Destroyermen #05 - Rising Tides Taylor Anderson

Prev Next

CHAPTER 27

New Scotland, Sunday, December 4, 1943

The meeting in Walker’s wardroom consumed a lot of Juan’s coffee hoard, but didn’t produce much in the way of new insights. They’d learned precious little over the past week, not nearly enough to be sure of anything, except a possible “short list” of enemy objectives. What the conspiracy actually hoped to achieve, or how, was still a growing mystery. All they could do was try and prepare for as many contingencies as they could imagine. Jenks had come aboard once a day to “train” with Matt in swordsmanship, and he did improve, but mostly they brainstormed and discussed what Jenks had learned. It wasn’t much: a swift Dominion dispatch sloop had cleared Scapa Flow, and another later departed New Glasgow to the west the very night Walker arrived at New Scotland, but nothing flying the red flag had come or gone since. That seemed to confirm their suspicions that whatever was up, the Dominion was involved and major preparations had been underway for quite some time. Matt was impressed by how quickly the conspirators reacted, and how closely they kept their intentions. It hinted that whatever was coming, Walker’s arrival might have advanced the schedule, lit a shorter fuse, but only minor adjustments were required to a plot that had long been in place.

“So all we know—still—is that ‘something big’ is liable to drop in the pot tomorrow, but we don’t know what it is,” Gray observed.

“Yeah,” Matt said, rubbing his eyes. It was almost 0100 and he had a big day ahead of him. Probably they all did. “Jenks still thinks it’s an attack of some kind, probably with Dominion aid for some reason, but he still doesn’t know where it’ll come from or what it might be composed of.” He sighed and swirled the lukewarm coffee in his “Captain’s” cup. “The objective might be Government House and the harbor facilities. It could be the dueling ground itself—there’ll be a lot of brass hanging around. Jenks has tried to make sure all the brass won’t be there, but he has to be careful who he talks to. No telling who’s involved.” Matt gestured at the porthole. “The objective might even be Home Fleet, God knows how. There’s six ‘ships of the line’ and ten frigates in port.” He looked at Frankie. “Mr. Steele, so far all you know you can count on, according to Jenks, are the frigates Euripides and Tacitus.”

Frankie nodded glumly. “What about our guys?” he asked Palmer.

The comm officer looked troubled. “Still no news. Salaama-Na and her escorts were on their way, last we heard, but there was another big storm out there, and we haven’t heard anything since. The ‘new’ Fil-pin-built Simms and Jenks’s Achilles sailed right after we did, but there’s been nothing from them either. Aerials or wind generators probably got carried away, and Simms might’ve cracked her batteries, or shorted everything out. Achilles’ set was a piece of ... junk to start with.” O’Casey nodded and Palmer lowered his voice. “Then there’s that damn Talaud. I hear Respite okay at night, but it’s fuzzy. Everything’s fine there, but they’re worried about a surge from the west. It seems the volcano’s been going nuts, and I only get snippets from Maa-ni-la. Respite Station passes stuff along, though, and it’s getting scary back home, Skipper.”

“So ... nada,” Steele said. Palmer shrugged.

Matt took a deep breath. “And I guess if anybody’d seen or heard from Ajax, they would’ve said something.” Only silence answered, and he slowly exhaled.

“Okay,” he said, “here’s the plan. In the morning”—he rubbed his face—“later This morning, at 0400, Mr. Reynolds will take off.... Everything still good with the Nancy, Lieutenant?”

“Swell, Skipper. It’ll be a little creepy taking off in the dark, but no sweat.”

“Good.” Matt looked at Frankie. “We’ll raise hell on the ship, blow tubes, vent steam, and generally carry on in a variety of loud, mechanical ways, to cover the sound of the Nancy’s motor. It’ll draw attention, but hopefully nobody’ll notice an airplane taking off in the dark.” He shrugged. “We goofed up telling them what the damn thing was, but most people here don’t believe it anyway. ‘It’s a proven fact that powered flight is impossible,’ ” he quoted wryly, and everyone chuckled. He looked at Reynolds. “It’ll probably be like looking for a needle in a haystack—and we don’t even know if the needle’s there—but if anything’s coming by sea, we need to know it. Keep a sharp eye off Scapa Flow, New Glasgow, and Edinburgh. I know that’s a big grid, and you’re only one plane, but you’re probably the only warning we’ll have.”

Fred Reynolds gulped. “Aye, aye, Skipper.”

“After that ...” He paused. “Maybe it’ll look like a big send-off. Spin some platters over the shipwide comm too. Boats, Courtney, Stites, and myself will leave for the ‘dueling ground.’ ” He looked at Chack. “As soon as you hear the church bells sound the end to services, form your short company of the 2nd Marines on the dock. O’Casey? You’ll command the Imperial Marines. Lieutenant Blair’s been feeling out Marine officers, much like Jenks has been doing, to see who he can count on. He’ll meet you here with whatever he can scrounge up.”

“We should go with you,” Chack insisted.

“No, we have to assume they’ll be expecting that. It might even be what all this is about. You have to be ready to respond to anything. If we need you at the dueling ground, Stites’ll send up a flare. It’s about two miles, but you’ll see it well enough.” He arched an eyebrow. “It’s supposed to be a pretty day.” He laid his hands on the table, palm up. “Anything else? I think we’ve covered every base we can.... I just wish we knew we’re in the right ballpark!” He waited a moment while his crew glanced at one another. “Okay, that’s it. I’m going to try to sleep. Wake me if anybody hears anything!”

At long last the gathering broke up. Matt started for his quarters, but Spanky blocked his way, hands on hips. Throughout the meeting, he’d done little but chew yellow tobacco and spit in a sediment-filled Coke bottle. “I oughta be with you,” he said.

“No. I want Frankie to have three boilers all day if he needs them. You’re the only guy in the whole world who can do that ... and maybe not empty the bunkers!”

“Well ...” Spanky stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Skipper.”

Matt took the hand. “You too. I expect we’re both going to need it.”

The atmosphere at the dueling ground was like a big, garish fair, and as Jenks predicted, attendance was huge, even compared to the Pre-Passage Ball. The event had been the talk of the Empire for an entire week, and people came from almost every island to view the spectacle. Not many came from New Ireland, but it was a virtual Company possession and only a few executives there had the means to hire passage. Even so, oddly, not a single ferry or Company official arrived from New Dublin. That struck many as strange, since New Dublin constituted Harrison Reed’s prime constituency. Nevertheless, the New Scotland churches bulged with pious attendees, praying for the souls of the soon to be departed, and bookmakers hawked odds through the teeming crowd.

“Jenks is runnin’ about even,” Gray announced, reappearing with Courtney, pewter mugs in their hands streaming suds. “Thanks for the loan, Commodore,” he added.

Jenks nodded. He was dressed simply in a white shirt with a red cravat, his white Navy knee britches, and a pair of knee-high boots. Around his waist was only a tight red sash, into which was thrust his naked sword. His long hair was clubbed at the nape of his neck, and his mustache was freshly braided. He looked very businesslike, and it was clear he’d done this before. Matt had followed his lead, wearing khaki shirt and trousers, both of Lemurian “cotton.” His loose trouser legs were bound by a pair of U.S. Navy leggings. His own naked Academy sword—carefully sharpened—was held against his side by a web belt. He took off his hat and handed it to Juan, who’d sneaked off the ship to join them as they made their way to the grounds. Juan had even shed his sling, gamely moving his arm around when confronted and claiming he didn’t think it was ever really broken at all.

“What about me?” Matt asked, tying a bandanna around his neck. He needed something to sop at sweat.

Gray winced. “Lots of sympathy, Skipper, but you’re runnin’ about twenty to one, give or take. Against.”

“Ridiculous,” Juan scoffed, tying another bandanna around Captain Reddy’s head to keep sweat from running into his eyes. Juan’s attitude reflected that of virtually Walker’s entire crew. The “distracting” send-off they’d given him had been real, and it warmed Matt’s heart, but he’d been a little taken aback by how little concern they’d shown that he might lose his contest. Most just couldn’t understand how far out of his element he would be.

“That bad?” asked Matt. “What makes folks so pessimistic?”

Gray cleared his throat. “Well, ah, as we suspected, there’s been scouts down watchin’ you and the commodore prancin’ around on the ship, practicin.’ Lots of folks think you’d do well ... with a lot more practice. But the word is you’re too, ah, ‘predictable.’ Too worried about form ...” He shrugged. “Sorry, sir. Like I always say, too much calf slobber’ll spoil the pie.”

Matt frowned. “That’s okay, Boats. I’ll give ’em a show, whatever they think.”

“That’s the spirit, sir! You’ve been in worse scrapes before.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. He had. “Who’d you bet on?”

“You, of course.” He glared at Jenks. “Penny-pinchin’ devil didn’t give me enough money to do it up right, and he demanded fifty percent of my winnings too!”

“It was a risky wager,” Jenks reminded him. He paused. “The good thing is, your opponent will likely ‘stretch it out.’ He’s a ‘professional,’ and makes his living at this. He’ll want to make it look good; provide a ‘spectacle.’ That should give you plenty of time to practice your new, ‘predictable’ style against him.” He stopped. “Please excuse me,” he said, stepping away to meet his wife, waiting behind the rope line. They saw him cradle her chin with his hand.

“Weird duck,” Stites pronounced, fiddling with a tarp-covered crate they’d sent up the day before. “All of ’em. Weird ducks. Treat wimmen like pets, or worse, but Jenks does love that gal. I wonder if he ‘bought’ her.”

“I sorta loved a dog once,” Gray grumbled. “Damn fine bitch. Even so, my mother woulda cased me out if I treated a woman like I did that dog.” He paused. “Skipper, are we even sure this is our fight? We got women now—though I ain’t personally—and a hell of a fight all our own, a long way from here. I know we wanna save our girls, and even Silva, but ... well, you know as well as I do that’s ... probably out of our hands.” It was the closest anyone had come to actually saying the hostages were probably lost with Ajax. “We still need to kill the Company and that’s a fact, but ... this is a lot bigger than that now.”

Matt looked at the Bosun, but for an instant he was seeing the face of Don Hernan, and remembering that ... twisted interview. He was personally convinced that the “Blood Cardinal” was up to his neck in whatever was going on, though he still didn’t know how.

