Into the Storm (41 page)

The Baalkpan Lemurians were just as amazed as
Big Sal
’s that
Walker
was made of steel. Whenever the welders went to work, the pier lined with spectators watching the sparks and eye-burning torches with as much enthusiasm as if it had been a fireworks display. Iron wasn’t unknown to the People, but it was so hard to smelt that it was little used. Dave Elden had spent two years in a steel mill in Pittsburgh. He’d already talked to the proprietors of the foundry on the northeast of town, where he’d gone to have brass fittings cast. He reported they used the sand-cast method almost exclusively but were very good at it and there would be almost nothing they couldn’t cast with a larger furnace and a little guidance. He even figured he could get them started on iron if a source for ore could be found.

Half the snipes set out into the jungle with Courtney Bradford and about a hundred natives in search of oil. The procession had looked like a nineteenth-century safari. They hadn’t searched long before they found a likely place. Bradford’s charts and journals were helpful, and he had most of the Dutch surveys. As long as everything was the same geographically, there was every reason to believe that oil could be found in the same places it had been back “home.” He hadn’t yet shared his theory, but they’d all been very busy. Matt already suspected what the gist of it was and looked forward to the discussion, but for now there was too much to do.

Materials were rafted upriver to the site, where, under the direction of the Mice, the men were constructing something called a Fort Worth Spudder. Captain Reddy had heard of the device but never seen one. His interview with the strange firemen was . . . an experience. He’d seen them many times, of course, but he didn’t remember ever speaking with them. Their conversation about the rig was what he imagined it would be like to talk to an opossum with a parrot on its shoulder. But they convinced him they knew what to do and how to do it. He just hoped they could explain it to others in a coherent fashion.

At the same time, men worked hard converting the tubes of the number three torpedo mount into a condensation tower. A place was being prepared near the drill site for their little refinery. A fueling pier with water deep enough for
Walker
to clear the silty riverbed was already under construction. The torpedo tubes were just a temporary expedient. Eventually they would build larger towers with greater capacity. But for now the empty tubes would have to do.

Lemurians scampered all over the ship, helping as best they could. Often they got in the way, but shorthanded as the crew was, the benefit of their curious, good-natured assistance outweighed the aggravation. Chack became like a Lemurian bosun’s mate, and his coordination of the native labor was indispensable.

One morning, a large cart pulled by a “brontosarry” and driven by Alan Letts arrived, much to the delight of those aboard. The sight of the fair-skinned supply officer sitting on a seat under a colorful parasol—behind a dinosaur’s rump—even brought a smile to the Chief’s face. The crew’s amusement quickly waned when they discovered what the cart was so heavily laden with. Somewhere the suddenly surprisingly resourceful supply officer had discovered keg after keg of white paint. Gray was guardedly ecstatic. He insisted on testing it, since nobody knew what was in it, or whether it would stick to steel. He wasn’t about to let them smear a “bunch of whitewash” all over his topsides. When it proved satisfactory, he immediately began pestering Letts to find something they could mix it with to make a proper gray.

“Hell, Bosun,” Letts replied, “this bucket’s spent more of her life white than gray. It’s not like we’re hiding from airplanes anymore.”

“Yah, but there’s a war on, Mr. Letts. White’s for peacetime.”

The torpedo repairs were put aside. They still had the three that hadn’t fired during their escape from Surabaya, but the others would have to wait. Under the supervision of Chief Donaghey and Bernard Sandison—who’d become quite a machinist in his own right—the machine shop was constantly in use making parts for the ship. They had little scrap steel, though, and wherever it would serve, they used copper or brass—both of which were readily available from local sources. Shinya had been reassigned as Alden’s assistant—training the militia—but he still liked to help in the shop when he could.

It was in this maelstrom of apparent chaos, of flying sparks and paint chips, a fog of red rust dust, mazes of hoses and wires and a dozen different projects all over the ship, that they had their first visit by the High Chief of Baalkpan, Nakja-Mur.

