“What if she encounters the Allied fleets?”
“Actually, I’m confident they will destroy her, if one of their”-he grimaced-“ our capital ships is present. It will be costly, but I only truly fear her torpedoes.”
“Indeed,” Hiro said nervously.
The speaking tube from the radio shack whistled, and Hiro stepped over and spoke into it. “Bridge. Lieutenant Hiro speaking.”
“The murderers have taken the lure, my lord,” came the tinny voice. “They want to talk to our captain.”
Okada leaned toward the tube. “I’m on my way.”
“We are the Junyo Maru, my lord,” the radioman reminded Okada when he entered the compartment. Junyo Maru was a ship Hidioame would be familiar with, and she was a dead ringer for their own.
“Of course.” He took the microphone. “This is Captain Okada of the Junyo Maru. I cannot express my relief at finding countrymen here in this… wrongful place!”
“I am Commander Kurita of the Imperial Japanese ship Hidoiame!” a terse voice crackled in response. “Now that we have established communications, please cease screaming your head off for all the world to hear! We are not alone in this place, and there may be enemies listening! We have monitored what sound like coded American transmissions, so send no more open radio messages. Any further communications will be via coded CW, understood?”
“Understood,” Sato replied. Grinning, his radioman patted the codebook the fools had left on the ship when they abandoned it, obviously expecting the ship to sink, or if it didn’t, no one would ever make use of it. Evidently, they were more concerned about that now. “I’ll put my radioman back on,” Sato said. “Please instruct him on what frequency you wish to use, and tell us where to find you!”
Okada handed the transmitter back to the radioman and stood back while the man finished the conversation. A few minutes later, the code-groups began coming in. A Lemurian striker versed in Japanese started transcribing what the radioman wrote, the codebook in one hand, a pencil in the other.
“They did not give their exact position, Lord,” the ’Cat announced a short while later. “They merely ordered us to steam for Sapporo. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes,” Okada said grimly, picturing the geography in his mind. “I would wager that is where they have made their base, for now. Ishikari-Wan should make a good, deep anchorage, even here. I suspect it will be cold, my friends, but they made no mention of ice. That is a relief.”
“How long until we reach that place?” the Lemurian striker asked.
“A week, at this pace. Perhaps a bit longer. We’ll have them anxious to see us! In the meantime, we will prepare.”
A Cave Somewhere in the Holy Dominion
Lieutenant Fred Reynolds tried to open his eyes, but they felt glued shut by some thick, rough, gooey substance. He couldn’t wipe them with his hands because they were roughly bound behind his back, so he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear them. It did little good. He could see a little, not that much was visible in the damp gloom of his underground “cell.” Torches guttered meagerly in a passage beyond the iron bars that isolated his little alcove from the cavern beyond, and occasionally, he heard what sounded like distant, echoing voices.
He was beyond miserable; naked, cold, covered with filth and reeking mud. He couldn’t remember when he’d last been given water. Every part of his body hurt, but his shoulder was still the worst. He suspected his collarbone had broken when the “Nancy” flipped in the surf, and his heel might be broken too. In any event, he’d almost drowned before Kari dragged him out of the sea and up on the beach. She’s been injured too, he remembered, pretty badly, and he didn’t know how she’d managed. All that had happened to them after the crash had become little more than a vague blur.
Neither of them had been in any condition to resist when the Doms came for them. Fred was pretty sure he’d been unconscious when they arrived. It didn’t matter. He’d lost his pistol in the crash, and didn’t have the strength to fight them. All he remembered was being carried, slung on a pole like a dead hog, for what might have been minutes or days. At some point, he’d been carried aboard a ship in the darkness, and the next he knew, he was here. He’d probably been drugged. He knew they’d taken Kari too, but he hadn’t seen her since. He prayed she was alive.
The voices in the passageway became louder, and he expected a visitor at last. Maybe I should pray Kari’s not alive, he reconsidered, remembering what he knew of the Doms. New torches flickered, adding their light to the darkness, and forms appeared, moving toward him. A lock clanked, and a barred door swung open with a damp, rusty groan.
“Fetch water, fools,” said a mild voice that contrasted with the perfunctory order. “This man is ill, hurt! He cannot be allowed to die before given a chance to atone! To be purified!”
“At once, Holiness!” came a nervous reply in thickly accented English, and a dark form retreated.
Fred was grateful he’d get water at last, but chilled by the other comments. Torches were placed in sockets and others lit. There was plenty of light now, but his sight remained blurred.
“Poor creature,” the soft voice whispered again, and a red-robed figure bent and gently wiped the goo from Fred’s eyes with a soft cloth. “Better?”
Fred nodded, seeing a face at last. It was dark skinned, pleasantly solicitous, with a salt-and-pepper mustache and chin whiskers.
“What is your name?”
Fred cleared his throat. “Frederick Reynolds. Lieutenant, junior grade, serial number…”
“Your given name is sufficient for God to know you, my son,” the man consoled. “I am Don Hernan de Devino Dicha, Blood Cardinal to His Supreme Holiness, the Messiah of Mexico and Emperor of the World by the Grace of God. It pleases him-and myself-to offer you sanctuary from the wicked, damned heretics whose orders placed you in contention with God Himself. But God is merciful, my son! You may yet achieve grace in His eyes, and your soul and life be saved!”
Don Hernan! He’d heard that name. Oh, Jesus, help mean!
“You know of me!” the Blood Cardinal exclaimed. “Most excellent, indeed!” He shrugged. “It was a simple thing. I merely took passage on the very ship the heretics sent to ‘warn’ their illegitimate colonies of the hostilities they initiated. Her captain is a child of God.”
So, that explains a lot. There was no point in arguing who’d started the war. “Where’s Kari?” Fred managed. “What have you done with her?”
Don Hernan blinked. “You mean the animal captured with you? It has a name?”
“Of course she has a name! And she’s no animal! Where is she?”
Don Hernan shook his head. “Such a tone! I forget sometimes that the unenlightened are known to form deep attachments to their pets.” He peered intently at Fred. “It lives, for now. I’ve considered putting it on display, as a curiosity. That might still be done if it dies, of course. The creature is a menace, dangerous to handle, even with its sharp nails and teeth removed! I should have it killed and stuffed.”
“No!”
For the first time, Don Hernan’s voice rose. “You shout? You demand? Of me? ” Visibly, he calmed himself. “The creature’s fate, as is your own, is up to you. You must be purified, of course, but your suffering thus far has doubtless earned you some measure of grace.” Don Hernan made a sour face. “I confess the sin of arrogance. I badly underestimated your ‘Captain Reddy’ and his iron steamer. Our efforts to bend the small dragons to our will have been lengthy and tedious. Their potential facility is great-as you and your marvelous flying machine have proven-but a decade of preparation and great expense was lost in a single day to Captain Reddy and his stratagems. Not to mention his remarkably swift and unexpectedly powerful ship.” He paused. “The ship we can counter,” he said confidently, “but continuing the small dragon project seems of dubious value-except of course for having brought us you. They do appear effective against your flying machines!” He hesitated and smiled. “Which brings us to you!”