Distant Thunders d-4 Read online

  The banners streaming above Fort Atkinson caught his attention momentarily: the Stainless Banner of the Trees, Rolak’s Aryaalan flag, the gold pennant the Sularans had adopted for their own-and the Stars and Stripes, of course, fluttered from separate poles above the reinforced fortification. The sight of that last flag, and the fact that it still flew after all they’d been through, couldn’t help but stir his soul.

  Among the sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships or “Homes” were like nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed co-equal status as “High Chiefs” among their peers. Before the war, those Homes often had clan devices or representative colors, but they hadn’t used flags. As “chief” of Walker, regardless of her comparative tiny size, Captain Reddy had been afforded the same status as High Chief of the American Clan. With the coming of the war and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. An alliance started to take shape that included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had been the first leader by default, since his “nation” hosted the other chiefs and, for a time, was the seat of all industry. The city on the southern coast of Borno was also where the first truly decisive engagement had been fought. With Nakja-Mur’s death, the leadership of Baalkpan fell to Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa, or Big Sal, as the Americans called her. She’d been the first seagoing Home of the Lemurian People to make contact with the Americans.

  Amazingly, considering the disparate cultures, a true alliance began to form. Not one merely of expedience, but one designed to unite all willing Lemurians. Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa ’s High Chief, had been the first Lemurian to understand the significance and unifying power of flags. He’d directed the creation of the Banner of the Trees, and an infant political union began to take shape.

  The stainless Banner of the Trees was composed of a circle of golden tree symbols, one for each Allied Home, surrounding a simple blue star representing the Americans. The star was in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that the Americans had been the organizing force, the glue holding everything together during those early, terrible times. Also, unlike the trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than a city-state, personified by a single ship or place. The precedent for that had been set when it became apparent that Captain Reddy was High Chief over both Walker and Mahan, something difficult for the ’Cats to understand at first, but clearly true. Matt was also acclaimed commander of the first Allied Expeditionary Force and later, all Allied forces. Thus it didn’t seem wrong that even though Mahan was on the bottom of the sea and Walker might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag.

  Besides, the United States Navy wasn’t dead.

  Just as Matt once gave Nakja-Mur a ship he’d captured early in the war so Baalkpan might be represented at sea, so had the bulk of the prizes taken after the Battle of Baalkpan been given, without reservation, to the United States Navy-a navy represented only by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy and his surviving crews. Every Lemurian who joined that crew became a member of the United States Navy and swore to defend a vaguely understood “constitution” against all enemies. Captain Reddy had insisted on that. Therefore, wherever they came from, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a Navy man and a member of the Amer-i-caan Clan for as long as they kept that oath and followed the Americans’ strict rules.

  Nothing like those rules, or “regulations” as they were called, had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. The People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, but otherwise, they did as they pleased. No Lemurian leader ever imagined many of their people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. The thing was, though the rules were strict, the protections against abuse of power inherent in those rules were equally strict. To their surprise, far more volunteered for the “Amer-i-caan Naa-vee” than for the planned Combined Navy of the Alliance, to be composed of the rest of the prizes and new construction.

  Certainly, prestige was a factor, but results were convincing as well. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals who watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like, and it soon became clear the Combined Navy was a nonstarter. For better or worse, the entire Navy-minus the Homes, of course-became Matt’s clan, and above every United States ship flew the Stars and Stripes.

  That morning, nosing through the last of the debris in the mouth of the bay, everyone crewing Donaghey and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled-and proud-as well.

  Raising his binoculars, he focused them on the strange ships they’d sortied to meet. Their guns weren’t run out and they were at a distinct disadvantage while anchored, but the men he saw upon their decks appeared tensely vigilant.

  “It will be Captain Jenks, I shouldn’t wonder,” came a small voice. It sounded almost embarrassed.

  Captain Reddy glanced at the tiny form beside him. Large jade eyes regarded him with something akin to trepidation, and long, carefully groomed golden locks framed her elflike face. Gone was the tattered waif they’d rescued from Talaud Island, south of Mindanao, with a handful of other civilians and a few S-boat submariners. In her place was this well-dressed, almost regal… child… possessed of a near adult maturity and resolve. Despite her size and age, her bearing-and presence-made it easy to believe Rebecca Anne McDonald was, well, a princess of sorts. As it turned out, she was the daughter of the governor-emperor of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and that explained quite a lot that had mystified them before: such as why an entire squadron of warships would search so long and hard for her in a region they hadn’t visited in over two hundred years.

  “I shouldn’t wonder,” Matt echoed as amiably as possible, despite his mood and the uncertain situation. The girl had been convinced that Jenks and his squadron would come to their aid. For them to arrive now, so soon after the battle they had to have known was brewing, and behave so… distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. “Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he… met… at Tarakan.”

  “Yep,” Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray replied neutrally. “Biggest one’s Achilles. If Jenks ever named the others, I don’t remember. There were four of ’em, though.”

