Iron Gray Sea - 07 Read online

  When his rage passed, Matt secretly suspected Sandra’s move was a stroke of genius that had solved a lot of problems, both for him and for Governor-Emperor Gerald McDonald, who was doing his best to eliminate the age-old “Company”-inspired institution of virtual female slavery throughout the Empire. Having uncorked it, Sandra had made it practically impossible to put the genie back in the bottle.

  Regardless, there were now human females, sea . . . women running around Walker, to the amusement of half the crew—and horror of the rest. Matt understood it, accepted it, even welcomed it for various reasons, but he didn’t like it.

  “I’m sure you’ve all met His Excellency, Ambassador Lord Forester,” he began, looking across the table at the tall, somewhat heavyset man. Matt didn’t know Forester well, but the man was a personal friend of the Governor-Emperor and that spoke well for him. He waited briefly while most politely nodded. “Good.” Matt smiled. “Try to be nice to him. It’s in all our interests, his people’s and ours, that we get along.” There were chuckles, and even Forester’s face broke into a smile. There had been, and doubtless would continue to be, tensions between the Western allies and the Empire. The Empire had spawned the criminal Billingsley, after all, who’d managed to cause so much trouble. Even now, in its death throes, the legacy of the Honorable New Britain Company was still cause for concern. The societies were very different, and some enmity remained.

  “I will do my part,” Forester said, absently twisting the graying ends of his massive, stereotypical Imperial mustache. “I’m rather new at this; the Empire has had no diplomatic department, per se, and no real tradition of negotiation. And though we allowed the Dominion to maintain an embassy in the New Britain Isles—which they apparently used primarily to intrigue against us—there has been no ambassador to the Doms for a decade.” He grimaced. “Hopefully, there won’t be one until the evil that rules there is destroyed.” He spread his hands with a small smile at Matt. “Then, of course, we had no one else to talk to until you came along.”

  Matt refrained from pointing out that the Lemurians had always been there—and the Empire knew it.

  The ambassador straightened. “It is no secret that I feel inadequate and wholly unprepared for my new, consequential post, but though I may not be a polished envoy, I understand that I must learn all I can about the military and political structure of your elements of our Alliance. Just watching and listening helps me with that.” He smiled more broadly. “I assure you, even listening to the . . . English-Lemurian patois you have developed is most helpful.”

  There was more laughter. “I think we’re even, then, Your Excellency,” Matt said. “Courtney Bradford is the best we can come up with for your counterpart, and he’s not very polished either.” Bradford was an amazingly valuable but . . . odd individual. He’d been an Australian petroleum engineer in the East Indies, but considered himself first and foremost a naturalist. Sometimes Matt wondered if everything that had happened to them since they passed through the Squall that brought Walker and her people to this world wasn’t some divine attempt to overwhelm Courtney’s curiosity. “I think the Governor-Emperor knew our people would react better to someone like you than to someone more ‘polished.’ As for listening to the gab, knock yourself out. I don’t think we have, or should have, any secrets you shouldn’t hear. Make yourself comfortable. . . .” He grinned, considering the lively gyrations of his ship. Walker rolled horribly in any kind of sea, and was currently pitching rather briskly as well. “If you can.”

  Matt looked at the others in the wardroom and the grin disappeared. Time to get down to business. “Okay, here’s the deal. As you’re all aware, Walker needs a major refit and she’s on the binnacle list for now. For some time, particularly since we turned for home, it’s been bugging me that a fair percentage of the personnel most needed to accomplish various projects have been cooped up here aboard Walker. In the past, I’d have swallowed that frustration, of necessity. But the wonders of this modern world we’re building are throwing changes at us so fast that they’re hard to keep up with.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like the guy living in the house with oil lamps, who never twisted the light switch because he knew there was no electricity and all the bulbs were burned out—then somebody just waltzes in and turns on the lights.” He grinned sheepishly.

