Distant Thunders

CHAPTER 24

“ Report from the crow’s nest, Captain,” Reynolds said. “Sail on the horizon, bearing zero one zero.”

“Very well. Helm, make your course zero one zero, if you please,” Matt ordered. He raised his binoculars.

“Making my course see-ro one see-ro, ay!” replied Staas-Fin at the wheel.

“Uh, Skipper?” Reynolds continued. “Wouldn’t this be a good time to put my plane in the water and let me fly over there and have a look?”

Matt restrained the grin that tried to form. Reynolds took his new calling as a naval aviator very seriously, and by all accounts he was a good pilot. He and his small flight and maintenance crew cared for the Nancy meticulously. They’d even worked out a number of the problems associated with stowing, rigging out and recovering the plane, and protecting it from the elements. They still hadn’t had a chance to actually fly the thing yet, and partially that was due to the time it required to launch and recover the aircraft. Mostly, Matt admitted to himself, he personally didn’t want to risk the valuable, fragile resource the plane represented, or the young, excitable, but steady ensign he’d grown so fond of. So far, in addition to his Special Air Detail duties, Reynolds had been stuck in his old job as bridge talker, for the most part. He was starting to feel a little put-upon and it showed.

“Not just yet, Ensign. The sea’s got a little chop to it. Besides, I expect that’ll be Achilles, based on our position. If we spot anything on the horizon we’re slightly less sure of, you can risk your crazy neck in that goofy contraption then.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Fred replied, a little wistfully.

The sail was indeed Achilles, and they easily overhauled her at twenty knots by early afternoon. Both ships flew their recognition numbers as they approached, even though each captain would have known the other’s ship anywhere. It was a procedure they’d agreed on in advance among themselves-just in case. Walker slowed to match Achilles’ nine knots. It was a respectable pace, considering the wind and the drag of the freewheeling paddles. Jenks was undoubtedly conserving fuel, and running the engine wouldn’t have given him a dramatic speed increase in any event. Matt recognized his counterpart standing on the elevated conning platform amidships, between the paddle boxes. Stepping onto the port bridge wing, he raised his speaking trumpet.

“It’s good to see you, Achilles!” he shouted, his voice crossing the distance between the ships with a tinny aspect.

“You cut a fine figure, Captain Reddy,” Jenks replied. “Your beautiful ship is quite the rage aboard here! To have you so effortlessly come streaking alongside within an hour of sighting you has been a marvelous sight to behold, while we here labor along and toil for every knot! I must protest your choice of such a drab color for such an elegant lady, however! Gray, for heaven’s sake! And I do fear I perceive a streak or two of rust! Clearly you’ve had a difficult passage!”

Matt laughed. He couldn’t help it. For the first time, perhaps, he caught himself liking Jenks.

“Rust, he says!” the Bosun bawled on the fo’c’sle. “Did you hear that, you shif’less pack o’ malingerers? If there’s a speck of rust anywhere on this ship, I want it chipped and painted if you have to hang over the side by your useless tails!”

Lord, thought Matt yet again, in spite of everything, some things never change. Thank God. Of course, in his own way the Bosun was a genius. The man was a hero to the crew-to the entire Alliance-and even “Super Bosun” was an inadequate title. He had the moral authority of a thundering, wrathful God, and his increasing harangues were probably carefully calculated to keep the Lemurian crew from dwelling on the now obvious fact that they’d steamed beyond where any of their kind had ever traveled. Possibly only two things kept the more nervous ’Cats diligently at their duty: the persistent and familiar sense of normal gravity that proved they weren’t about to fall off the world, and the absolute certainty the Bosun would contrive to throw them off if he ever caught them cringing in their racks.

“Maybe we should steam in company for the day and through the night,” Matt shouted across. “Then spread out tomorrow. In the meantime, I’d be honored if you and your officers would join us for dinner. Juan”-he smirked slightly-“and Lanier have been preparing something special in anticipation of your visit.”

“Delighted, Captain Reddy. It would be my honor.”

Dinner was served in the wardroom with as much pomp as Juan could manage. He hovered near the guests with a carafe of monkey joe in one hand, towel draped over his arm. His wardroom breakfasts had become legendary, but he rarely got a chance to entertain. For this dinner, he was at his most formal best, and though mess dress hadn’t been exactly prescribed, everyone managed as best they could. Matt’s own dress uniform was one of his few prewar outfits Juan had managed to maintain. He’d even sent it ashore with other important items before Walker ’s last fight.

Earl Lanier entered with as much dignity as possible, carrying a tray of appetizers. He’d somehow stuffed his swollen frame into his own dingy mess dress and wore a long, greasy apron tied around his chest and under his arms that hung nearly to his shins. Laying the tray on the green linoleum table, he removed the lid with a steamy flourish. Nestled neatly around a sauce tureen were dozens of smoky pink cylindrical shapes, decorated with a possibly more edible leafy garnish. Matt’s face fell, as did the faces of all the human destroyermen. In his ongoing effort to use the damn things up, Lanier had prepared an appetizer of Vienna sausages, or “scum weenies,” as some called them. Juan almost crashed into Lanier, forcing him into the passageway beyond the curtain, where he proceeded to berate him in highly agitated Tagalog.

“Ah, cooks and their sensibilities!” Jenks said, spearing an oozing sausage with a fork. After dipping the object in the sauce, he popped it in his mouth. “Um… most interesting,” he accomplished at last, forcing himself to swallow.

