“How long before the enemy arrives?”
“The wind’s against them,” Palmer replied, “but by late tomorrow morning, surely.”
“Very well. How are the preparations I mentioned to Mr. Sandison proceeding?”
Dowden shook his head beside Captain Reddy on the port bridge wing. “That crazy bastard! I’ll have Silva polishing brass from one end of this ship to the other-with his toothbrush!”
Matt barely heard him. Alone, it seemed, of all Walker ’s crew, his mood remained unaffected by the stunt. His attention was fixed on a small, slim form, standing a little apart from the others, long, sandy-brown hair unclasped for once, flowing in the stiffening breeze. “Don’t bother,” he said absently, the words ringing hollow. “I said he could. Everybody needed a laugh.”
Dowden chuckled uneasily, then followed his captain’s gaze. Lieutenant Tucker wore an anxious, sad smile as she stared back across the impossible gulf the others had simply hopped over, with a sharply focused message of love, welcome, and… pain that almost broke his heart. He looked back at Matt. Now he knew why the captain had dressed in his best-and why he wasn’t laughing.
Matt stepped briskly back from the rail. Nearby, snugged to the old fitting-out pier, was Mahan, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Her crew was waving and calling across the distance, their shouts lost in the wind. A loud toot-toot and a jet of steam escaped her forward stack. Her new paint was blotched with rust, and there were patches welded here and there. After her long trip, Matt doubted Walker looked much better. He noticed the other destroyer already sported her old number again, 102, and the fresh paint contrasted sharply with that around it. He’d transmitted permission to the request early that morning. The deception didn’t matter anymore; with any luck the enemy would never see Mahan again, and he was glad Mahan ’s crew-and Jim Ellis-was proud of her once more.
“Commence refueling at once,” Matt commanded. “Off-load our ‘passengers’ and all nonessential or specified personnel, as well as small arms, ammunition, depth charges-you know the list.”
Dowden nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Maybe, if we have time, we can tear out the other stuff we talked about tomorrow night. In the meantime”-he glanced at his watch, 1310-“try to let as many guys as possible go ashore for an hour or so. We can wait for Big Sal to follow us in and tie up, but I want to be underway by nineteen hundred.” He looked around. “Now take over, if you please. I have someone… some people to see.”
They gathered for the staff meeting, perhaps the final one, in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall. Lieutenants Letts, Brister, and Sandison, as well as Lord Rolak and Queen Maraan, of course, had met Matt on the pier, so he and Sandra hadn’t had a single moment alone. They stood together now, however, and if they weren’t holding hands, they stood close enough for their arms to touch and make that vital connection: a warm, tingling, electric circuit both of them needed to draw strength from the other. For now it had to be enough; neither of them knew what the next few days might hold.
Her Highness, Rebecca McDonald, Sean O’Casey, and Ensign Laumer stood with them, the first two introduced as shipwrecked survivors of the fa'1em'›Now she stood, her small hand in Sandra’s, eyes wide as she took in the sights, smells, and… terrifying momentousness of the proceedings within the Great Hall she was but a spectator to. She missed Lawrence’s comforting presence, but knew he’d been left aboard the iron ship for his own protection. The hall was filled with the tension of a looming battle of unimaginable proportions against creatures far too similar to him.
Captain Reddy was talking, describing the voyage they’d returned from. Occasionally Sandra squeezed her hand uncomfortably tight when he spoke of some tense moment. Once she gasped, not sure if it was from pain or because she’d become so caught up in the tale, and Sandra knelt and murmured soft, fervent words of apology. Captain Reddy paused and glanced their way, and in that instant Rebecca caught a glimpse of him she hadn’t seen before: a gentle, almost boyishly wistful tenderness, haunted by something lurking beneath a fragile facade. She imagined she sensed a titanic conflict between howling terror and a capacity for unimaginable violence. She blinked, recoiled slightly, and it was gone, leaving only a benevolent expression of mild concern.
Matt turned back and resumed, speaking to all, but generally directing his words to Baalkpan’s High Chief. Nakja-Mur looked terrible. His once massive arms had seemed actually frail when he wrapped Matt in the usual awkward greeting embrace. “You cannot know,” he’d said low, “how glad I am you have returned.” His eyes had even been misty. The stress he’d endured the last few weeks had been grueling, and if it hadn’t sapped his will, it had wracked his body. Since his greeting, he’d retired to his cushions and spoken little.
