Deadly Shores (25 page)

“Cease firing!” Matt yelled. “Cease firing all guns!”

The conn tower and pressure hull shattered like a basket of eggs under the point-blank hammering of
Walker
's common shells—none of the new AP rounds were kept in the ready lockers—the enigmatic submarine dove once more, smoking and hissing, back beneath the sea. With her bow again pointing at the sky, she seemed to be rising in reverse, except now the oil and diesel around her were alight, and black smoke piled into the clear afternoon sky. Just like that, the very real submarine that Gunny Horn probably really did see, that had haunted them from Madraas to Diego, and across half the Western Ocean, disappeared forever.

“My God,” Herring muttered at Matt's side. “I see no survivors.”

“We'll have a closer look, nevertheless,” Matt said. “I'd sure as hell like to know what that was all about. Then we'll head back there”—he gestured toward the fleet where another tall column of smoke stood in the sky—“and find out how bad it hurt us. Boats?” he called toward Gray. “Have our damage-control parties rig out all our firefighting gear and stand by for rescue operations. Mr. Rosen? Take us over there for a quick look around. Then we'll shape a course back to the fleet, if you please.”

Sonny Campeti joined them, still puffing from his slide down the ladder. “I can't believe it,” he gasped. “Didn't you see?”

“Of course I saw,” Matt replied. “But they shot fish at us and our friends, and they were about to keep shooting at us!”

“I know! And that's what doesn't make sense!”

Herring was looking at them questioningly.

“That sub,” Matt explained, “was the
Surcouf
—or something from the same class. One of the biggest boats ever built—fast, long legged, and powerfully armed. Those guns she was trying to point at us were eight-inchers—
cruiser
guns!”

“I've heard of
Surcouf
!” Herring defended. He started to remind them he'd been—was—an intelligence officer, after all, but something about Matt's and Campeti's expressions stopped him—that, and the fact that he was a different man than he'd been just a few short months ago. Then it came to him. “But
Surcouf
is French!”

“Right!” Campeti declared.

“Must've gone Vichy,” Bernie speculated. “Collaborating with the Krauts. Why else would they attack? They had to see our flag—and nearly every ship in the fleet flies the Stars and Stripes!”

“I don't doubt they saw our flag,” Matt said, “and these four-stackers've been around long enough that everybody in the world—our old world—is familiar with our lines. They may've been confused by the rest of our fleet flying the Stars and Stripes; couldn't know it's the Navy clan flag, but they had to know who
we
are. But I thought even the Vichy French kept the tricolor. You didn't see her flag?” he asked.

“She wasn't flying one.”

“It was painted on her conn tower, and I've got no idea what it meant.”

“I saw it,” Bernie agreed. “Looked more like an emblem of some kind.”

“What was it?” Campeti demanded.

“A red octagon with a white field, and what looked like a blue cross with rockers on each side,” Matt told them.

“Looked like a big, fat, blue swastika to me,” Bernie added darkly.

*   *   *

With the TBS barn door having been opened, it was pretty jammed up with traffic by the time
Walker
rejoined the rest of First Fleet South. It was daytime, with a clear sky, so maybe the signals wouldn't travel far, but it was still a mess. They learned from snippets of excited reports that the DD that had been destroyed was USS
Naga
, one of their newest, that had transferred from Des-Ron 9 to Des-Ron 6 for this mission. As expected, there'd been no survivors. They also quickly learned that USS
Respite Island
was sinking, but they could see that for themselves. She had a serious list to starboard and was low by the stern. A mass of ships was gathered around her, taking off her crew and the troops she carried, while they joined with those left aboard in fighting a raging fire amidships. Matt wasn't sure even
Big Sal
could've survived two torpedo hits as long, but
Respite Island
, due to her nature, had more watertight compartments and better pumps than any Allied ship. She had to have them to maintain her trim and perform her duties as a floating dry dock. Regardless, she was clearly doomed. All they could do was prolong the inevitable while they evacuated her people—and as much of her cargo as possible.

Several of the torpedo boats had apparently launched themselves as the cavernous dry dock flooded, and they were busy towing others clear, ferrying survivors to ships that kept their distance—like
Big Sal
—and trying to save as many of the stacked, dory-shaped landing craft aboard the ship as they could. Matt hated to contemplate all the other supplies and equipment they simply couldn't save; tons and tons of food and ammunition and as much as half of II Corps's light artillery would be lost. Carefully, he directed
Walker
's approach into the chaotic jumble so he could bring her own firefighting equipment to bear. Soon, streams of rainbow-infused water were arcing across the gap between the ships to play upon the flaming SPD. Steam rose within the gray cloud of woodsmoke.

