Blood In the Water (28 page)

“No,” Courtney said over the growing hubbub, “it's a Bristol Beaufort, I do believe. British made, though they were beginning to make them in Australia as well. And look!” he said, pointing at half a faded roundel, split when the tail came off. “That's the orange, white, and blue of the South African Air Force!”

Kaam and several others hastened to catch him. “How do you know that?” Kaam demanded, then realization dawned. “You are not Aan-glis of the forest! You are Sowt-Aaf-i-caans too!” Kaam's dialect was unfamiliar, but Courtney understood him well enough. He smiled. “No, no, my dear fellow! I'm Australian! And that monstrous bugger there and his smaller companion are Americans. But we're friends of those who flew this plane! Where are they?”

Kaam shook his head, blinking. “Aus-traal . . .” He looked at Silva. “Amer-i-caans . . . You were friends of these?” He pointed at the plane.

Courtney hesitated, suddenly wondering if the plane was less a monument than a trophy. It seemed to occupy a place of honor, but it wasn't like they'd been keeping it clean and polished. “Well, yes. We were,” he said. “In our . . . quite distant land. Their people fought alongside ours against evil powers.”

“Jaaps?” Kaam asked, and even Chack blinked amazement.

“Why, yes indeed. The Japanese, Nazis, Italians . . . Please, were the men who flew this plane friends of yours? Are they still here?”

Kaam blinked something Courtney couldn't decipher. “Friends, yes,” he said at last, “of the one who lived when the magic left the machine and it could fly no more. The other three were put under the ground,” he added with a still incredulous whip of his tail, “where the machine fell. The one called ‘Lef-ten-aant' insisted that was their way,” he added skeptically. “Lef-ten-aant was hurt, but recovered and told us many tales once we learned to speak together. Strange tales,” Kaam added with a troubled blink. “At first he told us this land belongs to the Vee-shee, and he was a scout of the Sowt-Aaf-i-caans for . . .
other
Aan-glis who those here do not know. He said they meant to take this land from the Vee-shee to keep the Jaaps away.” He looked at them. “No one, not even the great Ror'at-Raal, could understand. At first we thought ‘Vee-shee' sounded enough like ‘Shee-ree' to frighten us, but Lef-ten-aant said they were very different. He tried to explain better, that Vee-shee were outcasts from a tribe of friends, but though he lived with us many months, we never fully learned to speak together without some confusion, so uncertainty still remains. Tell me, is ‘Vee-shee' your word for ‘Gaa-rieks'?”

“Ah, no,” Courtney said. He looked at Silva and spoke to him quietly. “Apparently, our forces where we came from were at least
considering trying to expel the Vichy French before they wittingly or otherwise allowed naval access here to the Japanese. What a disaster that would've been, with them positioned to interdict our supply lines to India, or any other territories in the region that may've remained to us.” He looked back at Kaam. “It was a, um, different war. A different world. Do you understand that?”

Kaam blinked hesitant acknowledgement. “We think so, though we do not know how that can be. But Lef-ten-aant tried to explain it as
he
learned it, listening to the talking machine in his aar-plane.”

Silva understood that much, and his head whipped around to stare at Kaam with his one eye. “That heap's got a
radio
?” he demanded. Kaam looked at him curiously. “That is what Lef-ten-aant called the talking machine,” he said, but looked back at Courtney. “He heard things from the world, tales of how other people, people like us, have joined together to fight the Gaa-rieks! He heard of great battles far to sunrise-ward at strange-sounding places, but most stirring to us, he heard of victories!”

“Where is he now?” Courtney almost pleaded.

Kaam cast his eyes to the ground. “He has passed into the Heavens whence he came. He was recovered from his hurts, but then took a terrible pain in his side that no magic or medicine could cure. He tried to tell us how to cut the pain out, but by then his fever was too great and his words too few to fully describe the rite. We did the best we could,” Kaam added.

“Appendicitis,” Courtney surmised. “After all the poor bugger went through, he died of appendicitis.” He looked at Kaam. “No doubt you
did
do your best. Without the, um, ‘rites' he required, there was no saving him.”

