Distant thunders.

by Taylor Anderson.

TO: THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE ARMED FORCES.

OF THE UNITED STATES-AND THOSE OF ALL NATIONS WHO FIGHT BRAVELY AT THEIR SIDE. PAST, PRESENT,.

AND FUTURE. G.o.d BLESS YOU ALL.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

As usual, there are some great folks I need to thank: Chief among these are Russell Galen, the best agent in the world, and Ginjer Buchanan, the finest editor anyone could ever hope to have. CPO, (SW-MTS) USN-(Ret.), Bruce Kent ranks near the top as well. He reminded me that I've neglected the EMs and he was right. Granted, there weren't nearly as many things for electrician's mates to do do on four-stacker destroyers as even I originally thought, but that's because a truly astonishing variety of machinery that would later be electrically powered was either manually or steam operated. That doesn't mean EMs on four-stackers would have been bored. Far from it. They were dealing with the same broken-down, archaic equipment as everyone else; equipment essentially representing the very dawn of the electrical age! Because of that, their contributions would have been particularly difficult and essential. The information Chief Kent kindly supplied, or pointed me toward, was both fun and fascinating. Together we made a number of discoveries that contributed significantly to this story, I believe. If I didn't use the information right, it's my fault, not his. on four-stacker destroyers as even I originally thought, but that's because a truly astonishing variety of machinery that would later be electrically powered was either manually or steam operated. That doesn't mean EMs on four-stackers would have been bored. Far from it. They were dealing with the same broken-down, archaic equipment as everyone else; equipment essentially representing the very dawn of the electrical age! Because of that, their contributions would have been particularly difficult and essential. The information Chief Kent kindly supplied, or pointed me toward, was both fun and fascinating. Together we made a number of discoveries that contributed significantly to this story, I believe. If I didn't use the information right, it's my fault, not his.

Dave Leedom, LTC, USAFR, helped, as always, to inspire my aerial high jinks, while keeping my head out of the clouds and my feet on the ground-figuratively speaking. The inimitable (Bad) Dennis Petty continues to provide . . . inspiration . . . and remains a formidable companion during my own unusual adventures. Just so everyone is clear on this, it's my my turn to shoot turn to shoot him him-just a little. My parents, Don and Jeanette Anderson, have always inspired me and remain possibly my greatest fans and fiercest critics. My wife, Christine, mostly falls in the general "fierce critic" category, but I guess I'll keep her anyway. James Kirkland and Schuetzen Powder LLC have my deepest appreciation for all their "ballistics testing" support over the years, and all the guys and gals on my gun's crews are still the best in the country. Andy Gillham is the greatest musician alive and I will always fondly-if vaguely-remember the Sasquatch and s.p.a.ce alien hunts of our younger years. We never caught any of the boogers, but that never really mattered, did it? Special thanks go to Tom Potter, a fellow historian and "naval thinker" with a brilliant mind. Ha! He'll get it.

Otherwise, the list of usual suspects is long and has been recited before, but I need to add Pete Hodges and Kate Baker to the list. Good friends are hard to find and I treasure all of mine-even Jim. If I forgot to mention anybody or goofed up in any way, it's all Jim's fault. Actually, Jim deserves a lot of credit. He did more in a few brief seconds to disprove the conspiracy theory surrounding the Kennedy a.s.sa.s.sination than anyone else has done in the last forty-six years. "Magic bullets" do, in fact, exist. We get it, Jim. No need to KEEP proving your point! (Jim is nothing if not thorough, when it comes to science.)

"Weapons more violent, when next we meet."

-Paradise Lost

PROLOGUE.

March 1, 1942

This was NAP 1/c Nataka's last chance. Admiral Nagumo, commanding the First Air Fleet, had ordered Nataka's carrier, Kaga Kaga, home for repairs. She'd sc.r.a.ped her bottom in the Palau Strait and developed an annoying leak. Now she'd have to leave the war right when things were going so well. Nataka was seriously concerned the war might even be over before she-and, by extension, he-managed to get back in the fight.

He'd already seen a lot of "action" and sometimes felt as if he'd been in the c.o.c.kpit of his beloved kanbaku kanbaku ever since the beginning of this "new" war against the Americans, British, and Dutch. In all that time however, during all the sorties he'd flown, he hadn't managed to hit ever since the beginning of this "new" war against the Americans, British, and Dutch. In all that time however, during all the sorties he'd flown, he hadn't managed to hit anything anything with one of his 250kg bombs! He'd missed the glorious attack on Pearl Harbor; he'd been too sick to hide something that gave him a raging fever and they hadn't let him go. He'd flown many missions since, but now heroes, with one of his 250kg bombs! He'd missed the glorious attack on Pearl Harbor; he'd been too sick to hide something that gave him a raging fever and they hadn't let him go. He'd flown many missions since, but now heroes, immortals immortals, surrounded him. They'd been his comrades, his peers just a few months before, but they'd accomplished the impossible while he lay sweating in his rack. Somehow, he just hadn't been able to catch up.