“You’re right,” he said. “This is way bigger than that. But it is our fight because we’re here.” He snorted. “Hell, Boats, that’s what we’ve been doing for the last two years, since Pearl Harbor: fighting the war we’re at. I’m not saying we need another war, or even that I like this Imperial setup much, but I have started to like the people. Some of ’em. Right now I think they need us ... and damn it, we need them. That Don Hernan gives me the creeps worse than the first Griks I ever saw. In a way, he and his Dominion strike me as even worse than the Grik because they’re people that act the way they do. And this Reed and the Company ...” He shook his head in exasperation. “Hell, I don’t even try to calculate ‘shades of gray’ anymore. There’s just too many. All we can do is try to look underneath them all to see if we can find the basic black or white, good or bad. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I can’t help feeling that if we quit trying to find good folks on this world, even if we run into more bad ones while we’re at it, we might as well steam back to Baalkpan and wait for the Grik to return and finish us off.”

Gray nodded slowly, staring out at the dueling ground. “Aye, sir. Maybe so. I sure would like to get me one of them gals and spend a year or two retired before I croak, though.”

Stites rolled his eyes. “S.B., if you ever ‘retired,’ we’d be buryin’ you from boredom in a week.”

Horns sounded, and the combatants moved to face one another across the field. It had been decided that the contests would be simultaneous. Despite the gladiatorial atmosphere, the layout of the dueling ground itself reminded Matt of a football stadium in a forest. The architecture was surprisingly familiar, and the thick woods of Imperial Park surrounding the grounds were unlike anything Matt had ever seen on the “old” islands. They looked more like pines. The spectators on one side occupied an expansive set of wooden bleachers, built around the Imperial viewing box. The Governor-Emperor stood in his box with Andrew and a number of military officers. All were dressed in their Sunday best and wore impassive expressions, but it was clear whose side they were on. The bleachers around them thundered with noise, the accumulated effect of perhaps four thousand voices talking at once.

There was a stark contrast between that and the “opposing” bleachers. Don Hernan occupied that box, surrounded by a phalanx of priests and a few local clergy. Matt was surprised to learn that the Empire allowed Blood Priests of the Holy Dominion to preach on its soil, but it did. Only those of the English Church enjoyed full citizenship, but vestiges of Hinduism and Mohammadism still lingered as well.

“Oh, that’s done it,” Jenks said aside to him as they strode forward. He sounded stunned.

“What?”

“Look there.” Jenks pointed. Joining Don Hernan in the opposing box was Harrison Reed himself, followed by a large entourage. Many of the spectators on that side hissed and grumbled and began to get up and leave, apparently outraged, making their way to the opposite bleachers. “Good God, we were right! Reed’s declared himself!”

“Why wouldn’t he be on that side?” Matt asked. “You represent the Governor-Emperor and your argument’s with Reed.”

“That may be how it seems, my friend, but that’s not exactly how it is. Technically, ‘on the field,’ I represent only myself. That’s why, close as we admittedly are, His Majesty has taken no official notice. Reed should be—normally would be—watching from the same box as the Governor-Emperor, pretending to be his very best friend. By standing with Don Hernan, he has made this a political fight. Worse, he’s declared himself against the Governor-Emperor and with Don Hernan! See? Even much of the Company baggage is clearing from the opposing stands! For the most part, nobody hates the Doms worse than the Company! Even Billingsley despised them! Called them ‘Roman Witches and Freaks.’ ”

“Then ... I’m more confused than ever. Why work together? Why would Reed stand with them?”

“They work together for ‘the Trade,’ the commerce in people that you hate so much. It’s the Dominion’s cheapest, most plentiful resource and the Company’s most lucrative commodity. Otherwise, the Company and the Dominion couldn’t be further apart—I see you don’t understand, but we don’t have time to go into economics. Suffice to say for now that they hate one another. Up ’til now, they needed one another more.”

“What’s changed? Why would Reed show his hand?”

“Everything’s changed. We were right, it will be today. Reed has chosen his side and thinks he’s safe to do so. Stop here.”

“Well ... that’s nuts. Won’t he be arrested, for treason or something?”

“Just as soon as our little ‘entertainment’ is over,” Jenks swore.

They’d reached the center of the field and the now much larger “home” crowd cheered lustily. An announcer was introducing them with a speaking trumpet, but Matt couldn’t hear the words.

“And in This corner,” Matt muttered to himself as their opponents strode to meet them. The slick-haired man was dressed much as he’d been that night a week before. His lips still bore heavy scabs and his crooked grin was missing a couple of teeth. He moved like the professional he was, but his eyes glinted with hatred and anticipation—as though he expected to enjoy this chore.

“What?” Jenks asked.

“Skip it. Who’s your guy?”

“I’ve no idea. It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t even know ‘my’ guy’s name. Will we say ‘hello,’ or just ‘come out swinging’?”

“We won’t say ‘hello.’ ”

“We’ll just start hacking away at each other, perfect strangers?”

Jenks sighed. “As soon as the Imperial Marshal inspects our weapons, reads the complaint, and gives the signal, yes. Now please stop distracting me and concentrate on what you must do!”

Matt smirked. He supposed he should be nervous, but his mind was already far beyond the moment, worrying about everything else going on. Somehow, he couldn’t escape the suspicion he was missing something. He knew he had to focus, or all that other stuff very shortly wouldn’t matter to him anymore. Like the others, he submitted his sword for inspection and half listened to the various complaints and the Rules of Combat. Jenks had gone over the rules with him pretty carefully. Finally, the marshal stepped back and held a kerchief high, fluttering in the morning breeze. There was a hush in the stands.

“What’s your name?” Matt blurted at the slick-haired man. He didn’t know why he did it. Maybe it was a final, subconscious attempt to think of him as a man. His opponent seemed taken aback, but sneered as best he could around his broken lips.

“Does it ’atter? You’ll soon be dead.”

Matt shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t after all.”

The kerchief dropped.

Lieutenant Fred Reynolds knew he was on an important mission, and he was suitably serious about it, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the stunning view presented by the early-morning spectacle of the New Britain Isles. He’d never flown above the Hawaiian Islands before. He’d never flown at all before he entered Ben Mallory’s Air Corps, but he knew he’d made the right decision. Ever since they came to this world, he’d just been a seaman, the last of Walker’s original crew who hadn’t advanced, or even struck for anything. He’d gained a lot of experience as a talker, but that was all he’d ever really been. Now he was an aviator, a pilot, an officer; and all he’d really done was finally pick something to do that didn’t scare him or bore him. Sure, sometimes he was scared of flying, particularly when somebody was shooting at him, but he wasn’t afraid of the idea of flying, and even with the improved ships, it was never boring.

Comm was boring. Constantly listening for messages that never came. He’d had a taste of that, and couldn’t stand it. That was Kari-Faask’s job on the plane—along with all her other jobs—and he didn’t envy her that one at all. She seemed to like it, though, and probably would have liked it better on the ship or ashore. She was no coward—cowardice didn’t run in her family—but her courage was of a more sensible nature than the great Haakar-Faask’s. Probably more sensible than Fred’s—and she hadn’t ever shot any holes in their own airplane either. Their pairing made better sense all the time, to Reynolds’s mind. He was the increasingly “hotshot” pilot who took their little ship where it needed to go, and had a real feel for takeoffs and landings on the water. She was the workmanlike side of the team, diligently doing her duty, monitoring the receiver, and constantly scanning for the things they’d been sent to look for.

It was no surprise to Reynolds, then, when her tinny voice reached him from the speaking tube, interrupting his enjoyment of the sense of being the very first person ever to view these new islands from the air, as well as simply appreciating the sharp, almost chilly air. They were on the second leg of their pattern, flying northwest along the coast between Scapa Flow and New Glasgow. Ever efficient, Kari had made an observation and monitored a transmission at the same time.

“Surface target, bearing two three zero,” she said, and Fred looked to his left. Sure enough, there were shapes to the southwest, sails, lots of sails, coming from a direction Jenks had said no large Imperial force was operating. Either that was Walker’s Allied resupply or it was bad guys. It was that simple.

“Transmit the position of the target,” Fred said, a rush of heat at the back of his neck, despite the altitude. Uh-oh. He’d seen enough sails from the air now to begin to recognize whose they were, just by their shape. These were even easier to identify. They were red. The Grik used red paint on their hulls, but nobody he knew had red sails except that Dominion dispatch boat. Jenks had said the Dominion sometimes used red sails for official vessels—and warships. It had to do with their screwy, bloodsucking version of Catholicism, or something. The heat at the back of his neck turned to ice. “Ah, send that we’re going to investigate the target,” he added, banking left.

“Fred,” came Kari’s voice, “I also got a weak signal from Respite, maybe bounced off sky. They pass along message out of Maa-ni-la, passed from somebody ... anyway, it is general alarm.” She paused. Her voice sounded more concerned than it had over possible enemy action.

“Well, what is it?” Reynolds demanded.

“Talaud blow up. Everybody saying it ‘pull Kraak-aa-toaa,’ but worse. What that mean? Signal say Min-daanao—Paga-Daan—gone. Tarakaan, maybe even Baalkpan, Sembaakpaan, Sular, Respite, Saamir—all land places—maybe get big gaararro, ah, ‘tidal wash.’ ”

“Holy smoke!” Fred remembered that Kari was land folk from Aryaal. Big waves meant a lot more to them than they did to sea folk. Like everyone in the Navy, though, he’d heard tales of Krakatoa and what followed its eruption—ships carried miles inshore and left high and dry with no survivors. It was the boogeyman of natural disasters. Where Talaud was, Mindanao probably did get hammered. Still, he couldn’t imagine anything making a wave big enough to threaten Tarakan, much less Baalkpan or Respite. “Settle down, it’ll be fine. Just transmit the warning and let’s pay attention to what we’ve got here.” He’d steadied up on a heading toward the strangers and was beginning to descend. “I’d say they’re definitely Dominion ships,” he added grimly. “Get the word to Mr. Steele; the Skipper was right.”

Commander Frankie Steele was standing on Walker’s bridge, hands behind his back, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. The church bells of Scapa Flow were pealing in the morning air, echoing cacophonously through the streets and alleys. Chack and O’Casey were forming the Marines on the dock as if for inspection, and the few port marshals and Company wardens left watching the ship were growing uneasy over this unexpected and unannounced activity. Blair was double-timing a company of Marines through the harbor district, and their “shore shoes” thundered in time with the ringing bells. The marshals and wardens didn’t know what was happening; it looked at first like the Marines were coming to force the “ape folk” back aboard the strange steamer—but there were a few Imperial Marines mixed with the “apes”! When Blair’s Marines arrived fully on the scene, and the lieutenant advanced and saluted Chack, all the civilian guards fled in confusion.

