Maelstrom (9 page)

“Agreed,” said the captain, “but that’ll have to wait. New construction has priority, and there just aren’t enough hands, or hours, or days. . . .” He shook his head. “Nothing for it. You’ve done an amazing job, Spanky. All of you have. My question is, are the boilers in shape for more speed than we planned on, and if so, do we have the fuel? How much time can we shave off our trip?”

Spanky took off his hat and scratched his head. “We’re steaming on two boilers now, numbers two and three. Our range used to be about twenty-five hundred miles at twenty knots. We can’t do that well anymore. I can’t guarantee we can even
make
twenty knots on two boilers. If we light off number four, it’ll take half again as much fuel to gain just those few extra knots. Now, the new fuel bunker we installed where number one used to be ought to give us a safe margin, but it might not—and until we get the new site on Tarakan up and running, there won’t be anyplace to top off.” He shrugged. “If you’re putting me on the spot, I’d say we can light number four, probably squeeze twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight knots out of her, and still get back okay, but you won’t be able to do as much poking around looking for that ‘iron fish’ as you hoped. If we burn it now, you might wish we had it later.”

Matt grimaced. “Well, let’s wait till we reach open water and see what she’ll give us. Maybe she’ll make twenty. If she won’t, though, I’m inclined to burn it now. I just can’t shake the feeling we need to get back as soon as we can.”

“But . . . we’d still get back before any reinforcements could arrive,” said Dowden. “What real difference would it make?”

“Probably none. We’ll be in radio contact, and should have plenty of warning if the Japs and the Grik get uppity. We can take it easy on the way back if we have to.”

“What’s really bothering you?” asked Gray. “Is it
Amagi
?”

Matt nodded. “I guess. Theoretically, we should still have months before she’s seaworthy again. They don’t have a dry dock either, and she’s got a lot of underwater damage. But she shouldn’t have been here in the first place.” He paused, considering the absurdity of his remark, but they knew what he meant. “I just hate being blind. It’s like the ‘old’ war all over again. Without the PBY, we don’t really have any idea what the enemy’s up to, or what they’re capable of.”

The rain began to slacken, and before them lay the mouth of the bay. In it loomed
Big Sal
, or
Salissa
Home.

“Signal from
Big Sal
,” announced the talker, relaying a message from the Lemurian lookout in the crow’s nest. All allied vessels had been fitted with some means of making a signal by flags or semaphore. “It says Keje-Fris-Ar would like to accompany us after all, if we wouldn’t mind slowing down enough to take him aboard.”

Matt chuckled with relief. He’d been hoping his Lemurian friend would change his mind and come along. “Tell him we can’t slow down, but we’ll pass as close as we can and he can jump.”

“Sir?”

The others chuckled too.

“Never mind. Tell him ‘of course’ and ‘welcome.’”

Sandra went straight to the area of the roofed but otherwise open-air hospital, partitioned from the rest by hanging curtains, or tapestries, woven in bright, cheerful colors. It was the area many considered the “psych ward.” She knew Selass, Keje’s daughter, was working there, and she wanted to see her. The two had become friends, and the once spoiled, self-centered, and standoffish Selass had changed dramatically over the last few months. She’d become a real asset at the hospital, and her efforts in the psych ward in particular were tireless. Part of that was because she felt genuine concern for the people there. Most Lemurians, with the exception of Aryaalans and B’mbaadans, had never really known war before. They were a peaceful people, ready to defend their homes and families, but utterly unaccustomed to the horrors they’d seen and been forced to endure. Many of her patients had terrible physical wounds, sustained in the recent fighting, and she had to help them learn to cope with that. Others had been just as seriously wounded in the mind. The worst of these was a small, dwindling group of “survivors” they’d rescued from the first Grik ship they’d captured, the one that became
Revenge
and was later destroyed in battle. That was when they realized just how terrible their enemy truly was when they discovered that, to the Grik, anyone not allied with them was nothing but prey to be devoured, and when prey was captured, they kept them as living provisions. The survivors they’d found chained in the Grik ship’s hold not only understood this, but they’d seen many others, in some cases their very families, butchered alive and prepared for Grik cook pots. Selass’s own mate, Saak-Fas, was one who’d seen it all.