Many times now, Nataka had dived with the others in his Navy Type 99 against lonely freighters, destroyers, and even a pair of cruisers. He'd tried to do as he'd been taught, fearlessly braving the black clouds of antiaircraft sh.e.l.ls and tracers that rose to meet him. He'd bored in relentlessly at exactly sixty-five degrees and released his bomb at exactly the proper instant-and somehow, he always missed. He'd even missed at Port Darwin! Granted, he hadn't gone after a stationary anch.o.r.ed target; he'd attacked a wildly maneuvering, desperately firing destroyer, but his bomb hadn't even come close! Someone must have finally hit the norou norou old American destroyer; he'd seen it afire and dead in the water when his flight regrouped after the attack, but his dive-bomber must have been the only one to return to old American destroyer; he'd seen it afire and dead in the water when his flight regrouped after the attack, but his dive-bomber must have been the only one to return to Kaga Kaga that hadn't hit that hadn't hit something something! Even NAP 1/c Honjo, his navigator-gunner, seemed to be losing faith. The two were close-they had to be-but something just wasn't working.

Nataka was a good attack pilot; he knew knew he was. He'd always scored among the very best in practice. Of course, practice targets didn't twist, turn, and lunge ahead at flank speed, churning the sea with their deceptive wakes. They didn't make radical, seemingly impossible turns and belch black smoke at the worst possible moment to spoil his aim. He had to remind himself that there were he was. He'd always scored among the very best in practice. Of course, practice targets didn't twist, turn, and lunge ahead at flank speed, churning the sea with their deceptive wakes. They didn't make radical, seemingly impossible turns and belch black smoke at the worst possible moment to spoil his aim. He had to remind himself that there were men men on his targets now: men who controlled their movements with complete unpredictability. Men who didn't want to die. Now, unless this final "hunting trip" he and Lieutenant Usa had been allowed bore fruit, on his targets now: men who controlled their movements with complete unpredictability. Men who didn't want to die. Now, unless this final "hunting trip" he and Lieutenant Usa had been allowed bore fruit, Kaga Kaga would steam for j.a.pan before Nataka had a chance to prove himself, before he had a chance to break this terrible curse that seemed to hold him in its grasp! would steam for j.a.pan before Nataka had a chance to prove himself, before he had a chance to break this terrible curse that seemed to hold him in its grasp!

"There is something building in the east!" Honjo said in his earphones.

Nataka glanced left, beyond the gray-green wing, where a squall line was beginning to form. There were always squalls in these strange seas and sometimes they were intense. They didn't usually form this early in the day, however. "Lieutenant Usa has already seen it," he replied, watching Usa's plane bank left, away from the distant coast they'd been approaching so brazenly. Type 99s were slow and fat; easy prey for any good fighter, even if they were surprisingly agile. Regardless, Nataka wasn't concerned. There were no good enemy fighters in the area. As far as he knew, there were no enemy fighters left at all. Without hesitation, Nataka turned his plane to follow his lieutenant's.

"Maybe a big tanker or some poor, lonely freighter is trying to hide in that squall," Honjo speculated predatorily. Nataka nodded. It was certainly possible. The frequent squalls were the only protection left for those desperate ships fleeing Java. "I just hope, if there is, Lieutenant Usa won't report it," Honjo continued. "Those greedy bakano bakano in Second Fleet will want us to lead them to it so they can blast it with their battleships, even if it's a rowboat!" in Second Fleet will want us to lead them to it so they can blast it with their battleships, even if it's a rowboat!"

Nataka nodded again. There'd been a lot of that. Slowly, he eased his plane closer to Usa's and they approached the squall together. Was it just his imagination, or did the rain already seem closer than it should? They were flying three hundred and fifty kilometers per hour, but either the thing was growing much more quickly than any squall he'd seen, or it was moving toward them in an unprecedented fashion. It was also growing darker, and wasn't the usual purple-gray that one usually observed, but rather . . . greenish . . . and livid with dull pulses of lightning. Strange.

"Nataka!" came Usa's clipped, terse voice in his ears. "A ship! Two o'clock, low!"

Nataka suppressed an exasperated sigh. Of course it was low if it was a ship! He strained to see over the black-painted cowling of his engine. Yes! Yes! All alone on the brilliant purple sea, a lone freighter plodded helplessly along. She looked old, medium-size, with a single stack streaming gray smoke. Perhaps she'd seen them, because she was clearly making for the growing squall. All alone on the brilliant purple sea, a lone freighter plodded helplessly along. She looked old, medium-size, with a single stack streaming gray smoke. Perhaps she'd seen them, because she was clearly making for the growing squall.

"We will attack together," Usa said over the radio. "It seems to be the easiest way," he added, almost apologetically, it seemed.

Nataka's face heated, but he made no reply.

"I will approach her port bow," Usa continued. "You will attack from the port quarter. Whichever direction she turns, one of us should have her entire length for his bomb to fall upon!"

"It will be done!" Nataka said, and banked left again, directly toward the squall. "Beloved ancestors!" he muttered, and immediately wondered if anyone heard. If they had, they probably thought he was calling his ancestors to aid him in the attack, but what prompted his words was the squall itself. The thing was monstrous! Not only had it swiftly grown to encompa.s.s the visible horizon, but it was practically opaque, not like a squall at all, but like a huge wall of water! He shook himself and glanced at his altimeter. Soon he would begin his dive.

