Distant Thunders (12 page)

Abel seemed to commiserate with him for a moment about the local customs, but then brightened. “Well, sir, if you’re hungry, I’m sure we could find something at the Castaway Cook.”

Bradford arched an eyebrow and looked at the boy. The Castaway Cook was a ramshackle, abandoned warehouse a short distance from the shipyard. It had suffered serious damage in the fighting and was really little more than a standing roof when
Walker
’s cook, Earl Lanier, appropriated it as a kind of enlisted men’s club. It currently had little value as a warehouse, since there was no pier. In fact, it sported one of the few actual beaches on the Baalkpan waterfront. Earl was a ship’s cook, and that was all he was. With his galley underwater, he’d decided he better get back to doing what he knew before somebody made him do something he didn’t. Besides, “the fellas is always hungry,” he’d explained. He was right. The American destroyermen and submariners he fed were still accustomed to three meals a day, and with all the work there was for everyone, the Lemurian destroyermen and other naval personnel were often hungry too. It was good for morale. The various army regiments were beginning to establish haunts of their own, and with Captain Reddy and Adar’s approval had come the stern warning that Marines would also be welcome at Lanier’s establishment. Or else.

Earl did a booming business. Besides Pepper, he had five more cooks and half a dozen waitresses. There were also several bartenders and that was what made Bradford’s eyebrow rise. The Castaway Cook had another, possibly more common name: the Busted Screw. The entendres of that name were too numerous to count, but the accepted reference was to the party they’d held after replacing
Walker
’s damaged propeller with
Mahan
’s at Aryaal.

Bradford studied the boy’s innocent expression. “Well, I suppose,” he relented. Together, they dodged the ’Cats and marching troops, stopping now and then to admire various sea creatures on display in the bazaar. Coastal artillery crews drilled on their guns behind reinforced embrasures with augmented overhead protection. Abel watched it all, fascinated, and Courtney felt a growing benevolent affection for the lad.

“Do you ever miss the other children, the ones you were stranded among so long?” Bradford probed.

Abel cocked his head to the side. “I see them now and then,” he said thoughtfully, “but we never had much in common, you know. The girls were all—mostly all—ridiculous, squalling crybabies. Miss, uh, Princess Rebecca was the exception, of course.”

“Indeed she was. And is. Most extraordinary.” Even though Rebecca was also clearly a child, Bradford actually admired her. She had a quick mind and was utterly fearless. With a flash, he suddenly realized that Abel Cook obviously “admired” her as well. “Indeed,” he repeated. He motioned toward the martial exercises under way. “Do you wish you had more of that to do? Your, ah, other comrades, the ones old enough, are quite involved in it, you know. Of course you do.”

“I do miss it some,” Abel confessed. “I’d like to be a soldier or a naval officer.” He paused. “I think my father would expect it. Did you know, of all the children aboard S-19, I am the only one whose father was a military man? He was a naval attaché and interpreter for Admiral Palliser.” He paused again, and continued more softly. “He was liaison aboard
DeRuyter
when she went down. I don’t . . . I’ll never know what happened to him.” The boy’s lip quivered ever so slightly, but his voice didn’t. Bradford knew then that he had far more in common with this lad than he would ever have imagined. “All the other children—the boys, at least—were the sons of important men, but I think Admiral Palliser got me on the submarine himself. Mum was supposed to come, but there wasn’t enough room there at the end. Sister Audry offered to leave the boat, but Mum wouldn’t have it. The captain, Ensign Laumer, even Mr. Flynn wanted to take her anyway, but that Dutch cow,” he said, referring to a somewhat dumpy Dutch nanny in charge of most of the girls, “said it just ‘wouldn’t do.’ Things were ‘quite cramped enough as it was.’” Abel’s tone turned bitter. “There would have been room for several more people if they’d have just set that one ridiculous woman ashore. I’m sure she weighs as much as a torpedo and occupies three times the space!”

“Now, now,” admonished Courtney gently, “I can certainly see your point. But one mustn’t be unkind.”

