Crusade

Aryaalans, so whatever they decided would have the effect of policy. Nearly two weeks had passed since they blew down the north gate of the city, and in that time Matt had spent precious little time on his ship. He was glad to be home. Revenge had sailed with a small squadron of feluccas to scout the enemy and Mallory flew every other day, either probing north toward Singapore or carrying news and people between Aryaal and Baalkpan. So far there was no sign that the Grik intended to renew their offensive. The ragtag remnants of their fleet had gone to ground at Singapore, but no other forces had joined them there. Given everyone’s reluctance — the Grik included — to cross the menacingly deep water of the Indian Ocean, it seemed unlikely the enemy would use any other avenue of approach.

Sergeant Alden came to help Shinya integrate the B’mbaadan forces into the AEF. His envy of the Japanese officer regarding his role in the battle had been palpable. He managed to contain it, however, and the burgeoning friendship between the tough Marine and the former enemy lieutenant wasn’t in danger. Alden was gone again, but the news from «home» was welcome, and good for the most part. The Baalkpan defenses were strengthening every day and the cottage arms industry was beginning to flourish. Matt knew Walker missed all the people they’d left in Baalkpan, Letts most of all, but he was glad the fair-skinned supply officer was there. Letts, Alden, and Brister, together with Karen Theimer, had been working miracles. Besides, with the dame famine still under way, keeping Letts’s and Theimer’s affair out of the local eye was certainly prudent — even now that they had two more nurses for the guys to ogle. It was one less latch on the pressure cooker. Some tension still existed regarding Silva and Risa’s apparently ongoing trans-species relationship and there was little doubt now that they had one. But it now seemed more platonic than anything and few really took it seriously anymore. They were clearly great friends, and ever since captain’s mast they hadn’t been as blatant about «it» anymore either, whatever «it» was. Both were popular characters — not to mention dangerous — and as long as they maintained a semblance of dignity their «friendship» was ignored beyond the mild humor it inspired. Mostly. Occasionally there were still words.

One «relationship» Matt thoroughly approved of seemed to be flourishing as well. He looked at Queen Maraan with a puzzled expression. «Queen Protector, I just realized you spoke to us in English.»

«Yes,» she confirmed with a toothy grin and a series of blinks that indicated pleasure. «I spoke. Did well?»

«You sure did,» Jim Ellis confirmed.

«We take this. Sin-Po-Ar. war end?» asked the Orphan Queen.

Matt sadly shook his head. «No, Queen Protector. It won’t even be the beginning of the end,» he said, quoting Churchill. «But it’ll be the end of the beginning.»

«My God!» exclaimed Bradford. «I wonder what dear Winston would think to hear his words used in this context?»

«I bet he’d find it appropriate,» Matt responded thoughtfully. «And pretty familiar too — except I don’t really believe the Krauts eat their prisoners.»

«Ready to go!» announced Spanky over the intercom at the auxiliary conn on top of the aft deckhouse. His voice was more gruff than usual with repressed tension as he watched the slack go out of the cables that trailed past the propeller guards. A vicious squall had marched across the bay late that morning, threatening to delay the operation. It passed quickly enough, however, leaving the sky bright and clear and the water almost dead calm. Now the only thing marring the otherwise perfect Java day was the customary oppressive heat and humidity — and, of course, the critical nature of the task at hand. Walker and Mahan had maneuvered into the middle, deepest part of the bay. Now they were poised stern to stern with lines trailing down to Walker’s port side shaft support and across to Mahan, where they were carefully secured to the propeller they planned to pluck. The low angle was necessary so they would pull the screw straight off, without putting an upward bind on the shafts — not only so the screw would come off easier, but to avoid warping either of the shafts themselves. They needed the deep water so when the propeller came off, it wouldn’t plunge down and damage itself on the bottom of the bay. The «practice run» had been a success. That was when they used a reverse arrangement to pull Walker’s useless propeller the day before.