The altimeter had gone insane! The needle spun erratically with wild fluctuations! Not only that, but his compa.s.s was distressed as well. As he banked back right, to the north, his compa.s.s told him he was flying east! Even as he veered around behind the still tiny ship below, his compa.s.s steadfastly insisted that west was north.

"Honjo, I . . ."

"Yes? What is it?"

"Nothing. Usa has circled around while we positioned ourselves. He is beginning his dive!"

"Good luck, Nataka! Let us sink this b.a.s.t.a.r.d quickly and get away from that wrongful storm!"

So, Honjo was nervous too. Nataka couldn't count on any of his instruments now. Even his horizon and airspeed indicators were malfunctioning. He pushed the stick forward until the ship's fantail appeared in the telescopic sight in front of his canopy. The target was slow. It couldn't be making more than ten knots at best. He doubted it was capable of any escape sprint, like those so many of his targets had employed. Nevertheless, he engaged the dive brakes to slow his descent. He wanted plenty of time to react if the ship took evasive maneuvers to avoid Usa's attack.

Tracers started rising toward him and a single puff of black smoke erupted in his path. This sheep has a few little teeth This sheep has a few little teeth, he thought, concentrating on his angle of descent. Apparently, the target had managed a feeble burst of speed after all, and he pulled back on the stick just a bit. More tracers came and they seemed brighter than before. Brighter? He risked a quick glance away from the sight. No. The world was darker! The squall was in the west, he knew knew it was in the west, but out-riding clouds above must have blocked the morning sun. it was in the west, but out-riding clouds above must have blocked the morning sun. No time No time. Usa was nearly upon the target, the gray-green of his plane and the bright red circles on its wings still clearly contrasted against the darker sea. Excellent! Excellent! The ship was turning toward Usa, just as the lieutenant predicted! The ship was turning toward Usa, just as the lieutenant predicted! Usa might still hit. . . . No! Usa might still hit. . . . No! A ma.s.sive, dirty plume erupted just off the ship's port bow! Tracers followed Usa's plane as it pulled up, up. . . . But wait! The plane was smoking! A ma.s.sive, dirty plume erupted just off the ship's port bow! Tracers followed Usa's plane as it pulled up, up. . . . But wait! The plane was smoking!

Nataka focused once more on the target. Later there would be time to discover the lieutenant's fate. Hopefully, Usa and his gunner would be all right, but they'd certainly left the ship at Nataka's mercy! Tracers still reached for him and he felt the plane shiver as a few bullets found their mark. He fired his own 7.7-millimeter guns to disperse the defenders. Another black puff materialized to his right and fragments of steel sleeted into his wing. He heard Honjo yell.

Soon, he crooned to himself. His angle was perfect; the target couldn't possibly escape. He had the entire length of the ship from stern to bow for his bomb to strike . . . !

That was the thought NAP 1/c Nataka took to his watery grave. Just as his hand caressed the k.n.o.bbed lever to release the five-hundred-pound bomb, another pathetic, miraculous black puff appeared less than four feet to his left. Hot steel shredded his canopy and tore away most of his head. More sparkling fragments from the three-inch sh.e.l.l slashed the left wing root and ignited the fuel. The wing fluttered away and the remaining, still dutiful wing sent the flaming wreck into a tight roll that edged it, just slightly, toward the port side of the ship.

With a mighty roar and a blinding flash of flame made even brighter by the dark, eerie squall, the plane and its powerful bomb combined the force of their detonation alongside the old freighter. Technically, Nataka had missed again, but as far as the crew of the SS Santa Catalina Santa Catalina was concerned, a torpedo couldn't have done much worse. was concerned, a torpedo couldn't have done much worse.

Santa Catalina's captain quickly a.s.sessed the situation. His ship was badly damaged. The near miss forward had opened some seams, but that last stroke left the aft hold quickly flooding. Still, they might just make it. Australia was out of the question, but unlike every other remaining Allied ship in the area, his wasn't bent on escape. The South Java port of Tjilatj.a.p was his destination. Grimly, he ordered as much speed as his old, battered ship could muster; then he stepped out on the bridge wing and stared at the bizarre . . . malignant . . . squall crawling up her wake.

CHAPTER 1.

Late March, 1943

An oppressive smoky haze from the epic battle and resultant, seemingly endless funeral pyres clung to the savaged city and the wide expanse of Baalkpan Bay. Almost three weeks after the Grik invaders churned themselves to offal against Baalkpan's defenses, the smoke and sod-Aden smell of wet, burnt wood still lingered like a sad, ethereal shroud. Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the "Amer-i-caan" Clan, and Supreme Commander of all the combined Allied forces, surveyed the somber scene from Donaghey Donaghey's hastily repaired quarterdeck as the battered frigate tacked on light, humid, northerly airs toward the mouth of the bay. The water remained choked with the shattered remains of the Grik fleet, causing a real menace to navigation. Occasionally, Donaghey Donaghey thumped and shivered when she struck some piece of floating wreckage and it clunked and shuddered down her side as she pa.s.sed. It was the first time Matt had returned to the water since that terrible night when the Battle of Baalkpan achieved its cataclysmic peak. Much of the flashing intensity and grief he'd felt had slowly begun to ebb, but the brief interval and the dreary day conspired to reinforce his gloomy mood. thumped and shivered when she struck some piece of floating wreckage and it clunked and shuddered down her side as she pa.s.sed. It was the first time Matt had returned to the water since that terrible night when the Battle of Baalkpan achieved its cataclysmic peak. Much of the flashing intensity and grief he'd felt had slowly begun to ebb, but the brief interval and the dreary day conspired to reinforce his gloomy mood.

