Blood In the Water (50 page)

Meek nodded. “Then it's my conclusion that the Grik are gathering an armada, as we suspected, but it doesn't look . . .” He shrugged. “Well, ‘complete,' I suppose. Many of the ships were still fitting out and undergoing the modifications that you see. Most important, though, there were huge numbers of tents across the plain around the lake . . .
tents
, gentlemen,” he stressed significantly, then nodded graciously at Pam, Safir, Risa, and Tabby. “And ladies,” he added, “the tents certainly imply a number of things, but most particularly they indicate the presence of a truly enormous army gathering to invade. If that's the case, however, where are their transports? As you can see, there appears to be very little capacity for
moving
their army.”

“What's under these long, low structures?” Russ Chappelle asked. “Could you see at all?”

Meek frowned. “We tried, and Commander Leedom spared a pair of bombs for them, but we were forced to fly off before we could go 'round for another look. We might assume they're keeping some new type of warship covered there, something with a low freeboard perhaps, that they must keep out of the rain?”

“Could be barges,” Spanky said. “Troop barges the big steamers might tow across.”

Meek looked at him. “I hadn't thought of that. Very good. You may be right. Very vulnerable to attack, if so, and liable to render the warships towing them quite vulnerable as well.” He shook his head. “I'm no Mr. Herring or Inquisitor Choon, but I still think, though they're clearly getting ready to have at us again, that we have some time yet. No doubt they can come whenever they please, but I don't . . .
feel
as though they're quite ready.”

“Okay, say you're right,” Matt said slowly. “That may leave us—and the Republic—with an opportunity. Those Grik troops came from somewhere, and I doubt it was right across the strait from us. Probably down south, across the frontier from the Republic, where they don't expect an attack.” He raised an eyebrow at Meek. “Bekiaa reports that your Republic ‘Legions' have good equipment and ‘dress pretty,' but they're basically a bunch of amateurs playing at soldiers,” he said gently, but with a bite. “She also says they're finally straightening out, though, after a bunch of bureaucratic grab-ass,” he allowed.

“Skipper,” Spanky interrupted, holding up one of his message forms. “That's actually some of the only good news we've had. The latest from Bekiaa still says the Republic army is ‘screwy,' but she, Choon, and General Kim have kicked their first Legions into place at their jump-off point near Fort Taak on the east coast. She also confirms your theory some by saying their scouts are seeing very few Grik across the frontier—fewer than ever. So despite the ‘akka chase' getting the Republic troops ready, the Grik apparently still don't expect an attack.”

“Really? Well,” Matt murmured, looking back at Meek, “then
if
that's so, and remains the case based on Bekiaa's continuing assessments, and
if
we can get First and Third Corps sorted out quickly enough”—he looked at Safir Maraan—“and if you can finish incorporating the Maroons into your Second Corps to bring it back up to strength, I think we need to start planning right now to hit
the Grik
in conjunction with an attack from the south. . . .” Matt's face turned hard as he absorbed the flickering eyelids, swishing tails, and sudden, stunned silence in the wardroom. “We just got our asses kicked, and it hurts bad,” he admitted. “And it could be months before we get significantly more troops and materials down here. But that leaves plenty of time for the Grik to launch
their big show, or for Kurokawa to lick
his
wounds and possibly hit the
next
task force too, if we just sit on our butts. So the way I see it, in spite of the last few days, we have a narrow window of time—maybe weeks, maybe a month or two—while we're still stronger relative to the enemy than we can ever count on being again.”

He stopped and looked at his coffee cup on the green linoleum-topped table, the one that had
CAPTAIN USS
WALKER
DD
-163 stenciled around it. Over time, it had formed dark spiderwebs in the white glaze, and there were a number of rough chips at the rim that would cut his lips if he wasn't careful, but he still cherished the stupid thing. In a way, it had become a kind of symbol in his mind for the old, battered destroyer that had served them all so well, but more significantly for him, it represented a constant reminder of the obligation he'd accepted when he first assumed command. His responsibilities had since morphed and expanded far beyond anything he felt remotely qualified for, but he still accepted them as his duty. And that ugly, worn-out cup, so often filled with the bitterest of brews, always reminded him of where it all began.

