ANDERSON, TAYLOR - Crusade

He stepped onto the bridgewing and glanced aft. The Homes were hanging in there, totally darkened, as was Walker . He could see the occasional flash of white water alongside them as the hundred mighty sweeps propelled each huge ship forward at close to the ten knots Walker was making. He marveled yet again at the strength and determination that took. Fristar was lagging behind the others, leaving a small but growing gap between her and Humfra-Dar, but otherwise his “battle line” was holding together. The shoal of feluccas brought up the rear. He stepped back into the pilothouse and resumed his post beside his chair.

The bridge watch was silent other than an occasional whispered command, and he felt a tension that was different from any he’d sensed since the battle of the Makassar Strait. Like that night, there was fear and tension, but there was also a certain . . . predatory eagerness. A realization that they’d caught their overwhelming enemy with his britches down, coupled with a determination to make him pay. General quarters had been sounded long ago, and all stations were manned and ready except the torpedo director. Sandison’s “torpedo project” to repair the two condemned torpedoes they’d filched from a warehouse in Surabaya was still on hold, and they wouldn’t be using any of the three “definites” tonight. Sandison and his torpedomen had filled out the crews of the numbers one and four guns.

Matt turned to Lieutenant Shinya, who was in quiet conversation with Courtney Bradford. “Assemble your riflemen amidships and hold them as a reserve for any point of contact if the enemy try to board,” Matt instructed. Virtually everyone topside had a rifle handy, but at their stations, the crew was too spread out to mass their small-arms fire. Shinya saluted him with a serious expression and turned to comply with the order. It would be the first time he’d commanded any of the destroyermen in action, and his self-consciousness was evident. He was directly in charge of close defense of the ship and had half a dozen Americans assigned to his reserve. Matt doubted there’d be any friction. Most of the destroyermen still didn’t like him, but his abilities were evident. Some had even begun to consider him just another part of Walker ’s increasingly diverse extended family. They never would forgive the Japanese, but Shinya wasn’t just a Jap anymore. Besides, they were all on the same side now. It even seemed as though Dennis Silva kind of liked the former enemy lieutenant, and if Silva would put up with him, the rest of the crew certainly could.

“Be careful, Lieutenant,” Matt cautioned as Shinya departed the bridge.

“Not long now, I should think,” commented Bradford when they were alone. Matt nodded. He hadn’t really wanted the Australian on the bridge during the action. He would have preferred that Bradford stay in the wardroom with Sandra, but the man had practically insisted. Chief Gray had just as “practically” offered to force him to go below, but the captain allowed him to remain. It was probably better this way. In spite of his peculiar manner, Bradford ofn awe-inspiring. A number of ships continued burning furiously, and many more Grik were so involved in preventing their own ships from catching fire, they were unable to contribute to the fight. Matt knew Walker had savaged them and he had no idea how many Grik she’d sunk. The number of burning ships was surprising even so, and he realized some of them must have set fire to each other, flinging their bombs haphazardly in the midst of battle.

The battle line was almost through to them now, their massive guns spitting hate at the Ancient Enemy, blasting great gaping holes in hulls and smashing masts and bodies on any vessel that dared draw near. Some still did, regardless of damage, in the predictable Grik style. The very waters of the bay burned with Grik Fire as bomb after bomb exploded against the stout, scorched sides of the Homes or spilled their burning contents onto the sea. Any fires that were started on the great wooden fortresses were quickly extinguished, and very little had been left exposed that would burn. The decks were soaked before the battle and the huge fabric wings had been stowed, leaving only the massive sweep-oars for propulsion. One by one, the blackened and smoldering but otherwise unscathed leviathans crashed through the final obstacles separating them from Walker and Revenge and slowly took up positions lengthening the line with their port batteries bearing on the bay.

Even then they continued to fire, without nearly as great an effect at the increased range, but with just as much determination. The surviving Grik that could began to flee. At least half the enemy’s fleet of forty ships had been destroyed, and most of those remaining afloat were damaged to varying degrees. Matt was tempted to allow Walker ’s main battery to continue firing, but he knew he had to conserve ammunition. This was but the opening stroke, and he inwardly cringed at his expectation of what they had expended.

“Cease firing,” he said, but the guns had already fallen silent, probably at Garrett’s command. After the noise and turmoil of battle, his voice sounded strange . . . disassociated. He glanced at his watch and experienced the usual sense of disorientation when he realized the seemingly hours-long battle had lasted less than forty minutes. The rest of the fleet’s cannonade became more desultory as the remaining targets drew away, and a great tide of cheering voices from thousands of throats rose and washed over him.

Larry Dowden appeared at his side. He’d been at his battle station on the aft deckhouse and was black with soot and sweat from the fire that came too close. He stood with Matt and stared at the scene of destruction as the roar of exultation continued. “Even better than Balikpapan . . . in the old war,” he finally managed. His voice held a trace of wonder. Matt nodded. The enormity of the victory was beginning to sink in. “This even feels better,” Dowden continued. “God knows I hate the Japs . . . except Shinya, I guess, but he’s the proof. At least Japs are people . This feels more like . . . killing snakes.”

“What is it, Mr. Garrett?”

“Listen, sir,” he said, almost shouting, and pointed at the city. Matt turned back toward shore and strained his ears to hear over the cheering. He couldn’t imagine what it was that Garrett wanted him to hear over—then it hit him. The cheering of the fleet wasn’t just echoing off the walls of the city, it was being answered from within! Even at this distance, and in the dark, he saw hundreds of figures standing on the walls, waving banners and weapons in triumph and shouting their defiance to the massive Grik army encamped outside their walls. From that army there came only a shocked, sullen silence.

Matt clasped his hands behind his back and strained to keep his relief in check. Underlying all the concerns he’d felt over the meeting with the Grik had been not knowing how the people here would receive them. They’d still have to guard against friction, but for now . . . “It seems the Aryaalans are glad to see us after all, wouldn’t you say, Mr.

Dowden?” His statement was met with a few hopeful chuckles.

“Captain!” cried the talker, who’d come as close as his cord would allow. “Lookout says there’s a small boat coming up to starboard!”

Matt heard the bolt rack back on the .30-cal above his head. “Hold your fire!” he shouted, looking up. “Mr. Garrett, inform all stations to hold fire!” He turned and peered into the darkness that lay between them and the shore. The blazing wrecks threw a lot of light on the fleet and the fortress, but the space between them was in shadow, cast by the battle line. Even so, he saw what looked like a barge approaching from landward. It was about thirty feet long and broad in the beam. There were six banks of oars on each side and they rose and dipped with admirable precision. “Get Chack up here, on the double,” he said, glancing forward. In less than twenty seconds, Chack and Chief Gray were both beside him. Matt was looking through his binoculars and when he noticed their arrival, he handed the glasses to Chack. “What do you make of them?” Chack looked through the binoculars, mainly because he liked to. He didn’t really need them to see who was approaching.