“Yes, well…” was all Matt could manage. The “appetizer” remained little sampled except by Chack and some of the other ’Cats, who actually seemed to like the things. Sooner than expected, Juan returned with the main course: a mountainous, glazed “pleezy-sore” roast. He quickly removed the offending tray. The excellent roast was much more enthusiastically received and consumed with great relish. Juan also brought in some other dishes: steamed vegetables of some sort that tasted a lot like squash, and some very ordinary-looking sauteed mushrooms. There were tankards of fresh polta juice and pitchers of the very last iced tea known to exist on the planet. The ice came from the big refrigerator-freezer on deck behind the blower, and Spanky and Lanier themselves had teamed up to repair it. Ice, and the cold water that came from the little built-in drinking fountain, was always welcome, and of course the truck-size machine allowed them to carry perishables.

The dinner was a huge success, and to Juan’s satisfaction, everything was much appreciated and commented on. He might kill Lanier later, but for a time, he was in his favorite element. After the last remove, Jenks spoke up. “A most flavorful dinner.” He patted his stomach. “Perhaps too flavorful!” He turned to Juan. “You and Mr. Lanier have my heartiest compliments! Even the iced tea! How refreshing! We usually take tea hot, you know. Even if we had a means of making ice at sea, I don’t suppose it has ever occurred to anyone to ice tea before!” He paused, and everyone looked at him with keen interest. Of course the Empire would know tea! Planting and growing some of the “founder’s” cargo would probably have been one of their first imperatives!

Jenks continued. “I am given to understand that you do not imbibe strong drink aboard your Navy’s ships, Captain Reddy. Perhaps that is not a bad policy. In case you might consider an exception, I did bring a very mild, dry port to commemorate our rendezvous. There is just enough for a single short glass for all present, and I intended it as a means for proposing a toast.”

Matt nodded. “In that case, Commodore, I’ll allow an exception. It’s not unheard-of in situations like this when ‘foreigners’ are aboard. Juan, would you be good enough to fetch glasses?”

A few minutes later, glasses had been positioned and filled by Juan’s expert hand. Jenks raised his glass. “It is customary at this time for our most junior officer to offer the first toast to the governor-emperor. I do not expect you to participate, under the circumstances, but I do beg you to give His Majesty the benefit of the doubt in this matter. It is his own daughter who has been taken, after all.”

“Very well,” Matt agreed. “The benefit of the doubt… for now.” One of Jenks’s midshipmen stood, and all those present, everyone, stood with him.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “His Majesty!”

All, including Matt, took a sip. The port was interesting, fruity, Matt decided, and as mild as Jenks had promised. He held out his own glass. “The Grand Alliance, and the United States Navy!” All drank again, but Matt noticed there was the slightest hesitation among a few of the Imperial officers. Inwardly, he sighed.

Jenks held forth his glass. “Hear, hear!” he said forcefully. “And a most formidable Navy it is. We have joined together to embark on a venture essential to both our nations.” He paused. “May it ever be thus: that we will forever cooperate as friends, and never meet as enemies!” On that, Jenks emptied his glass, and with no hesitation at all, everyone else in the wardroom followed suit.

“Captain!” Reynolds exclaimed excitedly. “Lookout reports surface contact bearing one two five degrees! It’s a sail, Skipper! More than one. He says it looks like three or four!”

“Course?” Matt snapped. Sails! Here? Other than Billingsly, who else would be in these waters? According to Jenks, they were still a considerable distance from the closest Imperial outpost. Possibly four ships! Could others have joined Billingsly?

Reynolds relayed the course request and stood, waiting anxiously for several minutes before the lookout in the crow’s nest replied, “Almost reciprocal, Skipper. Lookout estimates contact course is two eight zero! Four ships for sure, sir, under sail!”

“Well,” said Courtney Bradford, “of course we all presume those are Imperial ships? If not, personally I’d be willing to lay a wager to it.”

“What makes you so sure?” Gray asked. “ ’Specially after all that stuff you were goin’ on about the other day.”

Bradford looked oddly at Gray. “Why, I will gladly wager my… my hat that they are indeed Imperials, coming in response to the ship and message Jenks dispatched when he first arrived in Baalkpan! Considering the time it would have taken that ship to travel to the Imperial homeland, spread the word, outfit another expedition… that expedition would be about, well, here by now!”

Gray looked at the bizarre sombrerolike hat hanging from Bradford’s hand (he wasn’t allowed to wear it on the bridge) and shook his head. “I wouldn’t want that nasty thing as a gift. ’Sides, when you put it that way, you’re probably right.”

Matt was already convinced. He’d forgotten all about the ship Jenks was allowed to send away, with news of the princess’s survival and rescue. He rubbed his chin, looking at Reynolds. Oh, well, he’d promised. Besides, there were other good reasons. “How do you like the sea, Ensign?” he asked.

Reynolds studied the swells. “Looks fine, Skipper. You’ll need to heave to and set us down in the lee. The hard part, actually, will be moving away so we’ll have the wind again-without sucking us into the screws.”

Matt sighed. Another danger he hadn’t really thought of. “Very well. Sound General Quarters and call your division. Have Mr. Palmer signal Achilles that we’ll reduce speed and await your report.”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

After all stations reported manned and ready, Reynolds announced shipwide: “Now hear this, now hear this! The Special Air Detail will assemble and make all preparations for flight operations!” Those members of the Special Air Detail not stationed at the plane as part of the Plane Dump Detail during GQ sprang from their various battle stations and hurried to their new posts. Matt had decided that the ship would always be at general quarters whenever the plane was launched or recovered so everyone would be at their highest state of readiness in the event of an accident. It was then easier to call the larger air detail from their normal battle stations, which, with the exception of the designated observer, were all close by. Observers came from Lieutenant Palmer’s comm division.

“Mr. Reynolds, you are relieved,” Matt said, gesturing for Carl Bashear to take Fred’s headset. Kutas was at the helm, so Fred couldn’t hope for better ship handling.