Ed Palmer dashed onto Walker’s bridge with a sheet of yellow Imperial paper in his hand. “It’s here,” he said, pale.

Frankie snatched the message away and quickly scanned it. He worried about the report concerning Talaud—the ship’s receiver hadn’t caught it—but that wasn’t pertinent to them here, now. “They are going for it,” he said, almost amazed. Somehow he just hadn’t imagined he would really have to step into the Skipper’s shoes and fight the Skipper’s ship. ‘The whole damn enchilada!” he continued, looking up at Spanky. “Reynolds reports a ‘large’ enemy force making for Scapa Flow! He got close enough to identify ten Dominion battlewagons, or ‘liners,’ ten more ships like we call frigates, and what looks like a couple o’ dozen transports.” His brow furrowed. “He says only the transports are steamers, though, an’ they’re hangin’ back. That’s weird.” He shrugged. “Prob’ly mean to poke a hole with the liners and punch the transports through, fast like.”

“I’ll bet you’re right,” Spanky said.

Frankie looked at him with a strange smile. “Sure you don’t wanna switch jobs?” he asked, a strange edge to his outwardly joking question.

Spanky looked at him a moment, actually tempted. Frankie was usually steady as a rock, but he’d been through a lot, right from the start, aboard Mahan.

“Naw, Frankie,” he said in a joking tone as well. “I got a job. Bashear’s already hangin’ around the auxiliary conn.” He paused. “Why don’t you sound GQ and get this show on the road? We can’t let ’em catch us in port like the Japs did at Pearl!”

“Yah,” said Frankie, straightening. “Sound ‘general quarters’! Make all preparations for getting underway! Signal flags to the yards!” He looked at Palmer. “Send back to Mr. Reynolds that he can play dive bomber if he likes, but take care of that plane!” Reynolds’s Nancy had a dozen of Chack’s mortar bombs aboard, the same bombs other Nancys had dropped by hand in combat over Rangoon. Reynolds hadn’t been carrying any in the battle with the Company ships because they hadn’t expected a fight. Now he always carried a crate of bombs whenever he flew.

The prearranged signal, “enemy in sight,” along with “southwest” as reported by the Nancy, rattled up Walker’s halyards, along with an attention-getting shriek from her whistle. Euripides and Tacitus, both commanded by close personal friends of Jenks, already had steam up, and they acknowledged the signal. Immediately, both ships also fired signal guns and ran up additions to their own “enemy in sight” flags, announcing confirmation of a “hostile fleet” southwest of Scapa Flow. Maybe a few other Imperial ships would take the hint. Walker, now free of the dock, belched smoke and churned forward, squatting down aft as her twin screws bit deep and threw up a churning white wake as she commenced a rapid starboard turn.

Finny was on the starboard bridgewing. “The fort is flying signal!” he said. “It spell English, say ‘Amer-i-caan Ship Heave To or Be Fired On!”

“The hell you say?” Kutas grunted at the wheel.

“Signals!” Frankie shouted aft of the chart house. “Hoist: ‘Dom Invasion Fleet Headed Scapa Flow. No Shit!’ ” He paused. “Tell ’em if they shoot at us, we’ll let the bastards in,” he snarled. They waited in silence, the blower roaring behind the pilothouse, but the minutes ticked by and there was no change in the Imperial signal.

“Even if they shoot, they’ll never hit us,” Kutas said. “We’re too fast.” He couldn’t keep all the concern out of his voice, however; the fort had a lot of guns.

“Euripides and Taas-itus are underway,” Finny shouted. “They still firing signal guns, flying flags. They flying battle flags now!”

Walker was still gaining speed, and her crew cringed involuntarily as their ship raced under the fort’s gaping guns at twenty knots. There were no shots.

“Lookout sees smokes on horizon,” called Min-Sakir, or “Minnie” the talker, so named for her size and voice. “Much smokes!” she stressed. “Nancy is pounding craap out of traan-sports!” she chortled.

“Belay sportscaster comments on the bridge!” Frankie scolded, a little more harshly than he’d intended.

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied a chastened Minnie.

Far outstripping her Imperial “allies,” USS Walker sent her own battle flag racing up her foremast and steamed into battle with a new, unknown foe.

The slick-haired man immediately went on the attack. Matt found himself fighting for his life once again with swishing, crashing blades and a blinding-fast sword point that dissolved into a blur before his eyes. The difference was, this time he really was fighting for his life and there was no padding or blunted tips. He was giving ground—he had no choice—and still he suspected his opponent was merely toying with him, showing off. The guy was incredibly quick, even faster than Jenks, and Matt knew with complete certainty that he stood no chance in this kind of fight. He’d improved tremendously—his daily exercises had seen to that—but he still felt stiff, fighting in this formal, almost ritualized style. He stuck with it, though, even after his unnamed adversary pinked him on the left shoulder, cut the back of his left hand when it inadvertently strayed from behind his back, and opened a shallow gash on the inside of his right forearm.

He had no idea how Jenks was doing; he didn’t dare take his eyes off that cobralike blade before him. He heard grunting and stomping and the incessant rattle of blades, so he knew his friend was still alive at least. Beyond that, he didn’t have a clue. His own fight had backed him up and around, until Jenks’s battle continued at his back. The crowd, almost completely on the Imperial side now, occasionally groaned or cheered, and he suspected the groans were mostly for him. He fought on, gasping, sweat soaking his bandanna and blood streaming down to his wrist. Soon his hand would get slippery and he’d be dead. Seeing this, his opponent disengaged and took a few steps back.

“Wipe your arm,” he said harshly. At least he was breathing hard as well. “I’m enjoying this, and I want it to last!” He turned his back and walked in a circle, slashing at the air while Matt pulled the bandanna from his neck and wiped the blood away. He held the cloth against his face, soaking up the sweat, then wrapped it around his bleeding left hand, clasping the ends in his palm. There was polite applause from the stands. He looked over and saw that Jenks and his adversary were still going at it.

“Thanks,” Matt said. “Sorry, I don’t know your name, so I hope ‘shithead’ is okay?”

The slick-haired man snarled and came at him. As quick as that, the battle was rejoined with the same intensity as before, maybe even more. Matt kept at it, still a little awkward in the stiff form he’d practiced. The other man had a number of advantages besides his vastly greater experience. He was smaller, faster, in much better condition, and his blade wasn’t as heavy. On Matt’s side was his reach, his thus far almost entirely defensive strategy—and his mind-set. Unknown to his opponent, Matt wasn’t fighting a duel, he was battling a rabid animal, a Grik, a creature bent on killing him so he couldn’t perform his greater duty of protecting the people he’d brought here. The man had been right about one thing—his name meant nothing to Matt.

There was a thunderous cheer, a cheer Matt had been waiting for, praying for, as his arm began to tire. He’d been counting on it, but it drew his opponent’s attention just the slightest bit. With a roar, Matt dropped all pretense of form and style and lunged forward, plowing his opponent’s sword aside with his own, then grasping the blade with his “bandaged” left hand. Bringing his guard up, he smashed the man in the face again, drew back, and drove his Academy sword into the slick-haired man’s chest, all the way to the hilt.

The crowd went almost silent, then erupted once again. Chances were, a few might scoff at his tactics, but they weren’t against the rules. Besides, most likely, hardly anyone saw what he did. Attention had probably been focused on Jenks. Matt took the slick-haired man’s sword from his loosening fingers and let his body slide off his own blade onto the ground. The crowd was ecstatic. He looked at Jenks and grinned, gasping for every breath. A squad of marshals, muskets on their shoulders, were trotting toward the opposing box where Reed leaned on the rail beside Don Hernan, his face set in stone. Matt watched, perplexed again as to why Reed would so publicly associate himself with the weird foreign priest—or whatever he was. Obviously, the Governor-Emperor also considered it tantamount to treason. Everyone would think so, even the Company. Reed just stood there, waiting for the marshals to come. It didn’t make sense.

Something stirred near the bottom of the stands and Matt looked down. About four feet off the ground, the blue bunting parted and exposed five, six, eight! dark, ominous muzzles. Matt spun and sprinted toward Jenks. Just as he performed a classic open-field tackle on his friend, eight medium-weight cannons erupted with breath-snatching force and spewed their double loads of canister into the “Imperial” bleachers.

“My God, it is here!” Jenks coughed as the white smoke billowed over them. The cheers in the stands had turned to screams. “No wonder Reed went to that side!”

“Not so much a political statement as self-preservation,” Matt agreed, coughing too. He heaved Jenks to his feet. “Cannons! How the hell did they get Those here without anybody seeing? Didn’t anybody think to check?”

“For cannons on the ground level under the viewing stands? Be serious. They may have been sneaking them in for months, in carts or wagons....” Jenks seemed disoriented. “The Governor-Emperor!”

“C’mon!” Matt said. “We gotta get out of here before they reload!”

“I must go to Gerald!”

“Jenks, he’s either dead, well protected by now, or too busy to notice you!” Matt said sharply. “Let’s go!” He sprinted back in the direction they’d previously walked, dragging Jenks by the arm. Stites, Juan, and a puffing Gray met them in the smoke. Stites had a BAR and Gray carried his Thompson. Juan had two 1903 Springfields and he handed one to Matt, along with his other belt with his scabbard and Colt.

“Did you shoot the flare?” Matt demanded. The air was still thick with the white haze of gunsmoke. Muskets began to pop, stabbing orange flame in all directions, but most was aimed at the Imperial stands.

“Aye, sir, as if I needed to,” Stites replied. “Goddamn cannons! If Chack didn’t hear that, he’s ... well, been around cannons too long!”

Men in yellow and red uniforms were becoming visible at the base of the “visitors’ ” stands, loading the heavy guns.

“Hose ’em!” Matt ordered. Juan fired the first shot and a man with a rammer staff crumpled to the ground. Gray stitched the blue bunting around each gun, while Stites unleashed several clips horizontally along the base of the stands. Matt held his fire, looking for Reed, Don Hernan, or any of the bigwigs, but the viewing box was suddenly empty. Musket balls vrooped through the air around them, and they were driven to cover. All the while, the screaming in the stands to Matt’s right continued unabated. They scrambled over a hasty barricade that Courtney had erected around the reinforced crate. He’d added some heavy benches and other odds and ends he’d managed to gather before he drew the enemy’s attention.

“Bloody good show, Captain Reddy!” he exclaimed, when they dropped behind the meager protection. A stack of helmets awaited them, and everyone discarded their hats and put one on, pulling the straps under their chins. “If I didn’t know better, I’d have bet against you myself. I almost believed you were outclassed there for a moment. Bravo!”