“He did not tell us to put him in the ground, so we sent him to the sky in the proper way,” Kaam said. Apparently, the Lemurians here still practiced cremation. “Did we do right?”

“I'm sure that was fine,” Chack assured him. “The spirit flies to the Heavens from the ground or the fire—or from beneath the sea,” he said. He glanced at his friends. “This
we
believe.”

“But what about the radio?” Silva pressed, looking at the plane. “I hope they didn't piss on it,” he added aside to Lawrence.

“Sadly, the magic of the talking machine died with Lef-ten-aant,”
Kaam said. “It grew sick and weak even as he did, but he was very afraid we would talk into it after he was gone, that we would talk to Jaaps and they would come, so he killed it.”

“Shit.” Silva grunted, then shrugged. “Battery must'a croaked anyway.”

“We could've charged it,” Miles suggested, and Silva looked at him questioningly. “The generator in that port engine,” Miles clarified. “And maybe we can fix the radio. Tear the generator out, find some way to spin it . . .”

“Maybe. We'll see later.” He gestured around. Nearly the entire village had to be gathered now, staring in wide-eyed silence at the exchange. There must've been four hundred of them.

“Are there really Jaaps out there?” Kaam demanded. “Yet another menace besides the Gaa-rieks?”

Courtney nodded. “There are, and others perhaps just as dangerous. Your . . . ‘Lef-ten-aant' was probably wise to do as he did.”

Kaam seemed to consider this, then motioned them onward. “Come,” he said. “It is not right that we linger here so long. You must meet Ror'at-Raal. He will be impatient.”

CHAPTER
18

Aboard the NUS
Congress
The Caribbean
October 7, 1944

“Holy smoke! Would you look at that!” Fred Reynolds said, practically pounding Kari's shoulder and pointing over
Congress
's starboard rail to the north, northeast. Looming large across the morning sun-dappled sea between the steam frigate and what Lieutenant Hudgens had told them was the
only
“Cayman” Island lying about ten miles away, were two large three-masted sailing steamers. They looked a third again more massive than the Allies' latest
Scott
Class steam frigate/DDs, and nearly as large as the biggest Dom ships of the line they'd ever seen. Screening them were four frigates identical to
Congress
, at a glance. Their sails had been sighted at dawn, rounding the western point of the island, and Fred and Kari had been amazed that no alarm was sounded when so little of
the ships were visible. But somehow, in that indefinable way sailors had, Captain Willis had immediately declared the approaching squadron as friendly.

“Just look at the cut of their sails,” he'd told them, as if that explained everything. Of course, the
color
of their sails was significant, even to Fred and Kari. Warships of the Dominion almost always sailed under red canvas painted with the garish gold cross of their twisted faith. But Fred remained suspicious. “What if the Doms used white sails to trick us?” he'd asked. Willis had smiled. “They have tried that before, as we have attempted the reverse from time to time. It even works occasionally, from a distance, or when done by a prize. Ordinarily, though, the cut tells the tale.” He'd paused, still smiling at Fred and Kari. “And besides, I am certain that is Commodore Semmes's squadron. The vicinity of Cayman Isle is his station.”

“Does it belong to your people?” Kari had asked.

“Cayman belongs to no one, at present. Cuba is ours,” he added with satisfaction, “wrested from the Dominion in the last declared war we fought them, twenty-three years ago. I was a midshipman then and participated in the decisive Battle of Santiago, likely the last battle we will ever fight with more sails than steam. I was aboard the old
Texas
,” he said proudly. “She was pounded to an irreparable hulk,” he admitted, smile fading, “as was half our battle fleet. But though the Doms outnumbered us three to one, they were beaten soundly enough that they've never made a serious attempt to retake the island.” His brows had furrowed. “Until recently, that is. For the last several years, they have been amassing a truly enormous fleet that we have been endeavoring to counter with quality if not quantity. Not so successfully, I might add. Their labor pool is so much greater than ours, you see. It was obvious they meant to return to Cuba, and perhaps press even farther.” His eyes had gone wide, and he blinked at Fred and Kari. “And then their fleet just . . . went away, presumably crossing westward through the Pass of Fire. Further substantiating the tale you brought us.”

