ANDERSON, TAYLOR - Crusade

Once again, the long retreat in the face of the Japanese was fresh upon him. The terrifying escape from the Philippines, the lopsided battle of the Java Sea, the doomed retreat from Surabaya and the death of Exeter and Pope and all the others haunted him anew. The fate of Mahan, and the horrors he’d seen in the Grik hold. Not to mention the enigmatic human skull. At that moment, emotionally, it all became one. The Grik had become an arguably far more terrible, but just as youar effort.) There was also the touchy religious angle, which they rightly figured the Baalkpan High Chief could smooth out more easily—with his own people anyway—than either of them could.

Mainly, though, Matt and Keje wanted Baalkpan to have a real piece of the naval war. Most of the landing force were Baalkpans, and most of their supplies came from there. Baalkpan truly was the “arsenal” of the alliance. Despite that, there was no great floating presence that represented Baalkpan in the order of battle, and the way such things were reckoned by their quintessentially seagoing race, the greater share of honor fell to those whose very homes went in harm’s way. Revenge more than satisfied that requirement of honor, since the plan called for her, the physical representative of Baalkpan, to be first in battle and perhaps even the key to the campaign’s success.

Matt turned to stare back at the bulk of the fleet. Five of the “flat-top”-sized Homes lumbered slowly in their wake, screened by forty of the largest feluccas in Baalkpan’s fishing fleet. Somehow, they’d managed to arm them all to some degree. The feluccas each carried at least one of the huge crossbow-type weapons that had usually been associated with the main armaments of Homes. In fact, most had come from the Homes. A few of the feluccas even carried small swivel guns that Letts thought to cast as antipersonnel weapons. The Homes— Big Sal, Humfra-Dar, Aracca, Nerracca, and sulky Fristar— were now each armed with ten of the larger guns like Big Sal had used to such effect off Celebes. Matt still couldn’t believe Letts had pulled that off. He was proud of the former supply officer, who’d become the greatest logistics asset on the planet.

He smiled wryly at the argument Letts put up when he was told he’d worked himself out of a job and was too essential to the war effort to go on the expedition. He, along with a disconsolate Sergeant Alden, would command the Baalkpan defenses at Nakja-Mur’s side and continue the good work. Together they would supervise the construction of fortifications and gun emplacements for the shore batteries and mortars that the foundry had turned to once the ships were armed.

The cannons had been an extraordinary achievement, but they had taken time, as had the other preparations necessary to mount the campaign. Two agonizing months had passed—had it been only six months since they passed through the Squall?—and Mallory’s weekly reconnaissance flights showed that Aryaal still held, although the noose was tightening. He had also gotten a better idea of the forces involved. Thirty Grik ships, representing who knew how many thousands of invaders, were squeezing Aryaal now. A battle had been under way every time Ben flew.

Against that, the Allied Expeditionary Force carried six thousand warriors and Marines. That constituted almost half of Baalkpan’s entire defensive force, male and female. Matt shook his head. He still couldn’t get used to that. Instead of crying and waving good-bye from the pier, Lemurian females hitched up their sword belts and joined their “men” with their spear or crossbow on their shoulders. He had no doubt about their ability; he’d seen them fight. But it was possibly the most disconcerting thing he’d seen since he got here. He felt a rueful twinge. Sandra enthusiastically supported the idea of female warriors, once she got used to the concept, and it wasn’t like she herself had exactly been sheltered from the dangers they all faced. But in her case, it wasn’t as though that’s the way things were supposed to be . . . He rubbed his chin and gave an exasperated sigh. It just didn’t He just hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

Garrett raised his hands and pressed the earphones more tightly to his head. He listened for a moment and then turned to Matt. “Lookout has the Catalina in sight, Skipper.” Matt nodded calmly enough, but inside, he felt a supreme relaxation of tension. He hated it every time the plane flew out of sight for two reasons. First, it always carried a crew of bright, talented, and irreplaceable people whose chances of survival were poor at best if the plane was ever forced down. Also, dilapidated as it was, the PBY was the only airplane in this world, and it represented the greatest intelligence-gathering asset he had. It was an asset only if he used it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. The radio usually worked—and that helped a little—although it was strange to talk in the clear without fear of the enemy listening in! But radio or not, he couldn’t shake his near-obsessive desire to preserve not just the crew but the plane itself. Important as this campaign was, he knew it was just a single campaign. Maybe it was a reflection of his still-smoldering bitterness over the lack of air cover for the Asiatic Fleet that reminded him you could take nothing for granted. But he couldn’t throw off the premonition that if they used up the Catalina now, the day would come when they would really wish they hadn’t.

In the meantime, he contented himself with a surge of relief over its safe return from this scout, at least, and he looked forward to hearing what Ben Mallory had seen. “Very well,” he said. “Ask Lieutenant Dowden to close Big Sal and signal the fleet for all captains to repair aboard her for a conference. Please inform Captain Keje, with my respects; we’ll come alongside as soon as they’ve hoisted the plane aboard. Ask him to rig hoses as well. I want to keep the bunkers topped off.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Garrett replied and spoke into his mouthpiece.

Matt watched the PBY grow larger as it neared, its thundering engines loud and reassuringly smooth. Mallory waggled his wings as he roared by the destroyer and began a wide, banking descent that brought him down alongside Big Sal . Matt dropped down the ladder to the wooden strakes below and stepped into the pilothouse.

“Captain on the bridge!”

“As you were,” replied Matt and smiled as the ship heeled into a tight turn toward the fleet. Juan, the diminutive but supremely dignified Filipino officer’s steward, had just arrived with the midwatch coffee, and he was desperately attempting to stabilize the serving tray so the coffee wouldn’t slide off onto the deck.

“Juan, Mr. Dowden and I will be crossing over to Big Sal at eighteen hundred. Would you present my compliments to Mr. Bradford and Lieutenant Tucker and ask them to accompany us?”

Juan finally got control of the carafe with an exasperated sigh as Walker steadied on her new heading. “Of course, Cap-tan Reddy. Might I recommend formal dress?”

Matt thought for a moment, then nodded, a grin stretching his face. “By all means, Juan. As formal as we can manage, at any rate. We must set an example.” He glanced around at the quizzical expressions. “We are the flagship, after all!”

Lieutenant—now Lieutenant Commander—“Spanky” McFarlane stood in the aft fireroom with his hands on his skinny hips and his eyes closed. He was feeling the ship and her machinery around him. The Mice watched expressionlessly, but two of the new “monkey-cat” snipes stared at him with reverential awe, as if they were in the very presence of some diminutive but allficulty staying awake.