CHAPTER 23
Mid Eastern
Sea
USS Walker was steaming at twenty knots—her best, most
economical speed—almost due east through moderate seas into the
rising sun. Commodore Harvey Jenks stood on the starboard
bridgewing, enraptured by the seemingly effortless sense of motion.
His hat was held tightly under his arm and his hair whipped in the
breeze. The pitching, streaming bow tossed occasional packets of
spray in his face as it sliced the marching swells, and he laughed
like a kid, with closed eyes and a drooping, dripping mustache.
O’Casey was beside him, crowding the lookout, and despite having
experienced it before, he seemed to be enjoying it just as much as
Jenks. Their immediate past had been put far behind them and the
two men had apparently resuscitated their old friendship to a
degree at least as strong as ever.
Lieutenant Blair of
the Imperial Marines was the only other Imperial officer aboard,
but he’d brought a small detachment of his men from Achilles and was currently drilling them alongside
Chack’s Marines, aft. He was a bright officer, and he’d learned a
hard lesson in warfare at Singapore. He’d also become a fervent
convert to Allied infantry tactics—particularly now that he
understood and respected them. He even made valuable tactical
suggestions, regarding the addition of muskets to the shield wall,
that Chack was perfectly willing to test. Later that day, they
planned to “shoot at shields” again. Apparently Chack and Blair
both thought they’d figured “something” out.
“Skipper on the
bridge!” came Fal-(Stumpy)-Pel’s high-pitched cry.
“As you were,”
replied Matt, and Jenks and O’Casey stepped into the pilothouse to
see an amused Captain Reddy, towing a beaming Courtney Bradford in
his wake. “It looks like you’re enjoying yourselves, gentlemen,”
Matt said, taking in their semi-soaked appearance.
“Captain Reddy,”
Jenks practically gushed, “before now I could only imagine what it
must be like, but now I’m utterly smitten, sir!”
Gray stomped up from
below, pushing Bradford forward. He’d heard the exchange. “This is
twenty knots,” he growled proudly. “If the sea was a little calmer
and we had the fuel to throw away, we’d show you thirty!” He leered
at Jenks’s expression of wonder. “Once upon a time, she’d crowd
forty! Might still can, when we get a fourth boiler back in
her.”
“Lord above, to
experience that!” Jenks muttered.
Matt’s grin spread.
No skipper is immune to compliments about his ship. “I don’t know
about that, Boats,” he demurred, “but if any crew could coax it out
of her, this one could.” He chuckled. “Spanky’s been running around
like a mother hen, checking every little thing. Him and Miami. I
think now that Tabby’s finally back on limited duty, he might take
a breath.” He shook his head, looking at the Bosun. “I tried to
leave her behind, you know. Send her home on one of the supply
ships after it shows up and offloads. She’s still got a lot of lung
damage. Spanky actually insisted on it. Told her she could rejoin
her pals—the ‘other’ Mice—when she was fit.” He looked proudly back
at Jenks. “She said she’d quit the Navy if we left her behind!
Wouldn’t fight, wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t teach a soul a thing she
knew! I thought Spanky was done for. His face was so red, I started
to call Selass!”
Gray
laughed.
“You have quite a
crew, Captain Reddy,” Jenks said, complimenting him.
“Yes, I do.” Matt’s
grin faded. “Now, what you and I have to do, over the next week or
so before we reach your home, is figure out how best to accomplish
our mission without anybody—particularly this crew and the people
we’re trying to rescue—getting hurt. Obviously, I want to do that
while making sure some other deserving people do get hurt.” He glanced at Norm Kutas, who still
had the conn. “Carry on, Quartermaster.” To the talker: “Please
pass the word for Captain Chack, Lieutenant Blair, Misters Steele,
Campeti, Reynolds, and McFarlane to join us in the wardroom.” He
looked back at Jenks and O’Casey. “Gentlemen?”
“I don’t really know
what more I can add,” Jenks said, sipping hot tea from a cup.
Spread out on the green-topped table between them was a chart
showing the four main, or “Home,” islands of the Imperial heart.
Matt had seen it before, but in the past Jenks had always covered
the coordinates to salve his conscience, since it was treason to
reveal the location of the islands. For a long time now it was
understood that Matt knew precisely where they were, and under the
circumstances, such fictions no longer existed between them. Jenks
would doubtless be called a traitor by the Company when his story
was told, but he considered the Company—and the Dominion—a far
graver threat to the Empire than the Grand Alliance
was.
Courtney leaned
forward for a closer look at the map. Most of those present also
knew where the Imperial capital was, by deductive reasoning, but
this was their first “look” at it. Matt had been right when he told
them it wasn’t the “Hawaii” they remembered. The island shapes were
tantalizingly familiar, but bigger, and in some cases joined. Lower
global water levels—which Courtney had long suspected—and random
volcanism probably explained that.