“Aye-aye, sir! Thank you, sir!” Reynolds said, and slid down the stairs behind the pilothouse. Hurrying past the galley under the amidships deckhouse, he heard the diminutive Juan Marcos and the monstrous Earl Lanier still arguing about the night before. He chuckled. He didn’t care-he was going to fly! His division, almost entirely ’Cats, had already cleared the tarps from the plane and were arranging the tackle to the aft extended davit when he arrived. This Nancy was his own personal plane, the one in which he’d finished his training. It was one of the new, improved models, infinitely better than Ben’s prototype. It looked incredibly frail, but Fred knew appearances were deceiving. He’d botched a landing or two, and it had held together under stresses he’d have thought would tear it apart. He had confidence in the plane and himself. Shoot, he had almost thirty hours in the thing! He climbed up to the cockpit and, as always, looked at the large blue roundel with the big white star and smaller red dot with a mix of pride and a sense of incongruity. The roundel contrasted well with the lighter blue of the wings and fuselage/hull, and all the colors looked right, but the contraption they covered was, while in his eyes a thing of beauty, still strange enough to cause a disconnect between its shape and the familiar colors. He shrugged and climbed in. “Who’s my OC?” he shouted, referring to his observer/copilot.

One of Ben’s improvements, besides turning the engine around, had been installing auxiliary controls for the observer. It only made sense. Observers didn’t have to be pilots-yet-but they had to be familiar with the controls and able to demonstrate at least rudimentary flying skills. Of course, their main job was to observe and transmit those observations via one of the small, portable CW transmitters (originally meant for airplanes) that all the new transmitters in the Alliance were patterned after. There was no battery-Alliance-made batteries were still too heavy-but the “Ronson” wind powered generator and a voltage regulator the size of a shoe box gave them all the juice they needed with little weight. An aerial extended from a faired upright behind the observer’s seat to the tail.

Fred looked aft and saw Kari-Faask scrambling into her position. She was a niece of the great B’mbaadan general Haakar-Faask, who’d died so bravely in a holding action against the Grik. Kari wasn’t quite as bold and fearless as her uncle, but Fred knew she had plenty of guts. She never made any bones about the fact that she was afraid to fly, for example, but she went up anyway and performed her duties without complaint. Also, despite her still somewhat stilted English, she had a good fist on the transmitter key.

“You okay with this, Kari?” Fred called back to her.

“I good. You be good and no crash us!” she hollered back.

Reynolds could tell Walker was heaved to by the sudden wallowing sensation. He quickly checked the function of all the control surfaces and shouted down to the chief of the air detail, “All right, Chief, pick us up and swing us out! Set us down with plenty of slack but don’t cut us loose until the engine starts, hear? And keep an eye on those line handlers!”

The Nancy lifted. ’Cats strained at the taglines to keep the plane from swinging with the rolling motion of the ship. Reynolds knew Ben had been hoping to construct some kind of catapult, a sort of abbreviated version of what Amagi had had, but there just hadn’t been time. Now Reynolds better appreciated Ben’s scheme. It wouldn’t have made any difference with recovery, but with a catapult, they could have just flown right off the ship. A couple of times, the Nancy swung dangerously close to the davit and Fred clenched his eyes shut, expecting a splintering crash, but somehow, fairly quickly, the plane was over the water and headed down. Now the only immediate concern was giving the plane enough slack that the roll of the ship wouldn’t yank her back out of the water and smash her against Walker ’s side.

Suddenly, Reynolds felt the independent motion caused by water under the plane. There’d been no thump or splash at all. “Switch on!” he yelled, and Kari leaped up to lean against the little railing that kept her body away from the prop. Reaching as high as she could, she grabbed a blade and yanked it down. There was a cough, but nothing else. She repeated the process and was rewarded by a loud, muffled fart and the blades blurred before her. Reynolds advanced the throttle while she fell back into her seat and strapped herself in. This was the signal for the detail on the ship to pull the tagline pins that released all ropes from the plane. Kicking the rudder hard left, Reynolds advanced the throttle still more to gain some distance from the ship.

“All right!” Reynolds shouted, tension ebbing away. “We’re on the loose!” Behind them, the ship slowly eased forward, exposing them to the westerly breeze. Turning the Nancy’s nose into the wind, Reynolds advanced the throttle to the stop. The new liquid-cooled engine was heavier than Ben’s makeshift prototype, but the power-to-weight ratio was actually a little better. It stayed uniformly cooler too, which could be good and bad. They’d need better spring technology before they could do a proper thermostat. The big, exposed radiator behind the cockpit also negated any potential speed increase, but having flown a couple of times in the prototype, Fred liked “his” Nancy a lot better. Unlike Ben, Reynolds had also quickly figured out a major secret to seaplane flying. Maybe it was because he’d had no preconceptions and just did what came naturally, but he’d amazed Ben on his third flight by “bouncing” his plane into the air off a wave top with half the speed and in a third of the distance with which Ben had ever managed it. Ben had been flabbergasted, amazed, annoyed, and proud all at once. After he got Fred to first figure out what he’d done, and second explain-and ultimately show it to everyone else-the practice became SOP.

Fred used the procedure now, and within moments of his applying full power, the plane was in the air. “Whooee!” he shouted, banking low over the water. He gradually pulled back on the stick. The Nancy’s CG was still just a little aft, and Ben had constantly pounded it into them not to fool around with the stick, particularly at low altitude. Slowly, the plane climbed. In the distance, about ten miles away, he saw Achilles. He knew no one on the Imperial ship had ever seen a man fly, and he was tempted to cruise over and buzz her. He resisted the impulse, realizing it probably wasn’t appropriate to goof around in the air the first time the skipper let him fly. He grinned, thinking about what it would be like-Ben had told him of the chaos he’d caused on Ajax that one time. Shaking his head, he banked a little sharper and flew back toward Walker, gently waggling his wings as he flew over.

