here, and that’s where I’d be if the criminal Billingsley and the ‘Honorable’ New Britain Company hadn’t abducted… some of our people as well as your Imperial Princess, and perpetrated an unprovoked attack on Allied persons and property. We now know that not only Billingsley but the Company he serves was responsible for that, so we’re at least as much at war with the Company as you are. We’re natural allies in that respect, but we expect no further assistance from you than that war will require. To that end, Mr. Bradford will hopefully conclude negotiations for basing and quartering treaties to support the logistical requirements necessary for that operation.”
“As I said,” Jenks explained, “their ‘Task Force Oil Can’ will arrive, and most of its elements will move on to New Britain, escorted by Icarus and assorted Allied warships. Achilles and USS Simms will follow almost immediately in our wake with a couple of fast, ‘razeed’ oilers. All that will ultimately remain here is a communications facility-to transmit and receive the amazing messages you admired-and some support personnel to ensure a steady flow of supplies to support the campaign Captain Reddy described. It really is that simple, and that’s all there is to it. I have seen their real war and their real enemy, gentlemen, and claiming Respite for themselves is not even on their horizon. They don’t want to be here.”
“But what constitutes the ‘end’ of that ‘campaign’?” Emelia suddenly blurted. The men looked at her, stunned, and in the governor’s case, clearly somewhat angry. Emelia defiantly held her ground.
“The destruction of the New Britain Company, ma’am,” Matt said simply. “And frankly,” he added after an introspective pause, “getting even. Saving your country after that is up to you.”
CHAPTER 21
North of Tjilatjap (Chill-chaap)
S anta Catalina ’s engine room telegraph rang up “Astern Slow,” and Dean Laney stood up from the rough box he was sitting on. (Strangely, though a few chairs had survived the “lighten ship” purge, every single chair, stool, or anything even vaguely comfortable to sit on in engineering had vanished.) Thinking dark thoughts, he winced at the resurgent piles that had begun tormenting him again. As quickly as he could, he moved to shift his own lever in response. “Astern slow!” he shouted at the ’Cat throttlemen.
The ’Cats’ll love The Thing, Laney thought. If it works. He crossed his fingers. The best ’Cat snipes understood turbines now, but they knew those were beyond their capability to build from scratch-at least in the near term. The compound engines they’d been making worked well, and so did the huge, crude, bulky, triple- expansion monsters being built for the “flattop Homes,” but this was the first “American” reciprocating engine they’d ever seen. They were familiar with the principle, but this machine represented the virtual “state of the art” of its type.
With mutual encouraging blinks, two Lemurians turned the grimy wheel on the main valve. High-pressure steam hooshed into the first massive cylinder of the triple-expansion engine dominating the compartment. The three big piston rods twitched. Then, with a mighty, joint-sore shudder, accompanied by hoots of glee, the crankpins slowly moved the webs that in turn spun the shaft. They were all one huge casting, but at that moment they seemed separate entities, working together like long-lost friends. With the first piston approaching the bottom of its stroke, the valve chest vented the now lower-pressure steam into the next, even larger cylinder, pushing that piston down. Just before the first one finished its stroke, the third and largest piston tasted low-pressure steam once again and helped heave the first one back up-to start the process again.
The hoots became a cheer, and even Laney’s face creased into a grin. Over the noise, they heard cheering all over the ship. Steam hissed here and there, but not from any major leaks Laney could see. Certainly not in the lines, which had been his biggest concern. The shaft was turning, and ’Cats scampered to spew oil on anything anywhere that they hadn’t been able to get at before. The bottom shaft webs and rod caps had been in the water, and they got liberally doused when they came up. There was a diminishing rumble aft as the stuffing box and shaft bearing returned to their duty and oil was sloshed on them as well. It’ll be an oily, slimy mess down here, Laney thought happily, until we can secure and wipe some of This shit up.
A steady, thrashing, whumping sound came from aft, and he knew the screw was beating at the water. The bow was still stuck lightly in the silt and the hull began to groan as the engine strained to pull it free. The telegraph rang up “Astern Full.”