Matt had seen him many times since their first meeting, and someone, usually Garrett or Dowden, went ashore to talk with him every day. But until now, the closest Nakja-Mur had come to
Walker
was to pace her length on the pier alongside, the morning after she tied up. He was fascinated by the ship, and Keje said he never tired of hearing about
Walker
’s role in the battle, but he’d never made an “official” visit and many were curious why. Now, with no warning whatsoever—a shocking impropriety among the People—the crowd of watchers and helpers on the dock parted and Nakja-Mur appeared at the gangway.

Keje and Adar, Naga, and a dozen guardsmen accompanied him. Despite the wonder that nearly forced a grin when he gained the deck, and the pleased curiosity he displayed when piped aboard by Gray’s hastily assembled side party, Nakja-Mur wasn’t happy.

“You are breaking me!” he growled when the captain met him with a salute. Matt blinked questioningly like Chack had taught him to do.

“Breaking you, my lord? I thought here, just as on the great sea Homes, the High Chief was the steward of the people’s surplus—to be spent for the safety and benefit of all.” Chack had quickly trotted up to join them and he translated the captain’s words. Keje and Adar’s subtle blinks of amusement indicated they no longer needed Chack’s help.

“Of course you’re breaking me! It’s my duty to be a good steward, as you say, but it’s also my duty to see the surplus wisely spent!” He looked about, speechless, and seized upon the sight of the paint kegs lining the pier. “There, do you see? Do you realize that’s half a season’s production of paint base? Do you have any idea what that costs?”

Matt shook his head. “You agreed that
Walker
should have anything Baalkpan could offer in the way of provisions and supplies if we would help you prepare for the Grik.”

“Yes, but . . . paint?!” Adar leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Yes, of course I know iron rusts, but . . .” He stopped, and looking around again, he shook his head. “I apologize. They said your ship was iron, but I only now truly realized it. But, come, what difference does a little rust make?”

“My Brother,” interrupted Keje, “once rust takes hold of iron it is not easily discouraged. That’s one reason it’s rarely used at sea. By us, at any rate.”

“Well, but what of the scores of workers toiling northeast of the city, pounding a hole into the earth! What’s the meaning of that?”

“Fuel, my lord. As we discussed.
Walker
must have . . . I believe you call it ‘gish,’ for fuel. Without it she can’t move. She can’t fight.”

“But gish is plentiful in the north, in the coastal marshes. It bubbles from the ground, it pools, it reeks! It’s of little use to any but seam sealers and makers of rope. New holes need not be made to take it up!”

“I’m afraid so.
Walker
needs more gish than can easily be imagined, and there must be a ready source close by.”

“The People use wind to good effect,” Nakja-Mur grumped.

“No doubt. So do the Grik. But
Walker
’s much faster than either—that’s one reason she fights so well. To do that she needs gish, and lots of it. I told you all this,” Matt said with some frustration.

“He doesn’t know, my friend. He hasn’t seen,” soothed Keje. “He looks out for his people.” He grinned. “And your ship is costing far more than the Grik yet have.”

“He can pay now, with treasure, or later with blood,” Matt snapped.

“He knows. He just doesn’t like it. Believe me, on the whole, he’s pleased. He’s had many complaints, however, not least about the training your Marine person started. These land folk don’t have strong bodies and are not used to the exertion required of warriors.”

“Sergeant Alden knows the best warrior skills of our people, at least as far as land tactics are concerned. Lieutenant Shinya knows swordsmanship, and his methods are quicker and more lethal than yours.” Gray suppressed a snort. He still thought Shinya belonged in the chain locker.

“True, but since Nakja-Mur decreed that all should learn rudimentary warrior skills, some ask why they must learn to fight when their treasure is paying you to do it for them.”

Matt shook his head. “That wasn’t the deal. I said we’d train them and help them fight. We won’t fight the Grik alone.”

“He knows.”

Nakja-Mur spoke and Chack translated once again. “Two flasher-fishers arrived this morning with news of three Grik ships, nosing about in the strait. They didn’t believe they were seen, but the Grik have never been so close. We’re not ready to fight and I fear we will never be. All these preparations you make—the paint!—do not seem to make us more ready to fight!”

“We’ll fight them first, if we must, until your people are ready. That was the plan from the start. But to fight, my ship must be ready!”