Besides Sandra and Karen Theimer Letts, only two other Navy nurses had survived: Pam Cross and Kathy McCoy. Pam was engaged in a torrid part-time affair with Dennis Silva, and for a time that had left only one known, and . . . wholesomely unattached female in the entire world: Kathy McCoy. This intolerable situation had resulted in the increasingly desperate “dame famine.” That famine still existed to a degree. The only practical means of truly breaking it seemed to lie in establishing good relations with the Empire, but there were a
few
more women in Baalkpan now. There’d been four nannies, not counting Sister Audry, on S-19 to care for the twenty children of diplomats and industrialists aboard the sub. Two of them, one British and the “ridiculous” Dutchwoman, dropped all pretense of nannyhood and had taken it upon themselves to “thank” as many of their destroyermen rescuers as they could in the best way they knew how, as soon as they returned to Baalkpan after the battle. Both women were rather plain and had probably landed right in the middle of their version of heaven. Perhaps the dame
famine
was broken, but in spite of terrible losses, the male-to-female ratio was very considerably out of whack. They were only two women, after all, and their energy and gratitude had limits. For now, the dame
drought
still smoldered.

“Besides,” Courtney continued, “your mother surely found a far safer transport, in retrospect.”

“Possibly,” Abel allowed, but his tone sounded unconvinced. For a while, the pair walked in silence.

Beyond the breastworks, they entered what was left of the old warehouse district and followed the strains of music that gradually emerged from the general noise of the nearby industrial productivity. The music came from Marvaney’s portable phonograph—a larger, tin resonance chamber had been attached to increase the volume. Bradford didn’t recognize the tune, but he rarely recognized any of the music recorded on the depleted, but still large collection of 78s the dead gunner’s mate had owned. The surviving records were almost all upbeat American tunes: jazzy, or something the destroyermen called swing. There were a few whimsical Western songs, and some stuff the men called country that sounded more like Celtic chanteys than anything else. Bradford was a classicist, and to his horror he’d learned the late Marvaney had been too, but most of his collection of that sort of music had been used as an object of weight to carry his corpse to the deep. Regardless, all the records were priceless relics now and were carefully maintained. It was rare that two songs were played in a row without a pause to sharpen the needle.

Bradford knew that sometimes, at night, they had live music at the Busted Screw. A small percentage of the Americans had been musicians, of a sort, and like virtually every item nonessential to the two destroyers’ final sortie, their instruments had been off-loaded. There were several guitars, a pair of ukuleles, a trombone, and a saxophone from
Walker
. A concertina, a trumpet, and a violin came from
Mahan
. Oddly, a pump organ, of all things, had been aboard S-19. Bradford knew space had been extremely limited on the old submarine and he again wondered vaguely where it had been kept and how they’d managed to get it through a hatch to salvage it. It wasn’t much larger than a console Victrola, but still . . . at least there’d been a considerable collection of classical sheet music tucked inside. The original owner was dead, but a lot of the fellows could play a piano. Bradford couldn’t, really, but he could read music. He’d attended a concert at the Busted Screw and had to say the sound created by the unlikely orchestra had been . . . unusual. Throw in a variety of Lemurian instruments, and he couldn’t quite describe the result. He wasn’t without hope that the bizarre ensemble might eventually be arranged into something less cacophonous.

Outside the Screw, on a makeshift hammock slung between two trees on the beach, Earl Lanier lounged in bloated repose. He wore shorts, “go-forwards,” and had eyeshades on. There was a large, faded, bluish tattoo of a fouled anchor on his chest, pointing almost directly at a bright pink, puckered scar above his distended belly button. He wore no shirt, and other than a thick mat of dark, curly hair, they were the only things upon his otherwise tanned, ample belly. Beside the hammock stood the battered, precious Coke machine, powered by a doubtlessly clandestine heavy-gauge wire. As Courtney and Abel watched, a black-furred ’Cat with specks of white appeared, complete with a towel over his arm, and took a chilled mug of something from inside the machine and handed it to Lanier. Before Bradford could form an indignant comment, Pepper retrieved another pair of mugs and brought them over.

“One is, ah, you call it beer,” he said, knowing Bradford’s preference for the exceptional Lemurian brew. He looked at the boy before handing him a mug. “The other is a most benevolent and benign nectar.”

“Thank you, dear fellow,” Courtney said. “I was just about to ask why you put up with such treatment from that ludicrous creature.”

Pepper grinned. “I like cool drinks,” he said, and gestured toward the shade of the club, “and so do guys.” He shrugged. “No happy Earl, no Coke machine. Also, I like being assistant cook. I like to cook. You wanna eat?”

