conference table—the table, like the paneling, brought up from below—a vision screen showed a small flotilla moving majestically through some jungle-lined straits. It was the dry season in that part of the world below, Robinson knew. Even if he had not known, the fires raging uncontrolled that send thick clouds of smoke across the straits, often blocking the view, would have told him.
The ship was not only too far up to see in this much detail with its own sensors and camera; it was also in the wrong orbit. Instead, the real-time images were being sent by a skimmer launched by the UEPF Spirit of Brotherhood a few hours before daylight had arisen on the straits.
MV Hendrik Hoogaboom, Nicobar Straits
The captain of the Hoogaboom looked behind him, watching the last sunrise he would ever see in this life. The sun's light shone red, a result of filtering through and bending around the smoke that dominated the straits. In his hand the captain held a picture. It was a family picture, with the females' faces exposed. As such, it was not to be shared. The picture showed the faces of his wife, his two daughters and his three sons.
The captain knew that, by dint of his coming sacrifice, they'd be taken care of, in this life as well as the next. Whatever else might be said of the Ikhwan, it had to be admitted that it took very good care of its martyrs' dependants, lest the supply of martyrs dry up. One of the things that had hurt the movement, indeed, perhaps that infidel action that had hurt the most, was the sequestration, impoundment, and outright confiscation of funds for just that sort of reward. Living single men were cheap. Weapons and ammunition, even explosives, were cheap. To support the families of the fallen was expensive.
Thank Allah, thought the captain, that the infidel press tipped the movement off to what their governments were doing when they went after the money. What would we ever do without the First Landing Times? I could never take the action I am about to if I could not be sure my family would be cared for. Thank You, too, Beneficent One, for the money given in humanitarian aid that frees up money for the fight and to care for the families of those fallen in Your cause.
The captain looked at the covered switch on his control panel, next to the ship's wheel. It led down to the roughly two thousand tons of ammonium nitrate-fuel oil, hydrazine and aluminum powder mix in the bunkered hold. A second switch in the Hoogaboom's informal CIC likewise led to the explosive. The captain's executive, a Kashmiri fanatic named Ishmael, controlled that for the time being; later they would switch. Lastly, below the water line and out of the line of direct fire, was a pressure detonator. If every man on the ship were to be killed or incapacitated, as long as the Hoogaboom was well aimed enough to manage to hit the target or to ground near it, the ship would explode.
The captain looked at the chart of the Nicobar Straits that lay on his plotting table. It showed the positions of the major enemy vessel, and of the two torpedoes, the six cruise missiles, and the dozen fast speedboats that rocked hidden in the jungle inlets to either side of the straits. It also showed his own ship, moving, as was the enemy, to intersection with those speedboats.
Turning again and taking a last deliberate look at the sunrise, the captain told his radio man, 'Per our contract'—which raised a slight giggle from the radio operator—'inform the infidels that we are making our passage and should pass them by within two hours. Don't call them 'infidels' when you do.'
BdL Dos Lindas
Ash floated on the breeze, some of it still smoldering. Because of that, Fosa had ordered that all refueling and rearming operations take place below, on the hangar deck. There were some obvious downsides to this; for one thing, the ship reeked. But it was just unwise to take the risk of a deck fire from a stray spark.
Fortunately, the Finches had very long legs, tremendous endurance. It was not difficult to keep two aloft continuously, along with another brace of Cricket Bs. The Crickets kept fairly close to the ship, patrolling the edge of the water where it met jungle.
Annoyingly, one of the Crickets hadn't called in in a while and failed to respond to any radio calls to it. Fosa had already given the order to send out another to replace it.
The Finches he had further out, in case a merchant ship under contract for protection should be attacked. Indeed, each Finch aloft was paired with a corvette, operating at a distance of about twenty five miles southeast or northwest of the main classis. Even further away, to the southeast, the Qamra, formerly The Big ?, churned along in leisurely fashion, trolling for pirates. Unfortunately, the best bait, the girls, had to be kept below for the most part. Nobody was going to be nude sunbathing on the deck with all the smoke and ash on the breeze. It would have been inherently suspicious had anyone tried.
Sealed in by thick, shatterproof glass or not, the reek of smoke still penetrated the bridge. It had to; the Dos Lindas was not a spaceship; it drew its air from its surroundings. Fosa was on the bridge, as was Kurita. Both scanned the waters, such as were visible, for threats or targets. There were none, just the enveloping smoke with occasional clear patches.
Unaccountably, and unknowingly imitating the captain of the Hoogaboom, Kurita pulled out a wallet from which he drew a plastic encased black and white photograph. Fosa stepped over to look. He saw a much—a very much—younger Kurita, in dark naval uniform, surrounded by kimono-clad wife and children. The children were beautiful but Fosa was struck mostly by the wife. He knew the story, of course; Kurita had long before explained that his family had been caught in the nuclear bombing of Yamato by the Federated States near the end of the Great Global War.
Your life must have been hard without her, my friend, Fosa thought. Like our Patricio, losing a woman like that is like having your soul torn out.
As if reading Fosa's thought, Kurita said, 'Yes . . . it was . . . difficult.'
'Well,' the captain of Dos Lindas answered, 'perhaps you shall reincarnate together, someday.'
Kurita rarely laughed, but at that comment he began first to snicker, then to giggle, then finally was overtaken with belly- ripping hilarity. When he recovered, and that took a while, he explained, 'Oh, no, my dear friend. She waits for me in Heaven. You see, when the Federated States decided to drop a nuke, they chose a Christian city. We are Catholic.'
Which goes to show that I will never understand Yamato. How does a Catholic believe ships and swords are alive?
* * *
This understanding had not been helped by the late night haiku duel he had engaged in with the commodore the evening before over sake. The subject had been the great Kosmo crisis du jour, planetary warming. And beforehand, Kurita had warned, after explaining the rules, 'Never bring a knife to a gunfight unless you bring a gun, too. Never bring a sonnet to a haiku fight.'
Kurita, as the host, had begun:
'Useful idiots
Without original thought
Believe in the faith'
Fosa though about that one for a moment, before submitting:
'Government money
Given for the right viewpoint
Keeps Kosmos happy.'
It was a weak addendum, so Kurita, always gracious, held himself in check:
