“Except these political officers, these Company wardens,” Shinya reminded him.
“Of course.” Rebecca and O’Casey had told them about the Company watchdogs aboard Jenks’s ship, and had described their function in a way that brought the Nazi SS or Gestapo to Matt’s mind. Or maybe the Soviet naval political officers Shinya referred to was a better analogy. Either way, they were sinister and apparently powerful figures, and, given the opinions of O’Casey and the princess, dangerous and subversive as well. Matt had been waiting for some sign that Jenks didn’t necessarily work with them hand in glove before he made his earlier invitation. Rebecca was certain he didn’t, and even O’Casey-who had his own reasons to be wary of Jenks-agreed, but Matt had to be sure. After Jenks’s veiled admission, he thought he was. Of course, Jenks could have suspected their concerns and put on an act.. .. Matt shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t like Jenks, but he grudgingly respected him. The few times he’d actually spoken to Commander Billingsly, he’d decided there couldn’t have been more difference between his and Jenks’s character, at least.
Jenks might be an asshole, but somehow Matt sensed he was an honorable, even gentlemanly asshole. Billingsly was just an asshole, with no class at all. He remained as arrogant and condescending as Jenks had been when they first met, and his open, blatant, almost hostile bigotry toward the Lemurians was offensive and unsettling. If all the Honorable New Britain Company was like Billingsly, Matt’s destroyermen and their allies might have as much to fear from them as they did from the Grik. But Jenks was pure Navy, according to O’Casey, and Matt was very glad that seemed to make a difference. For a number of reasons.
“Yeah,” Matt resumed, “we’ll have to convince Jenks to keep them in the dark. I think we can, once we show him what we’re up to-and then offer to let him see some of the stuff in action! If he accepts, and I bet he will, maybe we’ll have some time to work on him.” There was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Juan swept the door open and Ensign Irvin Laumer stepped inside, hat under his arm, and stood at attention. He was towheaded and lanky, but not particularly tall, and he didn’t look quite old enough for the uniform he wore. The seriousness of his expression meant he did have some idea why he was there, however, and Matt felt a tug of uncertainty. From what he’d heard of Laumer, he had high hopes for the boy. The kid had good sense, clearly. He’d been the highest-ranking survivor of S-19’s complement, but he’d allowed the more experienced chief of the boat take de facto command. The decision must have been a tough one, because Laumer didn’t seem the type to defer responsibility. Hopefully that meant, like any good officer, he knew when to take responsibility and when to delegate it. Matt’s main concern now was that maybe Laumer felt he had something to prove.
Actually, he did, in a way. All of Matt’s senior officers, human and Lemurian, were veterans of fierce fighting now. All but Laumer. If the ensign was ever going to be followed where he led, he did have to prove himself, Matt reflected. He only wished Laumer’s baptism didn’t have to be on such a difficult and potentially important mission. He’d love to send Spanky or Brister, or any of half a dozen others, but he couldn’t. They were just too necessary where they were. The simple, hard fact of the matter was that Laumer was the only one he could spare with the experience and technical expertise.
“Sir, Ensign Laumer, reporting as ordered!”
“At ease, Ensign,” Matt replied mildly, and gestured at the stool Jenks had just vacated across the desk. “Please have a seat.” Irvin sat, still rigid, upon the creaky stool. “Coffee?”
“Uh, no, thank you, sir.”
Matt waited a moment, staring at the ensign. He decided to get straight to the point. “I want that submarine,” he said simply.
Irvin Laumer nodded. He’d obviously expected as much. “I’ll get it for you, sir, if it’s the last thing I do.”
Alden grunted. “Son, that’s the point. We want it, sure, but we don’t want it to be the last thing you do. You or the people you’ll command.”
Matt glanced at the Marine and nodded. “Exactly. We’ve discussed this at some length and decided your mission will have a hierarchy of agendas. First, of course, you must determine whether she can be salvaged at all. She might not even be there anymore. Remember too, given the nature of some of the creatures on this world-and under its seas-it’s not imperative that we get the submarine back as a submarine, if you get my meaning.”
Laumer looked troubled, but nodded. “Yes, sir, I think I do.”
“You must know you do, because that’s the deal. If she’s still there, it’ll be up to you to decide if you can get her off the beach. Don’t fool around too long trying if it’s not practical. If you can, swell. You’ll have fuel, and Spanky, Gilbert, and Flynn all say at least one of her diesels ought to come to life. If you can get her under way, hopefully Saan-Kakja can provide an escort to get you to Manila. After that, bring her here if you can, but that’s not essential either. What is essential is the stuff she’s made of. Decide quickly if you can get her off, because if you can’t, you’ve got to strip her-and I mean strip her! I want her engines, batteries, wiring, screws, gun, bearings, instruments, sonar-hell, I want every bolt you can get out of her; is that understood? Even if you get her all the way back here we might strip her anyway, so that’s the absolute top priority. Like I said-and I can’t stress this enough-we need what she’s made of more than we need her. Her whole, intact carcass would be nice-she’s got as much steel as Walker -but this is strictly a ‘bird in the hand’ operation. Get what you know you can get.”
Irvin gulped. “I understand, Captain.”
“Very well. Now.” Matt leaned back in his chair. “We can’t afford to send much with you, but you’ll get what we can spare. You can have five of your submariners if you can get them to volunteer. Concentrate on those with critical engineering and operating skills.”
“Flynn?” Irvin asked.
Matt shook his head. “No. Two reasons. First, we need him here. Second, and don’t take this wrong; he assured me he has the utmost respect for you, but… to be honest, he’s had enough of subs in these waters.” Matt shrugged. “I already asked him, but… well, let’s just say we’ve had a little experience with people who’ve been through too much and pushed too far.” Matt was thinking of his old coxswain Tony Scott. “Sometimes they lose focus and make mistakes,” he added in a quiet tone. “We’ll use Flynn in the shipyard for now, but he’s asked for an infantry regiment, if you can believe that.” To Matt’s surprise, Laumer actually smiled.
“Yes, sir, I can believe it.”
Instead of asking the ensign to elaborate, Matt pushed on: “You’ll have two of the prize ships to transport equipment and personnel, and bring back what you can salvage. You won’t command the ships, obviously, but you’ll be in overall command of the expedition.”
“Thank you, sir,” Laumer said. “Thanks for the opportunity.”
Matt grimaced. “There may be plenty of ‘opportunity’ to get yourself killed, and I’m ordering you to avoid that. Period. Otherwise, besides those previously mentioned, your orders are to depart Baalkpan aboard the prize USS Simms in company with another prize sloop…” He shook his head. “We’re really going to have to sort that out.”
The destroyermen, ’Cat and human, found it difficult and confusing to use the old terms for sailing warships. A small faction insisted “sloops” ought to be destroyers and “frigates” should be cruisers. This caused contention among the frigate sailors, who thought they ought to be destroyers and sloops were mere gunboats. God only knew how weird it would get when they had even bigger ships-and seaplane tender /carriers like Big Sal. The fact was, no one of either race wanted to give up the title “destroyerman,” no matter what they served on.