“We’ve been gone an
awfully long time,” Jenks continued, “and I know little more than
you what conditions may prevail within the Empire. We might even
receive an unfriendly welcome. As I said before, that would be
almost certain if I were not with you, but if the GovernorEmperor
has been deposed, God forbid, I doubt my welcome will be warmer
than yours.”
“You, O’Casey, and
the princess have all hinted you’re a ‘big wheel’ in the Empire,”
Matt observed. “I suppose your sympathies are well
known.”
“Indeed. I’m known as
a staunch Loyalist, as are most Imperial officers.”
Mat grunted. “Hmm.
Well, speculation is almost pointless,” he said. “If you don’t have
any pals left in government at all, we’ll have to wing it anyway.
Let’s assume the situation remains essentially the same as when you
left, probably a little tenser, of course, judging by what Governor
Radcliff had to say. His was the most recent news. How do we
proceed in that ‘best-case’ scenario?”
“We must assume
Billingsley will have beaten us there,” Bradford interjected,
brooding. “We should know that quickly enough, shouldn’t
we?”
“I’m certain of it,”
Jenks replied. “That we would know,” he amended. “There is
frequent, rapid commerce between the Imperial Home Islands, and
almost no clandestine anchorage. Ajax’s
arrival would be recognized, reported, and known across the islands
within days. If her crew is paid off, rumors of the princess would
spread immediately. They might keep the crew sequestered, pleading
sickness, but that would be widely known as well. If she’s there,
we’ll know. Beyond that, much depends on what Billingsley and his
superiors hope to gain, and what their timetable might be. If the
princess has become their ultimate weapon against the throne, I
think they would act quite quickly. Remember, they had no more
certainty that she’d survived than I did, so I have no doubt
they’ve continued their long-term scheme of subversion in our
absence. With the princess in hand, I believe they would be
overwhelmingly tempted to act precipitously, to ‘wing it,’ as you
said, themselves. The Company and their creatures in the courts are
known to take the long view of things, but they are also impetuous
and grasping. In the past, the best check we’ve had against them in
government has been their tendency to overreach and bleed support
when the people see their true agenda.”
“So, if they have
indeed won the race, we may find opportunity in the midst of a
chaotic upheaval,” Courtney mused aloud.
“Possibly, but it
could be messy.”
“Best case?” Matt
asked again.
“Well, obviously, the
best thing that could happen is that we get there before
Billingsley, tell our story, and wait for him to arrive.” Jenks
looked serious. “Tempting as it would be, I must caution against
trying to stop him at this stage. Better to let him think he’s won.
If we sight Ajax, we should steer
clear. If he fears he will be foiled, his only recourse might be to
‘eliminate’ any evidence against him.”
“Agreed,” Matt said
reluctantly. He paused. “What do you consider the worst-case
scenario?” he asked at last.
Jenks shifted on his
chair. “Well, certainly, objectively, the worst possible thing that
might happen is that Billingsley never shows up at all. Not only
would that imply that his ship is lost with all aboard—with the
attendant grief for all concerned—but it would substantially
undermine our testimony. At least until Achilles, Icarus, and
Ulysses arrive. Unfortunately, at that
point we will of necessity be ashore and we, as well as the Empire,
might not live to see it happen.” He looked at Matt. “One of the
reasons the Company has survived so long to contend with an entity
as powerful as the Imperial throne is that it can be ... remarkably
resourceful and ruthless. Our arrival will threaten its position
because some will believe us. That
alone might precipitate action on their part. One way or another,
whether Billingsley has beaten us or not, when Walker steams into Imperial waters, the ... ah, how
do you say? Yes. The ‘shit will hit the fan.’ ”
“Pardon me,” Chack
interrupted. “Viewing this map from a military perspective, I see a
number of anchorages, particularly on this New Scot-laand. I see no
‘Pearl Harbor,’ however. Assuming the names are different, where
was it? Where would it be?”
“It ain’t there,”
Spanky said, rubbing his chin through his white-shot brown beard.
His expression was as empty as a ’Cat’s. He pointed. “Here’s where
it would be, on the south coast of this ‘New Ireland’ place, near
this ‘Waterford’ burg. Looks like a lake on a plain.” There was a
moment of silence while the others in the room absorbed that.
“There’s that old company flag, without the blue too,” he
said.
“Yes,” Jenks agreed,
sensitive to the men’s emotions. “New Ireland practically belongs
to the Company, for all intents and purposes. There is only one
good anchorage, but it’s rather exceptional. It’s the
best-protected harbor on the windward side of any of the
islands.”
“Best-protected from
what?” Chack asked.
