Rising Tides (32 page)

“We can’t take her to the bottom, sir,” came a coughing voice from behind him. It was Sandy Whitcomb.

“No, but we can take her down until the pressure hull’s under, at least.” The deck was almost level now, and he lurched for the Kingston valves. “C’mon, Sandy. Flood main ballast two-thirds.” He wiped blood from his eyes. Somehow, he’d conked his forehead. Maybe it had been the ’Cat that hit him? “We’re going to have to guess at this a little,” he cautioned. “She’s not trimmed at all, and I never expected to let water in her again! We just didn’t work on that stuff!” Theoretically, they should be able to partially flood the ballast tanks and hold the boat with the main deck awash, but with no reports from the rest of the boat, they had no idea if she was leaking or not. “Stand by to adjust the trim,” he added. He saw a ’Cat who seemed to be recovering her composure. “Get a report from all compartments,” he ordered. “See—” he started coughing and had to force himself to stop. “See if we’re leaking anywhere! Assemble damage-control parties. Damn it, this is the Navy! Shit like this happens!” He paused to consider the absurdity of his comment, but shook it off. “We’ve got injured in here! There’ll be injured everywhere. Tex? Where’s Tex?”

“Here, Skipper!” Tex appeared in the hatchway to the forward berthing space. “I got swept along with the tide. Jesus, what hit us? The whole boat looks like a stock trailer flipped.”

“Any leaks forward?”

“Torpedo room’s taking some water, but it won’t sink us. Everybody’s pretty banged up, but they’re shaking it off. Lots of injured. What hit us?” he repeated.

Irvin shook his head, wiping at his forehead again. He wished he knew. He hated not knowing what was happening outside. That was one thing about submarine duty in general that he’d never been keen on, but in this case, that limitation had doubtless saved their lives. It was still incredibly hot, but as the boat settled, she righted, and at least it stopped getting hotter. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen anything like it. That wall of ash, sure, but it packed a hell of a punch.”

“What about
Toolbox
?”

“I don’t know,” Irvin said, but he was pretty sure. He coughed again and noticed for the first time a kind of haze filling the compartment. “Did Franks’s guys make it?”

“Some did,” Tex reported tonelessly. “Franks didn’t.”

Irvin nodded. He’d known that too, before he even asked. Sid Franks would have been the last down the hatch. He might have shut it himself.

“Okay,” Irvin said. “We’ve got work to do. We
had
three corpsmen—if they’re not casualties themselves. Try to get things squared away with the wounded and see if you can get some air moving in here.” He motioned to the ’Cat he’d been about to send to check the boat. “Lay aft and hurry back with a report. Check the comm in each compartment. After that, if you see anything you can fix that needs fixing, do it, and tell everyone else to do the same. We may be sitting here for a while.” He sighed. “I know you weren’t expecting it to be like this, but everyone aboard just became submariners today. That’s what we spend most of our time doing: fixing stuff.”

The wounded still cried out and others tried to treat them, but for the most part a quiet calm had settled over the rest of the panting ’Cats. Many were busy, mechanically performing repairs and other chores they’d been assigned. Others merely sat and waited. The boat was badly overcrowded and after almost six hours of being buttoned up, the hot air was growing stale. The “hail” had long since stopped outside and the roar had died away. Strange rumbling sounds, like a momentous stomach growling, still came through the hull from the island, propagated by the water that virtually covered them. Everyone had a fair assumption, based on their experience, of what had happened to everyone and everything not “fortunate” enough to have endured the hell aboard the submarine, but it was time to have a look. Irvin had put it off for a number of reasons, but he also believed the high-velocity ash and sand had actually begun scoring the periscope lens before he lowered the instrument. Now, the logy rocking of the hull and the comparative silence above convinced him it was time to take a peek.

“Up scope number one,” he said at last, and when the eyepiece rose, he looked first to the south, now almost directly astern. Judging by the compass, “south” was no longer on the port beam, and that had been his first confirmation that the boat’s position had been radically altered. He was stunned to see an almost clear sky where the black shroud had been before. The brisk prevailing wind had swept away the atmospheric evidence of Talaud’s catastrophic but apparently brief spasm, as if the fit had gone unnoticed by the rest of the world. Irvin somehow doubted that was the case. The blast had to have been loud enough to be heard in the southern Fil-pin Lands, at least. Still, the now evening sky seemed to have returned to normal, for the most part—if one didn’t count the smoke and streaming clouds of ash disappearing downwind of the moonscape that had once been a lush tropical island.

