Crusade Read online

  “May we come on the bridge?” came a hesitant voice from behind him. Matt turned and saw Courtney Bradford standing on the ladder with Sandra. Bradford seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist” wouldn’t have even asked. Maybe Sandra made him, Matt thought. He expected he might have seemed as though he was concentrating on something—which he was—but he was actually glad of the distraction. Bradford hadn’t been there for the fighting, but he’d arrived on the PBY flying boat the following day. Since then, he’d spent most of his time inspecting the prize. That was enough to sober anyone.

  Theoretically, no one was really in charge of Courtney Bradford. Since the Australian engineer was a civilian, his status was somewhat vague and had been allowed to remain that way because he worked well without constraint. Before the Japanese attacked, he’d been an upper-level engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Shell. That occupation allowed him to pursue his true passion: the study of the birds and animals of the Dutch East Indies. Also because of that occupation, however, stuffed in his briefcase when he evacuated Surabaya aboard Walker were maps that showed practically every major oil deposit Shell had ever found in the entire region. There’d been some skepticism that the same oil existed on this earth as the other, but after the success of their first well—exactly where Courtney told them to drill—they were all believers now.

  “Of course. Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you, I’m sure,” Bradford replied, stepping on the bridge. Sandra just smiled at him. Matt gestured through the windows at the landmass ahead, becoming more distinct.

  “Almost home,” he said, with only a trace of irony.

  “Indeed,” agreed Bradford, removing his battered straw hat and massaging his sweaty scalp. It was still early morning, but almost eighty degrees. Matt had noticed, however, that Courtney usually did that when he was upset or concerned. “I’ve been studying that map you gave me. The one that was apparently drawn by the Grik captain himself, not the navigational charts with all their incomprehensible references . . .” Matt nodded. Even though the Grik charts were disconcertingly easy for him to read, since much was, horrifyingly, written in English, Matt knew which map Courtney meant. It was just a drawing, really, that basically depicted the “Known World” as far as the Grik were concerned. It showed rough approximations of enemy cities and concentrations, and it also showed much of what the enemy knew of this part of the world—the part that should be the Dutch East Indies. It was much like what one would expect of a map showing “this we hold; this we want.” The farther east it went, the vaguer it became, but Java, Sumatra, and Singapore were depressingly detailed and accurate. There were also tree symbols that represented known cities of the People, and many of those had been smeared with a blot that looked like blood, symbolizing, they believed, that a battle had been fought there. Currently, there was no tree symbol at Baalkpan, but there were two others that didn’t have smears beside them. One was near Perth, Australia, and the other was at Surabaya, or “Aryaal,” as the locals there called it. The map also depicted a massive force growing near Ceylon and Singapore too, which was believed to be their most forward and tenuous outpost.

  “Captain, since only Perth and Surabaya appear on the enemy map, we can only assume the next blow will fall on one or both of those places. I’d bank on Surabaya myself. I’m no strategist, but it seems to me, judging by the dispositions on the map, the Grik are planning a major offensive against that place and it will probably commence within weeks, if it has not done so already.”

  “That’s kind of the impression I got, too,” agreed Matt.

  “But what are we going to do about it?” Sandra asked, speaking for the first time. Matt shrugged.

  “As you know, Keje and I have been kicking some options around and we’ve come up with some good ideas, I think. But we can’t do it alone. A lot will depend on the other Homes in Baalkpan Bay, but most will depend on Nakja-Mur.” He grimaced. “Not that I expect much trouble out of Nakja-Mur. He won’t leave his city and unlike the seagoing Homes, he can’t take it with him. I think he’ll cooperate, but it’ll be a tough sell.” He sighed. “Lemurians are basically peaceful folks, at least the ones we’ve met. With a few exceptions, it’s hard enough to turn them into warriors—soldiers that can defend themselves. To then send those soldiers far away to defend other people, Aryaalans, who they don’t even like . . .” He looked at Bradford. “We need to find out what it is about those people that makes everyone dislike them so. Ever since we first came here, they’ve tried to steer us clear of Surabaya. Why?”

  “I get the impression there are certain . . . frictions between them based primarily on substantially different cultures. There may even be a religious angle involved,” Bradford replied. “I don’t think it’s insignificant that, unlike almost everywhere else in the region, only south-central Java ever had human-based names. Chill-chaap instead of Tjilatjap, for example. Other places are even more obvious. Borno for Borneo. Why do North Java’s city names bear no resemblance to human names at all? The Lemurians we know base so much of their culture upon the ‘Scrolls’ or charts that were rendered from those British ships so long ago. Perhaps the Aryaalans and others like them never had contact with them, or the ‘prophet’ Siska-Ta who later spread the word?” He spread his hands. “I have no idea.”

  “We’re going to have to find out. We might need them.” Matt looked back at “Borno.” Even at their crawling pace of five knots, towing the derelict and trying not to get too far from Big Sal, they should open Baalkpan Bay late that afternoon. It would be an . . . interesting homecoming. He wondered what the reaction of the people there would be. Joy at first, certainly, that they’d returned victorious. But he wondered what would happen when all they’d learned got out. Several of the huge seagoing “Homes” would probably withdraw from the alliance. Nakja-Mur, Baalkpan’s High Chief, would be terrified, but he’d stand firm. He had no choice. Baalkpan couldn’t go anywhere. Matt just hoped he’d understand the necessity to implement the plan he and Keje had begun to form. Even Keje had seen that a purely defensive war was hopeless.