Spanky spared an unusual sympathetic glance at Dean Laney, who stood beside the starboard depth-charge rack, shivering, in shock most likely. He was black and blue with bruises, and Silva, just as uncharacteristically, had draped him in a blanket as soon as he came out of the suit. They’d hoped to use a welded-steel cage to lower the machinist into the sea, but there was one problem they just couldn’t solve. It had to be tight enough to keep out the smaller flashies, but still let Laney work through it to secure the cables and remove the huge nuts that held the screw in place. Ultimately, they resorted to the ancient technique of passing one of Big Sal’s coarse, heavy sails under the hull of the ship and securing it tightly wherever it came in contact. This created a flashy-free pocket for Laney to work. Captain Reddy told them sailing ships had often used the same strategy in shark-infested waters to make repairs, or just to have a place to swim or bathe in safety. It worked like a charm — until the swarming predators figured out something was inside the pocket.

It may have been noise or movement, but even though they sensed nothing edible, they began bumping aggressively against the bulging canvas with their hard, bony heads. Often, of necessity, Laney was right behind it and they very nearly beat him to death. Somehow he managed to finish the job in spite of the pain and terror. Spanky cringed to think what would have happened if any of the blows had broken the skin. Even through his suit, enough blood would have entered the water to drnt size='3»>«Hey.!»

«You idiot snipe! You tryin’ to jinx us? I guess the Skipper knows what he’s doin’! Here, gimme that blanket back!» A short Lemurian ordnance striker named Pak-Ras-Ar, hence of course, Pack Rat, stood behind the pair and Silva threw the blanket at him. «Here, Pack Rat. You have it. I ain’t sleepin’ under no damn snipe-sweaty blanket!»

Pack Rat held the blanket at arm’s length and wrinkled his nose. «Smells mostly like Silva sweat to me,» he said.

«Goddamn little hairball.»

On the deckhouse, Dowden took off his hat and ran shaking fingers through his greasy hair. The captain’s expression was like stone as he calculated the angle. How could he be so calm? What he didn’t see was Matt’s left hand shaking at his side and the typhoon of acid roiling in his stomach. His right hand was on the wheel, the only thing that kept it still.

«Signal to Mahan: Hold on.» Matt waited a moment while the message was passed. A high, fluffy cloud passed overhead, dulling the glare of the sun on the water and he looked quickly forward to check the angle of his ship once more.

«Starboard ahead full,» he said quietly.

Black smoke chuffed skyward from the aft stacks and Walker’s stern crouched down. Vibration quickly built as the old destroyer leaped from the block.

«She’s comin’ up!» Silva bellowed unnecessarily as the cables raced from the depths once more. Fifty, sixty, seventy yards — the distance quickly grew. There was a hundred yards of cable. Suddenly there came a tremendous, wrenching groan and it felt as if Walker had slammed into a wall of rock. Crewmen were thrown to the deck and the bow heaved to port, nearly spinning the wheel out of the captain’s hand. Then, as quick as that, Walker lunged free and resumed her dash away from Mahan.

«All stop!» Matt cried.

Dowden passed the word and then ran to the rail. Below him, Silva and Laney were trying to heave on the line that trailed over the side. «Do we have it?» he shouted down.

«Aye, sir! And it’s heavy enough! I hope we didn’t yank Mahan’s shaft and turbine too!» A cheer built as men and ’Cats picked themselves up and word quickly spread forward.

Dowden pounded the rail in triumph. «Quit fooling around with that line, men. You’ll never lift it without a winch!»

«Ain’t tryin’ to lift it, sir, just want to feel if it hits bottom. We got three hundred feet of line and three hundred twenty feet of water — we think.»

Dowden’s face grew troubled. «Well. let us know.»

Walker’s momentum bled off until she coasted to a stop about a quarter mile from her anchored sister. At rest, she had a slight list to port, caused by the weight of the screw. Silva was the last to let