By any objective measure, the battle had resulted in a momentous victory for the Allies, but it came at a terrible cost. The mighty j.a.panese battle cruiser Amagi Amagi had accompanied the Grik host, and her sh.e.l.ls had shredded the remaining Lemurian ships in the bay and pounded the carefully prepared fortifications to matchsticks and heaps of earth. Lemurian losses had been horrifying, and both precious, aged American destroyers-survivors of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet that had been swept by a mysterious squall from one war (and world) smack into the middle of another-had ultimately been sunk in the battle. had accompanied the Grik host, and her sh.e.l.ls had shredded the remaining Lemurian ships in the bay and pounded the carefully prepared fortifications to matchsticks and heaps of earth. Lemurian losses had been horrifying, and both precious, aged American destroyers-survivors of the U.S. Asiatic Fleet that had been swept by a mysterious squall from one war (and world) smack into the middle of another-had ultimately been sunk in the battle. Mahan Mahan (DD-102) was a total loss, having virtually disintegrated herself by ramming the j.a.panese ship with a load of depth charges set to explode. That blow to (DD-102) was a total loss, having virtually disintegrated herself by ramming the j.a.panese ship with a load of depth charges set to explode. That blow to Amagi Amagi had probably been mortal, in retrospect, but she'd still been under way and apparently on the verge of escape. She was finally destroyed by the combination of a lucky, forgotten mine, and the dogged determination of battered had probably been mortal, in retrospect, but she'd still been under way and apparently on the verge of escape. She was finally destroyed by the combination of a lucky, forgotten mine, and the dogged determination of battered Walker Walker (DD- 163) and her crew, who fought to their final sh.e.l.l despite their own damage and casualties. (DD- 163) and her crew, who fought to their final sh.e.l.l despite their own damage and casualties.

USS Walker Walker was more fortunate than her sister. She'd managed to crawl back to the shipyard before succ.u.mbing to her grievous wounds, and even now, an effort was under way to refloat her. was more fortunate than her sister. She'd managed to crawl back to the shipyard before succ.u.mbing to her grievous wounds, and even now, an effort was under way to refloat her. Amagi Amagi lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure protruding from the water as a constant, grim reminder of that terrible day and night. lay on the bottom of Baalkpan Bay, broken and gutted by flames, her warped and dreary superstructure protruding from the water as a constant, grim reminder of that terrible day and night.

Matt himself commanded Donaghey Donaghey for this brief sortie, and it was a slightly awkward situation. He was familiar with for this brief sortie, and it was a slightly awkward situation. He was familiar with Donaghey Donaghey's historical design, but knew little about actually operating a square-rigged ship. Her a.s.signed captain, Greg Garrett-Matt's former gunnery officer-had become quite a sailor, but he was still recovering from serious wounds. Russ Chapelle, a former Mahan Mahan torpedoman, had learned quite a bit, however. He'd been the ship's master gunner and was elevated to "salig maa-stir" (sailing master), or executive officer, after torpedoman, had learned quite a bit, however. He'd been the ship's master gunner and was elevated to "salig maa-stir" (sailing master), or executive officer, after Donaghey Donaghey's own Lemurian exec was killed. Garrett would get his old ship back, or a newer one, when he recovered, but for now, Russ was creditably taking up the slack.

Matt knew Garrett chafed at his inactivity, but his wounds were severe, and Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker insisted he heal completely before exerting himself. All Sandra's patients were important to her, but Greg was human, and humans were an increasingly rare species. The t.i.tanic struggle-seemingly destined to encompa.s.s the entire locally known world-had already claimed many of the mere handful of humans actively engaged in aiding what was clearly the side of right. No one knew how many j.a.panese sailors the Grik had saved from Amagi Amagi, but even if the Grik hadn't eaten them they were, of course, not friends.

According to the charts they'd captured showing the extent of the enemy holdings, the Grik could replace their losses in a shockingly short time. They bred like rabbits and Courtney Bradford theorized that their young reached mature lethality within three to five years. If the remaining Americans and their allies were to have any chance of survival-not to mention victory-they needed all the skills and experience of every last destroyerman. Their window of opportunity would be fleeting and there weren't nearly enough hands and minds for all the work that lay ahead. Matt found it ironic that the ragtag remnants of the Asiatic Fleet who'd wound up here-men once considered the dregs of the Navy by some-were now the indispensable core of innovators: the trainers of the native force they'd need to see them through.

