“You did not make a fool of me. I did that myself. I was a fool. I was what you thought I was. But I’m no more that person now than a graw-fish is still a graw-fish after it sheds its tail and gills and flies out of the sea. I admire you in many ways, Selass, and am flattered that you desire me. But I do not pine for you. I suppose I do still love you, but it does not consume me as before. I’ve had much else on my mind of late. Your admission and… declaration have come as a surprise. May I consider it? I assure you my aim is not ‘revenge’ or to hurt you in any way. Let us speak again, after the expedition. After we know what sort of war we face. If my answer is still important to you, I will give it then.”
Shame, sadness, and consternation flashed across her eyelids, but she finally bowed and with a quick nuzzle under his chin that almost crushed his resolve, she flashed away toward the parade ground. For a very long time, he watched her weave through the throng until she was lost to view. With a stab of guilt and astonishment, he realized he’d not even thought about her in weeks. He would have to do that now.
Matt stood on the bridgewing with a cup of… something in his hand. He grimaced at the foamy brew. He couldn’t remember what Juan called it, but it was the local equivalent of coffee, evidently. It might even be a kind of coffee; it came from crushed, roasted beans. Not many Lemurians drank it. They used it as medicine, as a treatment for lethargy. Matt hadn’t had any before, but it had earned a following among the crew. Some just called it “java” or “joe,” as they always had. A few of the die-hard factionalists called it “cat-monkey joe” or “monkey-cat joe,” but just as “’Cats” was becoming the general compromise term for the Lemurians, “monkey joe” was gaining steam for the brew. It seemed to follow somehow. Whatever they called it, the stuff sure didn’t look like any coffee Matt had ever seen, although the aroma wasn’t entirely dissimilar. Maybe it was the yellow-green foam.
The foam slowly dissipated and the liquid beneath was reassuringly black, but there remained a bile-colored ring around the edge. He willed himself to take a sip and tentatively explored it with his tongue. Not bad, he decided, surprised. There was a kind of chalky aftertaste, but that wasn’t unusual for any coffee Juan made. And it did taste like coffee. Not good coffee, but the similarity was enough to fill a dreadful void he hadn’t really recognized. He smiled.
Walker was tied to the new fueling pier and the special sea and anchor detail was withdrawing the hose from one brimming bunker and preparing to fill another. Chief Gray watched their progress like a hawk, lest they spill any of the thick black fuel oil on his somewhat pale deck. Under the circumstances, Matt doubted that he’d really mind if they did. This transfusion of Walker’s lifeblood had raised everyone’s spirits to such a degree that it would be difficult for even Gray to summon much genuine ire over a splotch on the deck.
The benevolent thunder of the main blower behind the pilothouse was almost enough to mask Matt’s uneasiness about the expedition they were about to begin. An expedition that they’d planned and prepared for weeks, awaiting only this final detail. Fuel. When enough had finally been pumped, transferred, and refined, some was brought to Walker so she could fire up a boiler to run her pumps and get ready for the short trip upriver. All the while, the massive copper storage tanks on the shore continued to fill, awaiting her at the pier. Now, all was in readiness.
The rest of the expedition consisted only of Big Sal and half a dozen of the larger fishing feluccas. Together they waited, moored in the inner channel. Two other Homes had actually volunteered as well, but for this operation they would be too many. As soon as Walker completed her fuelingshe would join the task force and they’d enter the Makassar Strait. From there, Walker would range ahead, screening her slower consorts. Matt looked forward to being unleashed on the open ocean, where his ship could stretch her legs, but he felt trepidation as well.
It was a bold plan that he and Keje had designed and there was a lot of risk involved. But if they were successful they stood a chance of learning- at long last-quite a lot about the enemy. The lessons Matt had learned on the short end of the intelligence stick had been pounded well and truly home, and he’d managed to instill in Keje, at least, a similar obsession for information. So much was riding on this! Initially, success might accomplish little more than their destruction of the Grik ships in the strait-or the Asiatic Fleet’s little victory in almost the same place against the Japanese. But he’d hoped that, in the long term, the strategic dividend would be all out of proportion to the effort, particularly if it led to sufficient information to roll up the Grik. If they knew the enemy dispositions better, Walker alone still had enough ammunition to wreck a lot of Grik ships. With victory, or even a breathing space, they could continue to strengthen their friends, look for Mahan, and maybe begin their search for other humans too. Those were Matt’s ultimate goals. With bunkers full of fuel, they even seemed attainable.