In all the wide expanse of the world around them, there was nothing but sea. He’d never flown over the empty ocean before, at least not beyond sight of land, and it made him a little queasy. Worse, it was a dull, humid day and the higher he flew, the more difficult it became to tell where the sky and the horizon met. He looked at his clinometer and steadied his wings. As far as he could see, there was no sign of land at all. Just the hazy, grayish sky and the hazy blue sea below. Achilles and Walker were there, of course, and that comforted him, but the only other things in view were the distant ships the lookout had spotted. It was time to get to work.

“Definitely four ships,” he shouted to Kari through the speaking tube, knowing she would report it, although by now Walker and Achilles would probably know that already. There were no ships beyond those, however, and that would be news. He reported that as well. Closer and closer to the unknown ships he flew, gaining altitude. Still nothing beyond them but maybe an atoll or something. He couldn’t tell for sure, and it might even have been a distant squall. But the four ships were clearly alone. “Tell ’em they’re sailing steamers, like Achilles

… and Ajax. All have those paddle box things on their sides. When we get a little closer, I’ll take her down a little and see if we can get a look at their flags. They’ve got flags; I can see that much from here.”

A short time later, he was kiting a few thousand feet above the strange ships. He still couldn’t see what flag they flew, but they must have noticed him. He couldn’t tell if his flying machine had caused any consternation below, but they were taking in sail, and puffs of smoke began streaming from their tall, slender funnels.

“Say, Kari,” he shouted, “I don’t know what it means, or if they’re reacting to us or our ships, but they’ve lit their boilers. Seems that would mean they want to be able to maneuver. Better send that; then we’re going down for a closer look.”

“Yes, I send,” Kari said. “But stay out of musket shot! If they Jenks people, they muskets are no as good as our new ones, and no near as good as you rifles, but they plenty good shoot holes in this ‘crate’ you get close enough!”

“Don’t worry. I plan to stay well clear.” He eased the stick forward and began a slow, spiraling descent. “Let’s see,” he said, mentally kicking himself for forgetting a pair of binoculars. He’d have to remember that in the future. Surely Kari could hold the plane level while he took a look-or he could do the same for her. She was the observer, after all. Maybe with her better eyes… “Hey, Kari, if you get a good look at the flag, describe what you see!” he yelled.

Still closer they flew, swooping down to within three hundred feet of the water. The ships looked just like Jenks’s, for the most part. One had more gunports, the others fewer, but all followed essentially the same lines and rig. Sooty black plumes rose thick from all four ships now.

“I see flag! Imper’al flag!” Kari confirmed. “Is same as Jenks.. . I think.” Something about it, she didn’t know what, didn’t look exactly right.

A single puff of smoke belched from a gun on the nearest ship.

“They shoot at us!” Kari shouted. “With cannon! We out of range their muskets, but not cannon!”

“Relax,” said Reynolds, a little shaky himself, as he banked abruptly away. “We probably just spooked them. That had to be a warning shot telling us to keep our distance. If they were shooting at us, I doubt if they’d have used just one. Think about it: they’ve never seen an airplane before in their lives. They don’t know if we’re dangerous or not. I can understand them not wanting us too close.” He rubbed his wind-blown face. “From what I could see, they looked like Imperial flags to me too. Send it. Tell Captain Reddy we’re coming home and ask him to fly a signal saying what he wants us to do.” Fred would be glad when they could make headsets for the observers. His Nancy had one of the simple receivers, and the little speakers Riggs had come up with worked fine, but they couldn’t compete with a droning motor. For now, they had to rely on visual instructions from the ship.

“Wilco!” Kari shouted through the speaking tube.

“He says-En-sin Reynolds says-they Imperials, all right. Chase plane off with warning shot,” one of Ed Palmer’s comm strikers reported. “He ask we hoist signal flags, tell more instructions.”

Matt was thoughtful. “A warning shot, huh? Very well.” He turned and spoke to the Bosun. “Have him orbit us while we meet the strangers, fuel permitting. He should have plenty and it won’t be long. The main reasons I let him fly in the first place were to test his procedures-we had to do that sooner or later-and to get the plane off the ship when we meet these guys… just in case.”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Gray said, and he strode the short distance to where the signalmen and signal strikers stood, just aft of the charthouse.

“That’s most odd,” Courtney observed.

“What, the warning shot?” Matt asked.

“Well, that too, but I suspect even our Harvey Jenks would have done that when we first met, had we flown an airplane at him. Imperials do seem to have a rather well-defined societal arrogance. Mr. Jenks has mellowed rather satisfactorily, I think. Actually, though, what suddenly strikes me is that presumably they can see us as well as we can see them by now.”

“Sure…” Matt glanced at the approaching ships and saw the black smoke above them. They were much closer, maybe only six miles away. Under steam and sail, they were probably making ten or twelve knots. Walker had slowed to five when the plane took off, but she’d accelerated to fifteen as the Nancy swooped back over the ship, reading the flags they’d hoisted. Matt peered past the port bridge wing and looked north-northwest, where Achilles had been keeping pace. He saw that Jenks’s ship had closed the distance to about seven miles, and smoke was streaming from her stack now too. “What the hell’s going on here? Those ships are clearly heading toward us, not Jenks. And why did everybody light their boilers all of a sudden?”

Palmer himself appeared on the bridge. His voice had an edge when he spoke. “Message from Achilles, Skipper.”