Great work had already been accomplished. They'd begun an industrial revolution of sorts, transforming the nomadic, insular, isolationist Lemurians-people who still reminded many destroyermen of a cross between cats and monkeys-into seasoned professional soldiers and sailors-but those ranks of professionals had been cruelly thinned. Recruitment was constant and Captain Reddy had secured important alliances that would supply the raw material to rebuild their forces, but it would take time to train and equip them, and in spite of their great victory, the war had just begun. The combined human survivors of Walker Walker, Mahan Mahan, and S-19 now numbered just over a hundred souls-const.i.tuting the known (friendly) human population of this new world-unless somehow, they could befriend the "visitors" who'd appeared that morning beyond the mouth of the bay.

Matt didn't know if their visitors could or would help them, but as much as they needed more friends, they certainly didn't want more enemies. According to Chief Gray, the last meeting between Allied forces and the ships lingering in the strait had been . . . strained. That was one reason Matt wanted Donaghey Donaghey for this meeting. She was the only "home-built" U.S. Navy ship yet made seaworthy again and, scarred as she was, she was the only ship available that should be a match for one of the visitors' powerful steam frigates. Of for this meeting. She was the only "home-built" U.S. Navy ship yet made seaworthy again and, scarred as she was, she was the only ship available that should be a match for one of the visitors' powerful steam frigates. Of Donaghey Donaghey's two sisters, they'd try to salvage Kas-Ra-Ar Kas-Ra-Ar's guns, but the ship was gone forever. Tolson Tolson had also very nearly sunk. She'd require much more yard time before she was ready for sea. Several of the ma.s.sive aircraft carrier-size, seagoing Lemurian Homes had returned after the battle, but impressive as they were, they were too slow to join the delegation. That didn't mean had also very nearly sunk. She'd require much more yard time before she was ready for sea. Several of the ma.s.sive aircraft carrier-size, seagoing Lemurian Homes had returned after the battle, but impressive as they were, they were too slow to join the delegation. That didn't mean Donaghey Donaghey was approaching the mouth of the bay alone. was approaching the mouth of the bay alone.

Nearly two dozen "prize" ships were taken in serviceable condition after the battle. It would have seemed a great accomplishment, and it was-that they'd been alive to take them. Nevertheless, they'd been the only repairable ships of almost three hundred similar ones-virtual copies of the venerable British East Indiamen their lines were stolen from two centuries before-that had attacked Baalkpan packed with as many as one hundred and fifty thousand Grik warriors. No one would ever know for certain how many there'd actually been. Some of the terrifying, semireptilian Grik had escaped at the end, and many thousands died in the sprawling land battle that had surrounded the city. Far more met their fate in the sea, and the water of the bay had churned for days as the voracious flasher fish fed upon the dead.

Four of those ships now sailed with Donaghey Donaghey, quickly armed with a few cannons each, their once red hulls repainted black with a white stripe between their gunports, according to Matt's new Navy regulations. They'd been cleaned as well as possible and their crews were glad to have them, but they'd never forget who made them. The barbaric nature and practices of their previous owners would taint the ships forever, regardless of how well they were scrubbed.

Matt leaned on the windward taffrail, still gouged and splintered from battle, and focused his intense green eyes on the squadron of strange ships anch.o.r.ed outside the bay-just beyond the reach of the grim-faced gunners serving the heavy cannon of Fort Atkinson. They did look formidable. All were warships, with three masts and sleek-looking hulls. Large half-moon boxes for their paddle wheels and tall, smoke-streaming funnels marred their pleasing lines, but lent a determined, businesslike aspect to their appearance. Matt was impressed by their sophistication. The Empire hadn't quite caught up with the "modern world" the destroyermen had lost, but, in some ways at least, it had advanced to within a generation or two.

The banners streaming above Fort Atkinson caught his attention momentarily: the Stainless Banner of the Trees, Rolak's Aryaalan flag, the gold pennant the Sularans had adopted for their own-and the Stars and Stripes, of course,fluttered from separate poles above the reinforced fortification. The sight of that last flag, and the fact that it still flew after all they'd been through, couldn't help but stir his soul.

Among the sea folk, each of their huge, island-size ships or "Homes" were like nations unto themselves, and their leaders enjoyed co-equal status as "High Chiefs" among their peers. Before the war, those Homes often had clan devices or representative colors, but they hadn't used flags. As "chief" of Walker Walker, regardless of her comparative tiny size, Captain Reddy had been afforded the same status as High Chief of the American Clan. With the coming of the war and the Grik Grand Swarm, changes to this age-old system began to evolve. An alliance started to take shape that included not only sea folk, but land folk as well, and a collective, coordinating leadership was required. Nakja-Mur, High Chief of Baalkpan, had been the first leader by default, since his "nation" hosted the other chiefs and, for a time, was the seat of all industry. The city on the southern coast of Borno was also where the first truly decisive engagement had been fought. With Nakja-Mur's death, the leadership of Baalkpan fell to Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa Salissa , or , or Big Sal Big Sal, as the Americans called her. She'd been the first seagoing Home of the Lemurian People to make contact with the Americans.

Amazingly, considering the disparate cultures, a true alliance began to form. Not one merely of expedience, but one designed to unite all willing Lemurians. Keje-Fris-Ar, Salissa Salissa's High Chief, had been the first Lemurian to understand the significance and unifying power of flags. He'd directed the creation of the Banner of the Trees, and an infant political union began to take shape.