Larry Dowden entered the pilothouse. “Skipper,” he said, saluting as Matt turned.
“Exec.”
Dowden glanced furtively at the other men on the bridge and lowered his voice. “Sir, I have it on good authority… the Mice have sneaked on board. I didn’t see ’em, but I’m pretty sure they did.”
Matt frowned. “Didn’t they get the word when I ordered all fuel project personnel to remain behind?” Many of Walker’s crew would miss the expedition. None was happy about it, but aside from having necessary assignments, Matt didn’t want all his eggs in one basket anymore. Letts would remain and continue coordinating industrialization efforts, aided by Perry Brister, who was also in charge of supervising the construction of defensive works. Letts had worked himself out of a job on the ship. He was too valuable in his new, expanded role. Besides, Matt didn’t want a repeat of whatever had caused the mysterious shiny black eye that he 3 wore. Officially, he’d tripped. Karen Theimer would stay and teach their growing medical corps. Matt knew that leaving the two together would only intensify the resentment of his other officers, but it couldn’t be helped. One of the nurses had to remain, and Sandra simply refused. He was glad he hadn’t given the order when others were around to see him back down. He was furious with her… and glad she was coming. As far as Letts and Theimer were concerned, maybe “out of sight, out of mind” was the best course to pursue.
“I didn’t tell ’em personally, but shoot, Skipper, I never see ’em even when they’re aboard. Everybody knew it, though; the order’s been posted for a week. They just ignored it.”
Matt shook his head. “And they can claim they never saw it and so they didn’t, in fact, violate a direct order.” He sighed. “No sense throwing them off. Besides, they’d just hide.” He thought for a moment. “Nobody else ‘deserted’ back to the ship? Bradford? Lieutenant Brister?”
Dowden shook his head, grinning wryly. “Bradford almost did. He’s supposed to be helping Brister with the fortifications. He is an engineer, after all, but he didn’t want to miss the show. Nakja-Mur finally bribed him with a safari to hunt down a ‘super lizard.’ Nothing short of that would have worked, I bet.”
Matt chuckled, and then his expression became serious again. “I owe him. But as far as the Mice are concerned… Well, I’m not going to bring them up on charges. They’re too damn valuable-I can’t believe I just said that!-and that’s exactly what I’ll have to do if I make a big deal about it. Their rig’s going fine with just a caretaker now. They’re no longer indispensable, just… valuable.”
He looked at the men working on the fo’c’sle. They were having difficulty with their usual chores since the cramped space was even further encumbered by a large apparatus that Matt hoped would soon prove useful. Some of the men stared curses at the thing as they maneuvered around it, and firing the number one gun to starboard would be tough while the thing was rigged for sea. But if that gun became essential to the operation, they’d failed anyway.
“Let them stay. They’ve earned it. But if they pull a stunt like this again, I won’t care if they learn to piss oil. Make sure that information reaches them, if you please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Together, they walked across the pilothouse and Matt peered over the wing rail at the water. Even this far upriver, it was getting choppy. Above, the sky was like lead: a low, monochromatic overcast with none of the flighty characteristics of the usual daily squalls. The heavens seemed to exude a restrained, pregnant power.
“Looks like Adar’s right,” he mused aloud. “We may be in for a real blow.” He turned and grinned at Dowden.
“Perfect.”
Ben Mallory couldn’t believe he was flying, particularly in such heavy weather. After the conversation in which Captain Reddy told him they’d have to wait to look for Mahan-and why-he’d been afraid the PBY would be treated like a museum relic. He’d been wrong. If the plane could let them know what was coming-and didn’t fly too far-the captain was reluctantly willing to risk it. Especially now that the radio worked.
Mallory was battling through the driving wind and rain north of a cluster of tiny, rocky islands off the southwest coat of Celebes. The world was gray, and the sea below was a roiling, foamy white. The thundering, rattling, swooping turbulence was enough to make him sick, and he was enjoying every minute. He spared a quick glance at his copilot. The young sable-furred ’Cat was peering through a pair of binoculars through the open side