“Okay. What’s it say?”

“Commodore Jenks suggests that we not, repeat not close with the approaching squadron alone.”

“Why not?”

“He doesn’t say.”

“Well, find out, damn it, because they’re sure as hell closing with us, and they’ll get here before he does!”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Palmer said, and left the bridge.

“Slow to one-third,” Matt ordered. “Maybe we can reduce our closure rate, at least. I’m not sure showing our heels will make the best impression.”

“We ought to go to flank and steam circles around the buggers,” Gray muttered to Bradford as he returned.

“While perhaps highly satisfying,” Bradford whispered back, arching his eyebrows, “it may also be deemed provocative.” He raised his voice. “I think I know why they are concentrating on us, Captain,” he proclaimed. “When Jenks dispatched his message, he surely must have reported that Her Highness desired us to take her home on this ship. No doubt Jenks would have described Walker as she had been described to him: a dedicated steamer with an iron hull. No sails. I shouldn’t wonder if that’s why they are converging on this ship; they believe the princess is aboard!”

“Maybe you’re right,” Matt replied. “And if it hadn’t been for Billingsly’s stunt, that would make me feel a lot better. Even so.. . Even if they’re all as big a pack of jerks as Billingsly, I can’t imagine they’d fire at us and risk hurting the girl. Billingsly took her-and the rest of our people-’cause he wanted her. He could have just bumped her off at any time.”

“Not and lived,” Gray growled.

“Good point,” Matt agreed. He rubbed his face again. “If they’ve got twenty four-pounders, like Achilles, they can punch holes in us out to what, five hundred yards? Six?”

“I’d think about that, Skipper,” Gray agreed. “Probably dent the hell out of us to a thousand. But round shot loses a lot of energy quick. It’s buckin’ a lot of wind for the weight.” He shrugged. “If they’ve got anything even a little bigger, though, the weight goes up exponentially for just a little more wind resistance. A thirty-two’s not buckin’ much more wind than an eighteen pounder, like Donaghey carries, but it’ll punch a hole in us at a thousand!”

Matt made up his mind. “Okay, at two thousand yards, we heave to, broadside. We’ll fly a white parley flag, but all batteries will remain loaded, trained, and aimed for surface action starboard. The gun director will concentrate on that big boy that must be their flagship. If they close to fifteen hundred yards, we’ll fire a warning shot of our own with the Jap gun aft. Have Chief Gunner’s Mate Stites lay it himself, in local control. Tell him to use HE for a really big splash and put it close enough to rain on ’em without hurting anybody, clear?”

Chief Bashear understood that the tactical conversation was over and that orders had been issued. He quickly passed the word. “Skipper?” he asked when he received confirmation. “I oughta be aft.” Chief Gray might be the “Super Bosun” of the fleet, but Carl Bashear was Walker ’s official chief bosun’s mate now. Since Gray’s self-appointed battle station was the forward part of the ship, near the captain, Bashear’s post was aft, near Steele, on the auxiliary conn. Chack was a bosun’s mate too, but since he also commanded the Marine contingent, he oversaw things amidships, where he could remain close to his Marines.

“Of course, Boats… Bashear,” Matt said with only a slight hesitation. Gray would always be “Boats” to him, but “Boats Bashear” had seemed to make Carl happy. “By all means, round up a relief and take your post.”

Staas-Fin, or “Finny,” quickly arrived to take his place and Carl Bashear was gone. Time passed while all the ships gradually converged. Achilles was really cracking on, but even with Walker ’s speed reduced to slow, Jenks clearly couldn’t arrive until shortly after the Imperial squadron reached the two-thousand-yard mark and things began to happen. The squeal of the halyard behind the charthouse announced that the parley flag was on its way up. Reynolds’s Nancy flew by ahead, just a few hundred feet off the wave tops. Matt had to admit the thing looked a lot better in the air than it did strapped to his ship.

“I see a white flag going up on the biggest Imperial ship,” cried Monk from his lookout post on the starboard bridge wing. About that time, the same report came from the crow’s nest.

“Sir,” said Palmer, gaining the bridge again, “Jenks says firing the boilers is Imperial SOP when they clear for action! He asks if we are certain the ships fly the same flag he does, exactly the same? The Imperial Naval jack is basically the same as the national flag-thirteen red and white stripes with red on top and bottom, and the union blue in the field! The Company flag has white on top and bottom with no blue, just a red cross of Saint George! He says the Company revived an older flag to show a distinction!”

“Goddamn, what a crock!” Gray said.

“Not a crock,” Matt retorted. “There’s definitely historical precedence, and it makes sense. Can anybody tell if there’s any blue on those flags? If Jenks thinks it’s that important, we’d better find out!”

“Can’t tell!” shouted Monk. “All their flags are streaming aft and they’re headed right for us! I can see stripes now and then, but that’s it!”

“What’s on top, red or white?” Matt barked.

“Two thousand yards!” cried Finny.

“Very well, left standard rudder. When we’re in position, we’ll heave to and maintain position. Flags?” he prompted again.

“I can’t tell what’s on top!” Monk yelled.

“Crow’s nest?” Matt demanded.

“White!” said Finny. “No, red! Jeez, Skipper, crow’s nest no tell either! Campeti say coming to fifteen hundreds!”

“Gun number four will prepare to commence firing. One shot only,” Matt said.

“Fifteen hundreds!” Finny almost squealed.

“Fire number four!”

From aft, they heard the bark of the Japanese 4.7-inch dual-purpose gun. Even over the sound of the blower, the hssssshk sound of the projectile in flight was distinctive. A large geyser of spume erupted one hundred yards off the port bow of the largest approaching ship, and spray did indeed collapse upon the fo’c’sle.