The stainless Banner of the Trees was composed of a circle of golden tree symbols, one for each Allied Home, surrounding a simple blue star representing the Americans. The star was in the center not to show dominance, but to symbolize that the Americans had been the organizing force, the glue holding everything together during those early, terrible times. Also, unlike the trees surrounding it, the star now represented more than a city-state, personified by a single ship or place. The precedent for that had been set when it became apparent that Captain Reddy was High Chief over both Walker Walker and and Mahan Mahan, something difficult for the 'Cats to understand at first, but clearly true. Matt was also acclaimed commander of the first Allied Expeditionary Force and later, all Allied forces. Thus it didn't seem wrong that even though Mahan Mahan was on the bottom of the sea and was on the bottom of the sea and Walker Walker might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag. might never fight again, the single star originally representing two ships, then tiny Tarakan Island, should remain prominent on the flag.

Besides, the United States Navy wasn't dead.

Just as Matt once gave Nakja-Mur a ship he'd captured early in the war so Baalkpan might be represented at sea, so had the bulk of the prizes taken after the Battle of Baalkpan been given, without reservation, to the United States Navy-a navy represented only by Lieutenant Commander Matthew Reddy and his surviving crews. Every Lemurian who joined that crew became a member of the United States Navy and swore to defend a vaguely understood "const.i.tution" against all enemies. Captain Reddy had insisted on that. Therefore, wherever they came from, any Lemurian who swore the oath became a Navy man and a member of the Amer-i-caan Clan for as long as they kept that oath and followed the Americans' strict rules.

Nothing like those rules, or "regulations" as they were called, had ever occurred to any Lemurian, anywhere. The People did as their leaders specifically instructed them, but otherwise, they did as they pleased. No Lemurian leader ever imagined many of their people would willingly submit to the level of discipline demanded by the Americans. The thing was, though the rules were strict, the protections against abuse of power inherent in those rules were equally strict. To their surprise, far more volunteered for the "Amer-i-caan Naa-vee" than for the planned Combined Navy of the Alliance, to be composed of the rest of the prizes and new construction.

Certainly, prestige was a factor, but results were convincing as well. The American Navy had become a tight, close-knit clan of elite professionals who watched out for their own, no matter what they looked like, and it soon became clear the Combined Navy was a nonstarter. For better or worse, the entire Navy-minus the Homes, of course-became Matt's clan, and above every United States ship flew the Stars and Stripes.

That morning, nosing through the last of the debris in the mouth of the bay, everyone crewing Donaghey Donaghey and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled-and proud-as well. and her prize consorts, human or Lemurian, male or female, was American. Matt was awed by the responsibility, but humbled-and proud-as well.

Raising his binoculars, he focused them on the strange ships they'd sortied to meet. Their guns weren't run out and they were at a distinct disadvantage while anch.o.r.ed, but the men he saw upon their decks appeared tensely vigilant.

"It will be Captain Jenks, I shouldn't wonder," came a small voice. It sounded almost embarra.s.sed.

Captain Reddy glanced at the tiny form beside him. Large jade eyes regarded him with something akin to trepidation, and long, carefully groomed golden locks framed her elflike face. Gone was the tattered waif they'd rescued from Talaud Island, south of Mindanao, with a handful of other civilians and a few S-boat submariners. In her place was this well-dressed, almost regal . . . child . . . possessed of a near adult maturity and resolve. Despite her size and age, her bearing-and presence-made it easy to believe Rebecca Anne McDonald was, well, a princess of sorts. As it turned out, she was the daughter of the governor-emperor of the Empire of the New Britain Isles, and that explained quite a lot that had mystified them before: such as why an entire squadron of warships would search so long and hard for her in a region they hadn't visited in over two hundred years.

"I shouldn't wonder," Matt echoed as amiably as possible, despite his mood and the uncertain situation. The girl had been convinced that Jenks and his squadron would come to their aid. For them to arrive now, so soon after the battle they had had to have known was brewing, and behave so . . . distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. "Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he . . . met . . . at Tarakan." to have known was brewing, and behave so . . . distantly was irreconcilable with her worldview. Matt motioned to the Bosun, an imposing older man standing nearby with a battered, almost shapeless hat on his head. "Boats is certain of it. He says those are the same ships he . . . met . . . at Tarakan."

"Yep," Chief Bosun's Mate Fitzhugh Gray replied neutrally. "Biggest one's Achilles Achilles. If Jenks ever named the others, I don't remember. There were were four of 'em, though." four of 'em, though."

Gray was a gruff, powerful man, close to sixty, who'd gone a little to seed on the China Station but had since trimmed down and muscled back up considerably. He, at least, had thrived on the activity and adventures they'd experienced since the Squall. He'd also appointed himself Matt's senior armsman and commanded a detail of enlisted humans and Lemurians who'd volunteered for the duty-knowing the man they'd sworn to protect didn't always make it easy. Like Juan Marcos, the little Filipino who'd appointed himself captain's steward, their job had just . . . evolved. Unlike Juan's rank, the Captain's Guard had become an official posting at the urging of Keje and Adar. Keje had even proposed that they make their oath to Adar, who, as chairman or prime minister or whatever he was of the Alliance, was technically the only chief to whom Matt answered. Maybe by his command, they could use the Captain's Guard to keep their Supreme Commander out of harm's way.