“Robert E. Lee is considered one of my country's greatest generals,” he began, startling some with the apparent departure from the subject. “Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but he was one of the first ‘modern' generals, in many ways.” He looked up. “He was also one of the last of the ‘old' generals, at least in my country, in the sense that even though he fully understood the concept of ‘total war,' he was always desperately looking for an opportunity to end his war the old-fashioned way, with one big, decisive battle.” Matt shook his head. “He tried it a couple of times, marching his army into places where his enemy—other countrymen of mine,” he added ironically for the benefit of those who didn't have a clue what he was talking about, “
had
to fight him decisively, or maybe, just maybe, give up.” He shrugged. “In the end, a lot went wrong. We all know
that
happens. He wound up accepting battle where he probably didn't have to, and honestly, I think he was just so sick of it all and wanted it to end so badly, he got anxious.” Matt took a deep breath. “Maybe I'm with him there. Maybe I'm making the same mistake.” He looked at Safir Maraan. “One mistake I won't make is to try to command the army myself. That's for Pete Alden, Lord Rolak—and
you
to do. I don't have any of General Lee's good qualities as a land force
commander”—he managed a smile—“and I think you've gotten over any of the bad ones you might've once shared with him. And regardless how it turned out for General Lee, his scheme
almost
worked.” He looked around at them all. “So . . . I say we go for it.”

There was alarmed but positive, almost eager blinking all around the table from humans and Lemurians.

“It is true we are wounded,” Keje agreed in his gruff tone, “but it is the wounded gri-kakka that destroys the chase boat of its hunters. And whether the Grik at Sofesshk were in concert with Kurokaawa or not, the last thing they will expect is a full attack by us while they prepare for their invasion here. Such an attack, as has been pointed out, will catch them in disarray and poorly deployed to stop it.”

“Which gives us all the more reason to keep a close eye on them,” Matt continued. “Leedom's Clipper is almost repaired, and we'll soon have another. For now, first thing, we'll shift them to the Comoros Islands. That'll cut their flight time, and they'll be safer there anyway. The Grik don't bomb the islands. Then, if we can get
Big Sal
or
Arracca
close enough without stirring up a hornet's nest, we can hammer those sheds—and zeppelins—with firebombs from our shorter-range planes. It won't matter as much how spread out they are. Even if that lake is just the source for the zeps they send someplace else to attack us here, that'll cut their numbers. Our planes can do the rest, and get them the hell off our backs.”

Major Jindal grimaced. “Isn't it possible that the continued reconnaissance and air attacks will make them change their plans? Expect an attack?”

“It is possible,” Safir agreed, “but I must doubt it.” She patted the map before them. “Just look at this again. Even after we have taken their Celestial City from them, their arrogance cannot allow them to contemplate that we might do the same at Sofesshk! They have deployed some few air defenses, but there are no ground defensive works visible at all, beyond a few coastal guns at the mouth of the river. No,” she continued. “They will expect air attacks, now that we have found them, but I suspect it will only cause them to disperse their forces more widely until they are ready to move, likely making that move more lengthy and difficult.”

“And making them more vulnerable to our ground attack—if it comes swiftly enough,” Jindal said, nodding.

Matt smiled at Safir, impressed by her evaluation. Then he looked around the table. “Can anybody think of a better short-term plan while we work out the bigger one? At least as far as it comes to dealing with Grik that
don't
have aircraft carriers?”

There were several suggestions, mostly involving logistics, but no objections.

“Has there been any word from Colonel Chack, Mr. Bradford . . . and Chief Silva?” Pam Cross asked suddenly, looking hopefully at Spanky's message forms. She was doing her very best to hide her concern when she said Silva's name, but her eyes revealed her desperation for news. Safir allowed a quick blink of searing concern for her mate Chack as well, but quickly controlled her emotions.