Stites heaved one of the ship’s .30-caliber Brownings up onto the crate. Juan banged open a box of belted ammunition.

“Yeah,” said Matt. “Me too.” He peeked over the crate. “Damn!” he said. “Where are they all coming from? There must be a company of infantry out there, maybe more. Hurry up, Stites!”

“I suppose if the marshals had been attentive enough to discover cannons, they might have found that as well,” Jenks said wryly, referring to the Browning. He seemed to have gathered his wits. “Bringing weapons to a duel ... It just isn’t done!” He crouched beside Matt, fiddling with the chin strap of the unfamiliar helmet. “They must have staged the infantry in the woods before dawn, perhaps keeping people out with men posing as marshals.”

“Or they had real ones helping,” Matt said. Three cannons fired into the opposite stands again, raising another chorus of screams.

“Filthy murderers!” Jenks cried. “They’re deliberately killing unarmed civilians!” he exclaimed to Matt. “Give me a weapon, I beg you!”

“Welcome to the kind of war we’re used to, Jenks,” Matt said grimly. He handed over the Springfield Juan had given him and picked up the BAR, checking the magazine. “You remember how to use that?” he asked.

Jenks looked doubtfully at the ’03. “You showed me once.”

“You’re going to love it,” Matt assured him, opening fire with the BAR. Stites joined him with the .30-cal.

Against Kari’s adamant warnings, Reynolds took the Nancy into a final dive. The strangers on the ships below were starting to shoot back now, and being mainly infantry, they had a lot to shoot back with. The speed of the plane made individual accuracy from smoothbore muskets poor at best, but with so many firing, even accidental hits were likely. The last dive had resulted in seven or eight brand-new holes in the little ship, one of which was causing a little trouble with the starboard aileron.

Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask had left three ships burning already, though, and they still had one bomb left.

“Hold on to your hat!” Fred cried. “Just one more run, and we beat feet back to Scapa Flow! We’re almost out of fuel anyway.” He pushed the stick forward and Kari reluctantly finished cranking the wing floats back down. She was panting from raising and lowering the contraptions and cursed herself for the idea. She’d popped off that they needed to “slow down” in their dives so she could get a better feel for her release point. Fred said they needed more drag and she suggested the floats. Since then, they’d discovered the things made pretty good dive brakes, but improved mechanical advantage over the prototype or not, it was a hell of a lot of work.

Kari finished cranking just as the Nancy lined up on an undamaged transport, and she reached into the nearly empty crate of bombs. Fred was staring at the ship, imagining a set of sights was mounted on the nose of the plane—across the large “NO” painted there. The target was a weird-looking thing, as were all the “enemy” ships. It was a steam-sail hybrid like the Imperial frigates, but the lines remained more classical. There really wasn’t much difference between the American and Imperial steamers except that the Americans used screw propellers and the “Brits” used paddle wheels. The Dominion steamers might almost have been galleons, or Grik Indiamen, and their paddle wheels were exposed. As far as Fred could tell, the Dominion warships—and a couple were real monsters—still relied on sail power alone. He knew that could be an advantage as well as a disadvantage, depending on the wind, and their sides seemed to be pierced for an awful lot of guns. “Get ready!” he shouted.

The transport below was trying to maneuver, something the others hadn’t done, and he kicked the rudder back and forth, trying to keep the target in his imaginary sights. Human shapes grew visible below, hundreds of them, all seemingly armed with muskets pointed at his nose. Some started flashing amid white puffs of smoke. He bored in, almost until it looked like the Nancy would clip the enemy masthead, and he yanked back on the stick just as the plane shuddered from a number of hits and the air around him thrummed with a hundred more balls as he roared down, almost to the sea, and leveled off into a gentle, distancegaining climb.

Risking a quick look back to see where the bomb fell, he didn’t see a detonation or even a splash. “What the—!” he started to shout into the voice tube, but then saw Kari lolling back and forth with the motion of the plane. “Kari!” he yelled. “Kari, answer me! Are you hit?”

The ’Cat managed to straighten slightly, and shifted her face toward the voice tube. “I hit,” she confirmed, barely audible. “Motor hit too.” Fred saw she was quickly being covered by atomized oil spraying through the prop. “I tell you we ask for it that time!” Kari mumbled.

“No, Kari!” Fred shouted, “I asked for it! I’m so sorry! Where are you hit? Put pressure on it, stop the bleeding!”

Kari didn’t answer. Instead, she flopped to one side of her cockpit and slumped down in her seat.

“No!” Fred screamed. “You hang on, do you hear? Damn it, don’t you ... Just hang on!” Frantically he looked around. The oil pressure gauge was dropping fast, and the various temperature gauges were beginning to rise. Ahead, toward the mouth of Scapa Flow, he just made out a gray shape, a bone in her teeth and hot gasses shimmering above her stacks. A couple of other ships were underway as well, far behind. “Just hang on,” he repeated, aiming his battered plane for the old destroyer, and pushing the throttle to its stop.

With an audible Thwack! followed by a diminishing, low-pitched whawha-wha sound, Juan’s leg jerked from under him and he fell against the crate and slid down, flat on his face. He’d been kneeling on his right knee and his left leg had strayed from behind cover. Gray quickly dragged him back and inspected the wreckage of his lower leg.

“Shit. Smack in the middle of the shin,” he said, tearing his T-shirt and tying the strips tightly just under the knee. Juan hadn’t made a peep. He didn’t seem sure what had happened. Gray caught Matt’s eye and jerked his head significantly from side to side, mouthing, “It’s gone.” Juan tried to get back up, but Gray held him down. “No, goddamn it, you stay put! You wanna bleed out?” With that, the Bosun replaced the magazine in his Thompson and fired a long, smoky burst over the top of the crate.

They were nearly out of ammunition for the .30-cal. The tiny cart they’d hired the day before simply hadn’t been able to carry much beyond the weight of the large, inconspicuously armored crate—not to mention the heavy weapons inside. Of course, they hadn’t expected to fight a pitched battle all alone, and that’s basically what they had on their hands. The crate was riddled with holes, but few balls had passed all the way through, courtesy of the two Marine shields inside. Stites had been grazed along the ribs, but otherwise, besides a few splinters, they were unhurt. Until Juan was hit.

They’d drawn most of the enemy fire on themselves, giving the bleachers a chance to empty, and Matt concentrated on the cannons when he could, keeping them from firing at them now. The guns were effectively silenced, but enemy troops continued to pour forward to take the place of the countless slain. They’d been preparing to pull back straightaway behind the crate, and then sprint for the protection of the wall that funneled spectators into the bleachers. With Juan hurt, that was out. They couldn’t leave him, and any man who tried to carry him was doomed. All they could do now was hold their ground and hope Chack got there in time.

The machine gun had done the most damage, and Matt was constantly revising upward the number of enemies they faced. He’d never seen human troops take such punishment and just keep pushing, especially into the mouth of something like the Browning, which they’d never encountered before. It was nuts. Twice, the “Doms” tried to cross the open ground on their left flank and come at them from that direction, but Stites literally butchered the attempts. Since then, it was pretty straight up: five men (including Courtney’s occasional shot) with modern weapons against an army. Jenks finally figured out how stripper clips worked, and fired away with his ’03, with telling effect. Still, they wouldn’t last long when the .30-cal ran dry.

“What is it with those people?” Matt demanded. “Why don’t they break?”

“They are ‘Blood Drinkers,’ ” Jenks snarled. “Elite troops. See their red neckcloths? They are the very ‘Swords of the Pope.’ ” He looked at Gray, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry—that’s what they call the fiend. That, or ‘His Supreme Holiness.’ ”

“No sweat,” Gray replied. “I ain’t much of a Catholic these days.” He nodded at Juan, who’d managed to rise, regardless. His left leg was relatively straight now, except for where it bent a little at the shattered bone. He’d grasped his Springfield again and took careful aim with gritted teeth. “He is, though, and he’s pissed.”

Juan nailed another yellow-and-red-clad man. “Pissed,” he agreed harshly, almost moaning with the agony that had finally come.

“Their pope ain’t our pope, so don’t worry about it. We’ve even had a few doozies of our own, but this beats me. Do they really drink blood?”

“I’ve heard so. They believe death in battle, for ‘God,’ brings them instant paradise. Retreat brings eternal damnation.”

“Empty,” Stites announced, crouching down. The balls whizzing by the crate or slapping into it became a blizzard. “Whoa, boy!” he yelped, clenching his eyes shut when a ball snatched at his hair. “Sumbitches is gonna drink my blood!”

“Shut up, you nitwit!” Gray said, also taking cover. “Maybe they will, and it’ll poison the lot of ’em!”

Finally even Juan fell back down when a cascade of splinters left his face bloody. Remaining exposed now was suicide. The Filipino’s bloody fingers groped inside his shirt for a small golden cross and he closed his eyes. “You must leave me, Cap-tan,” he said hoarsely.

“Not a chance,” Matt said severely. “Who’ll cut my hair?”

After an intense fusillade that left them all cringing together behind the disintegrating crate, the firing abruptly ceased, and Matt risked a quick glance. Yellow-and-red-uniformed men had begun to form up on the dueling ground. More and more troops streamed from the woods and spilled out from under the bleachers, adding to the ranks. “Jesus,” he said, “I bet there’s still three or four hundred of ’em. Maybe five.”

“Now will come the charge,” Jenks said quietly. “They’ll sweep right over us and into the city.”

They were startled by a sudden loud drumroll and the initial hesitant skirl of a bagpipe, of all things. Matt turned and looked behind them.

“It’s Chack!” he said excitedly.

“About damn time!” the Bosun grumbled.

“Close up, close up!” Chack roared at the “pickup” infantry they’d assembled at the dock. Blair had managed to scrape up about two hundred and thirty Marines, including those from the ships they thought they could count on. With Chack’s fifty and Blair’s initial dozen, they’d double-timed to the sound of the guns, their shoes and Lemurian sandals echoing off the buildings and stone streets leading through the city from the waterfront. Crowds of panicked civilians cleared a lane in the face of the bizarre collection of troops. Other units were expected, but none had been prepared. It would still be some time before they arrived. One of Blair’s volunteers found his note on the bagpipe and launched into a martial tune that was simultaneously stirring and nerve-racking to Chack. “What in the name of the Heavens is that thing?” he demanded.

The drums continued to roll as the Imperial Marines jockeyed into the unfamiliar formation Chack and Blair had imposed, and once it looked something like they’d envisioned, Chack raised his voice.