“God,” he whispered. The lens had definitely been etched, but he could still see well enough to experience a stab of vertigo, looking at the now utterly alien landscape. Literally, the only remaining landmark was the eerily altered outline of the now naked mountain. Absolutely nothing remained between his scope and the volcano but millions of stripped, smoldering tree trunks lying in ordered ranks, radiating outward from its flanks. In some places, the ash was heaped so deep that the trees resembled rebar beneath an incomplete pour of cement. No single living thing could be seen—no creature, no bird, no tenuous speck of greenery.

Hesitantly, he followed the scope around to where the bearing
Toolbox
should have lain and was again stunned—this time to realize how far across the lagoon the boat had been pushed. Judging by the gray, dusty, billowing hump of land he saw just a few hundred yards away—it was impossible to judge distances accurately anymore—S-19 now wallowed near the spot where
Toolbox
had last been seen. Sick, he thought he saw the smashed, smoldering skeleton of their tender high among the splayed trees of the north point. He couldn’t imagine any way any of
Toolbox
’s fine crew could possibly have survived. He gulped, realizing he’d done one thing right, purely by accident. Besides the heat, he suspected flooding her down was the only thing that had prevented S-19’s blackened, half-buried corpse from joining
Toolbox
back on that other beach. His eye stung and he spun the scope back to the south. “Get a load of this,” he said huskily, backing away and letting Tex have a look while he wiped his face with his bloody T-shirt again.

“Looks like the damn moon,” Tex whispered, mirroring Laumer’s own thoughts. Tex quickly relinquished the view to Hardee, who was cradling his left arm. The ’Cats in the control room went next, taking quick looks, their tails swishing rapidly in agitation.

The phone beside Irvin made its curious, distinctive, whirring
whoop
. Evidently they had internal comm again and he recognized the motor room circuit. He picked up the heavy Bakelite device and held it to the side of his face.

“Give me some good news, Sandy,” he said.

“This no Saan-dee,” jabbered the excited voice of the female ’Cat he’d sent aft so long ago now. “Maa-chin-ist Mate Saan-dee up to aasshole an’ elbow in hot water and no pitch hot for devil!”

“. . . What?”

“Staar-board shaaft bearing packing pop cork, spew guts, blow chow . . . we wet! Motors wet soon. We go up soon? Saan-dee say we need go up soon . . . now.”

Jeez
. “We go up now,” Irvin assured her, unconsciously mimicking her pidgin. “Maneuvering watch, resume your stations,” he commanded loudly. “Blow main ballast! Prepare to open main induction.” He paused. “Belay that! Stand by to
vent
main induction with high-pressure air.” He peered through the scope again. “Tex, assemble a topside detail, bandannas for the ash. Take them up through the aft crew’s berthing compartment with brooms—whatever you can think of. Make sure all other hatches and vents are clear before we open up the boat!”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

S-19’s tortured hull groaned around them as it lifted itself fully from beneath the protective water of the lagoon.

“Jesus H. Christ, Skipper!” Tex gasped, joining Irvin on the conn bridge. He’d finally removed his bandanna and the contrast between where it had been and the previously exposed skin was shocking. His eyes were red and streaming, leaving wet tracks in the pale dust around them. Gusts of wind created gray dust devils in the harsh, hellish twilight, but thankfully carried away more of the dark, dead ash coating the boat. All Irvin could do was nod appreciation for what Tex and his detail had accomplished. He was still too shocked to do much else.

Talaud Island, as he’d seen through the scope, had been incinerated. Thousands of fires smoldered upon it, brightening as the day faded, adding their choking smoke to the bitter ash that swirled and danced hotly across the unimaginable world that their island, their lagoon, had become. The lagoon itself was like a soupy mud wallow, heaving sluggishly with the dulled, exhausted waves that tried, even now, to cleanse it. Dead fish with poached, bulging eyes clotted the surface of the soup in their apparently endless millions, and charred, bloating corpses of land creatures bobbed in ghastly, unrecognizable clumps. Thankfully, they hadn’t seen any remains of the scoop-boat crew or the hundred and ninety or so souls from
Toolbox
. . . .