“Pass the word to Stites,” Matt said. “Well-placed.”

For a long moment, there was no response from the ships. Matt was about to order a second shot when Monk reported that the target (odd how it had suddenly become “the target”) had begun reefing sails. Still, though, the ships continued toward them.

“I don’t like it,” Gray said.

“Me either,” agreed Matt. “They’re reducing sail like they’re respecting the warning shot, but they’re still steaming right at us. I don’t like it at all.” He looked to port. “Where’s Jenks?”

“Coming up hand over fist, but he’s still a couple thousand yards off the port quarter. Sir, he’s hoisted a really big flag!” Matt looked. Sure enough, a much larger than usual Imperial national flag had been run up to the peak of Achilles ’ maintop. It was clearly a battle flag, and Matt had seen something similar done a long time ago. Walker even had her own battle flag now. Meticulously repaired after the Battle of Baalkpan, and with the name of that battle added to the others embroidered upon it, it lay folded in a place of honor in the center of the signal flag locker.

“Run up our battle flag,” Matt said resignedly. “Obviously they understand what it means. That ought to impress them more than another warning shot!”

“Skipper! They’re turning!”

Matt looked back to the front. At about eight hundred yards, the four ships executed a very tight turn to port that only paddle wheels would have allowed. They still had the wind, and for a moment, the flags all streamed forward from aft. They were red-and-white flags, without the slightest touch of blue, and just as that realization dawned, the starboard side of all but one of the ships erupted in a solid bank of white smoke.

“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted. “Main battery, commence firing! Somebody yank that white rag down and get our own flag up there!”

Fireman Tab-At, or “Tabby,” felt the ship squat down and lurch forward as the throttlemen poured on the steam. She almost fell against the aft bulkhead of the fireroom. Access plates on the deck popped up out of their grooves and slid toward her like big, rectangular blades, and she hopped as they went by to keep from losing her toes. They clanged against the bulkhead behind her. “Feed ’em!” she shouted. “Open ’em up!” They had to increase the flow of air, water, and fuel to keep up with the sudden enormous dump of steam. An instant later, she felt like somebody had put a bucket on her head and started beating it with a stick. As quickly as it began, the heavy drumming ceased, but Walker kept picking up speed. The air lock cycled and Spanky emerged from the forward engine room. He was covered with dark fuel oil from head to foot, but his eyes were white as they darted around the compartment.

“Everything okay in here?” he shouted.

“Yeah…” Tabby started, then amended, “Yes, sir! A few loose plates. What happened?”

“The bastards fired at us!” Spanky bellowed. “The goddamn sneakin’ bastards!”

“Who shoot?” Tabby asked, her drawl and English slipping a little.

“Those goddamn Company Brits. Who else?”

“How you get so oily? Engines okay?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ punched a hole through one of the saddle bunkers, somethin’ big. Must be rollin’ around in the bilge, ’cause it didn’t go out the other side, but it blew oil all over the place. Damage control’s on the way. Any of ’em come through here, tell ’em to pump the bilges into one of the two empty bunkers aft. It’ll be full of crap, but we can’t spare the fuel. Maybe we can separate it out some.” He started forward. “Gotta check the forward fireroom!”

“Commander McFaar-lane?” Tabby asked. “Spanky? You okay?”

Spanky stopped and looked back at her. “Swell, kid. Just gotta check on the old rice bowl.” He wiped at the oil burning his eyes. “Might be your rice bowl too, now. Chief Aubrey’s dead. Whatever came through just kinda smushed his head.” He wiped his face again. “Chiefs don’t last long down here. Never shoulda picked him. He started out as a torpedoman, for God’s sake! Shoulda left him at home!” Spanky sneezed, still wiping his face on his oil-soaked sleeve, and disappeared forward through the swirling, steamy heat of the fireroom.

“Damage report!” Matt bellowed over the rapid salvos of the numbers one, two, and four guns.

“Buncha big dents, three big holes,” Finny replied. “One hole through for’ard engine room, make big leak in fuel bunker. One dead, two injured. ’Nother hole through wardroom, spray Selass with few steel pieces, but she okay. Hole through for’ard berthing space not hurt anybody.”

“ Damn them! Their flagship better be a wreck by now!” Matt growled. He raised his binoculars and stared hard at the geysers erupting around the distant ship. Actually, as he thought about it, it would be a miracle if they’d hit anything with their first salvo. They had explosive rounds now, using a black-powder bursting charge just like in the Great War. It was a lot better than the solid copper bolts they’d been forced to use before, and way better than nothing. The problem was, Bernie was still working out some issues with his cordite. They had all the formulas, but the organic material they had to work with was different and produced different properties and burn rates. For now, they were still using black-powder propellant charges, and it took time to work out the differential math on the gun director. Their sudden acceleration to flank hadn’t helped. Unconsciously, he opened his mouth, trying to pop his ears. They’d installed one of Amagi ’s alarm bells to replace the dead salvo buzzer, but Campeti had forgotten to push the button. “Cease firing main battery,” he called. “Left full rudder! Come to course one eight five!” He needed to give his fire control crew a break, and the only thing that would allow that was a constant course and speed.

“Left full rudder, aye!” answered Kutas. “Making my course one eight five!” Another enemy broadside churned the sea behind the ship, skating across the wave tops and looking for all the world like a giant shotgun pattern in a duck pond.

“They can’t hit a moving target, at least one moving this fast,” Matt observed with satisfaction. “Where’s Jenks?”

“Starboard quarter. He’ll pass astern of us on this course,” Gray answered. “He’s still headin’ right at ’em!”