“From storms—and
attack. Edinburgh is good, on New Scotland, but it’s too broad to
easily defend against an attacker. New Dublin is well sheltered and
fortified, and as you can see, any landing and approach from
another part of the island itself would pose a serious problem. Let
us fervently hope things do not come to that.”
Matt took a breath.
“Well, Jenks, we’re here for the Company—and our people. Where do
we go? Where will the Governor-Emperor be?”
“New Britain or New
Scotland. New Britain is the largest island with the largest ...
unindentured population. It is where most people of substance live,
and despite their representative duties, most members of both
courts live there as well. There are vast plantations and timber
holdings. The Imperial capital is at New London on the west coast
fronting New Britain Bay alongside Portsmouth. Those are the two
largest cities, and they’ve become practically one.” Jenks thought
for a moment. “In normal times, that’s where we would find him, but
I think Government House on New Scotland at Scapa Flow is where we
should steer.”
“Because?”
“It’s the
headquarters of Home Fleet. The Admiralty is there, and nowhere
will he find a higher concentration of loyal subjects, indentured
or not. Even the ‘obligated’ are Tories because their debt is to
the throne and the Navy, not the Company, for the most part.
They’re considered ‘Naval auxiliaries’ and many work in the yard.”
He shrugged. “Some of our brave sailors are literal
gutter-sweepings from the other islands, sent to the Navy instead
of to gaol. A few of our officers are men with well-placed
relations. Most of our best sailors,
however, are Scots who spring from obligated mothers living in
Scapa Flow or New Glasgow. Most midshipmen come from
long-established families, but like your own navy, there are
‘mustangs.’ ” He glanced at Spanky, who reveled in his status. “A
fair percentage of them had ‘Navy mothers.’ ”
“Okay, Jenks,” Matt
said. “First stop, Scapa Flow. We’ll come in under both our flags,
on opposite foremast halyards to show everybody we’re friends. We
dock, you throw your weight around and demand to speak to the
Governor-Emperor. Simple.”
“Hopefully,” Jenks
hedged.
“Just in case,” Chack
said, glancing around at the other officers, “I will study this
chart, along with Lieuten-aant Blair, of course, and attempt to
prepare for a ‘worst-case scenario’ on any of the islands shown.”
He bowed his head at Matt. “Captain Reddy has taught me well to
always hope for the best, but plan for the worst. I find it
difficult to imagine the worst in this situation, but in my
‘Maa-reen’ capacity, I will endeavor to do so.”
Matt managed a smile.
“By all means, Captain Sab-At. I rely on it.”
Spanky was following
a “feel” he couldn’t identify. He stopped occasionally, listening,
feeling, then moved a few paces farther on. It seemed like it must
be coming from the forward fireroom, but he just couldn’t be sure.
Ever since he’d joined Walker on the
China Station (he and the Bosun were the longest-serving hands),
he’d made a practice of learning her every sigh, screech, rattle,
and groan. After so much work had been done to her, her various
refits and the recent rebuilding, he’d found himself relearning her
sounds and “feels” all over again. He certainly wouldn’t complain;
with number three almost restored, Walker was as healthy as he ever remembered her
being. But there was one frustrating—new “feel” he hadn’t
“pigeonholed.” He couldn’t decide whether it was just part of the
new “normal” or something to worry about. To make things worse, no
matter what he did, he couldn’t find what was causing it, and it
was driving him nuts.
He paused his
inspection under the amidships deckhouse/gun platform and swiped a
sandwich off a tray just as soon as Earl Lanier set it down on the
stainless steel counter.
“Hey, you m’lingerin’
bastard,” came an indignant growl from within the galley. “Them
sammitches is for them Marines playin’ sojer, aft! ... Oh,” Lanier
said, recognizing Spanky. He stuck his droop-jowled face through
the little window. “I guess m’lingerin’ officers can swipe sammitches outta the hardworkin’
bellies o’ anybody they want.”
Spanky took an
ostentatious bite. “I could work a hundred sandwiches out of
your belly and nobody’d even notice,
Lanier,” he mumbled around his mouthful.
Lanier grunted,
satisfied with the response. He abused everyone on the ship—except
the captain and his “lemon-limey” guests—by rote. He considered it
as much a part of his job as cooking. The fellas, even the’Cats,
needed an outlet to relieve their stress, and the sometimes bitter
banter between them and their cook was one of the least
destructive, and backed by ancient tradition. Besides, Lanier could
take anything—and nearly anybody. His bloated form required real,
substantial muscle to heave it around, and he’d proven many times
he had plenty of guts ... beneath his expansive gut.
“Pepper,” he roared
at someone behind him. “No, goddamn it, Pepper ain’t here!