S-19 had been sandblasted. Her rust streaks were gone, but so was all the remaining paint that had protected her. Even now, the exposed, dented, abraded steel was turning brown. All that remained of her rotten deck strakes were a few dangling, charred planks, still bolted to their supports. Even the top of the pressure hull, now clearly visible from above, had been blasted clean, and the dark, muddy water lapped against bright metal.

The starboard diesel rumbled and burbled to life, vomiting gobbets of mud from the exhaust ports.

“We can maneuver now,” Tex gasped thankfully. “On the port shaft, anyway.”

“Not just yet,” Irvin replied wearily. “Sandy thinks we better let the lagoon clear a little first. Too much junk floating around. We’ll stay anchored here until then.” He grimaced. “He ran the port motor up for a few seconds, just to check things out, and that seems okay at least. He thinks the starboard shaft is
bent
! We must’ve whacked it when the . . . whatever it was—the ash blow? The shock wave?” He shook his head. “When . . . whatever it was tossed us out of the basin. Damned if I noticed it over everything else.” He sighed. “At least the leak’s under control, now we’re on the surface. Man, oh, man! We’re going to have to repack that bearing with
something
to keep the water out. Flooding her down didn’t put any more pressure on the seal than a moderate sea!”

“
Toolbox
,” Tex muttered after a long moment. “Poor bastards.”

“Yeah,” Irvin said. “Of course, that leaves us back on our own in a big, bad way—all over again—and I don’t think we have much time. That damn mountain did all this and then just
quit
. Danny’s started going on about Krakatoa again. He studied up on it some, it seems. Anyway, he said it pulled the same kind of stunt, throwing fits for a while and then clamming up. That’s when it blew its top. I don’t know, I’m no geologist, but I’m sick of having that thing hanging over our heads. I can’t help thinking we need to
go
.”

Tex patted him on the shoulder. “I’m with you. I get this creepy feeling all it was doing today was clearing its throat. What a mean, vicious bitch!”

Irvin nodded. “We’ll finish repairs, as best we can, sitting right here. No sense in even going ashore. There’s nothing left.”

“We’ve got water, but we’ll be awful short of food,” Tex warned.

“Yeah, but we’re not going to find any here. All the more reason to get underway as soon as possible.”

“
How
soon?”

“A few days, no more. Who knows if we even have
That
much time?”

Tex exhaled noisily and coughed, hacking roughly. He spat. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

“Your division’s priority’ll be comm, beyond any new electrical repairs we need after today. What’ll it take to let us scream for help?”

“A better antennae aerial, mostly.” Tex blew his nose on the inside of his bandanna. “The number two periscope is thrashed. We secured it and packed it, best we could, after that ashcanning in the Java Sea. Maybe we could rig an array on it, extend it, and repack it again?”

“Do it, if you think it’ll work.”

“What else?”

“Sandy’s priority’ll be the port diesel. I’d like to run direct drive, and we’ll need the charging backup.”

“And?”

Irvin shrugged, gazing around at the island in the deepening gloom. The fires were growing. “Inferno,” he said absently.

“What?”

Irvin shook his head. “Vent the boat before the smoke gets too thick; then we’ll button up for the night. After that, we’ll do whatever else it takes to get us the hell out of here.”

CHAPTER 20

Respite Island

M
att felt like he was fighting for his life. His opponent’s sword tip seemed to be everywhere at once, striking like a snake and slashing at him like lightning from a clear blue sky. He was on the defensive and he knew it—hated it—reduced to parrying the blows and jabs as they came, and he just couldn’t keep up much longer. Steel clashed against steel in a veritable blur of blades, and he knew he was giving ground even while his soul screamed attack. Attack! He couldn’t. He’d never been much of a swordsman at the Academy. He’d never expected to ever
need
to be, and though his fine sword had seen much more use on this accursed world than he would ever have imagined possible, he’d never faced an actual skilled swordsman—or swordscreature—before. So far, when the necessity arose, he’d just muddled along, hacking at Grik. They had no real “swordsmen” that he’d ever met. Mainly you just had to keep their teeth and claws and short, sickle-shaped swords at arm’s length until you saw an opening—or until one of the spearmen at your back did them in. Personally, he’d rather shoot them.