“Well, now that you mention it . . .” Courtney and Abel followed Pepper under the shade and plopped themselves on bar stools before a planked countertop.

“What’ll it be?” Pepper asked as their eyes became accustomed to the shade. “I know you not like fish, but I got fresh pleezy-sore steaks.”

“Plesiosaur,” Bradford corrected, almost resignedly. “That will be fine. At least they aren’t technically fish.”

“It is quite good, actually,” came a small voice nearby. Bradford squinted and realized that Princess Rebecca sat almost beside him.

“Goodness gracious, my dear!” Courtney exclaimed. “What on earth are
you
doing here?” He glanced quickly around. Abel had suddenly become very still and Bradford suspected, if he could see it, he’d discover a deep blush covering the boy’s face. Apparently, sometime during their seclusion on Talaud Island, the young midshipman became smitten with the princess. He wondered if he’d known she’d be here. “And where is that abominable Dennis Silva, your supposed protector?”

Silva popped up from behind the bar like a jack-in-the-box. He teetered slightly. “Right here, Mr. Bradford, and I’m ambulatin’ fairly well. Thanks for askin’.”

Courtney was taken aback by Silva’s sudden, towering presence. He was also just about certain he’d quite understood the word “abominable.” Silva had always traded shamelessly in being much more than he appeared to be, and that was doubly true now. Bradford liked the big gunner’s mate—chief gunner’s mate now—and honestly owed him multiple lives, but if Silva had been frightening before, the eye patch and spray of scars across his bearded face made him positively terrifying. Particularly since Bradford knew Silva’s capacity for violence was exponentially greater than his appearance implied as well—and his appearance implied quite a lot. Nevertheless, he stood and faced the apparition with a stern glare.

“Mr. Silva, I find it difficult to believe even you would bring Her Highness to such an iniquitous place. Filthy, sweaty men and Lemurians often gather here and exchange ribald, obscene tales. There is foul speech, and on several occasions one of the Dutch . . .
nannies
. . . we rescued from Talaud has actually performed a striptease! There have been fights, and contrary to regulations, there’s often drunkenness. I won’t go into your personal life and speculate upon what a poor example you set as a man, but bringing that child with you here is an act of irresponsible depravity!”

Silva leered at him across the counter, and in his best Charles Laughton impression—which wasn’t very good—he uttered a single word: “Flatterer!”

Bradford took a breath, preparing to launch another salvo.

“Then what does that say about you, Mr. Bradford, and your bringing Midshipman Cook,” Princess Rebecca said, glancing at Abel and offering a small smile. Now that his eyes had adjusted, Bradford clearly saw the blush coloring the boy’s face.

“Well,” Courtney sputtered defensively, “but that is different, of course! He is young, but he’s a warrior and needs male example. Perhaps not as . . . sharply defined an example as Mr. Silva, but . . .”

“Mr. Bradford,” Rebecca continued, “I know Mr. Cook and consider him something of a friend.” The boy’s blush deepened, if that were possible. “You should remember we spent the better part of a year as castaways together. I also know he is barely older than I, and through no fault of his, I expect I have seen considerably more combat. Lawrence and I were aboard
Walker
during the final fight with
Amagi
, if you will recall.”

Speechless, Bradford glanced about. Only then did he see Lawrence himself, coiled in the sand like a cat where the sun could still reach him, staring back with what could only have been an amused expression. He was panting lightly, and immediately Bradford’s mind shifted gears, wondering why Lawrence would lie in the sun . . . and pant . . . so close to shade. He shook his head.

“Besides,” Rebecca said, ending the argument with her tone, “Mr. Silva did not bring me here; I brought him. He is still in some considerable pain from his wounds, you know, and a measured amount of seep helps alleviate that.”

“Right,” Silva said, resuming his search behind the counter as if he’d lost something. “I’m here for a medical treatment prescribed by medical treaters! I’m on limited, excyooged—excused duty.” He vanished again entirely, groping on the floor.

“He’s also quite incredibly bored,” whispered Rebecca. “Captain Reddy said he must remain here when the expedition to Aryaal departs. He was not pleased. He
understands
, with Mr. O’Casey forced to remain in hiding and Billingsly’s spies on the loose, that someone suitably menacing must watch out for me. But . . . he was not pleased.”