“Battalion!” he roared, “Forward, march! Shields, up!” The entire first rank was composed of Chack’s Lemurian and Blair’s human Marines. They’d been marching with their muskets slung and shields trailing to their left. Now they brought the shields around, facing the enemy. A compact block of troops sixty wide and five ranks deep split and surged past the beleaguered men behind the crate, re-forming on the other side, just under seventy yards short of the growing Dominion line.

“Corpsman!” Matt shouted, standing and looking around. Selass, complete with Marine armor, scrambled forward from the rear rank with a pair of assistants.

“Cap-i-taan Reddy!” she chattered. “Thank the Heavens you are safe!’

“I’m fine. Juan’s hurt.”

“Cap-i-taan!” greeted Chack, bringing up the rear with Imperial file closers. Blair was with him. “Thank the Heavens!” he repeated. “I’m sorry we did not arrive sooner. All is chaos in the harbor. Reynolds reports a large Dominion fleet approaching from the south, and a signal calling all Imperial subjects to arms flies above Government House. Walker, Euripides, and Tacitus have sailed, and at first it seemed as though other ships and the forts might actually fire on them! Word is spreading quickly, though, and other ships may now join them. It is like your ‘Pearl Harbor’ all over again!”

“Let’s pray not,” Matt said grimly. “Goddamn it!” he swore, uncharacteristically strongly. “My ship’s steaming into battle, and here I am!”

“You planned for as much,” Jenks reminded him. “Trust your first officer and let us finish the fight ‘we’re at,’ yes?” He looked around. “Where’s Bates—‘O’Casey?’ ”

“In the front rank, holding a shield. He insisted,” Chack replied.

“Fool!”

“Chack,” Matt said, “listen. This is your battle now. Fight it your way. You’ve got to hold them here, but if you get a chance, stick it in!” He paused. Lemurians were only now beginning to grasp the concept of quarter, since the Grik never asked or gave it. “Take prisoners at your discretion,” he said at last. “We need to scram. Jenks has to find the Governor-Emperor and report the big picture. If something’s happened to him, Jenks needs to be ready to sort stuff out. No telling for sure who’s on whose side right now.” Matt looked at Jenks. “Find that pretty wife of yours too, make sure she’s safe!”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to borrow half a dozen Marines and get that bastard Reed. Where do you think he’ll be?”

“The Dominion embassy, I shouldn’t wonder,” Jenks hissed. “He’ll be awaiting the outcome with Don Hernan. I expect he’ll seek his protection if they lose!”

“What protection, after this?” Matt challenged.

Jenks blinked, then nodded. “Indeed.”

Chack detailed an even dozen Imperial Marines (amazing how readily they followed his orders. Kipling was right about “keeping your head”) and Matt, Gray, Stites—and for some reason Courtney—disappeared in the direction of the embassy.

Chack turned to face forward. This would be his first test against an equally armed foe. True, his Lemurian Marines had percussion muskets with tighter tolerances, sights, and therefore better accuracy, but they were holding the shields and their weapons might not load as fast as flintlocks anyway. The “Doms” seemed to be waiting for him, as if battles of this nature, like this one had suddenly become, should have “rules” of sportsmanship. What were they waiting for? he wondered. A pre-battle chat? He looked at the Imperial bleachers, and the bloody corpses heaped and scattered there. His lips curled, exposing sharp canines. Captain Reddy had given him “discretion,” after all.

“Prepare to fix bayonets!” he cried. The troops shifted slightly, anticipating, and the drumroll became a staccato rumble.

“Fix!”

As his Marines had trained, and the Imperials had been instructed, three hundred bayonets were jerked from their scabbards with a bloodthirsty roar and brandished menacingly at the enemy.

“Bayonets!”

With a metallic clatter, the weapons were attached to muzzles.

“Front rank, present!”

The Lemurians’ muskets were already loaded, and they would be too busy to shoot in a moment at any rate.

“Aim!”

Hammers clicked back and polished barrels steadied at the surprised foe.

“Fire!”

Even before the smoke cleared, exposing the carnage of that first volley, Chack was already shouting: “Front rank, guard against muskets! Shields at an angle! Get them up! Lean them back! Second rank, present!”

“The Nancy in trouble!” shouted Minnie, the talker, relaying the message from the crow’s nest. Frankie had been staring at the Dominion battle line through his binoculars, amazed at the size of some of the ships. They weren’t nearly as big as a Lemurian Home, but they were easily half again bigger than the largest Grik ship they’d seen—and they appeared to carry a lot of metal. He redirected his binoculars skyward. The little blue plane was coming right at them, purple-white smoke trailing its engine. “They no call ‘May-Day,’ ” the talker finished.

So, Frankie thought, either The Transmitter’s out or Kari’s been hit. Reynolds seemed to be having increased difficulty keeping the plane in the air. “Range to target?” he called.

“Seven zero, double zero, closing at thirty knots” came the reply, relayed from Campeti above on the fire control platform. Walker was making twenty knots, so the enemy must be making ten. Damn. Big and fast. Of course, they had the wind off their port quarter, and that was probably their very best point.

“Very well. Slow to one-third. Stand by to recover aircraft and hoist the ‘return to ship’ flag!”

Even as Walker slowed and the whaleboat was readied to launch, the plane began belching black smoke, and with the reduced roar from the blower, they could hear the death rattle of its engine. Fred seemed intent on a spot just ahead, off what would soon be Walker’s starboard beam.

“Ahead slow! Stand by to come to course three double oh. We’ll try to put her in our lee. Launch the whaleboat as soon as practical and have the gun’s crews stand by for ‘surface action, port.’ ”

The Nancy wheezed and clattered past the pilothouse, gouging roughly into the sea with a wrenching splash. Even before the propeller stuttered to a stop, Fred Reynolds dove out of his cockpit into the water.

“All stop!” Frankie cried, a chill going down his spine. There were no flashies in these seas, but there were smaller fish that acted like them. There were also a hell of a lot of sharks. Big ones, little ones, a few truly humongous ones ... and there was a type of gri-kakka—as well as other things. “Get that whaleboat in the water!” Frankie yelled, even as the boat slid down the falls and smacked into the sea. Fred had swum around to the observer’s seat and was trying to claw his way up the oilstreaked fuselage. Kari wasn’t moving. Somehow, Fred managed to climb high enough to get the Lemurian by the long hair on her head and drag her from the plane just as the overheated engine burst into flames. Almost immediately, the fuel tank directly above it ignited with a searing whoosh and a mushroom of orange flame and black smoke. The right wing folded and the fuselage rolled on its side, and in what seemed a matter of seconds, the entire plane was consumed by fire, its charred skeleton drawn beneath the waves by the weight of the engine.

There in the water, Fred Reynolds was stroking mightily toward the oncoming boat, one arm clawing at the water, the other trying to hold Kari’s head above it. “C’mon!” urged someone on the bridge. A dull moan reached their ears and a huge splash erupted a few dozen yards off the port bow. Another splash arose a quarter of a mile short.

“Bow guns—‘chasers,’ from the Doms,” announced Minnie. “Big ones, say the lookout. The first one prob’ly lucky close.”

“Range?”

“Four t’ousand.”

Frankie glanced back at the sea to port and saw with relief that the whaleboat had reached the aviators. “The main battery will commence firing,” he said grimly. “And pass the word: ‘lucky close’ ain’t an option today. We have to keep the range on those bastids an’ tear ’em up from a distance.” He gestured back toward Scapa Flow. “Our job is to hold ’em back until the cavalry gets here. Like Reynolds, we’ll concentrate on the transports if we can, and stay away from the heavies. As many guns as those things have, they don’t have to be good to shred us, just ‘lucky close,’ see?”

The new salvo bell clattered on the bulkhead behind him.

Matt and the others were running, breathing hard. They’d managed to stay together, however, and even Bradford was keeping up. The streets were eerily quiet and vacant. Matt wondered if the inhabitants were sitting things out, or if they’d already responded to the Governor-Emperor’s call to arms. For some reason, he didn’t think that was the case in this district. He worried about snipers. They turned onto the street dominated by the embassy of the Holy Dominion and were met by a scattered volley that felled one of their Marines and shattered masonry at the corner behind them. Gray emptied a twenty-round stick into the group, sending all but one of the six men sprawling. The other man stood there, stunned, until Matt shot him with his Springfield as they trotted past. Stites had the BAR again, but he was low on magazines for it too. They reached the iron-bound door, and Matt immediately inverted his rifle and drove the butt hard against it. The door didn’t budge.

“Goddamn it!” he raged.

“Stay cool, Skipper,” Gray said. “I got a treatment for this.” He reached in a satchel and pulled out a grenade, a “real” one, made in the USA.

“I didn’t know you had those,” Matt said accusingly. “We could have used them!”

“I was savin’ ’em for if things got serious,” Gray explained innocently. “Bash in the peephole!”

Matt redirected the butt of his rifle and Gray pulled the pin on the grenade and dropped it inside the door. There was a muffled ba-rump inside, followed by screams.

“What good did that do?” Stites demanded. “We still can’t get in!”

“After the day I’ve had, it was pretty fun,” Gray said. “Otherwise ...” He fished in his pocket. “... Spanky gave me this really swell rubber band! Just look at this thing!” he said, displaying the gift. “Don’t know where he got it, but it’s a peach. I was gonna make me a slingshot for ... Anyway, everybody get back!”

He took another grenade, and looping the rubber band around it, hung the little bomb from the top left hinge on the big door. Making sure everyone was clear, he yanked the pin and ran. The spoon flew and the grenade bounced up and down a couple of times.

Blam!

Grenades make poor breaching charges, but the high-explosive inside made short work of the brittle iron hinge. The door trembled, then fell diagonally outward onto the street.

“C’mon!” Matt yelled.

In the grand scheme of such things, compared to other fights Chack had participated in, the Battle of the Imperial Dueling Grounds was a relatively small affair. It was big by Imperial standards, at least as far as land battles were concerned, but it wasn’t even close to something like Aryaal, Singapore, and certainly not Baalkpan in terms of scope. The Dominion had landed and secreted away perhaps a thousand troops in warehouses and an abandoned barracks outside of Leith, and the conspirators had considered that number more than sufficient to overwhelm New Scotland’s small, dispersed, Marine garrison from behind Scapa Flow’s defenses, especially when coupled with the overwhelming surprise that Reed and Don Hernan had achieved. It didn’t work that way.