Gray refused. He said he'd keep the job he'd already given himself, but he'd sworn an oath when he entered the Navy. That was good enough. Now that his job was official though, he could choose the very best from two battle-hardened and increasingly elite forces: the 1st and 2nd Marines. With the exception of four human destroyermen, the rest of the Captain's Guard were Lemurian Marines.

"What type of signals do your people use?" Matt asked Sean O'Casey who'd joined them by the rail. The powerful, one-armed, dark-skinned man with flowing mustaches had been the girl's companion and protector when the equally lost crew of the U.S. submarine S-19 had taken them from an open boat. The old S-boat had been dragged to this world the same way Walker Walker was: through the mysterious Squall. Out of fuel and with nowhere to go, the sub ultimately wound up on a Talaud Island beach. All the sub's pa.s.sengers were safe-twenty children of diplomats and industrialists, evacuated from Surabaya with four nannies and a nun to care for them-but half its crew had perished in the year before their rescue. was: through the mysterious Squall. Out of fuel and with nowhere to go, the sub ultimately wound up on a Talaud Island beach. All the sub's pa.s.sengers were safe-twenty children of diplomats and industrialists, evacuated from Surabaya with four nannies and a nun to care for them-but half its crew had perished in the year before their rescue.

He, and ultimately the girl, had become fonts of information about the Empire, represented by the visiting ships, although both still hedged when asked its exact location. It had been ingrained in them that only secrecy kept their homeland safe, and a lifetime of indoctrination to that effect was hard to overcome. The destroyermen and their allies had learned much about the political situation there, however, and what they knew might prove problematic. O'Casey had actually been evading its authorities because of his partic.i.p.ation in a rebellion of sorts, not against the legitimate rulers, but against the Company-the Honorable New Britain Company-that increasingly subverted them.

"Flags, guns, lights, rockets . . . much as ye, it seems, but the meanings are doubtless different."

"What signal for a truce, a parlay?"

"A white flag."

"Some things never change, I suppose. Very well." Matt addressed Chapelle. "Have a white flag run up. The crew will remain at General Quarters."

The ships slowly approached the intruder's squadron until they were close enough to lower one of the surviving motor launches. Matt recognized it as the Scott Scott-named for his lost c.o.xswain-as he climbed down into it. Scott had been a true hero, but after the Squall, he'd become terrified of the water-understandable, considering the horrible creatures that dwelt in it here-but he'd been killed on land, by a "super lizard." It had been a terrible, ironic loss.

"Captain Reddy," O'Casey called from the ship. For obvious reasons, he wouldn't be making the crossing. Only later, after the character of their visitors was determined, might he be revealed. "Beware Jenks. As Her Highness has said, he may be a man o' honor, but he has a temper." He grinned beneath his mustaches. "As do ye, I've learned." Matt replied with a curt nod.

Keje-Fris-Ar, High Chief of Big Sal Big Sal, awkwardly found a place beside the captain, favoring his wounded leg. He looked something like a cat-faced bear, and his short, brownish red fur had become increasingly sprinkled with silver. Today it was groomed immaculately. He was dressed in his best embroidered blue smock and highly polished copper scale armor. His battered "scota," or working sword, was at his side-unbound-and on his head was a copper helmet adorned with the tail plumage of a Grik. He grinned, though as usual with his species, the expression didn't touch his red-brown eyes. "That one-armed man has learned you well, my brother. Perhaps it might be best, just this once, to watch that temper of yours. I don't know about you, but I believe we have a sufficient war at present to keep us occupied."

Matt snorted. "I don't know what you're talking about. Sure, I have a temper. So do you. But I don't lose it very often."

"Perhaps," Keje hedged, "but when you do, well . . . you do." He left it at that.

Courtney Bradford descended next, puffing with exertion and trying not to lose the ridiculous, oversize hat that protected his balding pate. Bradford, an Australian, had been a petroleum-engineering consultant for Royal Dutch Sh.e.l.l. He was also a self-proclaimed "naturalist," and despite an absentminded, eccentric personality, he was an extremely valuable man. It was he who showed them where to drill for the oil that had fueled their war effort so far. Of all Walker Walker's company who'd arrived on this "other earth," he'd probably changed the least-personality wise-and still tended to greet each day as a blooming opportunity for discovery and adventure.

