Blood In the Water (13 page)

Both ships had long since disappeared from view, hidden by the tall trees curving around on the west side of the lagoon, but about an hour later they heard a pair of dull reports, the thump of distant guns, carried back by the wind. Since there was no firing after that, they assumed they'd heard warning shots, and the Dom ship had quickly surrendered. Now, presumably, all they had to do was wait a while and they would have, miraculously, accomplished their impossible mission after all.

“So, how we gonna say hello to them other fellas when they come back?” Kari finally asked.

Fred looked at Don Emmanuel—who glared back with undisguised rage. “We're going to give them a present.”

*   *   *

It was late afternoon by the time the strange warship—and its prize—steamed back to the lagoon. The sails on both ships were furled, and smoke streamed from their funnels. Fred was surprised to see that, though the smoke from the Dom was thick and black, it curled, wispy gray, from the other. “Hey!” he observed. “They're burning oil! Stands to reason, I guess, if they're from where we think they are.” They waited a while longer, sitting in the sand while both ships hove to and the sound of splashing anchors reached them across the water, but he and Kari were standing on the beach beside their prisoners when several boats full of armed men dressed in blue or white roundabouts pulled ashore. There were about fifty men, all told, apparently Marines mixed with sailors. They hit the beach and fanned out—efficiently, Fred thought—weapons at port arms. The weapons were amazingly similar in appearance to the Baalkpan and Maa-ni-la Arsenal percussion muskets still in wide use on the Allies' eastern front, but these were painted black. Fred assumed that was to protect them from the salt air. He grinned and waved. “Hi, guys!” he called.

“Surrender your arms!” ordered a bearded officer. Unlike all the other men who wore blue “wheel” or tan straw hats, he had a tall, narrow-topped shako on his head. Modest gold epaulettes adorned the shoulders of his dark blue double-breasted frock coat, which had to be cooking him in the tropical heat. A sword hung at his side from a white leather belt. His sweat-glistening expression was more stern than threatening, but his command had not seemed to invite debate. Still . . .

“Hey!” Fred snapped. “We're the
good
guys! We came
looking
for you, and caught these fellas trying to get away!”

“They are monsters!” Don Emmanuel blurted. “Uncivilized
beasts
who do not observe the rules of war!”

“What rules?” Fred demanded, turning to the Dom. “The rules
you
use? Attacking civilians without warning? Impaling innocent women and children? Slaughtering whole villages?
Feeding people
to your flying
lizards?” He turned back to the strange officer and spoke rapidly. “You're fighting these bastards, obviously. You just captured one of their ships. That's swell; we're fighting them too, and we're kicking the hell out of them in the Pacific. We met one of your people before.” Fred hesitated. “I
hope
he was one of yours,” he added, “named Captain Anson. He said you were Americans who showed up in this world a hundred years ago.” He gestured at Kari. “We're Americans too! We just got here . . . a little later.”

The officer looked stunned by his outburst and Fred plowed on. “Ah, look, I know this is weird, but I think we're kind of on the same side, as I understand it, and we
did
come to meet you. Please! We'll hand over our weapons—if you promise to give them back—but we have to talk to somebody in charge! We've got news that'll help break the damn Doms for good, if that's what you really want.”

“Americans,” the officer murmured doubtfully, looking at Kari. He shook his head. “I can't know that, nor do I know a Captain Anson. Others may, and we shall see. But I thank you for capturing these men.” He nodded at the Doms. “We were pursuing them quite specifically. As for you, I cannot on my authority promise to return your arms, but you will be treated as guests until your fate is decided.” He paused, then straightened. “Please forgive me. I am Lieutenant Samuel Hudgens, executive officer of the New United States heavy frigate
Congress
. Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Fred saluted, and Kari quickly followed his lead. “Lieutenant, Junior Grade, Fred Reynolds, late of the United States Navy destroyer USS
Walker
.”

“Ensign Kari-Faask, also from
Walker
,” Kari said.

“Ah . . . indeed,” Lieutenant Hudgens replied, returning the salutes, eyes wide. “Other Americans indeed.
Both
of you?”

“Yes, sir,” Fred and Kari chorused.

“But . . .” Hudgens shook his head. “We shall soon get to the bottom of that. But I must ask, if you did truly come looking for us from across a continent, how in blazes did you get here?”