Fred had remained skeptical after Captain Willis left them, at least until the ships drew near. Now he could see details—and the strange five-starred flags. The “heavies” boasted two gun decks apiece, and their black-painted sides were pierced for fifty or more very large guns. Twin
funnels, both forward of their mainmasts, implied multiple boilers. Lieutenant Hudgens noted their interest and joined them at the rail.

“That first one, with the long blue pennant, is the
Zachary Taylor
. Perhaps you have heard of him?” Fred nodded vaguely. “We call her ‘
Old Zack
,' of course,” Hudgens added with a smile. “The second is
Eric Holland
, named for the commander of one of the ships that brought us to this world, and our first director of the Navy.”

“What do you call her?” Kari asked.

“Oh, a number of things.” Hudgens chuckled. “She's known through the fleet as ‘
Holly
,' but the names her crew calls her change from time to time. She's reputed to be rather cranky under a full head of steam. Still, both are fairly new. The first sisters in a new class of ten, in point of fact. There are five others of them so far. They're armed with fifty-four guns, the largest being six-inch, eighty-pounder rifles, and they can make twelve knots under steam alone.”

“Our ‘Scotts' are faster, and their guns are bigger. Seven and a quarter inches,” Fred boasted. He didn't mention they were smoothbores and only fired fifty-pound balls.

“Oh. Indeed.”

Fred laughed at the man's suddenly crestfallen countenance. “But ‘Scotts' aren't as big,” he consoled, “and they mount only twenty guns, I think. Now, USS
Walker
only has
four
guns, and she could blow
Old Zack
and
Holly
to smithereens from nine miles away!”

Hudgens's face reddened, then he snorted. “Ha! Ridiculous! Now I'm sure you are teasing me!”

Fred's smile faded and his expression turned serious. “Nope, Lieutenant. I'm not pulling your leg about that at all.”

Hudgens waved his arms. “Then . . . with such a ship, why would you need our help at all?”

Fred sighed. “Because
Walker
's only one ship. Others like her are being built; they may already be in service, for all I know. But right now they're all fighting the Grik on the other side of the world. We're here. Just you and us.”

With a flurry of signal flags whipping up and down her halyards
, Congress
eventually joined Semmes's squadron and slowly approached
Zachary Taylor
under her lee. The sea was calm and Fred, Kari, Captain Willis,
and Lieutenant Hudgens were rowed to Commodore Semmes's flagship in short order. They were met courteously enough, but with many suspicious looks, especially at Kari. The barge carrying Don Emmanuel and the Dom prisoners followed them across. They were greeted correctly enough as well, it seemed, but the Dom's reception included a heavily armed Marine detachment that escorted all but Don Emmanuel below. The Dom emissary and Captain Willis were escorted directly aft, where they descended a companionway, but not before Don Emmanuel sent hateful glares at Fred and Kari. Lieutenant Hudgens remained behind with the two young aviators, while
Old Zack
's curious crew gathered around them.

“So, what've you caught yourself this time, Sam?” asked a tall lieutenant with bright red muttonchops, angling through the crowd.

“There you are, Ully,” Hudgens exclaimed with a grin. “I thought perhaps the commodore had thrown you overboard at last, when I didn't immediately see your foul, flaming face.” He turned to Fred and Kari. “May I present Lieutenant Ulysses Locke, one of my more bothersome roommates at the Mobile Naval Asylum. He's really not as frightening as he appears. Ully, please welcome Lieutenant, Junior Grade, Fred Reynolds and his fascinating companion, Ensign Kari-Faask. They are both aviators”—he paused, considering—“ah, crew, of that splendid flying machine you see dominating dear
Congress
's deck, amidships. They represent the great alliance to the east that has been giving the damnable Doms such fits. It was they who captured that rascal Don Emmanuel, in point of fact, and cheerfully handed him to us.”

Lieutenant Locke stared at the Nancy aboard the other ship, then examined them more closely, his eyes lingering longest on Kari. But he, like Hudgens, seemed more amazed by the plane than by Kari's appearance, making her and Fred suspect anew that these people had had some contact, at least, with people who looked like her. Belatedly, he nodded a greeting. “Indeed?” he said. “You must tell me all about it.”