“… so,” Matt continued, “we’ll sortie tonight with the frigates. Try to meet this advance Grik element and bust it up before it gets too close. That’ll leave time for Mr. Sandison and Mahan to prepare our final surprises.” He looked at Bernie Sandison. “I can leave you Silva and Chief Gray to supervise the detail. I wish I could leave Campeti, but I’ll need him at fire control.”
“Thanks, Skipper. I didn’t expect Silva or Gray. We’ll get the job done.”
“What about Amagi and the main force?” Pete Alden asked, speaking for the first time. He still looked haggard after his ordeal.
“Day after tomorrow, I expect.” Matt shrugged. “That’s what Mallory thinks-if that was her smoke he saw. I think it probably was; why else come now at all? All the same, they must’ve really rushed her repairs to get her to sea this quickly. She’s their wild card. Normally she could blast Baalkpan to dust without even entering the bay. Her shells are a lot more effective falling on top of a target than hitting it from the side. If she shoots right at something, she either hits-and trust me, it’s a hell of a thump-or misses completely. That’s why ships like her usually don’t get in too close.” He was trying to demonstrate ballistics with his hands as he spoke. “Thing is, if she stands off, she has to see the target herself, which she can’t do here, or have forward observers correct her fire. They could stash one on a Grik ship, I suppose, or even send one ashore, if they have radios to spare. But regardless, if they use indirect fire”-his hand described a high arc in the air-“they’re still going to miss a lot. My bet is, they won’t want to “We picked up some from the submarine, and Jim says the copper bolts shoot fine, but have ‘limited destructive capability.’ In other words, they just punch holes. But they do work, and they’re better than nothing. Someday we’ll make explosive shells. It’ll be a lot harder for the Japs to do that-to make more of their big shells, that’ll not only take rifling, but also blow up. Without their explosive force, they’re not much more dangerous than our copper bolts. They’ll make a bigger hole, but against our defenses here they’ll just make bigger holes in the dirt.” He grinned crookedly. “And you have to wonder if even the Japs would show the Grik how to make something that might blow a hole in their own ship. Regardless, for now, they’ve got to be feeling the pinch-especially after they wasted so many destroying Nerracca. They must’ve thought they had us-that it’d be worth it to go for broke- but it didn’t work that way.” He paused, remembering that fearful night before continuing. “What I think they’ll do is come right up into the bay, use their secondaries as much as they can. That’s what we’ve planned for, and that’s what we need them to do. Our whole defense relies on it, and I think that’s our only chance to kill her.” He looked at Keje. “Trouble is, if they do that, the Homes’ll be slaughtered.”
Keje blinked. “I’d rather avoid the ‘slaughter’ of my Home,” he said dryly.
“Me too,” said Matt. “That’s why Big Sal and the other Homes should leave now. Tonight.”
“But we’ve sworn to fight!” Ramik protested loudly. “I for one have a score to settle! I will not leave!”
“Nor I,” said Geran-Eras.
“I’m glad to hear it, but you misunderstand. Your warriors’ll fight on land, as they did at Aryaal, but I think the Homes themselves should sail immediately for Sembaakpan, near our new fuel depot at Tarakan. It’s a crummy anchorage, but that’ll take them out of Amagi ’s reach. If we faced only the Grik, using the Homes as floating batteries would make sense. We could tear the hell out of them. But if Amagi comes in, they won’t stand a chance. Second, they could carry away more of the Aryaalan and B’mbaadan younglings Fristar and the others didn’t wait to take-besides our own recently acquired ‘noncombatants.’ ” He paused, catching sight obackup plan, but it’s better than nothing.”
The High Chiefs of the three remaining homes spoke rapidly among themselves. Excited conversations erupted throughout the hall. Matt remained silent, watching, while Keje, Geran, and Ramik made up their minds. Finally they stood ready to speak, and Nakja-Mur touched the gong for quiet.
“Very well,” Keje announced. “It’s agreed. Humfra-Dar and Aracca sail immediately for Sembaakpan, with enough people to trim the wings and work the guns, if necessary. The High Chiefs will remain to command their warriors.”
Matt nodded reservedly. “Good,” he said, “but what about Big Sal ?”
“ Salissa, like her sister, Walker, will remain here.” Keje blinked utmost resolution when he spoke. “That, my
