ANDERSON, TAYLOR - Crusade

“What do they call it?” asked the general.

“Hmm? Oh, the ship? I’m told it is called Amagi . . . whatever that means!” They both hissed amusement.

CHAPTER 1

The morning general quarters alarm woke Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy, and he automatically reached for the little chain beside his sweat-soaked bunk and pulled it. The cramped stateroom was bathed in a harsh white light as he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Awareness came quickly, not instantly. He always took a mome to get his bearings when he’d been having the Dream, and he’d been right in the middle of it. The same one. It came almost every night and he knew it at the time, almost consciously, but he could never remember it when he woke. He just knew he’d had it again. Even while he dreamed, his subconscious seemed to blot out each sequence of events as soon as they occurred so he was aware only of what was happening at that very moment and, of course, the crippling dread of . . . something he knew was yet to come. Sometimes, like now, if he was disturbed before the Dream reached its horrible, inevitable conclusion, he’d carry a sense of it with him for a while. But, as usual, details vanished as soon as he opened his eyes, like roaches when the lights came on. Even now, the last vestiges of . . . whatever the Dream was diminished like a wisp of smoke in a gale. All he really knew for sure was that the Squall was involved. The Squall that had somehow delivered them from destruction at the hands of the Japanese, but only by marooning them in this twisted, alternate . . . alien world. A world geographically little different from the one they knew, but utterly different in every other conceivable way.

For a while he sat there, struggling to classify the dark, lingering emotional perceptions and taking inventory of the things he knew. They were under way; he could feel the vibration of the warm, dank deck beneath his bare feet. The unusual strain he perceived in the fibers of the ship indicated the “prize” was still under tow. Th determination to help their friends resist the Grik beyond even their earlier determination to resist the Japanese. After all, the Japanese—hated as they were—didn’t eat those they conquered. With the discovery of a human skull on the Grik ship, a skull that could have come only from Mahan, the war against the Grik became an American war as much as a Lemurian one. That they were the only Americans around, besides those they hoped still survived aboard Mahan, was immaterial. Walker would lead the struggle. The weary iron ship and her tired iron crew would drag the Lemurians out of the Bronze Age and build an army and whatever else was needed to take the fight to the enemy. Some progress had already been made, but much more would be required before they were ready to begin the crusade Matt had in mind.

He dressed quickly and pushed aside the pea green curtain that separated his stateroom from the short passageway through “officers’ country” between the wardroom and the companionway to the deck above. As he strode to the ladder, he almost collided with Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker as she emerged from her quarters, headed for her battle station in the wardroom/surgery. They maneuvered around each other in the confined space, each aware of the electric response that proximity aroused between them. Sandra was short, barely coming to Matt’s chin, but even with her sandy brown hair wrapped in a somewhat disheveled bun and her own eyes still puffy with sleep, she was the prettiest woman Matt had ever seen. Not beautiful, but pretty in a wholesome, practical, heart-melting way.

Sandra and five other Navy nurses had come aboard as refugees before Walker, Mahan, and three other ships abandoned Surabaya with the Japanese on their heels after the disastrous Battle of the Java Sea. In the running fight that followed, the British cruiser Exeter and the destroyers HMS Encounter and USS Pope were sunk by the remorselessly pursuing enemy, leaving Walker and Mahan to face Amagi —and the Squall—alone. In the frenzied action with the battle cruiser, the two destroyers were mauled, but they’d put at least two torpedoes into Amagi and when they came through the Squall, she was gone. They hoped they’d sunk her. Also gone, however, were half of Mahan ’s crew and a quarter of Walker ’s—including one of the nurses, killed in action.

Three of the surviving nurses went aboard Mahan to care for her many wounded and so, like the ship, they were lost to them. Only Sandra Tucker and Karen Theimer remained—on a ship full of rambunctiously male Asiatic Fleet destroyermen. So far, there’d been few problems, other than a mysterious altercation between some of Matt’s junior officers over Nurse Theimer’s affections, but Matt and Sandra had both early recognd he had to restrain a powerful urge to embrace her. Instead, he merely smiled.

“Morning, Lieutenant.”

“Good morning, Captain,” she replied, her face darkening slightly.

As quick as that, the moment was past, but Matt had a springier step as he trotted up the companionway stairs to the exposed deck and climbed the ladder to the bridge above.

“Captain on the bridge!” cried Lieutenant Garrett, the tall gunnery officer. He had the deck.

“As you were. Status?”

“Reports are still coming in, but we’re under time.”

Matt nodded and went to his chair, bolted to the forward part of the starboard side of the pilothouse. Sitting, he stared out at the blackness of the lingering, moonless night.

“All stations report manned and ready,” announced the bridge talker, Seaman Fred Reynolds. His voice cracked. The seaman was so young-looking that Matt suspected puberty was to blame. He glanced at his watch in the dim reddish light. 0422.

“Not the best time, Mr. Garrett, but not the worst by a long shot.”

“No, sir.” In spite of the fact the Japanese were no longer a threat, it had become clear that other threats were still very real. Because of that, Matt insisted they maintain all wartime procedures, including predawn battle stations. It was during that time when the sky began to gray but the sea remained black that ships were most vulnerable to submarines, because the ship was silhouetted but the sub’s periscope was invisible. Matt wasn’t afraid of submarines, but there were other, even more terrifying things in the sea and it was always best to be prepared. Besides, even as the men groused and complained, it was a comforting routine and a clear sign that discipline would be maintained, regardless of their circumstances.

Slowly, the gray light came and lookouts, mostly Lemurian “cadets” because of their keen eyesight, scanned the sea from each bridgewing and the iron bucket “crow’s nest” halfway up the tall, skinny mast behind the bridge. As time passed, there were no cries of alarm. Ahead, on the horizon, like a jagged line of stubborn night, rose the coast of Borneo—called “Borno” by the natives—and at their present pace they should raise Balikpapan—“Baalkpan”—by early afternoon. Astern, at the end of the tow-cable, the Grik ship they’d captured began to take shape. She was dismasted, but the red-painted hull still clearly reflected the shape of the long-ago-captured British East Indiaman she was patterned after. Bluff bow, elevated quarterdeck, three masts, and a bowsprit that had all gone by the board in the fighting. Just looking at her, Matt felt his skin crawl.

The fight when they took her was bad enough: the darkness, the shooting, the screams, and the blood. He vividly remembered the resistance he felt when he thrust his Academy sword into the throat of a ravening Grik. The exultation and the terror. Exultation that he’d stabbed it before it could rip him to shreds with its terrible teeth and claws; terror that he had only the ridiculous sword to prevent it from doing so. The first Grik he killed on the ship had been disarmed, but certainly not without weapons. They were like nothing he’d ever seen. Fuzzy, bipedal . . . lizards, with short tails and humanlike arms. But their teeth! They had the jaws of nightmare and claws much like a grizzly’s. So even though it lost its axe, he was lucky to surook h"1em">“May we come on the bridge?” came a hesitant voice from behind him. Matt turned and saw Courtney Bradford standing on the ladder with Sandra. Bradford seemed uncharacteristically subdued. Normally, the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist” wouldn’t have even asked. Maybe Sandra made him, Matt thought. He expected he might have seemed as though he was concentrating on something—which he was—but he was actually glad of the distraction. Bradford hadn’t been there for the fighting, but he’d arrived on the PBY flying boat the following day. Since then, he’d spent most of his time inspecting the prize. That was enough to sober anyone.