Blood In the Water (7 page)

Chief Jeek's bosun's pipe trilled on the fo'c'sle, calling the special sea and anchor detail and fueling detail as
Walker
sidled up alongside
Santa Catalina
and took in fuel lines suspended from her cargo booms. Soon fuel oil coursed into
Walker
's bunkers, pumped directly from one of the small oilers on the other side of the protected cruiser. Matt was in the pilothouse and stepped out on the port bridgewing to look up at “Mikey” Monk,
Santa Catalina
's exec, overseeing the transfer. The ship's captain, Russ Chappelle, appeared beside him and saluted Matt. Matt saluted back with a grin, then cupped his hands and shouted, “I'll be over directly!” Russ nodded and waved.

“Meetings. Ugh,” Spanky said from the captain's chair bolted to the bulkhead when Matt reentered the pilothouse.

Matt grinned sheepishly. “Couldn't fight a war without 'em. There's a Nancy floatplane hoisted on
Santy Cat
's deck, so I guess Keje's already been flown in. Better go, I guess.”

“You'll have to run if you're going like that,” Spanky warned, waving at Matt's soiled and sweaty uniform. “If Juan catches you, he'll hold you down and wipe your face with spit on a hanky!”

Matt joined the rest of the bridge watch in a laugh. Juan Marcos was a Filipino who'd lost a leg fighting Doms in the Empire of the New Britain Isles at his captain's side, but still took what he saw as his primary duty very seriously. He'd started as
Walker
's officer's steward, but had appointed himself “Chief Steward to the Supreme Commander,” and would throw a fit if Matt left the ship in such a state. “No, no, I'll change,” he replied in mock alarm, convinced that Juan would already have laid out a set of Lemurian-made whites in anticipation of his departure. “You have the ship, Spanky, and keep a sharp lookout.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper,” Spanky answered with a tolerant grin. As if he needed a reminder for
that
.

Matt, Surgeon Lieutenant Pam Cross, and Commander Bernard Sandison were received aboard
Santa Catalina
by a side party and a proper bosun's pipe. Not all Lemurians could manage a pipe and most used whistles instead, but
Santy Cat
's Chief Bosun was a gruff Bostonian
named Stanley “Dobbin” Dobson. Smiling, Matt and his companions saluted the Stars and Stripes aft and the collection of humans and Lemurians there to meet them before shaking hands all around. Russ Chappelle was there, as was Kathy McCoy, the surgeon commander of all of First Fleet. Both were matching Matt's smile. There were other familiar faces, but most unexpected was that of Dean Laney, his large form uncomfortably stuffed into another Lemurian-made copy of Navy whites adorned by the shoulder boards of a lieutenant (jg).

Matt reflected that there'd been a lot of promotions, of necessity, among the survivors of his old crew and that of
Mahan
and S-19. Russ had been a torpedoman on
Mahan
, and Bernie Sandison had been
Walker
's own torpedo officer. Now Russ commanded what was arguably the most powerful ship in the Alliance, and Bernie, while back at his old job at present, was also “minister of experimental ordnance.” Kathy had been a nurse lieutenant but had helped Sandra build an amazingly effective medical corps. It was the same everywhere; General of the Armies and Marines Pete Alden had been a sergeant in USS
Houston
's Marine contingent, left at a hospital in Surabaya when his ship met her fate. Ben Mallory, chief of the Army and Naval Air Corps, had been “just” an Army pilot. And the list went on. Ordinary men and women had risen to the challenge of this terrible war and the bizarre situation they faced in various ways, but even the few who'd never advanced beyond their original ranks and occupations, who remained “mere” destroyermen on
Walker
or any number of other ships now, had provided a professional, steadying influence on the hundreds of Lemurian sailors they'd helped form over time.

Now Matt realized that of them all, Dean Laney had always struck him as the absolutely least likely
Walker
veteran to distinguish himself in any way and advance beyond Machinist's Mate 2nd Class. He'd been a troublemaker all his life and Dennis Silva's chief nemesis in the old world they'd left behind. His technical knowledge was impressive, probably second only to Spanky's when it came to engineering plants, and he'd bounced from job to job in the various Allied industries making real technical contributions—until no one could stand being around him anymore. Engineering officer on
Santy Cat
had been his last chance before . . . banishment, Matt supposed. And even now he remained, by all accounts, an asshole, but Russ had no complaints about his performance.

“Laney,” Matt said, nodding.

“Cap'n Reddy,” Laney replied stiffly, self-consciously.