“Course is one eight five degrees!” Kutas exclaimed.

“Main battery may resume firing as soon as they have a solution,” Matt ordered. He’d opened the range and given his gunners a stable platform. Crrack! Three guns spoke together and smoke gushed aft from number one. Shssssssssh… Splashes rose.

“Down fifty!” they heard Campeti shout from above. “Match pointers

… Fire!”

“Good hits, good hits!” cried the lookout in the crow’s nest. New splashes erupted around Walker and she shuddered from a heavy, booming impact forward.

“Trying to lead us,” Matt observed with grudging admiration. That had taken quick thinking and steady nerves. “What’s the condition of the first target?”

“She hit pretty bad, it look like. She steam in circle, out of line.”

“New target, designate far left steamer,” he ordered.

“Campeetee say we can’t shoot at her,” replied the talker a moment later.

“Why not?” Matt raised his glasses. Damn, what’s Jenks up to? Achilles was still steaming forward, broad battle flag streaming, and she’d moved almost directly between Walker and her target. Splashes began to rise around Jenks’s ship.

“Come left to one five zero! Redesignate far right enemy ship!” Matt ordered in frustration.

“Making my course one five zero, aye!”

Matt didn’t want to close the range and risk any more serious hits, but he needed to be closer to support whatever it was Jenks was up to. He studied the enemy battle line through the lingering haze of the day and the gun smoke of battle. What was left of the line. The enemy had opened the battle- started it, he fumed-in an extremely disciplined fashion, but in the face of Walker ’s salvos, that discipline had fallen apart. The far left ship he’d meant to engage was rushing headlong for Achilles, just as the far right ship had turned toward Walker. The largest, presumably most powerful, had made a wide, looping turn to port that now had her steaming away, off the starboard beam of the ship Walker was bearing down upon. The only ship that had maintained her position in the original formation seemed to have struck her colors! At that moment, no one was firing at anybody. What a mess.

“Guns one and three will bear on the advancing ship!” shouted the talker.

“Commence firing!” An instant later, the two four-inch fifties boomed.

At a range of only six hundred yards, it was almost like engaging the smaller, slower Grik ships they’d fought; but unlike the Grik, the enemy had at least one heavy gun that would bear forward. Even as Walker fired, smoke bloomed on the enemy fo’c’sle. Matt never knew where the roundshot from the big smoothbore went; it didn’t hit the ship, but Walker ’s two exploding rounds found their mark. The first detonated against the fo’c’sle with a thunderclap they eventually heard. Large splinters flew in every direction and the bowsprit dropped into the sea, pulling the foretop down with it. The second shot must have exploded inside the ship, because gouts of smoke gushed from the gunports. Bernie’s new shells weren’t as devastating as the old high-explosive rounds, Matt decided, but they could still make a mess of a wooden ship. He was about to call, “Cease firing,” when the next salvo streaked toward the target. One round struck a paddle box and spewed smoke and debris far across the water. The other went down the throat again, and again there was little apparent effect.

At first.

Suddenly, for an instant, the entire center of the ship seemed to bulge as if her seams were straining against some horrendous inner pressure. In the blink of an eye, the seams burst open like an enormous grenade and the ship blew apart amid an expanding, scalding cloud of sooty steam.

“Cease firing, cease firing!” Matt yelled. “All ahead, flank! Have the boats swung out and rig netting along the sides! Stand by to rescue survivors!”

The Bosun started to dash for the stairs. “Uh, Skipper? Maybe we’d better have some of Chack’s Marines handy. If there are any survivors, they might try to pull some kind of fanatical Jap-like shit. Remember that one crazy Jap…”

“I remember, Boats. By all means, keep a squad of Marines at the ready.” He glassed the floating debris that had once been a ship. There did appear to be survivors. If so, they didn’t have much time to get to them. He looked beyond the wreckage. The bigger ship was still headed away and was piling on sail. With her damaged paddle wheel, she probably hoped to escape with the wind alone. He shook his head. Turning, he saw that the one ship that had apparently “surrendered” was still hove to, and was beginning to drift. Turning still farther, he saw that Jenks and the final enemy combatant would soon pass alongside each other, and they were already going at it hammer and tongs. Gun smoke drifted between them and he could feel the periodic pounding of their guns in his chest. “Signal Ensign Reynolds, if you can get his attention,” he said, referring to the pilot still circling the battle overhead. “Tell him to buzz the enemy ship engaging Achilles, but stay out of musket shot! Maybe he can distract them or something.”

“Holy cow!” Reynolds yelled when the ship about fifteen hundred feet below suddenly just… blew up. Kari shrieked when debris peppered the plane and a slender, three-foot splinter lodged in the port wing. “Holy cow!” Reynolds shouted again, and then struggled for control when the shock wave hit.

“I got hole between my feet!” Kari cried over the voice tube. “We leak when we land!”

“Yeah,” agreed Fred, “I bet that’s not the only one either. Who knows what it was. Maybe a nail.”

“Big damn nail!”

“Hey, look! Walker ’s coming up fast. Maybe she’s going to pick up survivors. She’s running up a new signal too. What’s it say?”

Kari strained to read the flags as they went up the several halyards on the destroyer’s foremast. “Ahh, they spell it. I not so good at spell yet. I know standard message flags good. Not so good with spell flags. They too many!”

Reynolds pushed forward on the stick and banked slightly left. “I’ll have a look. Just be sure they know we’re full of holes and our gas is half gone. When we set down, they’d better fish us out in a hurry!” He flew closer to the ship, squinting his eyes. “Okay.” He paused. “They’re not all letter flags,” he accused.

“What they say?”

