CHAPTER 8
Jaava Sea
Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar
honestly still couldn’t decide if his colossal ship’s new
configuration made him ecstatic or morose. Certainly he had spells
when one emotion or the other predominated. The unavoidable sight
of his beloved Home from her new “bridge” constructed from the
abbreviated “battlement” made him sad. Gone were Salissa’s three great pagodalike structures, the
apartments of the wing clans. Gone as well were her towering tripod
masts and vast “wings,” or sails. All that, almost her very
identity, her soul, had been demolished in the great Battle of
Baalkpan. Salissa Home, or Big Sal as his human friends called her, had been
altered forever by that cataclysmic day and night. She was not
dead, however, and difficult as it sometimes seemed, he still
believed he sensed a soul within the pounding, vibrating body
beneath his feet. Salissa now had only
a small offset superstructure and four large, equally offset
funnels, venting gray smoke from her eight oil-fired boilers where
once the Body of Home clan and her vast polta gardens and
fish-drying racks occupied her main deck. She looked like nothing
Keje had ever seen before—squat, in a way, but longer somehow, even
though he knew she wasn’t.
What Keje believed
was still Salissa’s “soul” tasted of a
different purpose now as well. She’d lost the benign, passive
essence that once so mirrored the great Galla tree that had grown
upward from her very keel to bask in the glory of the light let
through the shutters of the Great Hall. In its place, her soul was
now an avenging spirit, sustained by the pounding, steam-driven
heart deep within her body. She was a thing of heat now, of
passion, no longer content to move with the wind. Now she harbored
an urgent anger, a drive to return to the fight and avenge her
people who’d been taken from her by the Grik.
Keje considered his
Home formidably enough armed, particularly if her planes were as
effective as the destroyermen predicted. Dozens of the ungainly but
oddly familiar “Nancys” she’d been rebuilt to accommodate were
secured to her high, flat deck. Even more were stowed below, where
they could be serviced and assembled and moved up to the main deck
by means of ramps that dropped to accept them. Far below, in
Salissa’s magazines, were bombs that
would give teeth to the fragile-looking craft. The planes weren’t
her only weapons. She now boasted a broadside armament of fifty
32-pounder smoothbores, twenty-five to a side, and they’d breeched
and mounted a section of one of Amagi’s
ten-inch naval rifles on a pivoting carriage forward, beneath the
“flight deck.” They’d designed a muzzle-loading projectile for the
gun with copper skirt and bearing bands, and the nearly
two-hundred-pound bullet could reliably strike a target the size of
a small felucca at a range of fifteen hundred tails. No “gyro” was
required because the massive Home was so stable in most seas. All
they needed was a good range, course, and speed estimate of the
target. There were also a couple of longer-range guns aboard, fore
and aft of the superstructure. These were five-and-a-half-inchers
salvaged from the sunken Japanese battle cruiser. They could have
installed more of Amagi’s guns, and
they might still, but Matt, Spanky, and Brister had other plans for
them.
That was some
consolation. Salissa was back in the
fight, one way or another, and though her splendor was gone, Keje
had long recognized that form and function often possessed a beauty
of their own. He couldn’t entirely suppress the elation he felt
over the fact that his altered Home could now move in literally any
direction he desired. Also, with her mighty engines throbbing at
their maximum safe rpm’s, she could do so at the almost
unimaginable speed of twelve knots! Before, his ship had been
capable of achieving ten knots on occasion, when the sweeps were
out, but the speed could be maintained only until his people were
exhausted. Now Salissa could steam at
“high” speed almost indefinitely. Her fuel bunkers were immense,
easily large enough for her to replenish other ships. Combined with
her two huge, relatively crude but extremely reliable reciprocating
engines turning a single shaft, there was sufficient mechanical
redundancy to make him confident that his ship could steam to any
point in the known world. He’d often wondered why Walker was so utilitarian, so devoid of the
decorations his people loved so much. Now he knew. Just as had now
been done to his own precious Home, aesthetics had been sacrificed
for capability.
Fortunately,
Big Sal was still large enough for some
amenities. The “battlement bridge,” which was quickly becoming
simply “the bridgewings,” still sported decorative awnings to
protect her officers from the sun and the occasional swirling soot.