“If you'll follow me, Skipper,” Russ said, gesturing aft, “everyone else is waiting in the dining salon.” No longer under Matt's direct gaze, Laney drifted away and Matt got the distinct impression he was anxious to be just about anywhere else. He shook his head. “The ‘dining salon'?” he asked Russ with a smile. Russ managed a sheepish shrug. “Aye, sir.” Despite major alterations to turn her into a warship, including bolted-on armor plate and rebuilding much of her superstructure as a casemate to protect six heavy guns—part of the Japanese battle cruiser
Amagi
's secondary armament of 5.5-inch rifles, to be precise—
Santa Catalina
had once been equipped to carry a few passengers. In her off-and-on role as a naval auxiliary over the years, these had usually been naval officers, and in the prewar, pre-air-travel naval culture she'd accommodated, officers had been accustomed to traveling in a degree of style, and a tasteful, if not luxurious, dining salon had been provided. During her refit, it was envisioned that such a convenience might still have merit and the space was not only retained but somewhat embellished with ornate Lemurian woodwork and tapestries. The ostentation of the furnishings had embarrassed Russ Chappelle when he first took command, but he'd grown to accept the salon's facility as a conference center. It was even larger and more luxurious than similar accommodations aboard the great carriers such as
Salissa
, now that their Great Halls had been done away with, and he was actually rather proud of it now.

They moved aft, past the casemate, and entered a protected doorway into the salon. Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar stood, teeth showing in a grin from his white-streaked, rust-colored fur, his white tunic and blue kilt covering his bear-shaped frame. Captain Jis-Tikkar (Tikker) was beside him, dressed in a flight suit. Apparently,
Salissa
's—or
“Big Sal
,
”
as she was affectionately known—COFO, or Commander of Flight Operations, had flown Keje over himself. Tikker had been the very first Lemurian aviator and still proudly wore a highly polished 7.7-mm cartridge thrust through a hole in his long, pointed ear as a memento of an early hair-raising flight with Ben Mallory in the long-gone PBY. Standing quickly to join Tikker was Lieutenant Araa-Faan, another Lemurian pilot who'd originally been slated to command Grik City's land-based air. Wounded in combat, she'd been superseded by the arrival of Lieutenant
Commander Mark Leedom, who'd earned a reputation fighting Grik zeppelins in Indiaa. She'd become his executive officer when she recovered, but didn't seem to hold a grudge. Mark was busy getting ready for the night's expected attack, and she'd come in his stead.

The AEF-M (Allied Expeditionary Force—Mada-gaas-gar) was represented by its commander, General Queen Protector Safir Maraan, stunning as always in her silver-washed breastplate and black kilt and cape. Matt smiled at her, noting that she was attended by Imperial Major Alistair Jindal of the 21st Combined Regiment of the 1st Allied Raider (“Chack's”) Brigade. He was XO to Lieutenant Colonel Chack-Sab-At's sister Risa, who commanded the brigade while Chack was away. The strangest figure in the room was an ancient “tame” Grik named Hij Geerki, whom Pete Alden and Muln Rolak had captured at Raan-goon at the beginning of the push that ultimately brought them to Grik City itself. He was currently serving, appointed by Safir Maraan, as High Chief over the several thousand “civilian” Grik prisoners they'd taken. Sequestered on an exposed spit of land before the recent battle, they hadn't surrendered, didn't even understand the concept, so long weeks passed while they hunkered in the mud, subsisting off one another—until Geerki arrived to talk them out. Now they were under shelter of a sort and fed in exchange for general labor that Geerki coordinated, and Matt suspected their lives weren't much different from how they'd been under Grik rule. They worked, they existed,
like ants
, Matt thought, and only time would tell if they'd ever go beyond that.

Geerki looks awful,
Matt thought, with his wrinkled neck, thinning, downy fur, and broken yellow teeth. What remained of his claws had been removed after his capture. As a specimen of the fearsome Grik, he wasn't much, had in fact never even been a warrior. Those were generally larger than the “civilian” Grik such as Geerki himself.
But he still looks basically like an upright, furry alligator,
Matt supposed, with long arms and real hands perfectly capable of wielding just about any weapon a human or Lemurian could. Fortunately, he was a dedicated convert to the cause of defeating his own kind and actually considered himself Rolak's property—
just as Rolak probably still considers himself
my
property, for sparing his life after the Battle of Aryaal,
Matt reflected uncomfortably. But improbable as it must've seemed to Rolak when he captured him, Geerki had been a godsend in many ways: as a spy, an interpreter, and
now an administrator, and the energy with which he performed his evolving duties belied his apparent frailty.