“They say, ‘Buzz enemy still fighting. Distract from Jenks. Beware mu… muskets.’ Acknowledge that, will ya?”

“Okay.”

Reynolds stood on the rudder and banked right, then began a slow climb. Several minutes later, still gaining altitude, he passed over the ship that wasn’t doing anything and continued toward where Achilles and her enemy were now locked in a deadly, smoke-belching embrace. “Wouldja look at that!” he exclaimed. The ships had apparently damaged each other’s paddle wheels and all they seemed able to do was steam in ever-tightening circles around each other. Both looked shattered, and Achilles ’ foremast was down. The funnel on the enemy ship had been shot away and her deck was choked with smoke.

“Here we go!” Reynolds shouted, and pushed on the stick. The new planes had altimeters, but they weren’t very accurate or quick to adjust, so he ignored his now. The airspeed indicator worked just fine and his was starting to crowd the red-painted line. A few hundred feet above the enemy masts, he pulled back on the stick and the Nancy swooped up and away. Something smacked the plane and he heard a low, humming vooom! whip past him in the cockpit.

“Captain say you stay away from muskets!” Kari shouted.

Fred started to reply that he’d meant to; that he hadn’t really realized how low he’d been. Now he was mad. He spiraled upward, gaining altitude for another pass. Pushing the nose over, he lined up on where he thought he’d have a bow-to-stern approach by the time they got there. Fumbling at his holster with his left hand, he pulled out his Colt. “I’ll teach you to shoot at me, you screwy Brits!” he muttered. He laid the pistol on his lap, then took the stick in his left hand and the pistol in his right. He flipped the safety off.

“We go too low again!” Kari scolded.

Grimly, Fred pointed the pistol over the windscreen, in the general direction of the ship he was diving on. With nothing but ship in front of him, he started yanking the trigger. Drowned by the noise of the engine, all the pistol made was popping sounds, but he suspected the men below might hear it better. The ship was coming up fast and he knew he had to pull out. Easing back on the stick, he heard several more voooms! but nothing hit the plane-until he accidentally shot it in the nose himself as the target disappeared aft.

“Crap!”

He’d shot his own damn airplane! It wasn’t much of a hole, really, although he knew there’d be another one below, where the bullet came out. But with the obvious powder burn on the blue paint in front of the windscreen, there’d be no way he could blame the hole on enemy fire. He was lucky he hadn’t shot his own foot off!

“Crap, crap, crap!”

“What you say?” Kari cried from behind.

“I said ‘crap’! ”

“Get those men out of the water!” bellowed the Bosun. “I don’t care if they are sneakin’, bushwhackin’, traitorous sons o’ bitches! The more you let the fish get, the fewer we’ll have to hang!”

The Bosun’s words were meant more for the men they were pulling from the water than the men and ’Cats who were saving them. Oddly, the usual swarm of flasher fish hadn’t yet arrived to tear the survivors apart. He couldn’t account for that. Maybe the explosion of the ship had driven them away, or maybe there just weren’t as many of the damn things in really deep water like this. Regardless, he expected something with an appetite would be along eventually, and judging by the panic with which the Imperial Company survivors were trying to get aboard, they must think so too. They’d made them send the most badly wounded up first and fifteen or twenty horribly burned and scalded men had already been sent to Selass in the wardroom. She’d appeared briefly on deck and seemed fine other than a few glistening spots where she’d applied some polta paste to her “scratches,” as she’d called them. Now the less injured were coming aboard and a handful already squatted, hands behind their heads, clustered around the steam capstan. Some simply stared back at the, to them, ridiculously small but unfathomably destructive maw of the number one gun.

“Hurry it up, you pack o’ jackals!” the Bosun berated. He pointed at the continuing distant fight between Achilles and her foe. “We got friends over there dyin’ and more scum like you to kill! You got one minute before I yank these nets and we leave you here!” There were moans and cries from the water, but somehow the men, many still injured, managed to climb or splash along a little faster.

“You are consistent, at least,” Chack remarked softly. He’d appeared beside the Bosun still holding his Krag instead of one of the new Springfield muskets. “You are merciless to everyone.”

“I ain’t merciless,” Gray murmured through clenched teeth. “I actually feel sorta sorry for the bastards. I just want ’em scared of us before they come aboard. Make ’em easier for your boys to handle.”

For a moment, Chack said nothing, possibly digesting the Bosun’s words. “It is… strange,” he said at last.

“What?”

“All the hu-maans we have ever really known have been our benefactors. They have helped us. It is very… disconcerting now to have fought them, and killed… so many.”

“You helped us kill Japs, and they’re sorta human, I guess.”

“True, but these”-he gestured at the last of the survivors climbing the cargo netting-“these are more like you. They speak the same language, and more important, to us at least, they are the very descendants of the original tail-less ones, the ones who came before.” He paused. “It is… hard to know they can be bad, and maybe a little hard to know you can kill them without remorse.”

“I said I felt sorry for the bastards, didn’t I?” Gray demanded quietly. He shrugged. “Hell, I felt a little sorry for them Jap destroyermen that got ate-before we met you. But war’s war, and it’s a damn strange world-whichever the hell world you’re from.” It was Gray’s turn to pause. “Just remember, they started this fight here today, and it was friends o’ theirs who took Lieutenant Tucker, the princess, your buddy Silva, and all the rest. Friends o’ theirs who slaughtered Simms and all the ’Cats on board. It’s a strange world, sure, but strange as this fight today may seem to you, it’s crystal clear to me.”

He motioned at the bedraggled survivors, maybe thirty in all, not counting those in the wardroom. “There’ a lot more of ’em than I expected, and that’s a fact.” He turned to Chack. “Take charge of your prisoners, if you please.”