Off in the distance, they heard the low rumble of thunder.

“What will you do about the Grik in the strait?”

“If they enter the bay, we’ll destroy them. If they linger nearby until we have fuel, we’ll hunt them down and destroy them. You have my word. But you must talk sense to these complainers!”

Nakja-Mur looked steadily at him for a moment, then jerked his head downward in a Lemurian nod. The distant thunder continued to build, but it was drowned out by the number four boiler blowing tubes. They all looked aft and skyward as the soot settled on the deck and those working there.

“God
damn
snipes!” bellowed Gray, striding purposefully toward the aft fireroom hatch. “There’s wet paint up here!” Captain Reddy stifled a grin. The thunderous drone rose a little higher in his consciousness.

“Maybe the High Chief of Baalkpan would like to tour the ship?” he said, but tilted his head, listening. With a start, his eyes widened in recognition and he glanced at the crow’s nest. Empty, of course. Garrett was on the fire-control platform, however, and he’d heard it too. Their eyes met as realization dawned. The general alarm began to sound.

“General quarters! General quarters! This is no drill!” came Larry Dowden’s voice over the speaker. “Captain to the bridge!”

Matt darted from the midst of the Lemurian delegation, ran through the chaos of the weather deck, and clattered up the ladder to the bridge. With no one to tell them different, the Lemurians followed after him. Men and ’Cats scampered everywhere, some purposefully, others less so, and Nakja-Mur was nearly sent sprawling by an ordnance striker carrying ammunition belts as he rocketed up from the companionway.

“What’s happening?!” he angrily demanded.

“Something interesting, certainly,” Adar replied.

Matt was gasping by the time he reached the fire-control platform. He snatched the binoculars someone offered and began scanning the sky.

“There, sir. Aft, bearing one two oh! Coming right up the bay from the strait! It’s . . . it’s an aircraft!”

“Agreed!” Matt snapped. “But what’s it doing here and whose is it? Stand by all machine guns, Mr. Garrett, but hold your fire!”

They waited tensely, the men exchanging nervous glances while the clattery radial engine drone slowly grew more pronounced. Chack and Keje had joined them.

“What is that flying thing?” Keje’s voice held an edge.

“Airplane,” Matt murmured absently.

Keje glanced at the defensive preparations under way. “And I thought the Grik were a strange menace,” he muttered. “You will fight this aarplane? It will attack?” Keje cast a quick glance at
Big Sal
, moored helplessly to the pier. He’d never heard of a flying creature large enough to threaten people, but he’d seen coast raptors snatch fish from the water, and he suspected how vulnerable they would be to something as big as what he saw now. Obviously, by their actions, the destroyermen believed it might be dangerous. “Will it attack?” he asked again, more insistently.

Matt lowered the binoculars and a small, wondering smile played across his features. “I don’t think so,” he said, and added as an aside to Lieutenant Garrett, “PBY.”

The plane grew larger, and the sun glinted dully off the dingy blue paint as it banked over the bay. The wings waggled a little, as if the pilot was unfamiliar with the controls—or maybe not. Only one engine was running. The big seaplane thundered low over the water, just a little higher than the small boats’ masts. Sheets went flying, and there were many near-collisions as the unearthly monstrosity lumbered by. Matt couldn’t help but grin at the startled antics of the fishermen. All the Lemurians on the pier or the destroyer stopped what they were doing and clustered uncertainly together.

The pilot plainly saw them now; he banked the plane harder and then steadied up, aiming for a clear patch of water off
Walker
’s starboard side. The big rudder kicked rapidly back and forth to compensate for the uneven thrust of the single engine. Wing-tip floats came down and the bullnose with the Plexiglas turret seemed to sniff tentatively at the water. The blue roundels with the white star and red dot stood out against the salt streaks and the stained, off-color paint. It was the most beautiful thing Matt had ever seen. With a great splashing
thump,
the flying boat struck the water, and its forward progress was almost immediately arrested by the unskilled or underpowered arrival. It wallowed to a stop as the pilot cut power, then increased it. The noise of the port engine was tremendous as the plane gathered speed in their direction.