Captain Matthew Reddy, “High Chief” of the ever-growing “Amer-i-caan” clan, CINCAAF, (Commander in Chief of All Allied Forces-by acclamation), and more specifically-currently-CINCEAST, was grinning broadly at the sight of the huge ship. His green eyes, often capable of icy remorselessness, sparkled with pleasure, and his mood was reflected by the mixed human/Lemurian-“American”-crew around him in Walker’ s pilothouse, and indeed, throughout his veteran ship. Matt had been grinning a lot lately, despite the added pressure and responsibility of a “whole new war” here in what their allies considered an impossibly distant “far east.” Nearly two years of constant war and the associated stress had taken their toll, but that was a kind of stress for which he’d always been well equipped. His long funk had suddenly been erased by almost-miraculous news of a very personal nature. Compared to the relief that gave him, even an added theater in an apparently endlessly growing war seemed barely able to touch him.
“That Salaama-Na is sure a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I’d rather she was one of the flat-tops, converted or new, but I don’t think anything quite as impressive as one of those seagoing Homes has ever put to sea on this world or back home!”
“She’s a welcome sight, and that’s a fact,” agreed Brad “Spanky” McFarlane in his gruff but amiable way. Spanky was a little guy; short and skinny, but the power of his personality and supreme engineering authority always left people the impression he was bigger than he was. He’d been Walker’ s engineering officer-a “mustang”-ever since she joined the old Asiatic Fleet, and he and Chief Bosun’s Mate Fitzhugh Gray had been with the ship longer than anyone now alive. Spanky was Minister of Naval Engineering for the entire Alliance, but he’d also recently become Walker ’s executive officer. There was no question which of the two he personally considered the more important job. “I think I’m happier to see the oilers she’s got with her! This little jaunt to meet our friends is liable to leave our bunkers suckin’ air!” he added.
Chief Gray grunted agreement. In contrast to Spanky, Gray was almost as tall as Captain Reddy and even more powerfully built-despite being “in the vicinity” of sixty. The flab he’d accumulated after years on the China Station had reverted to muscle since “the Squall,” and, physically, he’d thrived on their adventures. He’d also become something far beyond a chief bosun’s mate, although that “something” was still ill-defined. Carl Bashear had taken his old job aboard Walker, but even he considered Gray as something like a “super bosun.” Most of the surviving original destroyermen from Walker and her lost sister Mahan had been promoted, many to a lofty status; so had the survivors of the old submarine S-19. Matt refused to appoint himself anything higher than captain, but he’d been acclaimed commander in chief, and there was only one “Captain Reddy.” For Gray, it was even more complicated. He wore a lot of different hats now; he commanded the Captain’s Guard detail, for example, but he’d been the highest-ranking NCO on Walker, and for his deeds and vast moral authority, he’d become the most exalted NCO in the Alliance. Few officers would’ve even considered actually giving him an order. He’d even refused orders issued by Adar, the High Chief and Sky Priest of Baalkpan, and Chairman of the Grand Alliance, because they’d interfered with his Navy oath! What kind of “promotion” could possibly have meaning for the man? Matt thought he finally had it and was toying with the establishment of “Chief Bosun of the Navy,” which would basically confirm Gray’s “super bosun” status.
It would be more than just a title. Matt knew chiefs had their own culture, almost like an exclusive fraternity one never really left even if they received commissions. With all the Lemurian “chiefs” entering the fold, it was probably time for that growing fraternity to have some form of “supreme authority” of its own before they made up too many new, wacky rules. The age-old, traditional strife between the deck (ape) divisions and the engineering (snipe) divisions served a purpose, but Matt could see things getting out of hand as time went by-as things became more dominated by the very literal-minded Lemurians. The last thing they needed was an equivalent to warring labor unions aboard Navy ships! Gray could lay down the law and establish firm traditions everyone would respect-while making sure the chiefs maintained that unifying brotherhood that made them so effective at not only controlling their divisions and getting along with one another, solving little problems aboard ship before they became big enough that officers had to “notice” them, and frankly, culling poor performers from their own ranks.
“Oil’s a fine thing,” Gray grumbled, “but I’m just as happy to see those new steam frigates, or ‘DDs’ I guess they’re callin’ ’em.” He seemed unhappy with the term. “What are their names?”
Matt looked through his binoculars. “They’re flying their numbers, so I guess the one to leeward of Salaama-Na is Mertz, named for our old
“A hell of a thing,” Gray snorted. “Get killed servin’ sammitches, and they name a destroyer after you!” He looked at the surprised expressions. “Not that I’m against it! Besides, it’ll be a hoot to see how Lanier reacts! Mertz deserves a statue for puttin’ up with that nasty, bloated bastard so long.” Earl Lanier was Walker ’s unpopular cook, and Ray Mertz had been his long-suffering assistant. “What’s the other one?”
“She’s Tindal,” Matt replied grimly. “They launched her in Maa-ni-la as Lelaa, but when they found out Captain Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan wasn’t dead after all, they named her after Miami.” “Miami” Tindal had been Walker ’s chief engineer during the recent action at Scapa Flow. Matt’s face became an unreadable contrast of sadness and barely suppressed… glee. Their allies in the Fil-pin Lands had also discovered that Nurse Lieutenant and “Minister of Medicine” Sandra Tucker-the woman Matt loved-had also survived a terrible ordeal. Ironically, it was her abduction, along with that of others, that brought Walker and her crew so far from where Sandra was ultimately found-and embroiled the Grand Alliance in yet another war. Sandra, Princess Rebecca Anne McDonald, Sister Audry, Abel Cook, Midshipman Stuart Brassey, the “ex”-Tagranesi “Lawrence,” and the… inimitable… Chief Gunner’s Mate Dennis Silva had all been rescued by the remnants of “Task Force Laumer.” Incredibly, the battered submarine that Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had been sent to salvage had endured grounding, a year on an island beach, and ultimately a colossal volcanic eruption and tidal wave, before finding the important castaways adrift in the Fil-pin Sea along with seventy-odd survivors of Lawrence’s Grik-like people.
“ Tindal ’s a good name,” Spanky said at last, breaking the awkward silence that ensued.
“Yes, it is,” Matt agreed. “So’s Mertz. Ray was a good kid, and making sandwiches in the middle of a fight probably takes more guts than shooting at the enemy.”
Walker continued her sprint toward the approaching squadron. All the ships, except Salaama-Na and the two Imperials, Ulysses and Icarus , were flying the Stars and Stripes-the flag of the American Navy and everyone, Lemurians included, who’d joined that “clan.” Matt directed Walker ’s speed be reduced to one-third, and had the ship’s whistle sounded in greeting. A gout of white steam gushed from the whistle, emitting a throbbing, bass shriek. The greeting was answered by similar tones from Tindal and Mertz, whose whistles were copies of Walker ’s, and by higher-pitched toots from Ulysses and Icarus. The Imperial frigates also loosed an exuberant, thundering broadside in salute.