Laney blinked. “Damn. I thought the Skipper was going to try to ease us off, not horse her.” He didn’t reflect on the fact that Lieutenant Commander Chapelle had suddenly become the “Skipper” as soon as the engine came to life. He answered the ring, then turned to the throttlemen. “Open her up, boys!”
Dark smoke piled into the still, humid air. Russ Chapelle couldn’t hear much over the cheering, but he could feel the life returning to the old ship beneath his feet. Her bow was still stuck, however, and the deck shuddered with restrained energy. Sammy was his talker, stationed near the speaking tubes, ready to shout if anyone reported a casualty. So far, the old girl was holding together. Russ remained anxious, but wasn’t surprised. Most of the Navy ’Cats on this expedition had been involved in refloating Walker, and the little guys had really learned their stuff.
“Full astern,” he ordered. Ben Mallory looked at him nervously. “Don’t worry,” Russ said. “I know what’s behind us. I won’t crack us up.” Santa Catalina was about four hundred feet long. With her stern swung out from the beach, there was a shallow sandbar studded with ancient drowned tree trunks little more than a thousand feet aft. The vibration began to build and the cheers started to ebb as murky water churned around the laboring screw. Then, suddenly, something gave. Maybe it was suction, or the ship was still too heavy forward, but without warning, the old freighter just seemed to ooze away from the beach. There was a slight dipping sensation as the bow abruptly discovered that nothing supported it but water, and Chapelle instantly rang “Stop Engine” on the big, dingy brass telegraph.
“Lookouts!” he shouted at the bridgewings. “Range estimates every fifty… uh, tails!” A “standard tail” was close enough to a yard that he wouldn’t need to convert it. He moved the wheel experimentally. They had tested the steering engine…
“One hundred yards!” called the port lookout, estimating the range to shore and using the accepted Navy measurement.
“Around nine hundred!” came the range from starboard, looking aft. He couldn’t see for himself, but he was relaying the estimate of another lookout on the aft deckhouse, above the fantail.
Russ began turning the wheel. “I’m giving her ‘right standard rudder,’ ” he explained to Ben. “I hope that even with the engine stopped we gained enough steerageway to bring her stern around.” He grinned. “Slow and easy, that’s me! Hell, I’ve been conning a ship with no engines at all lately! That makes you start thinking ahead!” That was also why Tolson hadn’t come any farther upriver. Without engines, if she got into trouble in the confined space, she was stuck.
“You’re doing fine,” Ben assured him. “Just remember, this rusty old tub of yours isn’t what’s important.”
“She’s more important than you think,” Russ retorted. “But don’t worry, I won’t break any of your toys.”
“Two hundred yards!” called the lookout. “Stern started to turn, but the current stopped it.”
Russ rang up “Astern Slow” and the vibration beneath their feet resumed. “I don’t think I can turn her into the current,” he said aloud, maybe to Ben, maybe to himself. “But maybe I can hold her by the tail while the bow swings out.” He looked at the starboard lookout. “Range?”
“About seven hundred. The… ah… closing rate? It is less.”
“Good,” Russ replied. He rang “Stop Engine” again, and spun the wheel before ringing “Ahead Slow.” The vibration ceased momentarily, then resumed with an entirely different resonance. He glanced at Ben with a self- deprecating grin. “Should’ve brought a couple of bridge officers along! Frankly, though, I don’t think anybody ever thought we’d really be steaming this bucket out of here.” He shrugged. “I didn’t.”
Ever so slowly, Santa Catalina coasted to a stop, her screw partially exposed, ponderously slapping the murky water. Just as slowly, she began to move forward-leaving only the slightest wake to wash over fascinated, watching eyes.
“Lookouts and leadsmen to the fo’c’sle!” Chapelle ordered. Sammy loudly repeated the command through a rusty speaking trumpet on the starboard bridgewing. Sammy was shaping up to be a pretty good bosun’s mate,