“Look at that!” someone called as one of the PTs gingerly towed the fire-scorched P-40E-turned-floatplane clear of the settling stern. The fabric control surfaces on the tail had burned away, leaving the skeletonized framework in view, but the plane was in one piece and should be salvageable. Matt applauded the initiative of whoever commanded the little boat. With all the Nancys in the fleet, a “sport model” floatplane might seem superfluous, but there was no sense in letting it go down with the ship.

“Minnie, have Mr. Palmer signal all ships to quit jamming up the phone. We have to get organized here. Ask Admiral Keje to double our aerial scouts. Keep some close in case there's something else sneaking around out there, but push some farther out too. We need plenty of warning if we have to untangle this mess and get ready for a fight.”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!”

“Skipper!” cried a 'Cat on the port bridgewing. “Morse lamp signal from
Salissa
; Ahd-mi-raal Keje's compliments, an' he asks that we move us away from
Respite Island
, in case she blows up. He also asks that you come aboard
Salissa
as soon as possible.”

Matt frowned. “Send my respects to the admiral, and tell him I'll be happy to attend him as soon as I'm sure we can render no further assistance here.”

//////
TFG-2

July 21, 1944

C
aptain Bekiaa-Sab-At sat perched on the topgallant yard, nearly as high on the foremast as she could get. She'd been a wing-runner on
Salissa
, like her cousins Chack and Risa, before her old Home gave up the wind and became a carrier of aircraft. Heights held no terror for her, particularly after her exciting flight in
Donaghey
's Nancy. Her perch was more precarious than it had ever been on
Salissa
, and the motion of the much smaller ship kept her swooping all over the sky, but she felt . . .
cleaner
here, less disturbed by all the real terrors she'd known.

Donaghey
had finally reached the point where she was supposed to rendezvous with First Fleet South a few days before, and had spent the time slowly cruising up and down a longitude just one hundred fifty miles east of Mauritius, across the fleet's expected line of advance. There was no guarantee they'd meet; the Western Ocean was vast. But with the weather remaining mild and the visibility so good, there was an excellent chance they'd spot something the size of
Salissa
and her battle group spread across several miles of ocean, or
Salissa
's planes would find
Donaghey
.

“Smoke!” came a cry behind her, from the main masthead. “Smoke on horizon! West-nor'west!”

Bekiaa squinted, noting the distant haze, and chastised herself for letting someone else spy what she should have seen first. Shouts came from below, but she paid them little mind at present. She supposed it was possible they'd spotted an enemy force of some kind, but they'd know that long before she needed to concern herself with preparations below. She caught a glimpse of a sunlit shape above that quickly resolved into a copy of the Nancy floatplane they'd finally struck back down into the hold. She blinked with a small sense of triumph as she hollered down: “Allied aar-craft approaching, twenty degrees off port bow!” She'd seen that one first!

Time passed, and soon dark shapes could be seen rising above the distant horizon to join the boiler smoke. It wasn't dark smoke, but she expected Captain Garrett would tactfully rib Captain Reddy about it when they met, regardless. She reached back to grab a tarry backstay and slid down it, all the way to the bright deck below. “What's wrong?” she asked Smitty, when she saw his troubled expression. “We've found First Fleet South.”

“Sure. But so did somebody else. The TBS is goin' crazy.”

Aboard USNRS
Salissa
(CV-1)
July 22, 1944

“You know, of course, my aviators came very close to blowing your fine ship to splinters, Cap-i-taan Gaar-ett?”
Salissa
's COFO, Captain Jis-Tikkar (Tikker), told Greg ruefully. As usual, he was absently polishing the 7.7-mm cartridge case thrust through a hole in his ear with his sable-furred fingers. He had to speak up too, because this wasn't a formal conference in Keje's vast quarters, but a hurried gathering of anxious friends on
Big Sal
's hangar deck. Others were still arriving, but that was as far as anyone got before the questions started to fly. The hangar deck was a loud place under normal circumstances, but the need for greater security after the torpedo attack, as well as the fleet's growing proximity to its objective, called for an increased pace of air operations. The space had been crammed with “Fleashooters” since they left Madraas, since the little pursuit ships were rarely allowed to fly so distant from land. Only a few were kept ready for emergency defense. But now nearly half the 1st Naval Air Wing's Nancys were below at any given time, undergoing the constant maintenance they required. Added to the noise and general bustle were large numbers of troops rescued from
Respite Island
, who had no choice but to sway their hammocks on the hangar deck. The lost ship's crew had been distributed throughout the fleet and easily fit in wherever they went. The troops were mostly from land Homes, however, and it was all they could do to stay out of the way.