He was gasping for breath and the sandy shore dragged at his feet as he tried to make the half-remembered responses to the attacks. Not that what he’d learned at the Academy was doing him much good . . . The man he faced was doing things with a sword he’d never seen before and he had no choice but to try and do the same. Again, it hardly mattered. He felt the growing, sickening certainty that he would lose. His responses were just too slow, and he’d never developed the muscle memory required for such a contest. He had to
Think
about everything. That he’d lasted as long as he had might speak well for his ability to think under stress, but it wouldn’t save him. Besides, having
suspected
the battle was lost, he
knew
it already was. There was nothing left but to see it through. He parried a lunge against his flank with a crash of steel—just a little late—and realized the attack was just a feint as his opponent took another long step, past his sword, and planted his own sword tip in the center of Matt’s chest. The blade bowed slightly as the blunt point pushed against the padding.

“You’ve improved,” Jenks complimented. Naturally, both men were sweating at that latitude, but maybe Jenks was sincere. At least he was breathing hard this time.

“I’m still dead,” Matt objected.

“True, but as both our cultures recognize, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Honestly, you are much better. Certainly better than most of the young Imperial hotheads who take the field on the New Scotland dueling ground! You almost got me there, at the beginning, with your . . . unorthodox attack. Nothing to it, really, but experienced aggression, but sometimes that’s enough to give you an advantage over more classically trained opponents. It’s distracting, and not at all expected. If you can finish it then, why, what difference does it make how good you actually are?”

Matt took a deep breath and managed a wry grin. “Sounds like a good description of every scrape I’ve been in since the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor.”

Jenks remained silent. He’d learned a good deal about the “other earth” the Americans came from, and the war that raged there, just as Matt and his people knew a lot more about the Empire now. The mention of Pearl Harbor tweaked Jenks a bit, however, as did any reference to Imperial territory that had belonged to the Americans on that other world. Pearl Harbor simply didn’t exist, as the Americans remembered it, but the “Hawaiian” Islands did—in a sense. They composed the very heart of the Empire. He knew that as far as a few of the remaining Americans were concerned, Pearl Harbor, or the “Hawaiian” Islands
still
belonged to them. Most were more philosophical than that, including Matt. They recognized that tiny Tarakan Island, for example, had never been a U.S. possession before they “got here,” and Matt used an interesting phrase to describe the situation: “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.” That didn’t mean that knowing parts of their “homeland” was under “foreign” occupation was easy on them. Jenks could sympathize. None of his people had any idea who, if anyone, occupied their own almost mythical ancestral Britain. In that sense, both the human destroyermen and Jenks’s Imperials had a lot in common with the Lemurians, whose homeland had been under Grik occupation for untold ages.

Jenks realized that the Imperial possessions in North America might someday become a source of contention as well. For the time being, however, territorial ownership was the least of their concerns. They were united—the Americans, and at least that portion of the Empire that Jenks and Governor Radcliff represented—in a task that might prove difficult enough even if they all worked in perfect harmony.

“Let’s get something to drink,” Matt suggested. “All this Errol Flynn stuff is hard on you in this heat!”

“Indeed,” said Jenks, unstrapping his own padded vest and then helping Matt with his. He’d noticed before that Captain Reddy sometimes had a little trouble removing things from his left shoulder. An old wound, he assumed. “Particularly if by that you mean ‘capering in the sand with swords.’ ”

“That’s exactly what he means,” supplied the Bosun in a gruff tone. “The Skipper’s a regular Captain Blood. You might be a little better at all that fancy ballroom dancin’, but in a real scrap with no rules and real killin’ to do, the Skipper’s a regular artist!”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Jenks replied seriously as he and Matt stepped through the sand to a small thatch pavilion erected at the edge of the trees. Chief Gray was reclined on a wickerlike lounge alongside O’Casey. Neither man stood as their superiors approached, but Gray leaned forward and tilted an ornate pitcher of chilled nectar into a pair of mugs for the two men.