Fred suddenly hesitated, eyes catching the warship's flag clearly for the first time. It was similar to the one
Walker
—and all the American Navy on this world—flew, but not exactly the same; it had five red and white stripes instead of thirteen, and only five large stars in the blue field instead
of forty-eight. But Anson had said “his” America wasn't quite as large as they might expect. So was it the size the flag implied that gave him pause, or the fact they'd been willing to change it? Captain Reddy had never permitted any change to
Walker
's flag, except to allow their various actions to be embroidered on the one they flew in battle, and the unadorned version remained the official flag of his “American Navy Clan.” To him, the Stars and Stripes they'd brought to this world now symbolized an ideal more important than any actual place. But these people had changed their flag. Did that mean “their” America might be different from the one he remembered in ways more important than size? He so wanted them all to be friends, but Anson had always been so cryptic—and why
hadn't
they tried harder to meet potential allies? Why had they avoided the Imperials so long? They knew they existed, and fought a common enemy. He took a breath. Whoever these people were, and whatever they stood for, they were about to have his and Kari's weapons to look at, obviously more advanced than what they carried, and they'd quickly find the plane. He couldn't hide what it was. But he suddenly wondered if he should dig up the transmitter. He assumed they had land telegraphy. The technology had been new in the 1840s, but they'd have had it, and he expected they still did. But if they didn't already have
wireless
communication capability, he'd be giving away a major strategic advantage. But then, if they were friends, they'd need the wireless set to coordinate with the Alliance, and that was why he and Kari had come in the first place, wasn't it? To facilitate that? He was just going to have to take the chance. Kari was looking at him questioningly.

“We came across the whole damn Pacific Ocean
and
a continent,” he said absently, then looked at the officer. “You'll treat
both
of us as guests?” he demanded, significantly glancing at Kari again.

Hudgens looked surprised. “Yes, of course. We are fully aware of the, ah, ‘unusual' nature of the world upon which we live.” He nodded slightly at Kari. “I am not personally familiar with your people, Ensign, but your race is known to us. God knows we have encountered stranger folk! And you are, at least, an officer in a naval power allied to another with which we are not presently at war. You will be treated as such.”

Fred was relieved—and intrigued by Hudgens's hint that his people knew Lemurians. Maybe they'd had contact with the Republic of Real People at some time? That made the most sense.

“Oh, so very polite, so very correct!” Don Emmanuel suddenly scoffed at the exchange, dropping his pretense of ill treatment. “Even to animals! That is why your nation remains a mere bump upon the road to our preordained conquest of all the world! Why you cannot possibly win against us!”

“Do be quiet, Señor,” Hudgens reproached. He looked again at Fred. “You were about to tell me how you arrived at this place, I believe?”

Fred looked a little sheepish and puffed his cheeks. “Well, it's a long story, but . . .” He shrugged. “We flew.”

C
HAPTER
7

Ma-draas, Indiaa
September 26, 1944

“Goddamn maniacs,” muttered Staff Sergeant Cecil Dixon, head of the 3rd Pursuit Squadron maintenance division. Colonel Ben Mallory agreed with Dixon's assessment but didn't respond as he watched the last of his precious P-40Es hoisted from the dock to the flight deck of USS
Baalkpan Bay
. Once there, it would be carefully secured for the long voyage south. At the moment, however, assailed by a stiff morning wind, the sleek warplane with the ferocious “flashy mouth” painted on the nose and a big cursive M just forward of the canopy looked more like a great fat spider twisting by a thread with its feet dangling down. Worse, it was trying to spin out of control as 'Cats on the dock and aboard the carrier—the namesake of her class—tried to hold it in check. The plane was much heavier than the crane operators were accustomed to, weighing around
seven times as much as the first P-1 Mosquito Hawks, or “Fleashooters,” and over six times as much as the upgraded C versions now cramming the carrier's hangar deck, and it rose in the air with a frustrating hesitancy that only prolonged the two men's anxiety.
Theirs too
, Ben realized, when he saw a cluster of his 3rd Pursuiters, pilots and ground crew, watching as nervously as he. The “old hands” included Lieutenant (jg) Suaak-Pas-Ra, who everyone called “Soupy,” the Dutch Lieutenant Conrad Diebel, and the tiny—even for a Lemurian—Second Lieutenant Niaa-Saa, dubbed “Shirley” the day she showed up for training. All were veterans of the grueling antishipping raids and final attack that helped secure Madras for the Allies. Others had been lost, but more had joined them along with most of the remaining P-40s once stationed at Kaufman Field in Baalkpan.
The 3rd's grown tight,
he reflected.
Even Diebel, who was once an arrogant SOB who didn't much care for 'Cats, has found a place
.
He's the coldest fish in the barrel, by far, but he's grown as devoted to the squadron—and the cause—as anybody
.