There were no cushions on the bridge, but there were stools for the
watch to rest upon. Speaking tubes were clustered here and there,
connecting the bridge with every part of the ship, from the “crow’s
nest”—a dizzying hundred tails above the centrally located
“pilothouse”—to the “ordnance strikers” stationed in the dark,
gloomy magazines far below the waterline. Matt had told him that
Salissa now most resembled a ship from
his own world he’d called Lexington,
and he insisted Salissa’s hull was
probably much tougher and her aircraft nearly as capable as the
ones Lex first sailed with. He’d shown
Keje a picture of Lex in one of his
books, and Keje had to agree the comparison was not without
foundation.
Striding across the
wide bridgewing, Keje reached his own favorite stool. The rest of
the stools were ornately carved, but not his. His was old and
creaky and somewhat battered, but he and it had been through a lot
together. The faded wood was even liberally stained with his own
blood. He wasn’t about to abandon it—and woe was he whom Keje ever
caught sitting on it! There’d been several occasions now, enough
that he suspected his new officers had begun a tradition of hazing
their juniors as they rose, when “newies” had been told they had to
“start out” on the ugliest stool, only to have the “aahd-mah-raal”
descend upon the unlucky candidate like a roiling Strakka. Instead
of being angry with his officers, he played along, pleased that
they too seemed to recognize the need for many new “traditions” in
this new Navy to replace some of those they’d lost.
Settling upon the
protesting stool, Keje leaned on the rail before him and watched
the labor far below on the forward “flight deck.”
“Aadh-mah-raal,” said
Captain Atlaan-Fas, “we have received a wireless message from
Lieutenant Mark Leedom, Tikker’s executive officer. He will arrive
within two hours with our new medical officer, Nurse Lieutenant
Kaathy McCoy. Captain Tikker has been working his flight crews very
hard and begs you to allow him to fly a sortie to meet Lieutenant
Leedom’s plane.”
“Outstanding,” Keje
replied. “I assume that if Nurse McCoy is joining us, Nurse
Theimer’s—I mean, Letts’s—youngling must be thriving.” He shook his
head. “Most curious that human females change their names when they
mate.”
“Not terribly
curious,” Atlaan objected. “Our younglings often follow the names
of their fathers.” He grinned. “It is certainly not the most
significant difference between our peoples!”
Keje huffed a laugh.
“No concerns for the mother?”
“Surely not, or Nurse
McCoy would not be joining us.”
All Allied
transmissions the evening before had been virtually dedicated to
the happy news that “Allison Verdia Letts” had been born into this
world at last. Congratulations were returned from the far reaches
of the world, from Commodore Ellis in the Western Ocean to a
late-night message from Captain Reddy in the Eastern Sea, relayed
through Manila. Chairman Adar had proclaimed that this day, October
3 by the American calendar, would henceforth be “Allison Verdia
Day,” in honor of the first human youngling born among the Lemurian
people. May there be many more.
“Very well,” Keje
replied. “It is time we tested the new launching system, at any
rate. Captain Tikker may take a single flight of planes. We will
have plenty of time to recover the aircraft before dark.” Keje
grinned, and glanced port and starboard at the two new steam
frigates pacing his Home. One was USS Kas-Ra-Ar, named for his lost cousin and the first
frigate of that name destroyed during the Battle of Baalkpan. The
other was USS Scott. Everyone believed
that a frigate was a far better monument to the heroism of
Walker’s lost coxswain than a motor
launch. “You may also grant his request to ‘play’ with our escorts
when he returns!”
“Aye, aye,
Aahd-mah-raal.”
Captain Jis-Tikkar,
or “Tikker” to his friends, glanced to his right, over his
shoulder, to make sure the rest of the ships of “B” flight were
still where they were supposed to be. He was mildly amazed to see
that they were. Somehow, in the twisted way of things that seemed
to have become the norm, he was Salissa’s “Commander of Flight Operations,” or
“COFO,” in general, and commander of Salissa’s air wing of, eventually, forty planes, in
particular. Officially, the wing was the “1st Naval Air Wing,”
composed of the “1st and 2nd Naval Pursuit Squadrons,” and the
“1st, 2nd, and 3rd Naval Bomb Squadrons.” Evidently, the officious,
confusing, multiple names of the elements under his command were
the result of a compromise between Major Ben Mallory and the Navy
types that predominated. If it didn’t make much sense to him yet,
he presumed that it would eventually, when other “wings” were
operational.