“Thanks, Boats,” Matt said sincerely, and after he removed the iron face guard he’d been wearing, he greedily gulped the sweet fluid. Jenks nodded his thanks as well and took a long, slow sip. Matt set his mug on the table and stared at the two reclining forms as he poured it full again.

Today, Gray and O’Casey were the only “security” personnel accompanying Matt and Jenks. As always, Gray carried his 1911 and a Thompson submachine gun. With only his right arm, O’Casey made do with a cutlass and four long-barreled flintlock pistols stuffed in his belt. Matt knew he was a cool and formidable opponent. That neither commander would allow, or felt the need for, a larger security force reflected the fact that Matt and Jenks really had come to like and trust one another. That their combined “squadron” and Governor Radcliff had firm, uncontested control of Respite left no one with any real concern for their safety.

Matt had grown to appreciate that “Respite” was the perfect name for the island where they took their enforced ease while waiting for the Allied supply ships to arrive. Despite the oppressive heat of the latitude they’d all more or less grown accustomed to, and the daily rains that kept the humidity high, the place was a virtual paradise in many ways. From the perspective of the human destroyermen, there was liberty, of course, and a kind of liberty none had enjoyed since they’d been forced to flee Surabaya in the “old” war. Commerce at Respite’s suddenly booming brothels was carefully regulated because the ladies there were still “obligated,” but Courtney’s mission to “buy” indentured women was beginning to bear fruit. Matt hated that his men were visiting brothels full of what were essentially slaves, but he’d literally had no choice but to allow it . . . at least for a while. He couldn’t, in good conscience, explain to his long-deprived men that the smorgasbord of smooth, nubile, female flesh displayed for all to see was not—could not be—for them. He would probably have faced a real, albeit temporary, mutiny. His old maxim to “never give an order you know won’t be obeyed” still rang true.

He’d assembled the men and told them that Respite had . . . facilities . . . for seafaring visitors, and there’d be liberty on the standard rotation—as long as the men behaved. He then went on to explain a little of the “way things worked around here,” and he’d been stunned by the response. He had to immediately quash a rising, incredulous, spontaneous crusade among his crew—human
and
Lemurian—to “Free the Wimmen!” He’d been stunned . . . and proud. As miserable as the scarcity of women had made the men of USS
Walker
, their daily association with “’Cat gals” in labor or combat had made the revelation that Imperial women lived in almost universal servitude even more horrifying to them than it might otherwise have been. Once, some might have even wistfully dreamed of a place where women could be their virtual slaves. No more. They wanted women, and no mistake, but their perhaps unique experience with the prolonged “dame famine” made the very idea that “some Joe” might practically
own
a whole passel of them utterly hateful.

He went on to explain the use to which they intended to put some of the gold on board, news that was met with universal acclaim. That lowered the steaming, evangelical kettle aboard
Walker
to a simmer. Now, though the men still visited the brothels fairly regularly, he’d noticed some had begun to “make friends” with other island women, both indentured and “free.” He encouraged that. Not only did friendships with un-obligated women gain them female “recruits,” on whose behalf Bradford was negotiating with Governor Radcliff to allow unrestricted emigration, but honestly, it gave Courtney an idea of which indentured women to focus on for “purchase” with their limited gold. Matt had already ordered the men not to ever come to him with any “special requests.” If a girl one of the guys was sweet on just “happened” to be chosen, that was one thing. If the men thought he was letting them go on a “shopping spree,” that would be something else, probably bad in any number of ways.

Respite had other interesting aspects as well. For example, the dreaded flasher fish so prolific within the Malay Barrier apparently hadn’t ever crossed the vast, deep ocean to this place. There were strange creatures, to be sure, and most of the more unusual probably guarded dangers as yet unsuspected. There were even vast numbers of perfectly ordinary-looking sharks clustered around the barrier reef that protected the fine, clear anchorage within the broad lagoon. But amazingly, for the first time since that terrible Squall brought them to this world, they’d found a place where they could actually take a refreshing dip.