“I considered that possibility, Tikker,” Greg replied, glancing at Bekiaa and Inquisitor Choon. They'd accompanied him aboard. “That was why I was flying my battle flags—and every signal flag I could combine into any variation of ‘Don't shoot me' I could find!”

“You painted your hull red, like a Grik ship,” Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar observed. “Does that mean what I think it does?”

“We'll be painting it black and white again, just as soon as we part company with you, Admiral. Trust me. But yeah, we actually cruised within sight of Madagascar.”

There was a hush, at least within the immediate gathering. No one except the Japanese sailor Miyata had viewed the ancestral homeland of—most likely—all the Lemurian People in untold ages. Miyata had described the Grik capital there, but almost nothing was known of what he called the “wild regions.”

“Was . . . Was it beautiful?” Adar almost whispered.

Greg looked curiously at the Chairman of the Grand Alliance. “You could say that, I guess. It was . . . different.” He didn't elaborate on that. “We didn't get real close, just sailed north along the eastern coast until we got within fifty or sixty miles of the port city Miyata told us about.” He nodded at the Japanese sailor who'd arrived at the meeting with Irvin Laumer, Safir Maraan and Sandra. Irvin had suddenly found himself elevated to command the entire little “mosquito fleet” of torpedo boats, though the number had been reduced by nearly half. Just seven PTs survived the sinking of
Respite Island
, and they were currently stowed in the water-level docking bay. Their creator and former commander, Winny Rominger, had been killed trying to save an eighth, and his loss was a terrible blow. It was also a sad irony since the man hadn't really wanted back in the Navy in the first place after all he'd been through as a prisoner of the Japanese. He'd been willing to design and build PT boats, however, and ultimately—reluctantly—agreed to command the first squadron completed. Laumer was new to PTs and had expected a lot more time to learn about them. Now he was in charge. He'd been faced with adversity before, though, and nobody thought he'd have any trouble adapting—except maybe Irvin Laumer.

“You didn't send your scout plane to observe more closely?” Adar asked wistfully.

“No, sir,” Greg replied. “My orders specifically stated that I was to avoid detection at all costs. Even painted red, I wasn't going to get too close with
Donaghey
either. Her rig's definitely not Grik, and if anybody got a good look, they'd probably figure that out.”

“Did you see any ships?” Sandra asked.

“No, ma'am, but after we determined how inhospitable all the seaward islands were, I'm not too surprised. Most traffic's likely to move off the western coast, between the island and the continent, or maybe some of the northern islands.”

Adar noticed that their discussion was drawing more and more attention from the troops as well as from the air and ground crews nearby. He nudged Keje. “Perhaps we should take this conversation to the appropriate place, where there are scrolls—charts—to view, and a bit more privacy. Mr. Braad-furd is already there, and I would value his views. Kap-i-taan Leut-naant Laange is en route to join us with Chack and Risa, and Cap-i-taan Reddy should be alongside directly. Come.”

“I'll wait here for Captain Reddy, if you don't mind,” Sandra said.

“Of course.”

“As will I,” Safir announced. Everyone knew she wanted to greet Chack. He, Risa, Lange, and Doocy Meek were met by a side party soon afterward, and along with Safir, escorted away. Sandra smiled to see Safir and Chack almost—but not quite—holding hands, and their tails touching, caressing each other as they walked.

Sandra didn't know why Matt was the last to arrive—he had the fastest ship, after all—but when the side party piped him aboard, he was wearing whites, and her heart soared at the sight of him. He hadn't been aboard since they left Laa-Laanti, and she'd missed him terribly. Commander Herring was with him, which made sense, she supposed. He was their Chief of Strategic Intelligence, after all. He still kind of gave her the creeps, though. Last aboard was Chief Gray—with his captain, as always. Sandra hoped he and her young stewardess, Diania, might find time to spend together. She knew they'd grown crazy about each other, but Gray still wouldn't make his move because of the vast age difference. She shook her head. She'd keep working on that.

Without hesitation, or care for what anyone thought, she stepped forward and embraced her husband. He stiffened in surprise, but then wrapped her tightly in his arms. Mischievously, Sandra stood on tiptoe and planted a healthy kiss on his lips. Lemurians might not be able to manage wolf whistles, but a hearty cheer rose above the noise on the hangar deck.

“That's . . . nicer than I expected,” Matt whispered in her ear. “Sometimes lately . . . I wonder if you're mad at me.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” she whispered back. “Just a lot going on—and a lot on my mind.” She shook her head, smiling, when he raised a questioning brow. “Not now,” she mouthed, stepping back.

“Peese com dis waay,” a 'Cat said, gesturing. “De ahd-mi-raal, chaar-man, an' ever'body else is waitin'.”