  “The point is, before departing New Scotland, I sent a message asking the guys back home to put their heads together and figure out a way to get some of you malingerers off this ship and back to work. In retrospect—I don’t know why; I didn’t expect much. I knew we could fly you out of Manila, but by then you’d only have a few days on us.” He nodded at Ed Palmer, the communications officer. “We just received, via Respite Station, confirmation that two four-engine seaplanes the Air Corps cobbled up—I think they’re calling them ‘Manila Clippers’—should arrive at Respite at about the same time we do. They’re supposed to be bigger, more powerful versions of the three-engine ‘Buzzards,’ and I’ve been assured they’re reasonably safe and reliable.” He paused. “A number of you will board those planes and proceed ahead of us to Maa-ni-la. Some of you will continue on to Baalkpan, via other appropriate fueling stops. Once you reach your respective destinations, you’ll commence a variety of assignments that you are, in some cases, uniquely qualified for.”

  “What kind of assignments?” blurted Silva. The big, heavily tanned, one-eyed man still stood, leaning against the aft bulkhead. His mighty arms were crossed, and the spray of scars on his face testified further that Walker’s people had suffered as much as she had. Beside him, much shorter, stood an orangish, tiger-striped creature named Lawrence, or Larry the Lizard. Lawrence’s physical similarity to the Grik, with his furry-feathery reptilian form, sharp teeth, and wicked claws, was still a little disconcerting to some, but all knew he was fiercely loyal.

  “What kind of assignment, SIR, damn your insubordinate soul!” growled Chief Bosun Fitzhugh Gray. Gray was more than twice Silva’s age but nearly as big. His decades-old China Station flab was long gone, and if he might not quite be a physical match for Silva, he had infinitely greater moral authority.

  “Sir,” Silva amended agreeably, and Gray rolled his eyes.

  “Let’s hear what the Skipper has to say before flapping our gums,” Brad “Spanky” McFarlane commanded. Spanky was a skinny little guy, and had once been Walker’s engineering officer. Somehow, despite his size, people always remembered him as much bigger than he actually was, and now he was Matt’s exec.

  “Please,” agreed Sandra Tucker. She was even smaller than Spanky, but her new job in the Alliance was Minister of Medicine, and petite and pretty as she was, she had a will of iron and couldn’t be lightly ignored (or resisted) by anyone. She was also, incidentally, Captain Reddy’s fiancée. There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. No one resented her hard-earned authority, but some inevitably reflected on the most recent result of it.

  Juan Marcos, Matt’s self-appointed personal steward to the CINCAF, appeared with a carafe and noisily stomped through the suddenly quiet wardroom on a remarkably complicated peg fashioned for him on New Scotland. He’d lost his left leg during a sneak attack by the Holy Dominion. No one spoke while the little Filipino filled cups with an air of supreme satisfaction. Well, at least the “monkey joe” is back to normal, Captain Reddy reflected, staring bleakly at the not-quite-green foam rimming the brew in his captain’s cup. Juan had finally returned to duty, relieving Taarba-Kar (Tabasco), his Lemurian replacement. The first thing he’d done was insist on making the local, ersatz coffee the way Matt “liked” it, and since Matt—or anyone—had never summoned the courage to tell the Filipino they hated his coffee, they were back to drinking what some described as “bilgewater and boiler soot” in the wardroom. At least they had Imperial tea now, and Juan was content to let Tabasco handle that.

  Matt felt his square jaw while Juan finished his rounds. Juan was much better at shaving him than Tabasco had ever been. After finally relenting and let
ting the Filipino perform that delicate duty, he couldn’t very well prevent Tabasco from doing the same after Juan was wounded, and the young ’Cat’s hand wasn’t nearly as steady. Matt shuddered.

  “Uh, thanks,” he managed when Juan triumphantly and with surprising agility, swooped back by and topped off his cup, replacing the single, obligatory sip he’d taken. Matt set the cup on the green linoleum-topped table and gazed at the others in the compartment, almost daring them to grin or snicker. Suddenly, he was reminded of other, often desperate, times when he and Walker’s officers had met like this. There was a more relaxed atmosphere today, but there were important matters to discuss; matters that would affect the prosecution of the war on its various fronts, and that would require scattering these people—his friends—to remote places once again.