His own lofty new
status was gratifying, he supposed, but it still struck him as
astounding. Granted, he’d become a good pilot and had learned he
actually had a gift for teaching. He was also the most
“experienced” Lemurian aviator in the entire world. But it hadn’t
been that long ago when Ben Mallory had actually forbidden him to
touch the controls of the battered PBY Catalina they’d finally lost
in the Battle of Baalkpan. Well, he’d improved. Everyone had. This
first draft of “Naval Aviators” from the growing “Army and Navy Air
Corps Training Center” outside of Baalkpan was composed of raw but
competent pilots. Tikker was proud of them, proud of the role he’d
had in training them.
Calling the group of
four aircraft he now led “ ‘B’ flight, 1st Naval Pursuit Squadron” didn’t make any sense at all,
however, and Tikker wasn’t sure it ever would. He and Ben both
hoped it would, eventually, but at
present, each of his “Nancy” flying-boats was identical, regardless
of its designation. Of course, even if some planes were ultimately
specially designed to chase something down and shoot it out of the
sky, as far as they knew, there was nothing else in the world’s
skies for them to “pursue.” Yet. Tikker and Ben both worried that
that wouldn’t always be the situation, and Ben, at least, wanted
some kind of organizational structure already in place. Just in
case.
Tikker was a
“believer,” but he shrugged mentally. Right now he didn’t really
care. He was flying, and that’s all that mattered. The “improved”
Nancys, or “PB-1Bs” as Mallory preferred to call them, were showing
themselves to be pretty good little airplanes. They were easy to
build and maintain and the ridiculously simple power plant was
reliable and powerful enough for anything they would ever need a
Nancy to do. They weren’t fast (by Ben’s standards), but they were
maneuverable—while being forgiving at the same time—something Ben
always said was hard to achieve. Tikker had the flying bug in a big
way, and if they could only invent a seat that was comfortable for
a ’Cat with a tail, he would have no complaints about the planes at
all.
He was also pleased
that he could report that the new hydraulic catapult worked even
better than anyone expected. The fundamental mechanism was
simple—if leaky and extremely messy—but the means of launching
aircraft without landing gear had required unexpected imagination.
They’d settled on a wooden “cradle truck” that accelerated forward,
supporting the fuselage of a Nancy until it reached the end of the
flight deck. At that point, the truck slammed to a stop and tripped
a release hook. Tikker had to admit, it scared him half to death
when the machine literally flung his plane into the air in front of
the ship. The acceleration was extreme, and he was amazed it didn’t
break any of the planes. The contraption might need a little
adjusting to take some of that initial jolt out of it, but it beat
lowering the planes over the side one at a time with the big crane
and then having them take off in possibly dangerous seas. They
still had to land on the water, but they could then simply motor
into one of the huge bays that opened in Big
Sal’s sides, from which she’d once launched her gri-kakka
boats. If they ever launched every plane on the ship, that wouldn’t
work, but they could still hoist out the extras with the
crane.
He glanced again to
make sure his flight was keeping up, then spoke into the voice tube
beside and a little behind his head.
“Hey, Cisco,” he
called to his copilot/engineer/observer in the aft cockpit. Cisco’s
real name was Siska-Kor, but like nearly everyone in the Naval Air
Corps, she had a nickname now. “We’re going to gain some altitude.
Send that we’ll climb to five thousand and maintain
formation.”
“It will be cold up
there,” came the tinny, windy reply.
“Not that cold,”
Tikker assured her. He realized they were going to have to get some
proper flight suits for the air crews. Right now they wore little
more than the regulation Navy kilt and T-shirt, with goggles for
the primary pilots. They needed goggles for everyone, but the glass
industry in Baalkpan was having fits and starts and they were still
using salvaged glass from Amagi. Cisco
was right, though—it would be chilly. He’d never really known what
cold was until he flew. He wasn’t even sure what the Nancy’s
“service ceiling” was, since he’d always been too cold to reach
it.