  Gray was a gruff, powerful man, close to sixty, who’d gone a little to seed on the China Station but had since trimmed down and muscled back up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on the activity and adventures they’d experienced since the Squall. He’d also appointed himself Matt’s senior armsman and commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who’d volunteered for the duty-knowing the man they’d sworn to protect didn’t always make it easy. Like Juan Marcos, the little Filipino who’d appointed himself captain’s steward, their job had just… evolved. Unlike Juan’s rank, the Captain’s Guard had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Keje had even proposed that they make their oath to Adar, who, as chairman or prime minister or whatever he was of the Alliance, was technically the only chief to whom Matt answered. Maybe by his command, they could use the Captain’s Guard to keep their Supreme Commander out of harm’s way.

  Gray refused. He said he’d keep the job he’d already given himself, but he’d sworn an oath when he entered the Navy. That was good enough. Now that his job was official though, he could choose the very best from two battle-hardened and increasingly elite forces: the 1st and 2nd Marines. With the exception of four human destroyermen, the rest of the Captain’s Guard were Lemurian Marines.

  “What type of signals do your people use?” Matt asked Sean O’Casey who’d joined them by the rail. The powerful, one-armed, dark-skinned man with flowing mustaches had been the girl’s companion an
d protector when the equally lost crew of the U.S. submarine

  S-19 had taken them from an open boat. The old S-boat had been dragged to this world the same way Walker was: through the mysterious Squall. Out of fuel and with nowhere to go, the sub ultimately wound up on a Talaud Island beach. All the sub’s passengers were safe-twenty children of diplomats and industrialists, evacuated from Surabaya with four nannies and a nun to care for them-but half its crew had perished in the year before their rescue.

  He, and ultimately the girl, had become fonts of information about the Empire, represented by the visiting ships, although both still hedged when asked its exact location. It had been ingrained in them that only secrecy kept their homeland safe, and a lifetime of indoctrination to that effect was hard to overcome. The destroyermen and their allies had learned much about the political situation there, however, and what they knew might prove problematic. O’Casey had actually been evading its authorities because of his participation in a rebellion of sorts, not against the legitimate rulers, but against the Company-the Honorable New Britain Company-that increasingly subverted them.

  “Flags, guns, lights, rockets… much as ye, it seems, but the meanings are doubtless different.”

  “What signal for a truce, a parlay?”

  “A white flag.”

  “Some things never change, I suppose. Very well.” Matt addressed Chapelle. “Have a white flag run up. The crew will remain at General Quarters.”

  The ships slowly approached the intruder’s squadron until they were close enough to lower one of the surviving motor launches. Matt recognized it as the Scott -named for his lost coxswain-as he climbed down into it. Scott had been a true hero, but after the Squall, he’d become terrified of the water-understandable, considering the horrible creatures that dwelt in it here-but he’d been killed on land, by a “super lizard.” It had been a terrible, ironic loss.

  “Captain Reddy,” O’Casey called from the ship. For obvious reasons, he wouldn’t be making the crossing. Only later, after the character of their visitors was determined, might he be revealed. “Beware Jenks. As Her Highness has said, he may be a man o’ honor, but he has a temper.” He grinned beneath his mustaches. “As do ye, I’ve learned.” Matt replied with a curt nod.

  Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Big Sal, awkwardly found a place beside the captain, favoring his wounded leg. He looked something like a cat-faced bear, and his short, brownish red fur had become increasingly sprinkled with silver. Today it was groomed immaculately. He was dressed in his best embroidered blue smock and highly polished copper scale armor. His battered “scota,” or working sword, was at his side-unbound-and on his head was a copper helmet adorned with the tail plumage of a Grik. He grinned, though as usual with his species, the expression didn’t touch his red-brown eyes. “That one-armed man has learned you well, my brother. Perhaps it might be best, just this once, to watch that temper of yours. I don’t know about you, but I believe we have a sufficient war at present to keep us occupied.”

  Matt snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Sure, I have a temper. So do you. But I don’t lose it very often.”

  “Perhaps,” Keje hedged, “but when you do, well… you do.” He left it at that.

  Courtney Bradford descended next, puffing with exertion and trying not to lose the ridiculous, oversize hat that protected his balding pate. Bradford, an Australian, had been a petroleum-engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. He was also a self-proclaimed “naturalist,” and despite an absentminded, eccentric personality, he was an extremely valuable man. It was he who showed them where to drill for the oil that had fueled their war effort so far. Of all Walker ’s company who’d arrived on this “other earth,” he’d probably changed the least-personality wise-and still tended to greet each day as a blooming opportunity for discovery and adventure.