Much to the incredulity of their Lemurian shipmates, human destroyermen thoughtlessly leaped over the side and capered in the water like children whenever their duties allowed. Armed watchers stood guard, of course, ready to warn of the approach of anything dangerouslooking beneath the crystal water, but simple, innocent pleasures such as that worked wonders on the men’s morale. The upbeat mood was infectious, and it benefited the ’Cats as well. Within a couple of days, a few of them were even goaded into the utterly unnatural element. They were watched like infants, and their reactions were almost always hilarious—and predictable. Spanky likened the spectacle to throwing housecats in the bathtub, and he wasn’t far off. Some of the hardier ’Cats eventually got sort of used to it. A couple even at least pretended to enjoy swimming as much as their human shipmates did.

Some days Spanky brought Tabby on deck where she could breathe fresh air into her damaged lungs. She still wore bandages over the worst of her burns, but many had healed enough that they could endure the open air, at least with some polta paste applied. To those who watched, Spanky was gruff but attentive, and Tabby, despite her pain, seemed happy. All were relieved that she would mend.

With that image in mind, standing there now with Jenks at his side, Matt was struck by the irony that ultimately, his people had more in common with the Lemurians than they did with the only human civilization they really knew on this world—one derived from the very same culture his own nation had sprung from. He shook his head. If there was one thing he’d learned since they’d wound up here, it was that his crew, his men, had a distinct talent for disrupting the status quo. That was perhaps the supreme irony of all: before the war, any change in the status quo in China or the Philippines was met with stiff resistance.

He smiled.

“I might better get back to the ship, Skipper,” Gray said. “Stites’ll be along directly to spell me at protectin’ you.” He grinned, but waved out at the lagoon where
Walker
lay at anchor amid the Imperial ships. “I swear, Bashear’s a good hand, but he don’t know how to be a proper bosun yet. Can’t get any work outta the men. Look at all them hoodlums jumpin’ in the water and splashin’ around! And our poor ship ridin’ there with new rust streaks down her sides!”

Stites arrived only moments later, ’03 slung on his shoulder. Instead of the usual banter with Gray, however, he stepped up to Matt, saluting. “Skipper,” he said anxiously, “I got a message here from the tanker squadron. Some’s from them and some’s been relayed on, tacked on, sorta. I, ah, read it, Skipper.”

“Thanks, Stites,” Matt replied. Grinning, he returned the salute. “That’s okay. I trust your
discretion
.” Everyone had been keeping close tabs on the aftermath of the Rangoon campaign and the buildup for the push against Ceylon. They were also hooked on the drama surrounding the expedition to salvage
Santa Catalina
. Of course, any news about Allison Verdia Letts was quickly passed around her shipful of “uncles” and “aunts.” Matt saw no reason to censor the transmissions they received. He took the message, written on Imperial paper Jenks had given them.

FROM COMMODORE SOR-LOMAAK COMMANDING FDFS (FIL-PIN DEFENSE FORCE SHIP) SALAAMA-NA AND ELEMENTS USN TASK FORCE OIL CAN X

Matt looked up. “I really don’t know this Sor-Lomaak,” he admitted. “I assume Saan-Kakja does, and trusts him.
Salaama-na
’s a Fil-pin-built Home. . . .” He looked back at the next part, then read it aloud for Jenks’s benefit.

EYES ONLY MP REDDY CINCAF X DISTRIBUTE FOLLOWING AS YOU SEE FIT X ENCOUNTERED—RENDERED AID—TOOK IN TOW—DISABLED IMPERIAL SHIP ULYSSES X VESSEL HAS SUSTAINED SERIOUS STORM DAMAGE BUT IS SEAWORTHY X LARGE PERCENTAGE SURVIVORS X BETTER CHARTS AIDED DECISION DISPATCH AHEAD THREE (3) LIGHT OILERS IN COMPANY NEW FIL-PIN-BUILT USN STEAM FRIGATE USS SIMMS THAT JOINED US THIS DAY X ETA 100 NM ENE YOUR POSITION FOUR (4) DAYS X PLEASE PROVIDE PILOT AND ESCORT X REMAINDER OF SQUADRON APPROX NINETEEN (19) DAYS OUT X SAAN-KAKJA SENDS COMPLIMENTS AND DEVOTION X MOST RESPECTFULLY SOR-LOMAAK SALAAMA-NA X END MESSAGE XXX