  He looked at Marine Major (or Bosun’s Mate, if he was at sea) Chack-Sab-At and smiled. The young Lemurian had become one of the rocks of the Alliance, and his brindled tail was swishing slightly in anticipation. They’d discussed his assignment before, and not only was he excited by it, but he also knew that ultimately it would take him nearer his beloved Safir Maraan, General-Queen Protector of B’mbaado. The stunning Safir was a corps commander now in the First Fleet Expeditionary Element.

  “Chack, you’ll be stopping in Manila, where you’ll be joined by Major Jindal and his regiment of Imperial Marines aboard those Dom steam transports captured at New Ireland. They sailed before we did, and took a straighter shot. They should arrive there shortly, and this way, maybe you’ll be there to meet them.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan,” Chack said.

  “There’s more. Twenty of the forty-odd POW survivors of Mizuki Maru—Army, some China Marines, others too, I’m told—are fit enough and willing to join the cause.” He frowned. “Not much else for ’em, poor guys. They’re in the same boat we are now.”

  “Still better than the boat they were in, from what I hear,” Spanky practically snarled. “Goddamn Japs!”

  “Maybe so,” Matt agreed.

  “What about the others?” Sandra asked.

  “Some are nuts,” Matt said simply. “No wonder. Others are physical wrecks.” He shrugged. “Some say their war’s over, and I can’t say I blame them.” His jaw worked. “Much as we may need their expertise, we all have to do our best to make sure nobody blames them if they choose to sit this one out. Those guys fought like hell, and now we know they were ordered to surrender. After that . . . My God, the Japs treated ’em more like you’d expect the Grik would have than . . . people ever would.” He glanced at Sandra, then stared back at his cup.

  “What will they do?” Sandra asked softly.

  “With all the war industry in Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la, and, well, just about everywhere, I bet they can write their own ticket. There’s no shortage of work. Even if they can’t fight anymore, they can still help. Hey, let’s skip it for now. . . . But don’t forget it!” Matt looked back at Chack. “That leaves the others who do want to join us. Somebody, one of them, probably, talked High Chief Saan-Kakja into forming some kind of Brit-style commando outfit.” He arched his brows bemusedly. “Maybe they can use some more of Chinakru’s lizards for advisors or an opposition force to train against. Anyway, there’s that. Ultimately, you’ll take those forces and a new Manila regiment and go to Baalkpan, where you’ll incorporate a regiment of ’Cat Marines your sister Risa is raising into a division.” Matt paused. “You’ll command.”

  Chack blinked and bowed. “Thank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

  “Who’s going straight to Baalkpan, sir?” Lieutenant Irvin Laumer asked politely but intently. He had a very personal reason to be curious. Like most submariners, Laumer wasn’t tall or physically remarkable in any way, but Matt had learned he had an extra helping of guts. He’d successfully led the effort to salvage his old submarine, S-19, off a Talaud Island beach—a beach that no longer existed, since the whole island had blown itself apart in a volcanic fit reminiscent of Krakatoa on the “old earth.” More recently, he’d been acting exec of Maaka-Kakja, a prestigious post, but one he’d relinquished so he could go back to his old sub. He seemed to feel, despite all he’d accomplished, that he still had something to prove, and he could only really do that with S-19.

  Matt reflected that Laumer’s fixation on the old boat could be good . . . or bad . . . and he had no idea which it would ultimately be. He’d been advised that S-19 could never be a submarine again. Most wanted to just scrap her—but that wasn’t right either. Not only would Laumer and all the men and ’Cats who’d worked so hard to save her be crushed, but the boat did float and had two running (or repairable) diesels and a four-inch-fifty gun. Matt decided to give the determined submariner his head and ordered Laumer to rebuild S-19 into . . . something else. Even if nobody really knew what that would be yet, Laumer didn’t care. Whatever S-19 was fated to become, she would still be his.

  “You are,” Matt answered, “along with Lawrence, and”—he arched an eyebrow at Silva’s looming form, expecting one of the man’s . . . imaginative arguments—“Chief Silva.” To Matt’s surprise, Dennis Silva didn’t do anything other than arch his own eyebrows and form that disconcerting, gap-toothed grin of his. “You’ll resume command of S-19,” he continued to Laumer, “and figure out what to do with her. You may consider that a reward for your efforts, if you like, but I think it’s going to be a bigger chore than you imagine. My only advice is not to get any fixed ideas before you start. Talk to your people who stayed aboard; get with Bernie Sandison, Perry Brister, anybody who might have a notion. Draw pictures. Whatever you do with her though, remember: we need practical warships, not pie in the sky.”

