Deadly Shores (4 page)

“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 water
tight
, 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.