Taylor Anderson - Iron Gray Sea

“Aye, aye, Cap-i-taan,” Chack said.

“There’s more. Twenty of the forty-odd POW survivors of Mizuki Maru — Army, some China Marines, others too, I’m told-are fit enough and willing to join the cause.” He frowned. “Not much else for ’em, poor guys. They’re in the same boat we are now.”

“Still better than the boat they were in, from what I hear,” Spanky practically snarled. “Goddamn Japs!”

“Maybe so,” Matt agreed.

“What about the others?” Sandra asked.

“Some are nuts,” Matt said simply. “No wonder. Others are physical wrecks.” He shrugged. “Some say their war’s over, and I can’t say I blame them.” His jaw worked. “Much as we may need their expertise, we all have to do our best to make sure nobody blames them if they choose to sit this one out. Those guys fought like hell, and now we know they were ordered to surrender. After that… My God, the Japs treated ’em more like you’d expect the Grik would have than… people ever would.” He glanced at Sandra, then stared back at his cup.

“What will they do?” Sandra asked softly.

“With all the war industry in Baalkpan, Maa-ni-la, and, well, just about everywhere, I bet they can write their own ticket. There’s no shortage of work. Even if they can’t fight anymore, they can still help. Hey, let’s skip it for now… But don’t forget it!” Matt looked back at Chack. “That leaves the others who do want to join us. Somebody, one of them, probably, talked High Chief Saan-Kakja into forming some kind of Brit-style commando outfit.” He arched his brows bemusedly. “Maybe they can use some more of Chinakru’s lizards for advisors or an opposition force to train against. Anyway, there’s that. Ultimately, you’ll take those forces and a new Manila regiment and go to Baalkpan, where you’ll incorporate a regiment of ’Cat Marines your sister Risa is raising into a division.” Matt paused. “You’ll command.”

Chack blinked and bowed. “Thank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”

“Who’s going straight to Baalkpan, sir?” Lieutenant Irvin Laumer asked politely but intently. He had a very personal reason to be curious. Like most submariners, Laumer wasn’t tall or physically remarkable in any way, but Matt had learned he had an extra helping of guts. He’d successfully led the effort to salvage his old submarine, S-19, off a Talaud Island beach-a beach that no longer existed, since the whole island had blown itself apart in a volcanic fit reminiscent of Krakatoa on the “old earth.” More recently, he’d been acting exec of Maaka-Kakja, a prestigious post, but one he’d relinquished so he could go back to his old sub. He seemed to feel, despite all he’d accomplished, that he still had something to prove, and he could only really do that with S-19.

Matt reflected that Laumer’s fixation on the old boat could be good… or bad… and he had no idea which it would ultimately be. He’d been advised that S-19 could never be a submarine again. Most wanted to just scrap her-but that wasn’t right either. Not only would Laumer and all the men and ’Cats who’d worked so hard to save her be crushed, but the boat did float and had two running (or repairable) diesels and a four-inch-fifty gun. Matt decided to give the determined submariner his head and ordered Laumer to rebuild S-19 into… something else. Even if nobody really knew what that would be yet, Laumer didn’t care. Whatever S-19 was fated to become, she would still be his.

“You are,” Matt answered, “along with Lawrence, and”-he arched an eyebrow at Silva’s looming form, expecting one of the man’s… imaginative arguments-“Chief Silva.” To Matt’s surprise, Dennis Silva didn’t do anything other than arch his own eyebrows and form that disconcerting, gap-toothed grin of his. “You’ll resume command of S-19,” he continued to Laumer, “and figure out what to do with her. You may consider that a reward for your efforts, if you like, but I think it’s going to be a bigger chore than you imagine. My only advice is not to get any fixed ideas before you start. Talk to your people who stayed aboard; get with Bernie Sandison, Perry Brister, anybody who might have a notion. Draw pictures. Whatever you do with her though, remember: we need practical warships, not pie in the sky.”

“Or a pigboat in a poke,” Silva murmured down at Lawrence, and Laumer fired a scathing look at him before replying, “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Matt nodded.

“You ain’t gonna stick me on that big, leakin’ weenie, are you, Skipper?” Silva spoke up. It wasn’t really a question.

“No. That would be a waste of your few real talents, and you’d be much worse than useless to Lieutenant Laumer. That said, though you are going to Baalkpan, you’re not on the loose. When not directly involved in the assignment you’re about to receive, you belong to Bernie Sandison in Ordnance. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still AWOL. If you don’t do exactly what he says, he can hang you, for all I care.”

“I swear,” Silva mumbled, barely audible. “How come folks are always shakin’ ropes at me?”

“What was that?” Spanky demanded.

“Nothin’, sir,” Silva said, suddenly making a caricature of the position of attention. “Aye, aye, sir! I’ll stick to Bernie like malaria! Why, he won’t be able to scrape me off with assi-tone-but I’ll be back with Walker when her refit’s done… Won’t I?”

“We’ll see,” Matt said seriously, stifling a chuckle. “In the meantime, Adar still wants that expedition into the interior of Borno, to make contact with those ‘jungle lizards’ you discovered. I think it’s past time myself, now that we know not everybody who looks Grik is Grik.” He grinned at Lawrence, then looked back at Dennis. “We also know for a fact that looking Grik doesn’t save them from the Grik either, so they have a stake in this war whether they want it-or know it-or not.” Matt’s eyebrows rose. “According to General Alden, we need jungle fighters, for scouts if nothing else, and we might use them as commandos too. Adar’s already begun accumulating supplies and personnel for the expedition. The ’Cat hunter, Moe, a couple of Chinakru’s Sa’aarans, and even some of the Grik we captured at Aryaal have committed to participate.”

There was a murmur in the wardroom over that. When they left Baalkpan, little progress had been made toward communicating with the creatures.

“So, I guess I’ve also committed to participate?” Silva asked, arousing chuckles.

“Yes, you have,” Matt replied seriously. “You and Lawrence will ensure the safety of the expedition, and do whatever you can to make it a success.”

“Who’s gonna be in charge?”

“Abel Cook has been commissioned an ensign, and he’ll be your superior officer. With Courtney in the east, Mr. Cook is the best-qualified man to lead this…” Matt looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “This Corps of Discovery. I know he’s awful young, but as you know, he’s got a level head-and I’m sure he’ll listen to you. I know he’s learned to value your… opinions… in dangerous situations.”

Cook had been one of a number of civilian refugees from Java, mostly children of diplomats and other big shots, aboard S-19. Since his rescue, he’d been Courtney Bradford’s protege in the natural sciences. He’d also been abducted and ultimately marooned along with Sandra, Silva, Princess Rebecca, Lawrence, Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Sister Audry… and others not as lucky. He’d packed considerable adventure into his barely sixteen years, and the gangly teen had generally comported himself well by all accounts.

“Cook’s a good kid,” Silva said thoughtfully. “And he’s probably been livin’ in a igloo made outta Courtney’s books since he got back to Baalkpan. He’s a good choice.” He chuckled. “I figger his biggest problem’ll be givin’ me orders!”