Taylor Anderson - Maelstrom

Walker edged into the basin and slowed to a stop less than fifty yards from the pier. The overtaxed launches tried to pull her closer, but it was clearly no use. The ship was going fast. As Sandra watched, the aft fireroom access trunk opened with a clang, and a mist of steam gushed out. A short female ’Cat crawled onto the deck, then reached back inside the opening. With a mighty heave she pulled first one, then another pale, grimy form into the light. Coughing and leaning on one another, the three quickly shuffled under the amidships deckhouse toward the ladder at the back of the bridge. As if she’d been waiting for that very event, Walker finally surrendered herself to the sea. Water crept over the fo’c’sle and coursed into the jagged hole. The rasping blower went silent, but the sound was replaced with a massive, urgent whoosh as the bow dipped lower and lower. With a juddering, grinding thump, it struck the silty bottom. There was an almost dying groan as the rest of the ship quickly settled. All that remained above water was the top of the bridge and her four battered funnels resting at a slight angle to port. Most of the flag was still visible too, jostled by the rising, turbulent froth of escaping air.

There was an audible, mournful sigh from the crowd, replaced by a frenzied cheer when a large, bloodied man above the bridge-whom Sandra recognized as Dennis Silva-gave a jaunty wave with one hand, while the other supported a small girl sitting on his shoulders. Tabby and the Mice stiffly ascended the ladder to the crowded platform, and Sandra felt her heart leap into her throat when Matt climbed wearily up from the bridge to join them. She was yelling now too, waving her arms over her head, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Wherever she came from, there was no doubt: USS Walker, DD-163, and her lost and lonely crew had found their way home at last.

Disaster,” Tsalka hissed mournfully. “Utter and complete disaster.” The rising sun presided over the beginnings of a bright, brisk morning in the Makassar Strait, and of the almost four hundred ships comprising the Invincible Swarm, less than seventy now accompanied the Giorsh, Esshk’s flagship, as it sailed back toward Aryaal. To make matters even worse, most of those ships were empty of all but their crews, since they’d been the ones that launched the southern assault. Never in the millennia-long history of the Grik had there been such a catastrophe. Tsalka sighed. “I did not command here, but that will make little difference to the Celestial Mother. I am regent consort of this territory now, and I am responsible. Would you care to join me, General Esshk, for a final repast? I intend to destroy myself at the midday, with all proper ceremony while it is still due me. You may join me in that as well, if you like.”

Esshk leaned on the rail, his claws gouging the white-painted wood as he stared aft at the mighty plume of smoke still hovering over distant Baalkpan. He sighed as well. “I am honored, Lord Regent, but I shall not destroy myself ance in their desperate attack on the Grik rear. She’d apologized profusely for arriving so late, but Maa-ni-la was now a firm member of the Alliance, and she pledged that more troops and supplies were on the way.

Keje was using the same crutches Gray once hobbled on, shortened to fit his physique. Somehow he’d survived the almost total destruction of Big Sal ’s upper levels, and was found by a rescue party the morning after the battle still sitting on his beloved stool. When Adar tried to suggest he should be High Chief of Baalkpan, he’d refused. Big Sal was his Home. With the sophisticated Lemurian pumps, coupled with the concept of hoses they’d learned from the Americans, he was sure she’d float again. For now he was content to recuperate, aided by the diligent attention of his daughter.

Shinya, Brister, Flynn, and Alden were there, as were Alan and Karen Letts. Letts’s quick thinking in sending out rescue craft had undoubtedly saved most of Walker ’s crew. Not only had they taken her people off, they’d helped get the ship into shallow water. The happy addition of Mahan ’s and Walker’s launches-once the survivors were transferred-aided in that considerably, and Jim Ellis and Frankie Steele piloted the launch-turned-tugboats throughout.

To everyone’s surprise, Walker ’s launch had actually rescued most of the PBY’s crew. Ben Mallory, Jis-Tikkar, and one of the gunners were found clinging precariously on one of the leaking wing floats. Somehow they’d survived the crash and escaped the sinking wreckage. Most of the flashies had been drawn to other parts of the bay. Tikker was in the hospital, but Mallory was, miraculously, uninjured. Sometimes it was like that. A pilot might break his neck when his parachute opened, or crawl out of a catastrophic crash.

Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald, princess of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, still wore battered dungarees, fuming at Silva’s behavior and the fact she was now virtually a prisoner of Sandra Tucker and Sean O’Casey. Lawrence and Silva had recounted her exploits during the battle, and if she and her strange Grik-like friend were now heroes of Baalkpan (and represented a possible end to the dame famine to the Americans), they were also never allowed to go anywhere without a particularly attentive escort. Most knew of her status now-such a secret was impossible to keep for long-and it was considered just a matter of time before Jenks and his squadron arrived. Jenks would be disappointed. She intended that her people and her new friends should become allies against the Grik, and though she wanted to go home, she’d already proclaimed that she’d do so only if Captain Reddy took her himself.

Now the gathering stood, silent for the most part, staring at the sad remains of the proud old ship. The flag still flew from the aft mast, and Matt couldn’t bear to see it taken down. Not yet. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, riding at anchor in Manila Bay, in another time-another world. He never would have thought back then that he’d mourn her loss like he did. After what they’d been through and all they’d achieved-and lost-it was like a huge piece of his soul had gone to the bottom with her. Sandra stood beside him holding his hand, a concerned expression on her face. All the pretense of professional distance they’d worked so hard to maintain had gone down with the ship. He needed her now, just as badly as one of her patients might who’d lost a leg.

“Do you think they’ll come back?” Karen Letts quietly broke the silence.

“Sure,” said Gray.

Unconsciously, Karen’s hand went protectively to her lower abdomen, and Sandra smilerecounted spected. She’d seen the signs.

“We’re all on the same footing now, technologically speaking,” Gray continued. “All the modern warships are gone, but they know about cannons, and they’ve still got the Japs to help ’em-if they don’t eat ’em.”

Before they could go out and claim the Japanese survivors, several Grik ships, including one of the white ones, had taken them off. All they found was a single wounded officer who’d decided to defect to the Americans. He was waiting patiently when they finally arrived, having hidden from the Grik, as well as his own people. For now he was under guard, but he’d told them a great deal-not least of which was how Captain Kaufman met his end. The sad aviator’s body had been buried with full honors alongside the others in the little cemetery.

“Not to mention,” mentioned Courtney Bradford dryly, “there are still far more of them than there are of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Matt said tiredly. “Even if they don’t, we have to keep after them. Adar’s right; we have to wipe them out.” He paused. “They’re even worse than we thought, and that’s saying a lot. They don’t know how to surrender, and they’re not going to leave us alone. If we don’t chase them now, keep the pressure up, they’ll be back eventually, and all this”-he gestured at the destruction all around, but his eyes never left his ship-“will have been for nothing.”