  “Larry the Lizard,” as the men had taken to calling Lawrence, Rebecca’s Grik-like pet/companion, scampered down to join them and found a place to perch near the front of the launch. He wasn’t as large as their Grik enemies, and his orangeish and brown tiger-striped, feathery fur easily distinguished him from the washed-out dun and brown of the Grik. Otherwise, the physical similarity was striking. He was a kind of “island Grik,” a “Tagranesi” he claimed, from somewhere in the Eastern Sea. Apparently a different race from their enemies, he’d become Rebecca’s friend and protector. So striking was his similarity to the enemy, Matt had kept him hidden aboard Walker until after the great battle out of real concern for his safety. It may have been just as well at the time. Despite their previous, almost pacifistic nature, the Lemurians hated the Grik, and he sure looked like one. After the battle however, he’d emerged as something of a hero, and to Matt’s honest amazement, the Lemurians had once again displayed their capacity for tolerant adaptability. Somehow, despite his appearance, the ’Cats were able to accept-on Matt’s and Adar’s word alone-that Larry was on their side. Walker ’s crew had grown accustomed to him by the time they brought him back to Baalkpan on the eve of battle, but Matt knew that under similar circumstances, no equally large group of humans would have embraced Larry as quickly.

  The mighty chief gunner’s mate Dennis Silva clambered down the rungs last, with Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald clinging to his back. Silva winced occasionally, pained by his many wounds, and Matt wished again he’d insisted the big man remain behind. But Silva took his role of protecting the princess seriously and Matt couldn’t bring himself to discourage anything the irreverent, depraved pain in the ass actually wanted to do-as far as his duty was concerned. Of all of them, Silva might have changed the most-maybe even more than Matt himself. He didn’t seem much different to the casual observer, despite the patch that covered his ruined left eye. He was still huge, powerful, and still kept his blond hair burred close-even as he let the sun-bleached brownish beard grow longer than everyone knew the captain approved. He remained coarse, profane, and fearlessly reckless, and there was still the more or less unresolved question of what, exactly, constituted the relationship between him, Nurse Pam Cross, and the ’Cat female Risa-Sab-At. Risa’s brother, Chack, probably knew, but no one else did… for sure. Other than that, however, Silva caused few real problems anymore.

  Maybe his wounds slowed him down, but Matt had seen him shoulder more and more responsibility-sometimes of his own accord-even before he was injured. It was as if he’d taken his role as Walker ’s Hercules to heart, and saw it as his personal duty to protect her survivors as best he could-with the possible exception of his primary rival,

  Chief Machinist’s Mate Dean Laney. His protectiveness was particularly focused on the little girl clinging to his back. She had

  … done something… to Dennis Silva, and Matt believed the big man would somehow contrive, with his bare hands, to destroy the ship they were about to visit if it threatened the girl in any way.

  When all the passengers were aboard, Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites advanced the throttle and the launch burbled across the choppy sea to Achilles ’ side. The closer they drew to the “British” ships, the more impressed Matt became. Each Imperial frigate seemed quite well made, and mounted twelve to twenty guns that looked somewhat larger than the American frigates’ improved eighteen pounders. Maybe twenty-fours? But the ships simply couldn’t be as imaginatively and redundantly reinforced as his own Lemurian-built frigates, and their steam power would be an advantage only until their vulnerable paddle wheels were damaged. Then they’d become a terrible liability. They were more than a match for his “prizes,” though, and he had only one frigate to oppose them if it came to that. Of course, there was no way they could enter the bay past the guns of Fort Atkinson and the other big guns they’d quickly emplaced on the southeast entrance. For a melancholy moment, he considered that Walker could have taken all of them by herself, but he shook that off. He didn’t want to fight them, and despite Gray’s assessment, he doubted he’d have to. Most likely, they just wanted to take the girl and go, but it was always wis
e to consider possibilities-particularly when they weren’t necessarily going to get what they wanted.

  The barge bumped alongside and Captain Reddy hopped across to an extensive ladder arrangement, complete with manropes that had been rigged while they crossed. Climbing to the top, he saluted the curiously familiar ensign, with the red and white stripes and Union Jack in the field at the ship’s stern, then saluted a man he suspected was Captain Jenks, by the description Gray had given him.

  “Captain Matthew Reddy, United States Navy. Supreme Commander, by acclamation, of the Combined Allied Forces united under the Banner of the Trees. I request permission to come aboard, sir.”

  A side party was present, with drums and a pair of trumpets, but they made no sound. The man in the elaborately laced white coat with braided mustaches frowned, then returned the salute with a curious rigidity. “Of course,” he said gruffly, apparently somewhat taken aback, “do come aboard.” He gestured at the side party. “And please forgive our incivility,” he added when he recognized a much cleaned-up Chief Gray reaching the top of the ladder. “We were under the impression your people preferred informal greetings.”

  “An impression you got when you were rude to us right after a fight,” Gray growled over his shoulder. He took the girl from Silva, who’d passed her up from below. Turning, he set her on the deck and glared at Jenks. He pointedly didn’t salute the flag or the Imperial officer. Jenks stiffened, but then beamed at the girl before him. At the signal of another officer, the drums rolled loudly and the trumpets blasted a rapid and again tantalizingly familiar fanfare.