rescued most of the PBY’s crew. Ben Mallory, Jis-Tikkar, and one of the gunners were found clinging precariously on one of the leaking wing floats. Somehow they’d survived the crash and escaped the sinking wreckage. Most of the flashies had been drawn to other parts of the bay. Tikker was in the hospital, but Mallory was, miraculously, uninjured. Sometimes it was like that. A pilot might break his neck when his parachute opened, or crawl out of a catastrophic crash.

Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald, princess of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, still wore battered dungarees, fuming at Silva’s behavior and the fact she was now virtually a prisoner of Sandra Tucker and Sean O’Casey. Lawrence and Silva had recounted her exploits during the battle, and if she and her strange Grik-like friend were now heroes of Baalkpan (and represented a possible end to the dame famine to the Americans), they were also never allowed to go anywhere without a particularly attentive escort. Most knew of her status now—such a secret was impossible to keep for long—and it was considered just a matter of time before Jenks and his squadron arrived. Jenks would be disappointed. She intended that her people and her new friends should become allies against the Grik, and though she wanted to go home, she’d already proclaimed that she’d do so only if Captain Reddy took her himself.

Now the gathering stood, silent for the most part, staring at the sad remains of the proud old ship. The flag still flew from the aft mast, and Matt couldn’t bear to see it taken down. Not yet. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, riding at anchor in Manila Bay, in another time—another world. He never would have thought back then that he’d mourn her loss like he did. After what they’d been through and all they’d achieved—and lost—it was like a huge piece of his soul had gone to the bottom with her. Sandra stood beside him holding his hand, a concerned expression on her face. All the pretense of professional distance they’d worked so hard to maintain had gone down with the ship. He needed her now, just as badly as one of her patients might who’d lost a leg.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Karen Letts quietly broke the silence.

“Sure,” said Gray.

Unconsciously, Karen’s hand went protectively to her lower abdomen, and Sandra smiled wistfully. Karen hadn’t said anything, but Sandra had suspected. She’d seen the signs.

“We’re all on the same footing now, technologically speaking,” Gray continued. “All the modern warships are gone, but they know about cannons, and they’ve still got the Japs to help ’em—if they don’t eat ’em.”

Before they could go out and claim the Japanese survivors, several Grik ships, including one of the white ones, had taken them off. All they found was a single wounded officer who’d decided to defect to the Americans. He was waiting patiently when they finally arrived, having hidden from the Grik, as well as his own people. For now he was under guard, but he’d told them a great deal—not least of which was how Captain Kaufman met his end. The sad aviator’s body had been buried with full honors alongside the others in the little cemetery.

“Not to mention,” mentioned Courtney Bradford dryly, “there are still far more of them than there are of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said tiredly. “Even if they don’t, we have to keep after them. Adar’s right; we have to wipe them out.” He paused. “They’re even worse than we thought, and that’s saying a lot. They don’t know how to surrender, and they’re not going to leave us alone. If we don’t chase them now, keep the pressure up, they’ll be back eventually, and all this”—he gestured at the destruction all around, but his eyes never left his ship—“will have been for nothing.”

“How long do you think we have?” Sandra asked. Matt shrugged and looked at Bradford.

“Difficult to say, of course,” the Australian opined. “According to our ‘new’ Jappo—a Commander Okada, if I’m not mistaken—we did hurt them rather badly. It may take as many as three years to make good their losses in ships and warriors. Five at the absolute most. You do understand I’m only guessing?”

“My God. That fast?” Jim Ellis interjected.

“Most likely.” Bradford nodded.

“That means we’ve only about half that time to strike before they’re fully prepared,” Keje said thoughtfully.