“Now that you are here, we can eat!” Keje pronounced grandly. “And we may want to hurry, in case the Grik zeppelins are tempted by such targets as
Saanta-Caat-a-lina
and
Waa-kur
floating so helplessly in the bay,” he added darkly.

With Adar gone, Matt was the senior official of the Alliance present once again and he supposed that was why they'd waited, but he waved everyone to the table impatiently. “You're right,” he agreed. “Let's eat.”

In contrast to the care otherwise taken to make the salon as comfortable as possible, the dining table was flanked only by a pair of rough wooden benches. This was a common expedient since humans and Lemurians could both sit on them—equally uncomfortably.
Should've just used stools,
Matt thought. 'Cat tails made sitting in any kind of chair extremely painful after a while, but in lieu of their preferred cushions, stools were acceptable.
Stools are better for humans too, if they're tall enough.
Matt brooded, resignedly hiking a leg over the bench at the head of the table, where Keje indicated he should sit. Matt noticed suddenly that Russ Chappelle's face was burning red.

“What is it, Captain Chappelle?”

“Um, well, some time ago, before Second Madras, somebody swiped all the chairs from the engineering spaces. A kind of prank, I guess, to, ah, ‘annoy' a certain engineering officer. . . .”

Matt's eyebrows rose, and he blinked.

“Yes, sir. Anyway, on the voyage down here, right before that stormy fight off Grik City, somebody, ah, removed all the chairs and stools from everywhere—and I mean
everywhere
but the bridge.”

“As in removed . . .”

“Apparently over the side, Skipper, 'cause we can't find a single one.”

Matt suppressed a burst of laughter. “I presume it's occurred to you to suspect the culprit might've been the . . . ‘certain engineering officer'?”

“Yes, sir, of course. But . . .” Russ's face grew livid. “He's got alibis! I mean, hell—excuse me, Skipper—but hell! The whole damn engineering division swears he had nothing to do with it! And we're talking about
Laney
! Who'd ever cover for his fat, sorry ass?” He glared at the offending benches. “Anyway, when you said you wanted to meet here, I had the carpenter knock these up. Sorry, sir.”

Matt stifled another laugh, but then considered what Russ had said. Who indeed? Obviously, Laney had found his niche at last, if he could inspire that kind of loyalty. Then Matt had a darker thought.
Or was it fear?
He mentally shook his head.
No.
Even if Laney's division were entirely human, somebody would buck him if that were the case. And cowing a whole division of 'Cats? No way
. “This is fine, Captain Chappelle. And we'll scour the fleet to see if we can come up with a couple of extra chairs and stools.” He grinned. “You might want to make sure one finds its way to the engineering spaces, though.”

In the Lemurian fashion, no business was discussed while they ate. That was usually a good thing, Matt believed, but despite the threat from the air, he was anxious to get on with the status reports. He knew roughly what was going on, but he'd been at sea for several days and couldn't have the whole picture. The new transceiver nestled deep inside the Cowflop was the most powerful in the theater, and with its aerial erected atop the massive, ancient “Wall of Trees” to the south, the Grik could bomb their Celestial Palace all they wanted without interfering with communications. He eyed Safir Maraan while they finished their plesiosaur steaks. She'd just come from there and would have the most comprehensive news.

Mess attendants removed plates and returned with a kind of fruity, crusted pudding, the ersatz coffee most Amer-i-caans required, and hot tea imported from the Empire of the New Britain Isles. 'Cats were fiends for iced tea but had begun to enjoy the hot variety as well, using it like Matt and his people used coffee. Matt considered that: “his” people. Technically, every member of the Navy and Marines, human or Lemurian, was part of the “Amer-i-caan Navy Clan” now, having taken the same enlistment oath as his old destroyermen. He'd insisted on that from the start to prevent factionalism and divided loyalties. He was High Chief of that sovereign clan and had always enjoyed the same status as other High Chiefs of the various Homes, even though the only actual territory his clan “owned” was the oil-rich island of Tarakan off the Borno coast, and a little chunk of California where San Diego ought to be. It didn't matter. Just as some clans were composed solely of single, massive seagoing Homes, his included every ship in the Amer-i-caan Navy with a “USS” prefix that flew the Stars and Stripes, regardless where it was built or where its crew came from.