“Ah, no, Lieutenant Cross. Still nothing. Sorry,” Spanky replied uncomfortably. Nat Hardee had finally returned with the Seven boat the day before after a long, very creepy wait in the Mangoro River in case the explorers decided to return to the boat, but they never had. There was no escaping the conclusion that either they were dead or they'd actually found what they were looking for. After Hardee's account of the creatures—and people—they'd encountered along the river, few would've been willing to lay odds on the latter.

Spanky cleared his throat and turned his gaze to Matt, raising the final sheet in his hand. “That, uh . . . I guess there's just one more thing to add before we all get busy.” There was nervous blinking around the table, inspired by his tone. It implied that, no matter how bad things seemed just then, there was more to come. “Skipper?” he said. “Captain Reddy, I'm damn sorry to tell you”—his gaze swept around the room—“to tell you all that SMS
Amerika
is no longer considered ‘overdue.' There's . . . absolute proof that she was . . . sunk by that damn League battleship
Savoie
. There were survivors,” he hastened to add. “About three hundred. Yeah,” he ground out, “only about ten percent of those aboard, but they were able to confirm what happened.” Quickly, guiltily, not looking at his captain, Spanky related the details concerning the loss of the old liner, as well as why it took so long to find the survivors
after
the ship was officially overdue. The search began tentatively at first, with transmissions flying back and forth, once it was determined that
Amerika
had never been seen by anyone in the busy Jaava Sea. That left the vast region between the Sunda Strait and Diego Garcia to search, and nothing was found in the
vicinity of either. Finally, a scout plane off the fast oiler
Pecos
, just back from the West and headed for Diego, spotted floating debris southwest of the Sunda Strait.
Pecos
pursued the strong current from there, the debris leading her straight to a collection of lifeboats, lashed together. The survivors, mostly already wounded before they'd been cast adrift, had been in pretty bad shape after twelve days in open boats. Only when Spanky returned to the survivor's accounts of what they thought had happened to Matt's wife did he meet his captain's eyes again.

Matt was . . . numbed by horror, he supposed, and consumed by a rushing, roaring inferno of fury. After everything else, now this. He couldn't think clearly, could barely focus on Spanky's next words: “The boat with Adar, Captain Lange, Gunny Horn, and the rest, including . . . Lady Sandra”—Spanky probably didn't even realize it was the first time he'd used that mode of address—“were all taken aboard
Savoie
. There was no doubt whatsoever about that, by anybody in any shape to see it,” he quickly added. “And that little Jap, Miyata, confirmed it as well.” He hesitated. “It's damn small consolation, sure, but at least
Savoie
didn't fire on the lifeboats. And whatever they wanted Adar . . . and the others for, they didn't hurt them either.”

“Okay,” Matt said, his voice deceptively mild, while his mind whirled. What could he do? He had to
do
something! He wanted desperately to chase
Savoie
. But what with, and where? Tabby couldn't do anything for the number three boiler, but she'd patched number two back together—barely—so
Walker
had two relatively reliable boilers again. But how far would they take her before one—or both—crapped out? And what could
Walker
do, alone, against
Savoie
? Particularly in the shape she was in. He looked around the wardroom. And of course these people, his friends—his
family
—deserved better from him than to simply run out on them after he'd just declared what they all had to do. That's when he finally realized with a sick, bitter certainty that there was almost nothing he
could
do for Sandra, Adar, or any of the others except finish the job. There'd be a terrible reckoning for
Savoie
and the entire “League” she served, Matt swore, but first he must at least ensure the chore at hand had the greatest likelihood of success. So how best to do that? First, whatever else they did, Matt, Sandra, and the entire Alliance needed
Walker
as fully operational as they could make her, period.

“
Tarakan Island
's at Mahe, or soon will be,” he said softly. “She's got
the parts and dry dock we need, and I don't want her unloading her cargo here under Grik bombing attacks anyway. She'll offload there, and that's where we'll stage First and Third Corps.” He looked at Spanky. “
Walker
will get underway at first light. Make all preparations. We steam for Mahe, and a
two-week
refit, no longer—if conditions permit even that. Without it, we won't have a chance in hell of dealing with the Grik, Kurokawa,
or
the goddamn League. Maybe in a few days we'll have a better idea what we have to do to sort this mess out.”