The Lemurian shields made a big difference. For a while. The Dominion front ranks were decimated by those first volleys, but they had greater numbers to start with. Chack and Blair’s experiments with the shields paid off, teaching them that the dense hardwood-backed bronze implements would turn a musket ball if held at an angle, and the shields were battered and streaked with smears of lead, while the rear ranks delivered a withering fire. The front ranks suffered terribly from the beating they were taking, painfully flayed by spattered fragments of balls, stunned by incessant impacts, and even struck by balls that skated in or found a gap. The shields could take only so much, however, and they began to be pierced or fall apart under the hammering.

“Second rank! Take shields where you can,” Lieutenant Blair ordered, knowing Chack would never do it. “First rank, fall back to the rear!”

Chack spared him a thankful glance. Less than thirty Lemurian Marines were able to obey.

O’Casey appeared, unfired pistols still dangling around his neck. He was covered with blood, caused by dozens of splinter wounds. “This is the damnedest thing there ever was,” he gasped.

“It is quite like a duel itself, is it not?” Blair asked. His hat was gone now, replaced by a bloody rag. “A most appropriate setting, I suppose.”

“It is stupid,” Chack growled. “General Alden would not approve.” He shrugged. “But I don’t know what else to do. We cannot maneuver here, and there is no cover other than the stands—and we can’t reach them without exposing ourselves. Stupid! All we can do is stand here, trading blows like fools.”

“Where’s Captain Reddy, an’ Jenks?” O’Casey asked.

A ball caromed off Chack’s steel American helmet, almost knocking him down. He shook his head and resumed his erect pose. “Stupid,” he repeated, looking almost desperately around for some inspiration. “If only we had a single gun!”

“Just be glad theirs are silent,” Blair said. He looked at O’Casey. “Captain Reddy has gone for Mr. Reed. Jenks seeks the Governor-Emperor!”

“Then I must assist one or the other,” O’Casey said. “I’m of no further use here.”

“Nooo, Mr. O’Casey,” Chack said. “Untrue. Your collection of pistols might soon be of great use. I weary of this mutual mauling! I ask myself what I would do if those ... people were Grik, and I see only one course that will decide this before both sides are annihilated! Lieutenant Blair? I see the enemy has not fixed bayonets. Why is that?”

“Why ...” Blair paused. “Well, they can’t.”

“They do have them?”

“Yes, but they’re a different style. A type of plug bayonet. They insert them into their muzzles and they are quite effective, but their shooting is over then. They usually have to drive them out. If they’d affixed them before now, they’d have had to charge, or stand and be shot to pieces.”

“Like we are doing?” Chack practically roared. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I—” Blair was confused.

“Listen to me, Lieutenant Blair. You must trust me. We are about to lose a lot of troops, your men mostly, but then we will shortly end this fight. Do you believe me?”

“I ... uh ...” Blair suddenly remembered the last time he’d disregarded the advice of a Lemurian commander. Safir Maraan had tried to warn him at Singapore that his tactics simply didn’t apply. His command had been virtually eradicated that day, and he’d miserably blamed himself ever since. He’d also come to realize that these ... creatures, these Lemurians, knew a lot more about pitched battles on land than he did. “Yes, I do, Captain Sab-At,” he said finally, formally. “What are your orders?”

“The discipline and execution must be flawless,” Chack warned.

Another grenade preceded Matt, Gray, Stites, and the ten surviving Marines through the shattered door of the Dominion embassy. A second Imperial had been killed by a sniper from a second-floor window. The grenade burst amid another chorus of screams, and the group charged in, Gray’s Thompson spitting at a trio of men in uniforms crawling on the floor.

The entry hall looked different this time. The lanterns were askew and fresh blood pooled beneath bodies on the tile. The red walls didn’t seem any different, but they glistened where fresh color had splashed. The golden tapestries and accents ran with glittering purple-red. There must have been at least twenty men near the door when Gray’s first grenade dropped among them, and many had been killed outright. The rest, probably still stunned, had fallen to the second. A few more shots finished the survivors.

“Upstairs!” Courtney Bradford shouted. “Check upstairs! The buggers will likely be there!”

Matt pointed around at darkened alcoves. “You men,” he said to the Marines, “check those spaces! Make sure there’s not another way out of this joint!”

“Where’ll they be?” Gray asked, puffing.

“Upstairs, like Courtney said. I hope.”

They thundered up the spiral staircase. A pair of musket shots, fired wildly from above, shattered the banister just a few feet from Bradford, and his enthusiasm ebbed just a little. Stites hosed his BAR upward, stitching back and forth, and they were rewarded by a scream and a thud. As a group, with Bradford lagging slightly, they arrived at the top of the stairs. A man in the uniform of a Blood Drinker, probably one of those who’d fired, lunged at Matt with a bayonet inserted into the muzzle of his musket. Matt knocked it aside with the Springfield and drove his own bayonet into the man’s chest with a shout, pushing him back until he’d virtually pinned him to the wall. The dim, orangish light in the room reflected off the glazing eyes that stared back into his.

“Bravo!” came a voice from the far side of the chamber, standing before the garish golden cross on the wall. “You have me, it seems.”

Matt turned, yanking the bayonet clear, and saw Harrison Reed dimly illuminated, sinister shadows around his eyes and mouth. He stood with his arms crossed before him, a pistol loosely in his hand. The naked servant girl lay sprawled on the hardwood floor in the center of a spreading pool of blood.

“You will face the very fires of hell for storming this place,” he said conversationally. “This is not just an embassy—bad enough, I assure you—but a blessed house of God.”

“Where you just murdered a little girl!” Matt said, bringing the Springfield up. “I ought to kill you where you stand!”

Reed pointed the pistol at Matt in a classic style that showed he was proficient. “I did not kill the child. I presume Don Hernan sent her to paradise himself, before he left. He was quite taken with her.” He shrugged slightly. “I found her like this, and before you ask, I don’t know where Don Hernan is. Directing the completion of our plan, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Sumbitch has skipped!” Stites snarled disgustedly.

Reed ignored him, but wiggled the pistol slightly. “Perhaps, Captain Reddy, you would care to exchange my life for yours? You are here, so I assume the fighting went poorly at the dueling grounds?”

“Things were looking up when we left,” Gray said harshly. “We got reinforcements.”

Reed smirked. “Pity. Regardless, I remain optimistic.”

“You wouldn’t be if you’d stayed for more of the show,” Matt promised. “Is that why you hid here? I wouldn’t be ‘optimistic’ about anything right now, if I were you. Listen.” Even through the solid, windowless walls, a crescendo of distant musketry rattled incessantly. “Besides, you’re basically the reason we’re here.”

Reed looked genuinely surprised. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Your Commander Billingsley attacked our Alliance, abducted Princess Rebecca, and ... took some other people who mean a lot to us,” Matt ground out. “That’s all on you. We came here looking for Billingsley—and whoever it was who put him up to it.”

Reed slapped his forehead. “Oh, dear!” he said. “It seems I was most dreadfully mistaken! You had me quite convinced the princess is safe and you had abundant proof of the conspiracy arriving with Achilles!”

“We do have proof. Plenty. We know you sent Agamemnon back to kill the girl, along with three other ships. We destroyed Agamemnon and captured the others, but Billingsley already had Rebecca and our people on Ajax. We came looking for him . . . and you.”

Reed shook his head. “I underestimated poor Billingsley! He may have been an apostate with no idea what the true stakes were, but it seems he served me quite well, at any rate. The irony is, he would have been utterly horrified to learn who I serve!”

“The Dominion,” Gray spat.

“Don Hernan,” Reed corrected, “and the True Church.” He twitched the pistol. “Don’t mistake me; I love my country—this land—but no power on earth can hope to oppose the Dominion for long, nor should it.” He smiled. “You see, oddly enough, I’ve become a Believer. In any event, I decided it was better to join the Dominion Church and serve from within, than to be conquered and suffer the devastating consequences. I’m a patriot, working to secure New Britain’s proper place within the Dominion, as a partner—not a possession!”

“You’re a traitorous son of a bitch, serving a sick, perverted, cartoon church full of freaks!” the Bosun stated simply.

Reed’s eyes flared. “You may sing a different tune when this day is done!”

“Perhaps you refer to the Dominion fleet coming from the south?” Courtney asked. “Of course you do. In that case, I propose it is you who will be dreadfully disappointed. We discovered its advance quite early this morning and . . . um . . . sufficient fleet elements have sortied to intercept it. All of Home Fleet and the harbor defenses have been alerted as well. No fleet can pass those forts, sir! We once nearly stopped a much larger fleet with much less!”

For the first time Reed’s expression showed uncertainty. “That’s a lie!” he snarled.

“What?” Matt asked. “That we know about the fleet? Or that it’ll be stopped? Obviously we know about it, and that’s enough to stop it. Courtney’s right about those forts. Besides, where is Don Hernan? You don’t really believe he’s off leading a charge. My God, you stupid bastard. Why’d he kill that poor girl? The bastard bolted, leaving you with the bag!”

Harrison Reed seemed to sag. “Very well,” he said. “Perhaps you’re right.” He straightened and his aim steadied. Gray tensed, ready to spray him down. “I won’t hang,” he said simply. “You surprised me today, Captain Reddy. You killed one of my very best.” He snorted. “Not exactly sporting, your ploy at the end, but you did hold your own and manage to get the job done.” He took a breath and slowly lowered his pistol to the chair beside him. “I’m no Lemuel Truelove,” he confessed, “but I challenge you to kill me man to man. You will have your revenge, and I will have paradise.”

Matt hesitated only a moment, then inverted the Springfield and drove the bayonet hard into the wooden floor.

“Skipper!” objected Gray, but Matt ignored him while Reed smiled and drew the ornate rapier at his side. Before anyone could say another word, Matt’s hand went to his belt and came away with his 1911 Colt .45. Flipping the safety off with his thumb, he shot Harrison Reed four times in the center of his chest.

“The hell with you, you murdering bastard,” Matt said as Reed gasped and dropped to his knees. “I hope that didn’t hurt much. I’d hate for you to even Think you were going to paradise!”

Stites giggled. “Damn, Skipper!”

Matt looked at him, then glared at Gray. “C’mon,” he said, “we’ve still got work to do.”

Commander Frankie Steele was actually secretly a little surprised at how well his first independent action was going. Walker was battling virtual behemoths, but all their massive power was no match for the old destroyer’s speed and maneuverability. The enemy battle line had broken, immediately sensing Frankie’s main objective and trying to put their ships between Walker and the remaining transports. The troop-filled transports were the key. Without them, the whole Dominion operation was pointless. Massive red-sailed ships of the line, or “liners,” veered to defend the steamers and bring their guns to bear. In so doing, they lost cohesion, massed firepower, their advantageous wind—and all semblance of organized control.