  Static defenses in the face of the numbers the enemy had could not succeed. They could bleed them white and kill dozens to one, but as the Ancient Scrolls of the Lemurian “People” foretold, no matter how many Grik you killed, there were always more. In a defensive stance, sooner or later they’d be overwhelmed. If they wanted to win, they must take the fight to the Grik.

  At the appointed hour, the two miscreants were brought forward to stand before the captain on the well deck behind the bridge. Sonny Campeti, master at arms, shouted for attention. One of the accused, Gunner’s Mate 2nd Class Dennis Silva, was no stranger to the procedure and he snapped a sharp salute. If not quite an actual giant of a man, he was only the next size smaller, powerfully muscled and standing six foot three. His hair was still cropped nearly to his skull, but he’d allowed a thick brown beard to form on his face, which seemed perpetually parted in a gap-toothed grin. In addition to a black eye and a swollen nose, there seemed to be a bigger gap than before. Silva was Walker’s Hercules, utterly fearless in battle and an expert with any firearm. He’d also shown a surprising proficiency with a cutlass. But he was also, possibly, the most depraved individual Matt had ever known. He gloried in practical jokes, but his “jokes” often got out of hand. Sometimes dangerously so.

  Matt turned his attention to the other accused. Chack-Sab-At was a Lemurian, or “ ’Cat,” as the general consensus had compromised on. Some of the “snipes,” or engineering division, still insisted on calling Lemurians “monkey-cats” while equally stubborn deck division “apes” remained adamant about “cat-monkeys.” Simply “ ’Cat” had become universally accepted, however. Chack, a former “wing runner” aboard Big Sal, had been the first to join the “Amer-i-caan” Clan and learn the destroyermen’s language. As Walker’s Lemurian contingent grew, he’d been duly inducted into the United States Navy, given
the rank of boatswain’s mate 3rd class, and placed over the Lemurian—essentially second—deck division. He was tall for a Lemurian, topping five-six, and like any wing runner he was incredibly strong. He wore a bright red kilt over his lower body, and a white T-shirt covered the upper. Only his legs, arms, face, and carefully rigid tail exposed his dark, brindled fur. Wide amber eyes peered from an expressionless but highly feline face. His long ears twitched nervously. One eye was puffier than the other and his cleft lips were split and swollen. He’d once been a pacifist, Matt understood, but that was clearly no longer the case. He’d distinguished himself in several fights now, most recently with Dennis Silva.

  Besides the wounds they’d inflicted on each other, both still bore wounds from the hellish battle with the Grik. Chack walked with a limp from a badly sprained ankle he got while fighting on the slippery bones and ballast stones in the belly of the Grik ship, and Silva’s arm was bandaged from elbow to wrist from a wicked sword slash.

  Matt was surprised how many of the crew had gathered to witness the proceedings. He knew all would be curious how it turned out and, because of that, he must not only be scrupulously fair, which he always strived to be, but he must be perceived as scrupulously fair. With so many men left in Baalkpan working on essential projects, almost half of Walker’s crew were ’Cats. That was one reason he’d sort of rushed the “trial.” He feared that if he waited until they reached port, word would spread and create a circus—possibly a highly partisan one—right when they all needed as much unity as possible. The situation had to be dealt with, but it was better to do it now, here, while they could handle it among themselves.

  “Since you’re both charged with essentially the same offenses and the offenses occurred simultaneously, we’ll make this easy. Any objections?”

  Chief Boatswain’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray and Lieutenant Garrett stepped forward, representing their respective divisions.

  “No, sir,” they chorused. Matt looked at his exec, Lieutenant Dowden.

  “You’re the reporting officer.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. The incident in question occurred aboard Big Sal, during the celebration after we joined her with the prize. Walker sent over several liberty parties during the course of the evening to participate in the festivities, but neither of the accused had specific permission to be aboard.”

  Matt looked at them. “How do the accused respond to the first charge: absent without leave?”

  Chack began to speak, but Chief Gray stepped forward and interrupted him.

  “Captain, Bosun’s Mate Chack was escorting one of the ‘prisoners’ we rescued from the Grik . . . larder.” Everyone, even Matt, flinched at the memory of that. The creatures had been emaciated and, for the most part, wildly insane. “One of the prisoners was known to him, and delivering him aboard Big Sal was a highly personal act and one that, had I known he was doing it, I certainly would have approved.” He looked at Chack. “The accused pleads guilty, but under extenuating circumstances that include not only family but foreign relations.” Matt had to smile at Gray’s imaginative defense, but his own memory of the event was not amusing. The prisoner Chack escorted was none other than Saak-Fas, the mate of Keje-Fris-Ar’s daughter, Selass. He’d disappeared in battle with the Grik many months before and was considered lost. In the meantime, Selass had developed a desperate love for Chack and had expected him to answer her proposal to mate, after the battle. The scene when he returned her mad, barely living mate to her, a mate she’d never really loved, was heartrending.

