Distant Thunders (30 page)

All around Billingsly, the ship’s company grew excited again as the bizarre machine roared by and took to the air once more. None of
them
were terrified, nor had they really been even when the machine came at them. Most shouted and good-naturedly returned the clear gesture the flying man had made. They were excited because a flying machine was a wonder, and they possibly even felt a strange kinship with anyone foolhardy enough to ride one. They were men as used to terrifying adventure as they were to the unending boredom of the last months. But they didn’t see things the way he did. They never took the long view of anything. Whatever occurred after their next meal was the distant future. Walter Billingsly knew it was all up to him now, him and the operatives infiltrated into the ship’s company. The contingency plan he’d been formulating was coming together nicely, and with some of the recent information he’d obtained, it was looking more practical as well. He needed just a few more pieces of the puzzle to fall into place and he’d be ready to proceed.

He strolled to the rail and watched the flying machine make lazy turns over the bay. His personal mission was more critical now than ever before, but even that had paled somewhat in comparison to the intelligence he’d gathered about these strange folk. He needed to get that intelligence home as soon as he possibly could. Things back there were already in motion and he had no idea how this might influence those long-secret plans. His primary mission was important to their success, but the threat posed by these folk—these other
enemies
—desperately required evaluation by his superiors.

He would no longer worry about Jenks. Surely he was a traitor? Besides, whether he was or wasn’t was immaterial in the end. His allegiance was no secret and his presence might have been . . . problematic to the success of Billingsly’s primary mission, in any event. Walter had often pondered how best to deal with him when the time came. Aside from the information he might give his American friends, it was probably just as well that he’d gone with them. Realistically, he’d expected a confrontation, a refusal to participate at least. He’d have been astonished if Jenks would have agreed to active cooperation and support. This way, it no longer mattered how Jenks would react. He was certainly in no position to interfere.

U
nconscious of any irony, newly minted Lieutenant Irvin Laumer stepped forward and extended his hand to Colonel Tamatsu Shinya. Without hesitation, the Japanese former naval officer took it and shook it briskly. The two had become friends, of a sort, during the long voyage, and there had existed certain bond between them. Both were men driven to succeed and prove themselves, although Irvin didn’t know what Shinya needed to prove. He was a loyal officer in Captain Reddy’s cadre of companions. (Irvin was well-read and often compared Reddy’s relationship with his officers and men to that of Alexander.) He admitted to himself that there might be just a touch of hero worship on his part that made the comparison more apt.

There was no doubt that there were two distinct groups within the Alliance: those who felt comfortable around Captain Reddy and didn’t hesitate to express their views to him, and those who were almost afraid to be around the “Great Man.” The former category was almost exclusively comprised of those who’d been with him from the start, regardless of race. Irvin still felt like he belonged in the second group. He’d had a tough ordeal—all the S-19s—had, but it wasn’t a patch to what Captain Reddy,
Walker
,
Mahan
, and all their crews and allies had been through. Laumer hadn’t even been at Baalkpan during the desperate fight. Shinya had. He’d been there from the start like all the others, and he’d certainly earned the companion role, yet he didn’t seem to realize it. If he did, he still seemed driven to continue earning it.

Maybe it was because he was a Jap. To this day, not all the Americans truly liked him. They universally respected him, but that wasn’t the same. He’d proven he’d stand even against his own people in this war, if it came down to it, but during one of their talks, he’d admitted to Irvin that it still hurt him, even now. He had no compassion for the Grik, but maybe he needed to keep proving to himself that he actually belonged among his new friends.

“I’ll miss you, sir, and our talks,” Laumer said.

“As will I,” Shinya replied. “I find myself speaking ’Cat so much, it is a pleasure to converse in a . . . human tongue.”

Irvin knew what had caused Shinya’s hesitation. He probably wished he could talk more with Okada, but he and the other Japanese officer didn’t really get along.

“Yes, sir,” Irvin answered. “And I really appreciate the ’Cat lessons, too. I’m still not too good at it.”

“You will do fine. Besides, most of your command has at least a smattering of English now.” Shinya chuckled. “I expect one day the two languages will intermingle!”