"Larry the Lizard," as the men had taken to calling Lawrence, Rebecca's Grik-like pet/companion, scampered down to join them and found a place to perch near the front of the launch. He wasn't as large as their Grik enemies, and his orangeish and brown tiger-striped, feathery fur easily distinguished him from the washed-out dun and brown of the Grik. Otherwise, the physical similarity was striking. He was a kind of "island Grik," a "Tagranesi" he claimed, from somewhere in the Eastern Sea. Apparently a different race from their enemies, he'd become Rebecca's friend and protector. So striking was his similarity to the enemy, Matt had kept him hidden aboard Walker Walker until after the great battle out of real concern for his safety. It may have been just as well at the time. Despite their previous, almost pacifistic nature, the Lemurians until after the great battle out of real concern for his safety. It may have been just as well at the time. Despite their previous, almost pacifistic nature, the Lemurians hated hated the Grik, and he sure looked like one. After the battle however, he'd emerged as something of a hero, and to Matt's honest amazement, the Lemurians had once again displayed their capacity for tolerant adaptability. Somehow, despite his appearance, the 'Cats were able to accept-on Matt's and Adar's word alone-that Larry was on their side. the Grik, and he sure looked like one. After the battle however, he'd emerged as something of a hero, and to Matt's honest amazement, the Lemurians had once again displayed their capacity for tolerant adaptability. Somehow, despite his appearance, the 'Cats were able to accept-on Matt's and Adar's word alone-that Larry was on their side. Walker Walker's crew had grown accustomed to him by the time they brought him back to Baalkpan on the eve of battle, but Matt knew knew that under similar circ.u.mstances, no equally large group of humans would have embraced Larry as quickly. that under similar circ.u.mstances, no equally large group of humans would have embraced Larry as quickly.

The mighty chief gunner's mate Dennis Silva clambered down the rungs last, with Her Highness Rebecca Anne McDonald clinging to his back. Silva winced occasionally, pained by his many wounds, and Matt wished again he'd insisted the big man remain behind. But Silva took his role of protecting the princess seriously and Matt couldn't bring himself to discourage anything the irreverent, depraved pain in the a.s.s actually wanted wanted to do-as far as his duty was concerned. Of all of them, Silva might have changed the most-maybe even more than Matt himself. He didn't to do-as far as his duty was concerned. Of all of them, Silva might have changed the most-maybe even more than Matt himself. He didn't seem seem much different to the casual observer, despite the patch that covered his ruined left eye. He was still huge, powerful, and still kept his blond hair burred close-even as he let the sun-bleached brownish beard grow longer than everyone knew the captain approved. He remained coa.r.s.e, profane, and fearlessly reckless, and there was still the more or less unresolved question of what, exactly, const.i.tuted the relationship between him, Nurse Pam Cross, and the 'Cat female Risa-Sab-At. Risa's brother, Chack, probably knew, but no one else did . . . for sure. Other than that, however, Silva caused few real problems anymore. much different to the casual observer, despite the patch that covered his ruined left eye. He was still huge, powerful, and still kept his blond hair burred close-even as he let the sun-bleached brownish beard grow longer than everyone knew the captain approved. He remained coa.r.s.e, profane, and fearlessly reckless, and there was still the more or less unresolved question of what, exactly, const.i.tuted the relationship between him, Nurse Pam Cross, and the 'Cat female Risa-Sab-At. Risa's brother, Chack, probably knew, but no one else did . . . for sure. Other than that, however, Silva caused few real problems anymore.

Maybe his wounds slowed him down, but Matt had seen him shoulder more and more responsibility-sometimes of his own accord-even before he was injured. It was as if he'd taken his role as Walker Walker's Hercules to heart, and saw it as his personal duty to protect her survivors as best he could-with the possible exception of his primary rival, Chief Machinist's Mate Dean Laney. His protectiveness was particularly focused on the little girl clinging to his back. She had . . . done something . . . to Dennis Silva, and Matt believed the big man would somehow contrive, with his bare hands, to destroy the ship they were about to visit if it threatened the girl in any way.

When all the pa.s.sengers were aboard, Gunner's Mate Paul St.i.tes advanced the throttle and the launch burbled across the choppy sea to Achilles Achilles' side. The closer they drew to the "British" ships, the more impressed Matt became. Each Imperial frigate seemed quite well made, and mounted twelve to twenty guns that looked somewhat larger than the American frigates' improved eighteen pounders. Maybe twenty-fours? But the ships simply couldn't be as imaginatively and redundantly reinforced as his own Lemurian-built frigates, and their steam power would be an advantage only until their vulnerable paddle wheels were damaged. Then they'd become a terrible liability. They were more than a match for his "prizes," though, and he had only one frigate to oppose them if it came to that. Of course, there was no way they could enter the bay past the guns of Fort Atkinson and the other big guns they'd quickly emplaced on the southeast entrance. For a melancholy moment, he considered that Walker Walker could have taken all of them by herself, but he shook that off. He didn't want to fight them, and despite Gray's a.s.sessment, he doubted he'd have to. Most likely, they just wanted to take the girl and go, but it was always wise to consider possibilities-particularly when they weren't necessarily going to get what they wanted. could have taken all of them by herself, but he shook that off. He didn't want to fight them, and despite Gray's a.s.sessment, he doubted he'd have to. Most likely, they just wanted to take the girl and go, but it was always wise to consider possibilities-particularly when they weren't necessarily going to get what they wanted.

The barge b.u.mped alongside and Captain Reddy hopped across to an extensive ladder arrangement, complete with manropes that had been rigged while they crossed. Climbing to the top, he saluted the curiously familiar ensign, with the red and white stripes and Union Jack in the field at the ship's stern, then saluted a man he suspected was Captain Jenks, by the description Gray had given him.