Dixon flashed a glance at his boss and Ben tried to look unconcerned, but Dixon knew him well enough to catch the way his hands tensed behind his back. “That's
your
plane, Colonel,” Dixon reminded him unnecessarily. “If they crack it up, I'll have their damn tails for parachute straps!” He looked in the direction of the admin shack down the dock. “Should've waited for a calm before loading them up,” he muttered darkly.

“No choice, Cec,” Ben replied. “We've been holding up the whole damn fleet. General Alden said we go today or he leaves us. That simple.” He frowned. “And I'm not getting left behind again.” He waved at the plane. “If they crack it up, it'll be an accident,” he said mildly, but with a twitchy smile. “And you'll patch it up—just like always.” He shook his head. “Nobody's fault. It's damn windy. They already got the other seven aboard.” He turned to Dixon, deliberately ignoring the operation underway. “You did fine work, by the way, getting eight of our nine ships ready to go. God knows how you did it.”

Dixon forced himself to quit staring at the plane and met his gaze. “Could've gotten the ninth bird ready, but spares are getting tight. Had to skimp someplace if we wanted enough to bring along.” He grinned. “At least they've all got six fifties again. That took some scavenging, to round 'em back up!” Early on, they'd taken two or more guns from each
plane and used them, along with a number of spares, to arm Nancys for antizeppelin or ground attack roles. Some even went to Second Fleet, but enough remained in theater to scrounge. They also had reliable ammo again, now that the Baalkpan Arsenal had finally perfected the brass drawing process. They were making good barrel steel now as well, though not for fifties—not yet. They were concentrating on copies of the Browning .30, in both air- and water-cooled varieties. The guns and ammunition both required less material to produce than fifties, were light enough for troops to lug around in the field, and they could put a pair of them in the wings of the new P-1Cs. Any pilot who'd lost a .50 from the nose of his or her Nancy was more than happy to trade for a .30. They could carry more ammo—and the weapons didn't try to shake their planes apart.

“Yeah.” Ben grinned back. “If we're finally going to get to take our ships back to the pointy end, it only makes sense to make them as effective as possible. Give 'em all their teeth back!” He glanced back at his plane; he couldn't help it. To his vast relief, he saw it touch gently down on
Baalkpan Bay
's towering flight deck at last. He breathed a satisfied sigh, just as Dixon stiffened slightly to a variety of attention and brought his hand up in salute. Ben turned.

“As you were, gentlemen,” General of the Armies and Marines Pete Alden said over the noise of the wind and the bustle on the dock. He was accompanied by a small group of mostly old friends, including General Lord Muln Rolak, commander of I Corps, and the XO of his Second Division, Major Simon “Simy” Gutfeld, of the 3rd Marines. The captains of both of the newest destroyers in the Allied fleet—Commander Perry Brister of USS
James Ellis
(DD-21) and Commander Cablass-Rag-Laan of USS
Geran-Eras
(DD-23)—were with him as well. Tagging along was Lieutenant Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, Brister's Exec.

“Are you guys finally done?” Brister rasped. The young man's rough voice hadn't matched his boyish features ever since he'd damaged it through sheer overuse during the Battle of Baalkpan. He also hadn't made any secret of his frustration over being kept on a leash so long. He and his crew had been moving heaven and earth to get
Mahan
back in the fight, but she needed more attention than they could give her at Madras. To the extreme annoyance of the original crew that brought her out, Brister and his
Mahan
s had been given
James Ellis
—the first of a
new class of near carbon copies of
Walker
. Some of her 'Cats had stayed with Brister. Others went to Cablass and
Geran-Eras
. Her skipper was given one of the captured Grik dreadnaughts they'd turned into something else entirely. Nobody was happy about it, not even Perry, but it made sense to put his experienced crew to use. He'd stated exactly once that it might be more reasonable to spread his crew out among
James Ellis
,
Geran-Eras
, and the other new DDs being built, but didn't repeat his suggestion when Admiral Keje—still his immediate superior—hadn't run with it. Besides, Cablass was an experienced, aggressive skipper, and most of his crew had served on
Walker
or
Mahan
at some time in the past. Scuttlebutt had it that politics—and Adar—had something to do with at least one of the new
Walker
Class DDs keeping an all-'Cat crew, but there wasn't any real evidence for that.

“That's the last of them,” Mallory replied, nodding up at the huge wooden carrier, smoke hazing the tops of her four clustered funnels. “We're ready, General.”