“That would sure be weird,” Irvin said, imagining the bizarre combination. He took a breath and looked around, nodding farewell to others he recognized. He was awaiting the arrival of Saan-Kakja so he could officially take his leave. As his eyes swept over the massive ship, he was still overcome by the monumental ingenuity that had built her.

The level on which he stood, the battlement, occupied a single deck of the massive central superstructure, and the balcony went all the way around it like a giant wraparound porch. Even as high as he was above the surface of the sea and the ship’s center of gravity, any sensation of motion was almost imperceptible. Unfortunately, the mammoth vessel’s
forward
motion was almost imperceptible as well, by the standards he was accustomed to. With all her wings set and drawing nicely in the brisk morning breeze,
Placca-Mar
, Saan-Kakja’s “Imperial yacht,” or whatever it was, was barely making five knots. She was just so damn slow. There was so much to do, and he was anxious to get on with his mission.

Throughout the weeks they’d been at sea since departing Baalkpan, they’d crept northeast through the home waters of the Makassar Strait and entered the Celebes Sea. Their average, excruciatingly slow speed of five to six knots had slowed even further while they picked their way through the tangled, hazardous islands off the northeast coat of Borneo before making their island-hugging journey through the Sulu Archipelago. This tedious, circuitous route allowed them to avoid the abyssal depths of the Celebes and Sulu seas—and the monstrous creatures that dwelt there. Among those they were trying to avoid was one so huge that it actually posed a rare but real threat to ships as large as Lemurian Homes.

Mountain fish they were called by some, or island fish by others. Whichever it was, it made no difference. The name wasn’t idle exaggeration. Irvin had seen one of the things before, when S-19 traversed nearby seas on her way to Cavite—only to discover the Cavite they remembered wasn’t there anymore. That was when his now dead skipper decided they needed a place to hole up before their fuel was gone. The resulting odyssey was what had eventually left the sub stranded on Talaud Island.

Finally, after torturous weeks, Meksnaak, Saan-Kakja’s Sky Priest, placed them off the western peninsula of Mindanao. Irvin had to take his word. They’d apparently missed the Sibutu Passage in the dark, but finally they’d reached a point where he and his little squadron could part company with the high chief of the Manilos and all the Fil-pin Lands. Despite the frustration goading him to get on with it, he had to admit the ship and the world around it were certainly a beautiful sight. They were on a tack that took them almost directly into the morning sun, and Irvin shielded his eyes against the glare. Lush, unnamed islands speckled the sea directly to starboard, and a larger shore loomed on the horizon. Mindanao, he presumed. Zamboanga. The water was an almost painfully brilliant blue, and was still touched by the golden glory of the new day. It was going to be a hot one, as usual, and eventually the bright, clear sky would give way to rain clouds. Even now, far to the south, a purple squall swept an empty patch of sea.

He hadn’t seen the squall that brought the destroyermen and his submariners here. S-19 had been submerged at the time. He had only conflicting descriptions from the destroyermen as to what it looked like. Mostly, they’d said it had been green. He wondered sometimes what he would do if he ever saw one like it. Would he sail into it, hoping it would take him home? Or would he do everything in his power to stay the hell out of its way? He hoped the choice would never come. At least, not until he fulfilled his mission. Somehow, right then, making Captain Reddy proud of him was more important than ever getting home.

He shook his head and looked at his own ship, USS
Simms
. The former Grik Indiaman had been razed like many others and named for Andy Simms, who’d died at the Battle of Aryaal. She was now a United States corvette. She mounted twenty guns and with her once bloodred hull painted black, with a broad white band down her length highlighting the closed, black-painted gunports, she looked nothing at all like her former self. In spite of who originally made her,
Simms
was a heartwarming sight, loping almost playfully along under close-reefed topsails so she wouldn’t shoot ahead of her lumbering charge.