He’d been knocked unconscious and carried aboard the one Grik ship that escaped destruction when
Walker
first came to the People’s aid. No one knew what became of him at the time; it was assumed he was lost overboard with so many others, and devoured by the insatiable fish. Not so. Somehow he’d been captured and survived for months in first one hold, then another, and he’d seen . . . terrible things. He was quite mad when finally rescued. In the meantime, considering him dead, Selass finally realized she’d been wrong to take him to mate in the first place, and developed a real affection for Chack-Sab-At, who’d hopelessly wooed her before she made her choice. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of the young wing runner, but since then, Chack had become a noted warrior and a true leader. When she made her feelings known to him, he’d promised to give an answer after the battle for the ship. Instead, he’d returned to her with her long-lost mate. It was a crushing, emotional scene, and Sandra felt terribly sorry for Selass. Since then, Chack seemed to have fallen for the exotically beautiful B’mbaadan queen, Safir Maraan, but Selass’s feelings for him were undiminished. Added to that was the fact that her mate still lived and she could never leave him in his current state. It was a terrible hardship for Selass to bear: unrequited love for someone increasingly beyond her grasp, mixed with terrible guilt that she had those feelings while her legitimate mate still lived.

Even so, it might not have been so tragic, but Saak-Fas wouldn’t even speak to her, no matter how hard she tried to elicit some response. He wouldn’t speak to anyone. He was recovered, physically, from his ordeal, and almost feverish daily exercise had left him in better shape than he’d ever been. Sandra doubted he knew about his mate’s inner turmoil, so that probably wasn’t the reason for his behavior. When his old friends from
Big Sal
visited, he said nothing at all, and showed no interest in life aboard his old home. He cared nothing about reports of the war, and wouldn’t even acknowledge the existence of others who’d been through the same ordeal as he. Worst of all, no matter what she said or did, when Selass spent time with him each day, he acted as though she weren’t even there. The torment Selass felt was a palpable thing, and it wrenched Sandra to her core.

Sandra nodded and smiled at Pam Cross, who led a small procession of medical recruits through the fabric opening, showing them around. She knew Pam had issues of her own. It wasn’t much of a secret anymore that she and Dennis Silva had a “thing,” and she couldn’t help but wonder how that worked. It was even less a secret that Silva and Chack’s sister, Risa, had a “thing” of some sort going on as well, and as much as Sandra hoped it was a joke, with Silva there was no way of knowing. She shuddered and hoped Pam knew. She had to, didn’t she? Pam’s “thing” with Silva was proof, wasn’t it? She shook her head and went to stand beside Selass, where the Lemurian female was watching Saak-Fas do an unending series of push-ups.

“Good morning, Selass,” she said softly, the sorrow of the scene wrenching her anew.

For a moment Selass said nothing, but just sat cross-legged, watching the almost mechanical laboring of her mate. Finally, she sighed. “Good morning.” Her face, as usual, betrayed no emotion, but her tone was ironic, desolate. “Have they left?” she asked, referring to
Walker
, and more specifically Chack and Matt. Chack was accompanying the mission as commander of a company of the First Marines. She was also well aware of Sandra’s affection for Captain Reddy.

“Yes.”

For a while, both were silent. The only sounds were Saak-Fas’s heavy breathing, the rain on the dense canvas overhead, and the tormented moans of others in the segregated sections of the ward.

“He spoke,” Selass said at last.

Sandra rushed to her side. “That’s wonderful!” Perhaps some of Selass’s misery might be relieved. “What did he say?”

“He did not speak to me.” The ironic tone remained, but Selass’s voice broke with emotion, and tears welled in her large, amber eyes. “He merely made an announcement, as if it mattered little to him whether anyone heard. As if I were . . . anybody.”

For a breath, Sandra was speechless, appalled by Saak-Fas’s apparent cruelty. “Well . . . what did he say?” she managed at last.

“He is leaving the ward. He is entirely well and strong, and ready to resume his missions.”

“Missions?” Sandra was taken aback.