  “In view of the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ the first charge against Bosun’s Mate Chack-Sab-At is dismissed,” Matt declared. “Mr. Garrett? Have you anything to say on Gunner’s Mate Silva’s behalf?”

  Garrett looked at the big, grinning man and took an exasperated breath. “Guilty, sir. His only defense is that some other fellas did it too.”

  “Unacceptable. Mr. Dowden?”

  “Uh, the next charge is that both the accused became involved in, well, a brawl, sir, and not only were they at the center of the brawl but they started it by striking one another.”

  Matt sighed. “I won’t even ask who started it. I know I won’t get a straight answer. Besides, I have a pretty good idea. If I’m not very much mistaken, I expect Chack threw the first punch—”

  “He pulled my tail!” Chack interrupted, seething indignantly.

  “Did not! I was just holdin’ it. You did all the pullin’!”

  “Silence!” Matt bellowed. “Trust me, you both would really rather keep your mouths shut and handle this my way! Silva, your unnatural and hopefully pretend ‘relationship’ with Chack’s sister, Risa, was all very shocking and amusing . . . at first. It’s now not only an embarrassment to this ship but a constant goad to Chack’s self-control. I know Risa’s as much to blame as you are. You’re two peas in a pod, personality wise, if not . . .” He shuddered. “In any event, you’ll cease tormenting Chack with the lurid details of your fictitious ‘marriage’ to his sister and you’ll definitely refrain from any more . . . overt physical demonstrations when you are together. Is that understood?”

  “But, Skipper . . .”

  “IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  “Very well. It’s pointless to dock your pay, but you’re both losing a stripe and you’re both restricted to the ship for ten days—after we make port. Silva, you’re losing another stripe for AWOL.”

  “But—”

  “Shut up.” Matt looked at Dowden, who cleared his throat.

  “Attention to orders!” he said. Captain Reddy unfolded a piece of paper before him.

  “For extreme heroism and gallantry in the face of the enemy, etc., etc.”—he looked up—“I’m sorry to you other guys, but I’m still too damn mad to get flowery. Anyway, with my deepest gratitude, I’m proud to advance the following men one grade in rank: Coxswain Tony Scott, quartermaster’s mate 3rd, Norman Kutas—” He stopped for a moment and sighed heavily. “Boatswain’s Mate Chack-Sab-At and Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva. Most of you deserve it. Chack, you lose one, you gain one, so you’re back where you started—except for the restriction. Silva . . .” Matt shook his head. “You’re never going to get that first-class stripe if you don’t settle down!” Dennis shrugged philosophically and Matt looked at Campeti, who concluded the proceedings. As they walked back to the pilothouse, Matt and Dowden were rejoined by Sandra and Bradford. Both wore broad smiles. “Cut it out,” he said, almost smiling himself as he mounted the steps. At the top waited Lieutenant Tamatsu Shinya of the Japanese Imperial Navy.

  “Mr. Shinya,” Matt greeted him.

  “Captain.” Shinya was the sole survivor of a destroyer that took a torpedo meant for Amagi. Somehow, her survivors in the water had been swept through the Squall with the American ships, but before Walker could return to rescue them, they’d been eaten by what was evidently a plesiosaur of some sort, not to mention a ravening swarm of tuna-sized fish that acted like piranhas. They called the fish “flashies” and they were everywhere, at least in the relatively shallow equatorial seas within the Malay Barrier. Shinya alone was saved because he’d been unconscious atop an overturned lifeboat. It had been the first indication to the destroyermen that they were no longer in the world they knew—the first other than the bizarre effects of the Squall itself, of course.

  Since then, Shinya, who had studied in the United States, had given his parole and had become a valued member of the crew. He was an excellent swordsman, if not in the traditional Japanese style, and he was a big help to Sergeant Alden, the Marine from the doomed cruiser Houston, whom they’d also carried from Surabaya. Together, they were building an army based on historical principles the captain had suggested. Matt had realized early on that the only way they could counter the overwhelming Grik numbers was with discipline—specifically, the Roman shield wall, backed by spears and archers. At least that’s what they’d need in an open-field fight. Shinya also understood Latin, which was, amazingly, the
language of the Ancient Scrolls of the ’Cats. Not because it was taught them by Romans, but because that’s the language the sailing master of the HEIC (Honorable East India Company) ship Hermione chose to teach them and communicate in.

  Matt suspected the earlier visitors did it to remain as enigmatic as possible, since there was evidence they’d already encountered the Grik, even before one of their ships was taken by them. The rest of the “Tail-less Ones” of that long ago visit had sailed into the “Eastern Sea” beyond the “edge of the world” and disappeared from Lemurian history. Matt suspected they were still out there, somewhere. British Indiamen often carried passengers and deportees, so there was reason to believe they’d survived. Anyway, that’s how they first communicated with the ’Cats; Bradford and Tamatsu Shinya spoke the “Ancient Tongue” of the Lemurian Sky Priests.