*   *   *

Warm greetings were exchanged when Matt and his companions entered the expansive meeting room adjacent to Keje's offices and quarters. A 'Cat steward maneuvered him and Sandra to seats beside Keje and Adar, and Herring and Gray were ushered to others. Diania stood behind Matt and his wife, ready to serve them or fill their mugs, but she flashed a smile at Chief Gray as he sat. In a flustered response, he managed to strike the table with his chest when he shifted his chair forward, rattling everything on it. Keje gently knocked on the table several times with his knuckles until he had the silence he needed, then spoke to Greg Garrett, seated a short distance away.

“Cap-i-taan Garrett. I'm sure you have already heard a great deal of what has transpired since we parted company. The encounter with the strange submarine being the only incident of note, we shall return to it after you share your report. Only then may we speculate further about it.”

“There is plenty to speculate about already, Admiral,” Herring stated, drawing frowns.

“Indeed. But Cap-i-taan Garrett's report may add context.” He looked at Greg. “Please proceed.”

Garrett recounted what happened at Mauritius, and told them that the circumstances at Reunion Isle were essentially the same.

“So there's no way you can imagine us using either place as a staging area?” Matt prompted.

“None, sir. I've never seen anything like it. I don't see how anything that can't fly could live on either island.”

“Perhaps nothing does,” Courtney Bradford exclaimed absently, peering into his already-empty mug. The steward behind him blinked helplessly until Matt caught his eye and held up a single finger. One more for now. He wanted Courtney sharp.

“And you never found any sign of
Sineaa
?” Matt asked.

“No, sir.” Garrett glanced down at the table. “I guess we have to assume she foundered in the storm.”

“Or was captured—or grounded on enemy shores,” Becher Lange interrupted. He'd been unused to the free-flowing way his new allies discussed things, but he appreciated how valuable an unfettered exchange of ideas might be and had quickly embraced the practice. Kapitan Melhausen was less approving, but he was unwell again, so Lange—and now Choon—would represent the Republic once more.

“She wasn't captured, sir,” Garrett insisted to the bearded German. “I'll vouch for that.” He saw several grim nods. “No skipper or crew of an American Navy ship on this world would ever let their ship be taken by the Grik,” he added with certainty. “And as I said, there was absolutely no enemy traffic between the islands and our objective. Even if they did catch
Sineaa
, or found her aground, you'd think they'd come snooping.” He looked around the table. “And if there were any survivors at all . . .” He cleared his throat. “The Grik brass understands written English, at least, and we all know how . . . remorseless the enemy can be. People,
any
people can take only so much. If they had
Sineaa
or any of her survivors, they would've learned about us and come looking.”

“So you think, whatever happened to your consort, the Grik remain ignorant of our approach?” Adar demanded intently.

Greg hesitated only an instant before nodding. “Yes, Mr. Chairman, I do.”

There was a rumble of conversation before Keje wrapped the table again. “Unless, of course, the sub-maa-reen that sank
Naga
and
Respite Island
was somehow in league with them,” he added darkly, looking at Adar and voicing all their concerns. “We cannot discount that possibility.”

Adar stiffened on his stool. “Nor can we let mere speculation deter us from our mission,” he said forcefully.

Matt felt a familiar sinking feeling in his gut. He knew Keje was as keen to strike the Grik as anyone, but in the face of Adar's expanding ambitions, Keje had become the voice of caution. For the first time since he'd known the two Lemurians, he sensed tension between them. He couldn't let that spread, and it was high time he stressed his own views once more. Reluctantly, he cleared his throat. “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “you're the head of state—of whatever state Alan Letts has put together in our absence.” There were a few murmurs. Right on the heels of the encounter with the mystery sub, even while
Respite Island
was slipping beneath the sea, they'd picked up a transmission about the formation of the new “union” back in Baalkpan. Under the circumstances, the momentous achievement hadn't been received as joyfully as it would otherwise have been. Matt continued. “But Keje commands First Fleet South, and it's his duty to look out for it.” Matt's brow arched. “And in his capacity, he answers to
me
, Mr. Chairman, not you. Last I checked, I'm still High Chief of the Navy clan, and Supreme Commander of all Allied Forces. You tell us what you want to do and we figure out how—or whether we
can
.” He nodded at Keje. “Speculation is an important first step in that.” He shrugged, looking at Kon Choon and then Commander Herring. “Hell, without proper recon or intelligence, sometimes speculation is all we can do.” He looked back at Adar. “But as long as I'm Supreme Commander, it's my duty to decide if we proceed with the mission, and if, even through speculation, we determine there's a high likelihood it's been compromised, I'll say it's time to think up something else.” He shrugged. “If you don't like that, you can replace me in the top slot, but the Navy's my ‘state,' and you can't replace me as
its
High Chief.”