“Yes. While he was . . . in captivity . . . he swore an oath much like Adar’s: if somehow he was spared, he would never rest until he destroyed as many Grik as he possibly could. No consideration would be allowed to compete with that goal: no distraction, no emotion, no thought. Not even me. No other obligation binds him now, not even to his Home. He has decided the best way to accomplish his missions is to join your Navy.” She looked at Sandra. “To join
Mahan
’s crew.”

“What if we don’t release him? He’s still clearly unwell. His mental state—”

Selass interrupted her. “Release him?” She gestured at their surroundings. “How could we prevent him from leaving? We cannot guard him; nor should we. We have too few to do too much already. Besides, I think it would be wrong. He knows what he is doing and why. It . . . hurts, but I believe I know why too.”

Sandra stubbornly set her jaw. “Well, whatever
his
intentions are, I believe Lieutenant Ellis would have the final say. Saak-Fas might sneak out of here, but he certainly can’t sneak aboard
Mahan
and remain there if I don’t want him to. I’ll have a word with Jim. . . .”

Selass rose and faced her. Behind her, Saak-Fas continued his workout, heedless of their words. “Do not,” she pleaded. “He must go. I have lost him already to his oath and what the Grik did to him. He exists only for revenge, and if I ever cared for him at all, I cannot stand in his way. He
will
perform his missions. At least this way it might be of some help, have some meaning.”

Sandra slowly nodded, and tears stung her own eyes. “Very well. But you keep saying ‘missions,’ plural. What other mission does he have, and why
Mahan
?”

Selass sighed and averted her gaze. “He wants
Mahan
because, in the fight to come, he believes she will give him his best opportunity to fulfill
all
his goals: to kill many of our enemies . . . and to die.”

The following morning was as great a contrast to the previous as was possible at their current latitude. The sky was utterly cloudless, and for once there wasn’t even the usual morning haze. To starboard, the violet sea sparkled with gentle whitecaps, stirred by a freshening breeze, and to port, the Borno coast loomed sharp and green, bordered by creamy blue shoals. Alongside, adolescent graw-fish leaped and capered like dolphins, effortlessly keeping pace with the ship, the sun causing their new wings to flash with color. In the distance, near shore, bright lizard birds swooped and circled above a churning school of flasher fish that had cornered their prey against the shallows. They’d learned it was only in the mornings and evenings that “flashies” congregated in shallow water in such horrifying numbers—of course, there were other things. . . . Occasionally the flying lizards tried to snatch some floating morsel. Often they were snatched themselves, by the voracious flashies below the surface.

Spanky McFarlane stifled a shudder at the sight. He hated flashies passionately, and wondered if the things were somehow smart enough to school together just to draw the fliers down. He wouldn’t put it past them. They always seemed to figure out ways around every defense they’d used to put men in the water to perform repairs. They hadn’t lost anyone during those efforts, luckily, but there’d been plenty of injuries, mostly caused by blows delivered by the flashies’ bony heads. God, how he wanted a dry dock!

Reaching in his pocket, he removed a pouch and took a handful of yellowish brown leaves. Stuffing them in his mouth, he began to chew. For the first few minutes he grimaced at the initial foul taste, but once he got past the nasty, waxy coating on the leaves, a flavor like actual tobacco began to emerge. They’d decided the stuff really was tobacco, of a sort, and that had caused jubilation among the crew. It was clearly laced with enough nicotine to satisfy anyone, and was now almost universally used, even by some of the ’Cats, who’d never habitually imbibed. The only bad thing was, no matter what they tried, it simply couldn’t be smoked. It probably had something to do with the coating, but whatever the cause, experimenters always became violently ill when they tried to light up. Maybe they’d solve the problem, maybe not, but chewing it was better than nothing.

Spanky stood between the vegetable locker and the empty number two torpedo mount on the port side of the number three funnel, listening to the sounds of the ship. Occasionally he took a few steps and listened some more. It was a habit he’d formed in his early days aboard
Walker
, and it had stuck: trying to discover problems or impending problems by simple sound and feel. It was harder now, because after all the damage, repairs, and jury rigs, nothing sounded “right” anymore, but he was constantly trying to learn which new sounds were okay and which weren’t. He’d already stood over the number two boiler, and was working his way aft. After he “listened” to the engines from topside, he’d go below and do the same thing, working his way forward. He figured if anything was really wrong, he’d detect it topside first.