For the next two hours, Fred and Kari entertained their hosts with tales of their adventures and the war in the West. Except for Hudgens and Locke, their audience changed from time to time as sailors were called to their duties and replaced by others. Probably a bit giddy by the sociable, if still occasionally somewhat suspicious, reception after their long, harrowing journey across a land that wouldn't have welcomed them at all,
Fred realized several times that he'd probably revealed too much. He didn't know nearly as much about these people as he was telling them about his—but he was sure they shared far more than just the superficial things he'd seen, including a terrible enemy.
It isn't always true that the enemy of your enemy is your friend,
he knew,
but anybody as committed to resisting the damn Doms as these “New Americans” seem to be don't ever actually have to be our “friends” to become potent . . . cobelligerents, at least
.

Finally, Don Emmanuel was escorted back on deck and taken forward to another companionway on the fo'c'sle, probably to join his companions in captivity. The hatred behind his seething stare at Fred and Kari was undiminished when he was hustled past them. Shortly, a young midshipman who looked all of twelve fetched Fred, Kari, and both lieutenants aft.
Old Zack
's layout below was similar to
Congress
's. The gunroom they passed through was a little larger, but not as much so as they might've expected given her size. Fred suspected her second boiler and doubtless larger engine probably accounted for that. Soon, they were brought to a door guarded by a Marine in blue and white. He nodded at their approach and knocked on the door before opening it. “The, ah . . . gentlemen you sent for are here, Commodore.”

“Enter,” came a deep, robust voice, and the Marine stepped aside and waved them in.

Again, the great cabin looked much like Captain Willis's on
Congress
, but it was substantially larger, occupying the entire space from beam to beam, and from the door to the large, square windows set in the curving stern of the ship. A fascinating gimbaled bunk arrangement dominated the starboard side of the space, and a line of closets stood to port. In the center was a large table surrounded by chairs, but only Captain Willis and another man, as tall and gaunt as Willis was round, sat near its head.
That must be Commodore Semmes,
Fred thought as the man gazed at them with piercing eyes beneath a pair of truly outstanding dark eyebrows nearly as impressive as Courtney Bradford's. A bushy mustache swept aside to join the muttonchops that seemed to try—and failed—to add an impression of width to his narrow face. Otherwise, an enormous cigar was clamped in his teeth, and by the smell of the smoke in the cabin, Fred Reynolds realized it was rolled from a variety of real tobacco.
That takes the cake,
he thought.
Those weird “Mice” guys have fought so long and hard
to turn Aryaalan tobacco into something they could smoke—and here I just stumble across the real thing, and I can't stand the stuff!
Both men stood as the visitors stepped inside.

“Lieutenant Hudgens,” the gaunt man greeted, returning the man's salute. Belatedly, Fred and Kari both saluted as well, and announced themselves as formally as they knew how. Semmes blinked in surprise and allowed a small smile before he spoke. “I am Captain Michael Semmes, serving as commodore in command of this squadron. Captain Willis has told me a great deal about you two, and his account is . . . astonishing, to say the least. Interestingly, not only did my interview with Don Emmanuel actually confirm a great deal of what Captain Willis said, I happen to be in possession of . . . certain corroborative intelligence of my own.”

Fred's thoughts spun wildly with the implications of that statement while Semmes instructed them to take seats around the great table and they waited for refreshments to appear. Fred politely refused the offered cigar, but Kari actually chose one from the humidor and puffed it to life with all appearance of relish. Fred did accept a glass of something very strong, and he greedily gulped it down with a cough. Semmes chuckled darkly when they were settled. “Not that the Dom bastard
wanted
to help your cause,” he continued, “but his description of you as ‘criminal spies, cowardly saboteurs, agents of a demonic force bent on the destruction of humanity'”—he looked directly at Kari—“and ‘animalistic monsters' couldn't have more thoroughly endeared you to me.” He smirked. “A more suspicious man, who hadn't already met Don Emmanuel during several negotiations between his people and mine, might almost be tempted to believe that his condemnation was actually calculated to achieve that end. But as I said, I know the man, and know his attempt to defame you, if nothing else he said, was sincere. He really is arrogant enough to think we might credit his report against your character.”