“Besides, Lieutenant
Leedom is a ‘hotshot.’ A natural. Strange for a sub-maa-reener, I
guess, but he’s liable to try to intercept us, and I bet he and Nurse McCoy are wearing warmer
clothes!”
Slowly, the flight
climbed. All the planes bobbled a little in the unruly air, but the
formation held together. Tikker scanned ahead, below, above, and
even behind, but the early-afternoon sun was too bright to stare in
that direction for long. The west coast of Borno lay before them,
but the blue-green shore would make it difficult for them to pick
out Mark Leedom’s blue-painted Nancy. “No signal yet?” Tikker asked
unnecessarily.
“From Leedom’s plane?
No, sir,” Cisco replied.
Well, that was good,
Tikker guessed. If Leedom had engine trouble, Nurse McCoy would
have sent something. She didn’t know
the code, but she’d been instructed to transmit a single long blast
if they ran into trouble. Tikker hated the idea that anyone might
ever be forced down in the unexplored jungles of Borno. The thought
frightened him even more than the prospect of setting down on rough
seas. “So. Wherever they are, they’re still airborne.”
“That would
figure.”
“Then they’re either
still ahead of us—” Tikker abruptly had to grab the stick more
firmly and fight for control against a surge of sudden turbulence
as a blue and white shape flashed down in front of him. For just an
instant he was frightened and confused, but he already knew what
had happened. “Or above and behind us!” he grated bitterly. Looking
around, he saw that his flight’s formation had disintegrated like a
flock of akka birds. When he looked down, he recognized what could
only be Leedom’s Nancy pulling out of its steep dive and beginning
to rise once more. “Send for the flight to reform on me,” he said
irritably. “Now that we’ve ‘found’ Lieutenant Leedom, we’ll return
to the task force and begin our other exercise.” He shook his head
and allowed a grin to sweep away his annoyance. “I guess Lieutenant
Leedom fancies himself a ‘pursuit’ pilot, even if all he has to
pursue are his friends. Let’s hope it stays that way.”
Captain Tikker,
Ensign Cisco, Lieutenant Leedom, and Nurse Lieutenant McCoy
appeared, as ordered, at the door to the admiral’s quarters
directly below the bridge. Marine Captain Risa-Sab-At awaited them
in the passageway, grinning hugely. Without a word, she knocked on
the door and ushered them inside. The “admiral’s quarters” were
Keje’s personal staterooms, and served the same purpose now as his
larger Great Hall had once done. Many of the same intricate
tapestries that had survived decorated these walls, and if the
space wasn’t as expansive as before, there was still plenty of room
for quite a large gathering, and the furnishings were far more
decorative than any human carrier had probably ever boasted. Keje
stood as they entered, along with Atlaan-Fas, Salissa’s nominal captain, and Atlaan’s executive
officer, Lieutenant Newman. They were indoors, so no one saluted,
but there was an unspoken exchange of respect.
“Welcome aboard,
Lieuten-aant McCoy!” Keje said. “I have missed you. The youngling
is well?”
“Very well,” Kathy
replied.
“Excellent! I wish I
could see it!”
Newman grinned.
“Human babies aren’t nearly as cute as ’Cat babies,” he said. “They
always look a little like grub-worms.”
“Nonsense!” Kathy
protested. “Allison is utterly precious!”
“I’m certain of it,”
Keje declared. “Please be seated, all of you.” The stools in the
stateroom were all quite ornate, even Keje’s. His favorite stool
having been taken permanently to the bridge, he considered it
pointless to try to “replace” it here. “Nurse McCoy,” he began when
all were comfortable, “I presume you are now prepared to begin your
duties as chief medical officer? Excellent. I apologize for the
uncomfortable necessity of flying you out to join us.”
“No apology
necessary.” She glanced at Leedom. “It was quite
exhilarating.”
“Yes. Well, I’d like
to hear about that before we’re finished.” Keje turned to Tikker.