Ponderously, the mighty ships turned, thrashing the sea with their heavy guns, as many as fifty to a side, mostly in Walker’s churning wake. They’d scored a few hits with what had to be twenty-four-pounders or better, but the damage had been minimal. Smoke streamed from new holes in a couple of Walker’s stacks, and she had a new hole the size of a porthole in the guinea pullman. Other than that, things had all gone the old destroyer’s way.

The new exploding shells she employed for only the second time came as a rude surprise to the Dominion Navy. They weren’t much, still just hollow copper bolts filled with a gunpowder bursting charge, detonated with a contact fuse. They didn’t penetrate worth a damn. They had the math to put them right where they wanted them now, however, even propelled by black powder, and any bursting charge going off on a crowded gun deck covered with guns being loaded with fabric powder bags could be cataclysmic. One Dominion ship of the line had simply blown up, and another was burning fiercely. For penetration of hulls and destruction of masts, Walker still had an ample supply of solid bolts. Euripides and Tacitus were close to joining the action now as well. They didn’t carry as many guns as the liners, but theirs were newer—bigger even than Achilles’—throwing thirty-pound balls. Frankie estimated that the enemy had wasted more metal shooting at Walker than the old ship weighed.

Ahead, in a gap cleared by the explosion of one of the liners, four of the transports lay helpless before Walker, seeming almost to cringe like rabbits as the greyhound saw them and turned to give chase. She’d have to steam directly between two liners to get at them, but one had lost its foremast and the other actually seemed to be turning away. Defying his own strategy to remain at a distance, Frankie sensed an opportunity to end the fight with a swift, bold stroke.

Answering bells for “ahead flank,” the blower roared, and Walker made her lunge for the sheep.

“Concentrate all fire port and starboard with explosive shells at the enemy warships until we pass between them, then hammer those transports!” Frankie ordered. Smoke belched from the transport’s stacks as they poured on the coal and tried to turn away even as Walker swept down upon them, streaming gunsmoke. She pounded the disabled ship to port with the number two and number four guns, and the one apparently trying to flee to starboard with numbers one and three. The heavy “antiaircraft” guns, mounted in tubs where the aft torpedo tubes had been, raked both ships as well, and their pounding roar was joined by the staccato bursts of the .50s on the amidships deckhouse. Exploding shells penetrated deeply into the relatively unprotected bows of the liner to port and detonated within, spewing shards of copper aft that savaged gun carriages and hewed bodies. One round finally passed nearly the length of the deck before exploding and gouts of white smoke whooshed sporadically out her gunports as exposed powder bags lit. The ship shuddered from almost continuous secondary detonations, and smoldering gunners actually crawled out the gunports and flung themselves into the sea. A greasy black ball of smoke roiled into the sky amidships as something flammable, lamp oil perhaps, ignited and spread burning liquid on the deck. The red main course caught fire and the flames spread quickly upward, devouring the sails above. The ship didn’t explode, but she was fully engulfed in flames as Walker sped past her.

The ship to starboard had received a severe beating as well, and her ornate, garishly decorated stern galleries were a shattered shambles, gaping wide like an open mouth with broken teeth. Many of the aft guns on the two main gun decks were probably dismounted or crewless, but the ship had turned almost directly into the wind and for a few moments Walker was steaming parallel to her, less than five hundred yards off her port beam—and the remaining thirty-odd guns of that broadside. Almost too late, Frankie realized the mistake he’d made. The ship hadn’t been fleeing; it had been turning to do exactly this: voluntarily taking the punishment Walker meted out, just to bring its own guns around.

“All guns! Surface action starboard!” he shouted, just as the side of the enemy ship vanished behind a dense, white cloud of smoke, lit by dozens of flashes of yellow lightning.

Spanky McFarlane was half deafened by the thunderous blows that hammered his ship. Something had gone insanely wrong. A moment before, he’d been standing there, near the throttle station with Miami Tindal and a centrally located damage-control party. He’d been drinking coffee from his favorite remaining mug—the one with the Chevy emblem, the hula girl, and, ironically, the aerial view of Oahu. In the next instant, he got the blurred impression of roundshot punching a hole in the hull beside him, bowling through the party of Lemurians gathered there, along with a spray of splintered steel and rivets. The shot rebounded off the bulkhead, the hull, and finally came to rest somewhere in the bilge. Miami had been talking and now he was just . . . gone. Spanky blinked and wiped his face with his sleeve. For some reason, he couldn’t see very well. That was better. He noticed then that his sleeve was soaked with blood, and all that remained of his sacred cup was the porcelain handle in his hand.

He blinked again and saw the ’Cats at the throttle staring at him, blinking horror. He did a quick inventory of himself and as far as he could tell, he wasn’t injured. Looking down, he realized the same wasn’t the case for three of the four members of the damage-control party. At least two were dead. One might be, and the fourth was sitting on the deck plates, stunned. Miami ... Well, he was dead. Spanky shook his head, clearing the fuzz, and realized the turbines were winding down.

“Shit!” He lurched to the speaking tube. They didn’t rely much on electronics in battle anymore. “This is McFarlane in the forward engine room. What’s going on up there?”

“Commaander McFaarlane!” came a relieved cry. It was Minnie. “You come to bridge quick! You needed on the bridge!”

Spanky paused, looking at the air lock to the aft fireroom. “Uh, what’s the story on the boilers? Why’re we losing steam back here?”

“I don’t know!” came the panicked but strangely distant reply.

“Well, put somebody on that does!” he bellowed.

“I can’t!” the girl—he always thought of them as girls now—practically screeched back at him.

“Well . . . who’s got the conn?”

“I DO!”

“Jeez!” That’s why the voice sounded so distant. “Okay, okay, pull yourself together! I’ll pass the conn off to auxiliary from here, then I’m on my way! Get, uh, Finny! You got Finny on the horn?”

“I got Finny and Tabby in the forward fireroom! Everything fine in there!”

Thank God. “Tell Tabby to bypass the aft fireroom and route steam back to the turbines! Finny needs to take his party topside and get their asses in through the deck access to check on numbers three and four! Warn him to vent the space before they go in. I’m on my way!”

He opened the cover of the tube to the auxiliary conn on the aft deckhouse and was further deafened by the heavy bark of the Japanese 4.7-inch gun. “Bashear!”

“This is Bashear.”

“Listen, you got the conn until further notice. We got the talker steerin’ the ship! What the hell’s goin’ on up there?”

“I don’t know, Spanky. We just got clobbered, and there’s steam and smoke gushin’ everywhere. I can’t see forward of the searchlight tower! It looks to me like one o’ those big bastards suckered Frankie in close and then shotgunned us!” Bashear sounded harried.

“Okay, stay loose. You should have number two back on line directly. Try to get us the hell away from whatever’s poundin’ on us. You still got Campeti on the horn?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell him to pour everything he’s got at the closest target. Use the HE in the Jap gun. Blow the bastards off us if you have to! I’m gonna try an’ get to the pilothouse!”

“Aye, Spanky!”

Spanky glanced at the blood and gore around him, then looked at the throttlemen. Other ’Cats were beginning to arrive from aft. “Listen,” he said to Bashear once more. “We got wounded down here. Call around. See if you can round up a corpsman.”

“I’ll try, but most are ashore with Chack and there’s a lot of wounded up here too.”

“Right.” Spanky directed one of the newcomers to the apparent corpses. “Check them fellas and do what you can for the hurt.” He paused and caught the eye of the steadiest-looking throttleman. “I gotta scram, so you’re in charge for now. Keep these guys cool down here,” he admonished, then launched himself up the ladder to the main deck above. If the aft fireroom was full of steam, he didn’t dare open the air lock and let it in.

On deck, he was greeted by a hellish scene, grown all too familiar. Steam and smoke swirled up from the starboard side, filling the deck.’Cats ran back and forth, some hauling hoses, others just running, screaming, their fur scorched black. The Japanese antiaircraft guns hammered his ears and the number three gun added its smoke to the mix even though its crew couldn’t see and had to be suffering in the choking air. That was Pack Rat’s gun now, and he knew the Lemurian gunner’s mate would never leave it. The Dominion liner lay to starboard, a little aft now, and even through the heavy haze caused by burning wooden ships, he saw it had been riddled with holes. Another comparatively feeble broadside blossomed from its side, punishing Walker further with a few more hits. Spanky felt the shot strikes pound through his shoes like trip-hammer blows, but he also noted several small splashes in the sea alongside. Not all the enemy shot was penetrating, he realized. Maybe not even most. Thank God. If it was, after the blows he’d felt, they’d already be sinking. The ship had slowed almost to a stop, however, and was beginning to wallow in the swells.

He ran into Jeek, directing his division in throwing a curtain of water on the smoke, trying to get it to lay. Reynolds was probably still in the wardroom with Kari. Jeek yelled that he had no idea whether there was fire under all that smoke, but he wasn’t letting it anywhere near the aft deckhouse where the last plane and all the aviation fuel was stored. Spanky repeated what he’d said to Bashear about corpsmen, but Jeek just looked around and shrugged. Spanky raced on, under the amidships gun platform on the port side of the galley, headed for the bridge, but was brought up short by Earl Lanier, calmly sitting on his precious Coke machine and eating a sandwich.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Guardin’ my machine!” the fat cook snarled. “What’s it look like? All my mess attendants is on report! Bastards didn’t stow my baby below before this fracas, they just hauled ass to their battle stations! I had to drag it around here from the other side by myself!”

“Why aren’t you at your battle station?” Spanky demanded.

“I am! Why ain’t you at yours?”

Shaking his head, Spanky resumed his sprint. At least Earl was doing something. His usual battle station was in the head.

It was awful on the bridge. The new battle shutters covered the windows, so there wasn’t much broken glass, but at least one shot had come through the thin side plating of the starboard bridgewing and plowed up the wooden strakes in its passage. The chart table was shattered and twisted askew, and the handle had been sheared clean off the engine room telegraph. The damage to the bridge wasn’t what caught his eyes at first, however.

Four bodies lay on the shattered strakes. Norm Kutas was alive, but had splinters running up the backs of his legs, all the way to his buttocks. A pair of ’Cat pharmacist’s mates had already arrived and were trying to get him on a stretcher. Ed Palmer, hair scorched and face blackened, seemed okay otherwise, though winded. Two ’Cats were obviously dead, their blood dripping through the strakes from terrible wounds, and the brave Lemurian talker was still at the wheel, holding it in an iron grip even though she no longer controlled the ship. Others began to arrive, grabbing bodies and carrying them away, but none touched Frankie Steele.