  “Or a pigboat in a poke,” Silva murmured down at Lawrence, and Laumer fired a scathing look at him before replying, “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Matt nodded.

  “You ain’t gonna stick me on that big, leakin’ weenie, are you, Skipper?” Silva spoke up. It wasn’t really a question.

  “No. That would be a waste of your few real talents, and you’d be much worse than useless to Lieutenant Laumer. That said, though you are going to Baalkpan, you’re not on the loose. When not directly involved in the assignment you’re about to receive, you belong to Bernie Sandison in Ordnance. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still AWOL. If you don’t do exactly what he says, he can hang you, for all I care.”

  “I swear,” Silva mumbled, barely audible. “How come folks are always shakin’ ropes at me?”

  “What was that?” Spanky demanded.

  “Nothin’, sir,” Silva said, suddenly making a caricature of the position of attention. “Aye, aye, sir! I’ll stick to Bernie like malaria! Why, he won’t be able to scrape me off with assi-tone—but I’ll be back with Walker when her refit’s done . . . Won’t I?”

  “We’ll see,” Matt said seriously, stifling a chuckle. “In the meantime, Adar still wants that expedition into the interior of Borno, to make contact with those ‘jungle lizards’ you discovered. I think it’s past time myself, now that we know not everybody who looks Grik is Grik.” He grinned at Lawrence, then looked back at Dennis. “We also know for a fact that looking Grik doesn’t save them from the Grik either, so they have a stake in this war whether they want it—or know it—or not.” Matt’s eyebrows rose. “According to General Alden, we need jungle fighters, for scouts if nothing else, and we might use them as commandos too. Adar’s already begun accumulating supplies and personnel for the expedition. The ’Cat hunter, Moe, a couple of Chinakru’s Sa’aarans, and even some of the Grik we captured at Aryaal have committed to participate.”

  There was a murmur in the wardroom over that. When they left Baalkpan, little progress had been made toward communicating with the creatures.

  “So, I guess I’ve also committed to participate?” Silva asked, arousing chuckles.

  “Yes, you have,” Matt replied seriously. “You and Lawrence will ensure the safety of the expedition, and do whatever you can to make it a success.”

&n
bsp; “Who’s gonna be in charge?”

  “Abel Cook has been commissioned an ensign, and he’ll be your superior officer. With Courtney in the east, Mr. Cook is the best-qualified man to lead this . . .” Matt looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “This Corps of Discovery. I know he’s awful young, but as you know, he’s got a level head—and I’m sure he’ll listen to you. I know he’s learned to value your . . . opinions . . . in dangerous situations.”

  Cook had been one of a number of civilian refugees from Java, mostly children of diplomats and other big shots, aboard S-19. Since his rescue, he’d been Courtney Bradford’s protégé in the natural sciences. He’d also been abducted and ultimately marooned along with Sandra, Silva, Princess Rebecca, Lawrence, Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Sister Audry . . . and others not as lucky. He’d packed considerable adventure into his barely sixteen years, and the gangly teen had generally comported himself well by all accounts.

  “Cook’s a good kid,” Silva said thoughtfully. “And he’s probably been livin’ in a igloo made outta Courtney’s books since he got back to Baalkpan. He’s a good choice.” He chuckled. “I figger his biggest problem’ll be givin’ me orders!”

  “You may have to teach him how,” Matt agreed, “and I feel a little guilty inflicting you on him, but he’ll need you. Tell him to feel free to accept a few more volunteers, if he wants.” Matt knew Abel’s friend, Midshipman Brassey, would be begging Ambassador Forester to let him go as soon as the meeting adjourned.

  “Sounds like a hoot, and me and Larry’ll do our best for the kid . . .” Silva’s twisted grin spread. “I mean, for Mister Cook.” He poked Lawrence with his elbow. “Won’t we?”