“It would seem Mr. Leedom surprised your flight quite
badly.”
“Indeed,” Tikker
replied, “and that lends further credence to what Major Maallory
has been saying. He has always wanted the Air Corps, Naval and
otherwise, to be prepared for pursuit activities. Right now, we’re
not. We’re not armed for it in any way, and we haven’t practiced
pursuit tactics to any real extent. Mr. Leedom graphically
demonstrated how devastating that unpreparedness might someday
prove.”
“But the Grik, and
even the Imperials, don’t have any airplanes!” Atlaan protested.
“Practicing against threats that do not exist is dangerous and
possibly wasteful of pilots and machines.”
“The Imperials don’t
have airplanes yet,” Tikker conceded.
“Now that they know they are possible, I bet they will someday.
They are not my immediate concern, however. We have no idea what
the Grik may have by now. We know they have one airplane, the observation plane that bombed
Baalkpan. We know from Commander Okada that it was damaged, but we
haven’t recovered it at Aryaal or Sing-aa-pore. They have taken it
with them, somewhere. Even if they aren’t copying it as we speak,
all they have to do is fix it, and it can sweep every plane we have
from the sky. It is faster and, unlike our own planes, armed.”
Tikker glanced at Leedom. “I now believe we must be prepared to
meet it someday, if nothing
else.”
Atlaan was silent and
Keje grunted. “I see your point,” he said. “We must consider some
sort of air-to-air armament for our aircraft, and yes, our pilots
must at least practice a little of what to do if they are attacked
in the sky. ‘Evasive maneuvers,’ I think you called them. Very
well. You and our new ‘pursuit pilot extraordinaire’ will formulate
tactics and begin integrating them into the training flights.”
Keje’s voice lightened. “At least we know the dive-bombing tactics
you have been working on are effective!”
Tikker cringed. He’d
expected a chewing-out over the exercise his flight performed just
before they set down in Salissa’s lee.
Keje sounded pleased, in a way, but Tikker knew the admiral enjoyed
irony and he might fly into a rage at any moment. “Uh, well, yes,
Aahd-mah-raal. They do seem to work well, at least against ...
unsuspecting targets.”
Keje and even Atlaan
laughed out loud. It was a strange sound to humans, but all those
present had learned that what sounded like a hacking cough to them
was the height of mirth for a Lemurian.
“Unsuspecting!” Keje
managed at last. “I actually Told them
to expect an attack from the air! I wanted them somewhat prepared
so they could practice some ‘evasive maneuvers’ of their own! Trust
me, you are not the only one who has sleep-terrors of Grik
aircraft, or torpedoes or other unrevealed capabilities!” He barked
another laugh. “Cap-i-taan Cablaas-Rag-Laan of USS Scott actually complained to me regarding the successfulness of
your attack!”
Tikker cringed again.
Evidently, Keje wasn’t mad at him; most of his people enjoyed
practical jokes, but he hadn’t meant to make enemies of the new
steam frigate captains! And Scott had
actually dodged a few of their “bombs”! What must Captain
Mescus-Ricum of USS Kas-Ra-Ar think of
him? His ship hadn’t escaped a single hit!
Captain Atlaan
produced a creditable imitation of the slightly imperious commander
of Scott. “Aahd-mah-raal, I must
protest! An exercise is all well and good, but have you any idea
how messy a large, putrid, flasher fish can be when it strikes my
clean new deck from such a height at such a speed? ” Keje and
Atlaan roared again, joined by Risa and Newman.
“It was just like
that,” Newman said. “It came over wireless, but you could still
almost hear the indignation!”
“Wha—what was your
reply, Aahd-mah-raal?” Tikker asked, and Keje’s tone became more
serious.
“I told him that
bombs make a far bigger mess than rotten fish, and that he might
try a little harder, in the future, to avoid them. I had intended
to tell you not to use fish again because I suppose someone might
be injured if struck, but I have changed my mind. For the next few
days, you will bomb the frigates with rotten fish unmercifully,
until you can’t hit them anymore, understood?”
“Aye, aye,
Aahd-mah-raal.”