She was Irvin’s only warship; the other vessel keeping close company had been repainted, rerigged, and repaired, but her lines hadn’t been altered. She was a transport, after all. A freighter. It was still a heady sight. He’d gone from an inexperienced kid, glad to have a subordinate take over when things got tough, to a commodore, for all intents and purposes. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he was ready. This
should
be Flynn’s job, he thought. Flynn was the one who’d brought them through. But Flynn wouldn’t—apparently couldn’t—do it. That left Irvin, and one way or another he’d accomplish his mission—if it was possible for anyone to—or die trying. He still believed this was a test of sorts and, for an instant, wondered if Captain Reddy understood the depth of Irvin’s commitment to prove himself. He doubted it. Irvin didn’t fully understand it yet himself. Besides, the captain had literally ordered him to be careful. Irvin appreciated that and he
would
be careful . . . but he
would
succeed, regardless.

“Well, Lieutenant Laumer,” Shinya observed, “despite your . . . impatience . . . to leave us, you have one final nicety to perform. Saan-Kakja is here to bid you farewell!”

“Yeah, I’m a little anxious,” Laumer admitted. “Is it really that obvious?” Shinya only chuckled.

Saan-Kakja approached, attended by Meksnaak and a trio of other functionaries. As always, Irvin was struck by her presence. She was so small, and much younger even than he was, yet she was beautiful. Not in a “girl” kind of way—at least, not a human girl—but like an exotically colored female tiger would be beautiful. Stunning, magnificent, but also a little “cute,” in the fashion one might describe a young, predatory cat. Her eyes were something else too, unlike any he’d seen among all the ’Cats he’d met. Safir Maraan was just as beautiful in her own lethal way, but Saan-Kakja still inspired him with a strange sense of protectiveness as well.

“Lieutenant Laumer,” she said, her English much improved, “my priests that chart our path tell me we have reached that point where you will leave us. I shall miss your company when we dine, and I shall miss the company and protection of your noble ships and crews.”

Irvin blushed. Saan-Kakja’s ship hadn’t needed their protection. Hers was probably the most powerful ship left afloat in the world. She’d armed it with cannon before she ever left for Baalkpan, and between the guns Baalkpan lavished on her and the guns constantly arriving from Manila,
Placca-Mar
now mounted sixty of the big thirty-two pounders, and had a couple of the new fifty pounders as well. It would take something like
Amagi
to tangle with her now. “It has, ah, been my honor, Your Excellency. I’ll miss you too.” He blushed even deeper.

“Mr. Shinya says you will not be entirely on your own,” she said with a concerned series of flashing eyelids, “but the transmitter you carry is not as strong . . . as powerful as the one Mr. Riggs has supplied to me. You will be able to receive transmissions, sometimes all the way from Baalkpan, but may not be able to transmit that far yourself. Rest assured, we will hear you and will routinely retransmit any message you send. If mischief of any kind should befall your mission or yourself, do not hesitate to call for help. My brother is High Chief of Paga-Daan, and will receive a communication device similar to yours. He will come to your aid immediately. It will, in fact, be his ships that supply you, if your mission is lengthy.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency. On all counts.”

Saan-Kakja offered her hand, and for an instant, Irvin didn’t know whether to shake it or kiss it. He settled for gently grasping the tiny thing in his own.

“Now, Ir-vin,” Saan-Kakja scolded, squeezing firmly with her fingers, “you cannot break me that easily!”

“Of course not, Your . . . my lady.”

Saan-Kakja grinned and, with an awkward bow, Irvin stepped away. He shook hands with Shinya again and climbed over the bulwark to descend the rope ladder to the waiting launch below.

“Hell,” he muttered to himself, cheeks still hot. “She’s not just beautiful; she’s downright mesmerizing. Even in kind of a ‘girl’ way!”

 

 

Simms
and her consort hauled away to the east, through the Basilan Strait and across the Moro Gulf. Meksnaak had suggested the gulf might be one of their most hazardous passages until they crossed to Talaud, but they met no danger there. A few large gri-kakka surfaced and blew, and some possibly related denizens with short, serpentine necks watched the ships periodically with large, somber eyes, but other than that, all they saw were the myriad seabirds, flying reptiles, and what looked like a cross between the two. Nothing unusual. The birds capered and swooped among the masts, occasionally even snapping at the top men, but the only real harm they caused was the reeking, fishy slurry they dropped and smeared all over the ships. Otherwise, the weather remained fine, the skies no more temperamental than usual, and the sea in no way stirred itself against them.