Frankie had somehow dragged himself up against the forward bulkhead. He wore a curious expression on his pale face, staring down at the stumps of both his legs, gone above the knees. To Spanky’s amazement, he spoke.

“Hey, Spanky,” he said, almost whispering. “Skipper gives me the keys, and what’s the first thing I do? I wrap her around a tree.”

“Oh, Frankie,” Spanky said hoarsely, kneeling beside him. “Even the Skipper’s banged her up a time or two. You know that.”

“Yeah. But not like this. Not stupid.” Slowly, he looked into Spanky’s eyes. “An’ we just got her fixed up from the last time!” He paused. “Mr. Ellis! Where’s Mr. Ellis?”

“Jim’s fine,” Spanky said softly. “Just busy is all.” Jim Ellis was on the other side of the world.

Frankie smiled. “Good man. He’ll be a swell skipper for Mahan, once he settles in.” His chin slumped slowly to his chest and he was gone.

“Goddamn,” Spanky said, and stood. He looked at Minnie. “Are you fit for duty?” he demanded. Shakily, she nodded. “Then get back to your station! Mr. Palmer, I presume by your presence that you have no more pressing duties, so you have the conn. I have the deck. Talker? Replacements to the bridge, and inform Mr. Bashear to relinquish the conn. I expect he’s got other things to do. What’s the status on the boilers?” He patted his chest. “And somebody get me some binoculars!”

For the last several moments, there’d been no incoming fire. Taking the offered binoculars, Spanky strode onto the bridgewing and scanned around to determine why. He saw with satisfaction that their primary tormentor was low in the water and beginning to abandon. A few good hits with the Jap 4.7 at the waterline had probably settled her hash. The transports still lay ahead, obscured by a growing fogbank of smoke, but they’d gained some distance, bright sparks in black smoke soaring high from their stacks. They hadn’t turned away, however—not yet. They seemed intent on finding protection behind another pair of liners approaching Walker from the west. The number one gun barked and bucked, and a round shrieked away to explode in the fo’c’sle of one of them, but Spanky couldn’t tell if it did much good. A ’Cat pounced on the smoking brass shell as it fell to the deck from the opened breech. He tossed it in a nearby basket almost full of other dingy, blackened cartridges.

Spanky picked his way across the shattered strakes to the port bridgewing. More liners were approaching from the port quarter. Damn. He needed steam! For a moment, he wondered where the enemy frigates were. They had to be faster, and should have been all over him by now. He shrugged. Gift horses were rare critters. “Steam?” he demanded again.

“Finny report now, daamitt!” the talker replied, frustrated. Spanky couldn’t stop a small smile. “He say boilers okay, but main steam line and feed-water pipe is shot. Smoke uptakes too. An’ there’s oil an’ water in the bilge from leak somewhere....”

“Tell Finny I don’t give a damn what’s wrong, only how long it’ll take to fix—and what he needs to do it! Does he need people?”

“Almost all firemen in forward fireroom okay, they cram in air locks on both sides. He got them. Actually, Tabby got them. . . .” The talker paused. “Tabby on the horn.”

“Spanky Skipper now?” came the tinny question. No drawl was present.

“Aye,” the talker replied.

“Then tell Spanky to fight ship! I fight mess down here! Finny bypassed three an’ four. Spanky lucky to have number two back, soon as pressure builds again! I fix the others as fast as I can, they fixed when they fixed! Spanky don’t get no more holes in my poor ship! He hear?”

Spanky rolled his eyes and nodded.

“He hear,” confirmed the talker.

“What’s the pressure on number two?” Spanky asked.

“Ah, eighty and rising,” Palmer replied, “but ... there’s still nothing getting to the engine room!”

“Crap. Finny must’ve shut everything off. Get Tabby on it ASAP. We gotta move.” He stepped outside and glassed around again. “Okay, tell Campeti to have the number one gun concentrate on the transports with fire control assistance. All others will stay on the advancing warships in local control. Aim for their bows, tear ’em up!”

“Comm-aander,” said the talker, “lookout reports Taas-itus and Euripides have fought through enemy frigates, trying to join us here!”

“Is that so? Well, that explains the frigates. Tell Campeti to keep firing, but watch his targets! We might have friendlies out there shortly.”

The battle off Scapa Flow became a race for position. By all rights and reasonable expectations, it should have been over; the Dominion plan had been thwarted in the sense that there was now no way they could still land troops with surprise, and surprise had been the key to success. Unreadable signals flying from a large, distant liner confirmed that the enemy understood this as well, because even as the Dominion warships jockeyed to reconsolidate and reform, the surviving transports—minus one more that Walker had disabled—finally drew away to the west. Walker’s lookout confirmed that Imperial ships of the line, “battle waagons,” were finally out of the harbor and forming up as well. Fully two-thirds of the Dominion ships were heading for them, trying to cut them off.

At first Spanky didn’t understand. Why continue the fight? Intellectually, he expected an interesting match. Several Dominion liners were disabled or destroyed, so the numbers would be nearly equal. The contest between the two fleets would pit ships with many guns, propelled by sail alone, against ships with fewer, bigger guns, powered by sail and steam. There were advantages and disadvantages inherent to the philosophies behind each fleet, and Spanky knew Matt would be fascinated. But then Spanky did understand. The remaining third of the Dominion fleet, a little hard-used and frigate-heavy now, was gathering to approach Walker. Apparently the old destroyer had made an impression on the enemy commander, because the major battle shaping northeast of her position seemed designed solely to ensure that nothing beyond the now battered Tacitus and Euripides could come to Walker’s aid.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “Tell Tabby the boilers might be ‘fixed when they’re fixed,’ but we need at least one of ’em fixed right damn now.”

“She trying!” cried the talker. “She not know why there no steam to engines!”

Spanky looked around, frustrated. He needed to be helping out with engineering, but right now he had to be on the bridge. He thought furiously for a moment, battling the various necessities in his mind. The simple fact was, even if the Skipper and the others hadn’t been ashore, Walker’s bench just wasn’t deep enough for this anymore. There were plenty of good, professional ’Cats aboard, but dealing with situations like this could be learned only by experience. He could put Bashear back in charge, but the Bosun was knee-deep as it was. Campeti was busy too. He thought Norm could handle it, but he’d already been taken to the wardroom. He finally came to the conclusion that, however unprepared for overall command he considered himself, he was the only remotely qualified person available. He had to stay where he was. With Miami dead, that left only Tabby to do his job. She knew Walker’s boilers inside and out, literally. He just hoped she’d picked up enough of the rest of the ship’s engineering plant, and how it all worked together. He sighed.

“Tell Tabby she better find out, and quick. This ship and everybody aboard needs her to be a chief engineer right now. If we’re not underway in ten minutes, we’re all dead.”

The talker gulped, tail swishing, and relayed his words. Tabby didn’t reply.

“Euripides is coming out of the smoke of that burning liner—off the starboard beam now!” Palmer cried. “She looks pretty chewed.”

The Imperial frigate had lost her mainmast and its remains had been cut away. Black smoke poured from a dozen holes in her tall, skinny stack, and bright splintered wood glared from her dark-painted hull. Both her paddle wheels still churned vigorously alongside, though, and she was approaching at a respectable clip. A few moments later, Tacitus appeared as well, and if anything, she looked worse than her sister. Only her mizzen and bowsprit still stood, and she was kind of crab-walking around a battered starboard paddle box, but somehow she was managing to keep pace with Euripides. Shredded Imperial flags still proudly streamed from both ships.

“Have Campeti pass the word! ‘Friendies’ on the starboard quarter, do not fire on them!” Spanky ordered. The command probably hadn’t been necessary, but Spanky didn’t want any mistakes in the chaos.

“Euripides signaling to make for our starboard side,” the talker echoed the lookout. “Tacitus angling aft; she come alongside to port.”

Shortly afterward, Euripides backpedaled, her paddle wheels throwing up a mountain of foam as she arrested her forward motion alongside the wallowing destroyer. Tacitus was still coming up, more laboriously, but bundled hammocks, sails, and other items were being slung over her shattered starboard bulwarks, like bumpers on a tug.

“What the hell?” Spanky muttered.

“Ahoy there, Walker,” came a cry from the catwalk between the paddle boxes on Euripides. Spanky grabbed a speaking trumpet and dashed onto the starboard bridgewing, avoiding the jagged metal there. He saw a man he recognized as a friend of Jenks’s pointing a trumpet at him. He’d actually given the man a tour of Walker’s firerooms, but he couldn’t remember his name.

“Ahoy, Euripides!” he cried. “It’s good to see you after such a . . . busy morning. I hope we’re still friends after all the trouble we’ve gotten you into.”

“Nonsense! Wouldn’t have missed it!” came the reply. “I did notice that your wondrously complicated internals seem a bit out of sorts.”

Spanky grimaced at the gentle jab. “We’ll get our ‘internals’ sorted out,” he said. “But I appreciate your concern.”

The figure on the catwalk shrugged. “I’m not terribly concerned, actually. Not after the way you tore through those Dom ships of the line—well done, that—but I do bear orders from the Governor-Emperor himself, via Commodore Jenks, to do whatever may be in my power, regardless of cost, to prevent serious damage to your ingenious, but frankly, somewhat . . . ill-favored ship. I do hope ‘ill-favored’ is not too provocative?”

Spanky laughed. “Beauty’s a matter of perception and opinion. Your ship don’t look too pretty herself right now.” A mighty splash erupted off Walker’s bow, and the number one gun, now trained out to port, replied at one of the closing enemy ships with a loud crack and a long tongue of smoky yellow flame.

“Indeed,” agreed the man, unperturbed, “but more enemies approach, and judging by your current inconvenience and the lurid dents in your side, it might be said I’ve failed my mission in one respect, if not all. Together, we’ve accomplished our primary task—to disrupt the enemy invasion.” The man paused. “I’m honored to have assisted you in that. This was not your battle, and yet you’ve suffered on our behalf. That will not be forgotten, and thankfully I remain in a position to at least attempt the next most pressing instruction of my sovereign.”

“So? What’s that?” Spanky yelled.

“To prevent the sinking—or worse, capture—of your ship by the enemy. To that end, Euripides and Tacitus will protect her with their very bodies, and the bodies of their crews—so please forgive me if I entreat you to ‘sort out’ your engineering problems as quickly as you possibly can!”

Prev Next