“Fine,” Pete said, nodding. “I want to clear the harbor mouth just after nightfall.” He grunted. “Too much weirdness at sea these days. There's always sea monsters, but now there's mystery subs and French Nazi battleships. . . .” He spat a stream of yellowish tobacco juice into the bay. “An' we've got a helluva lot of precious eggs in these baskets: yours”—he nodded at
Baalkpan Bay
—“and the others.” He started to pace down the long dock to a point aft of the carrier where the rest of the anchorage was visible. The others hastened to catch up and joined him where he stood. Out on the water, surrounded by the busy industrial city that had changed hands so often, was an impressive force. The Home-size self-propelled floating dry dock, or “SPD,” USS
Tarakaan Island
, was moored close in, currently loaded with half of III Corps, thousands of tons of supplies, field artillery, ammunition, spare parts, and a squadron of motor torpedo boats (MTBs). Beyond her were dozens of new-made oilers, transports, and other auxiliaries built from the same plans as the latest
Scott
Class DDs, or sailing steam frigates. When the Allies started building copies of
Walker
, they didn't stop making the other ships, they just repurposed them. Plenty of the older-style warships would still accompany the fleet, and the dozen DDs of Des-Ron 10, including the veterans
Bowles
,
Saak-Fas
, and
Clark
, guarded the harbor mouth. Just inside them, riding at anchor in the middle distance,
were two very familiar shapes, and Ben kept catching himself looking at them like they couldn't be real.

Two years after every imaginable dimension was taken from
Walker
, during her rebuild after the Battle of Baalkpan, she'd finally spawned two daughters.
James Ellis
and
Geran-Eras
looked exactly like her from where Ben stood, down to the color of their paint and the flag they flew. He snorted to himself. “
Finally”? I ought to be thinking, “So soon?”
Lemurians were testing the waters of their own iron age when Walker and the rest of us first showed up, but to go from that to this . . . to everything! Not just steel-hulled destroyers, but airplanes! Torpedoes! Machine guns! True, the Grik threat focused their industry and ingenuity a helluva lot, but the achievement those two ships represent is . . . stunning. Sure, they had a pattern,
he thought,
but we didn't even know how to make everything it took to build 'em. So many things have literally been reinvented
.
'Cats love machines, and just knowing something's possible is always a leg up, but it takes . . . intuition to find that first rung of the ladder in the dark
. They'd originally thought 'Cats were too literal minded and not given enough to abstract thought to come up with much on their own, but they'd been wrong. They
were
literal minded, but also very artistic. Ben wondered about that combination.

“More precious eggs,” Pete Alden growled, nodding at two massive former Grik dreadnaughts captured after Second Madras that were moored a little farther down the dock. Both had been heavily modified in different ways, for specific purposes. One was taking on an uninterrupted stream of troops.

“First Corps,” Rolak said, eyes blinking pride. All his troops were dressed and armed alike, wearing tie-dyed smocks and kilts and carrying Baalkpan Arsenal Allin-Silva breech-loading rifles. Most were veterans of terrible, vicious combat, and they marched determinedly up the long gangway for what they hoped would be the final campaign. “Going to battle against the Grik aboard one of their own former ships has a certain pleasant irony, does it not?” Rolak asked.

Maybe so,
Ben thought, but no one had much liked the idea of converting one of the ironclad beasts into a troopship at first, considering the Grik had carried live “rations” chained below for their crews. The rations had been other Grik in this instance, but that wasn't always the case. Both prizes had been given transverse compartmentalization for
safety and new, Lemurian-made engines for reliability. Oil-fired boilers replaced the coal-burning ones they'd been built with, and the dank, gloomy holds had been sweetened as much as possible and illuminated with electric lights. The huge guns had been removed, making the ships far more stable, but they weren't helpless. Each carried four of the new dual-purpose 4
″
-50s at the summit of their casemates fore and aft of the two remaining funnels (their four boiler rooms had been trunked into two stacks), and the DPs could engage targets on the surface and in the air. Four .30-caliber machine guns constituted their close-range antipersonnel and antiair capability. Everyone knew the Grik had to be working on new things—ships, certainly. But they might have come up with new aerial threats as well. Even if they hadn't, some defense against zeppelins and their “suicider” flying bombs was appropriate. The freeboard forward had been raised and their speed increased to keep up with
Baalkpan Bay
's fifteen knots. Regardless of their new specializations, both still wore the sloped iron plates covering their heavy wooden casemates, and had even added more that extended slightly below their waterlines like abbreviated torpedo blisters. The waterlines of Grik dreadnaughts had always been their weakest point, even against heavy shells or bombs landing close aboard.