The room sobered and
Keje nodded to Newman, who stood and uncovered a map on the wall.
“Now, gentlemen—and ladies. That brings us to another issue. This
task force is still some distance away from . . . well, we’ve been
calling it ‘First Fleet’ because like as not, we’ll have more than
one before this is over. Anyway, First Fleet, for various reasons,
is going to hit Rangoon”—he pointed—“here, in a couple of days.
Commodore Ellis now believes it essential that we remove this
possible threat to our forward-most base on Andaman. For the same
reasons he made that decision, Admiral Keje now agrees as well. The
thing is, we want in on the scrape. Commodore Ellis is the man on
the spot, and he and General Alden will run the show, but this will
be a good opportunity for our pilots to rack up some combat
experience before we move against Ceylon.”
“I thought it was our
intention to keep this ship and our aircraft secret from the enemy
as long as possible,” Tikker said.
“It is,” said Newman,
“and everyone’s pretty sure we can operate against Rangoon and
still accomplish that. Nothing’s getting in or out of there by sea,
and if they try to send a message overland, we hope to have Ceylon
long before it could arrive.”
Tikker looked at
Leedom and scratched his ear around the hole with the highly
polished 7.7-millimeter cartridge case thrust through it. The hole
and the ornament were souvenirs of his first “solo” flight, and
also served as a reminder of just how incredibly lucky he’d been.
His was a risky job by definition, but he preferred that his risks
be as calculated as possible nowadays.
“Sounds okay,” he
said guardedly. “We need to know what they will expect of us, and
how big an effort we should make.”
“As of now,” Keje
said, “they don’t expect anything from
us. Commodore Ellis has made the request, and I told him I wanted
to discuss it with you before I agree. Schedules will have to be
revised to coordinate our participation, but that participation
ought to be advantageous to all concerned, I should think.
Commodore Ellis might have to delay his attack until we get within
range of your aircraft, but he should agree that a full-scale
aerial assault by our entire wing can accomplish numerous
objectives. First, I feel certain that such an attack would have a
disastrous effect on enemy morale, and General Alden could take
advantage of that and control the battle with far fewer casualties.
Second, of course, I believe the wing should inflict a substantial
number of casualties itself. Finally, and Captain Reddy would
certainly appreciate this, I’m sure, your timely observations of
the battlefield from the air should help General Alden shape his
battle with much greater certainty.”
“The entire wing?”
Atlaan asked softly.
“Yes. Captain Tikker
needs to practice organizing such an assault, just as much as the
fliers need to practice making one, and this seems the best, least
risky way to do it.” Keje regarded Tikker once more. “What is the
farthest distance you feel comfortable striking from with such a
force?”
“We need to keep
everyone together,” Tikker said, “which means the first to take off
will be burning fuel until the last ships join them.” He shook his
head. “That is too long. We should probably attack in two
waves.”
Mark Leedom was
nodding. “That makes sense. If the first ships only have to wait
for the last ships in that wave, each wave should have a couple of
hours’ flying time to reach the target, hang around long enough to
find somebody to bomb, and still make it back to the ship. I’m
assuming this ship will be a little closer by then?”
“Of course,” Keje
assured. “Possibly by as many as fifty miles or so.”
Tikker was silent a
moment, then sighed. “Well, as I said, it sounds okay. Fifty miles
is a nice buffer as well. Coordinate the timing with Commodore
Ellis based on those numbers, and I’m as confident as I can be that
Salissa’s first action as an aircraft
carrier will be a success. Remember, though, we are all new at
this, and no matter how well we plan or how carefully we prepare;
regardless of how good our pilots are, or how well made their
aircraft, I fear some lives will be lost.”
“You suspect the Grik
may have developed some defense against aircraft?” Risa asked,
speaking for the first time.
“No,” Tikker
answered. “Not yet, and if so, not at Rangoon. Honestly, I don’t
much fear we will lose many planes and pilots in action ... yet. I
am more concerned about our own inexperience and ignorance.” He
shrugged and looked around at the others. “Bear in mind that all of
us, even our human Americans—our ‘original’ destroyermen—have no
real experience with this kind of war. We still, essentially, make
it up as we go.”