Bastard’s back in Baalkpan, runnin’ the Busted Screw! Prob’ly got
it took over by now!” The Busted Screw, or Castaway Cook, was a
saloon/café Lanier had opened near the shipyard, and Pepper had
remained behind to keep it going in his absence. It was considered
“necessary to the war effort” by now. “You, swabbie, what’s your
name again?”
“Taarba-Kaar,” came
an indignant response.
“Yeah, Tabasco! Hell,
I don’t care what your name is. Get a mop and run out there an’
clean up Mr. Spanky’s
crumbs!”
Spanky left the
argument behind, shaking his head. Aft, in the cramped space around
the searchlight tower and the secured Nancy floatplane, Chack and
Lieutenant Blair were drilling their troops. Together. Interesting, he thought. He stopped and listened.
Damn, it’s got To
be in The aft fireroom! Number three was almost “back up”;
maybe that was it, something goofy going on in
The new Tubes. He dropped down the access trunk. Sitting
there, between the hatches, he could definitely feel “it” again,
and more distinctly. He opened the bottom hatch and slid down to
the catwalk above the number three boiler. Closing the hatch behind
him, he carefully felt the rail, a pipe, but whatever “it” was,
“it” was gone again.
“Goddamn it!” he roared.
“What the matter,
Spanky?” one of the ’Cat firemen asked from below.
“Oh ... never mind.”
He slid the rest of the way down the ladder to the deck plates.
“Where’s Tabby?” he demanded. “She ain’t in her rack like she’s
supposed to be this watch.”
“She hide when you
yell,” ratted one of the other ’Cats. Tabby’s division had sworn
not to cover for her when it came to her health.
“I ain’t hidin’, you
fink,” Tabby exclaimed in her new, gravelly voice. She stepped from
behind the boiler, wiping her hands on a rag. She still looked
awful—fur blotched, gray skin, no longer pink and angry but scarred
now on her arms and neck. “I was checkin’ stuff,” she said, a
little petulantly. Spanky motioned her forward and together they
sought a little privacy, from ears, anyway.
“If you want to stay
down here, you have to follow the rules,” Spanky
scolded.
“Why? What’ll you do
if I don’t? Get rid of me?” She held out her arms, exposing the
scars. “Make me freak deck ape? I say ‘hell no,’ I stay down here.”
Her drawl had begun to slip again. Never a good sign. “I already
lose everything I want. I lose my Mice, I lose my Spanky—I
ugly now! I lose my boilers too? You
take that from me?”
“Tabby, I
...”
“No! You no ‘Tabby’
me! I chief. You say so. I feel swell!
You make me lay sick, no work, I lose chief. You make some dumb-ass
chief!” She shook her head. “I chief, I work. I no work, I no
chief. Boiler chief all I am now, all I ever be. You take that, I
die.” Tears started down Tabby’s face again, just like before in
this very spot, and Spanky felt like a heel.
“You just don’t get
it, do you?” he said slowly, huskily. “I’ll always be ‘your’
Spanky; you haven’t ‘lost’ me and never will. I do love you ... but more like a ... a daughter, like—than maybe like you think you wish I
did.” He shook his head and sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re a
swell dish, a knockout. I wouldn’t give a damn about all them
little scratches if I loved you a different way ... but I just
can’T, see? Even if I could, it
wouldn’t be right. Over time, I figured that out, but I also
figured out I do love you—like my own
sweet daughter that makes me proud of what she does. Can you see
that?”
“You love me?” Tabby
asked, sniffling.
“Sure.”
“But like a daughter,
not ... not like wo-maan? Would it be different if I not ... wasn’t
a ’Cat?”
Spanky shrugged.
“Honest to God, I don’t know. Maybe. You do make me sneeze.... But
that doesn’t matter, and we’ll never know. I love you the way I
love you. I can’t change that ... and if you weren’t a’Cat, you
never would’ve been down here in the first place.”
Tabby seemed to
consider that for a while and her eyes dried up. “I love you the
way I love you too,” she said. “I not change that either. But I be
Spanky’s daughter for better than nothing.” She managed a slight
grin, then it faded. “Just don’t take chief away!”
“Whatever gave you
the notion I would?”
“You tried to send me
away!”
“Sure I did, because
I care about you! I want you well again, damn it! If you keep
fooling around down here in all this steam and crap before you’re
healed completely, you’re liable to get pneumonia and die! Then
I’ll have to make some other dumb-ass chief.”
Tabby hugged him and
he patted her gently on the back. His eyes were starting to water.
Damn fur! “There, now,” he said. “Go see Selass and get her to
listen to your gills. After that, light along aft and get in your
rack! Me and Miami can keep things going ’til you’re fit. Nothin’
but smooth sailin’ from here.”
Weird, Spanky thought later when he reemerged into
the light and started trying to locate the “feel” again. He
couldn’t find it at all. “Great,” he muttered. “It’s off and on.
I’ll never figure the damn thing out.”