“Damn that idiot!” Matt declared. “Who gave him permission to fly?” He paced to the rail and watched the battered PBY approach from the south. It looked decidedly odd with its shortened wings, and the engines sounded like they’d mixed rocks with the oil.
“I can’t believe he got it up again,” Gray confessed, joining them.
“Ol’ Benny’s a whiz with gizmos,” Silva stated, “an’ pretty sharp for an army aviator.”
“It’s an air-plane!” Rebecca squealed excitedly. “Oh, it is, it is! Mr. Flynn told me about them, but I confess I scarcely believed him! Oh, look! Is it going to land upon the sea?”
The Catalina staggered past Walker, banked delicately, and flew toward the open sea still separating the destroyer and the picket force. Two hundred yards away it thumped exhaustedly onto the calm sea and wallowed to a stop. Gunning the port engine, the pilot began his approach.
“Oh, look, oh, look!” chanted the girl, almost hopping.
When the plane was within a hundred yards, the pilot-it must b cut the engines. The ensuing silence seemed almost more intense than the previous racket. A moment passed; then Signals Lieutenant (JG) Palmer appeared on the wing.
Matt spotted Stites leaning on the rail near the whaleboat. “Don’t just stand there,” he shouted. “Go get him!” He looked at Silva and O’Casey, then glanced at the impatient nun. “Carry on,” he said. “I’d better get to the bridge.”
“Captain!” shouted the nun, her Dutch accent clear. Grimacing, Matt paused while the woman strode quickly toward him. “Captain, I must protest! I have been asking to speak with you for days!”
“My apologies, uh, sister…”
“Sister Audry. I appreciate you rescuing us from our previous.. . circumstances, but now I understand we are steaming directly toward a battle? Have you not thought of the children in my care? Is it possible you will expose them to further risk? I must insist you provide for their safety!”
Matt gritted his teeth. “Lady… Sister, I haven’t got time for this now, but you have my word those kids’ll be as safe as I can make them. If I could drop them, and you, off someplace safe, I would, but there is no safe place. I’ll do what I can, but for now you must excuse me.” He turned and continued on his way, leaving the nun wearing a stormy expression.
Shortly the whaleboat returned, with Palmer standing in the prow. When it came alongside, the signalman scurried up, saluted the flag and Gray, and raced for the pilothouse. “Skipper!” he said with feeling, saluting again. “Am I glad to see you!”
“The feeling’s mutual, but what’s the meaning of this?” Matt gestured at the plane.
Palmer’s face took on a haunted look. “Yeah, well, jeez. Believe me, Skipper, we wouldn’t have gone up in that death trap if we didn’t have to. It flies, but I think that’s only because it hates floating even more.” He gathered himself. “Mr. Letts sent us. You were right; the Griks are on the move. They handled Mahan pretty rough, but we thought that might’ve just been a stab at catching her. No go. It looks like the real deal.”
“Any sign of Amagi?”
“Not with the advance force. Looks like a hundred-plus ships, even after Mahan tore ’em up. We might’ve seen smoke way to the south, but we didn’t want to push the old girl, if you know what I mean.” Palmer shuddered. “I hate to say it, Captain, but I think it’s time we stripped her for the metal.”
“Probably right,” Matt mused sadly. “We might need her to fly once more, but after that…” He shrugged. “How long before the enemy arrives?”
“The wind’s against them,” Palmer replied, “but by late tomorrow morning, surely.”
“Very well. How are the preparations I mentioned to Mr. Sandison proceeding?”
Dowden shook his head beside Captain Reddy on the port bridge wing. “That crazy bastard! I’ll have Silva polishing brass from one end of this ship to the other-with his toothbrush!”
Matt barely heard him. Alone, it seemed, of all Walker ’s crew, his mood remained unaffected by the stunt. His attention was fixed on a small, slim form, standing a little apart from the others, long, sandy-brown hair unclasped for once, flowing in the stiffening breeze. “Don’t bother,” he said absently, the words ringing hollow. “I said he could. Everybody needed a laugh.”
Dowden chuckled uneasily, then followed his captain’s gaze. Lieutenant Tucker wore an anxious, sad smile as she stared back across the impossible gulf the others had simply hopped over, with a sharply focused message of love, welcome, and… pain that almost broke his heart. He looked back at Matt. Now he knew why the captain had dressed in his best-and why he wasn’t laughing.
Matt stepped briskly back from the rail. Nearby, snugged to the old fitting-out pier, was Mahan, looking somewhat the worse for wear. Her crew was waving and calling across the distance, their shouts lost in the wind. A loud toot-toot and a jet of steam escaped her forward stack. Her new paint was blotched with rust, and there were patches welded here and there. After her long trip, Matt doubted Walker looked much better. He noticed the other destroyer already sported her old number again, 102, and the fresh paint contrasted sharply with that around it. He’d transmitted permission to the request early that morning. The deception didn’t matter anymore; with any luck the enemy would never see Mahan again, and he was glad Mahan ’s crew-and Jim Ellis-was proud of her once more.
“Commence refueling at once,” Matt commanded. “Off-load our ‘passengers’ and all nonessential or specified personnel, as well as small arms, ammunition, depth charges-you know the list.”
Dowden nodded. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Maybe, if we have time, we can tear out the other stuff we talked about tomorrow night. In the meantime”-he glanced at his watch, 1310-“try to let as many guys as possible go ashore for an hour or so. We can wait for Big Sal to follow us in and tie up, but I want to be underway by nineteen hundred.” He looked around. “Now take over, if you please. I have someone… some people to see.”
They gathered for the staff meeting, perhaps the final one, in Nakja-Mur’s Great Hall. Lieutenants Letts, Brister, and Sandison, as well as Lord Rolak and Queen Maraan, of course, had met Matt on the pier, so he and Sandra hadn’t had a single moment alone. They stood together now, however, and if they weren’t holding hands, they stood close enough for their arms to touch and make that vital connection: a warm, tingling, electric circuit both of them needed to draw strength from the other. For now it had to be enough; neither of them knew what the next few days might hold.
Her Highness, Rebecca McDonald, Sean O’Casey, and Ensign Laumer stood with them, the first two introduced as shipwrecked survivors of the fa"1em"›Now she stood, her small hand in Sandra’s, eyes wide as she took in the sights, smells, and… terrifying momentousness of the proceedings within the Great Hall she was but a spectator to. She missed Lawrence’s comforting presence, but knew he’d been left aboard the iron ship for his own protection. The hall was filled with the tension of a looming battle of unimaginable proportions against creatures far too similar to him.
Captain Reddy was talking, describing the voyage they’d returned from. Occasionally Sandra squeezed her hand uncomfortably tight when he spoke of some tense moment. Once she gasped, not sure if it was from pain or because she’d become so caught up in the tale, and Sandra knelt and murmured soft, fervent words of apology. Captain Reddy paused and glanced their way, and in that instant Rebecca caught a glimpse of him she hadn’t seen before: a gentle, almost boyishly wistful tenderness, haunted by something lurking beneath a fragile facade. She imagined she sensed a titanic conflict between howling terror and a capacity for unimaginable violence. She blinked, recoiled slightly, and it was gone, leaving only a benevolent expression of mild concern.
Matt turned back and resumed, speaking to all, but generally directing his words to Baalkpan’s High Chief. Nakja-Mur looked terrible. His once massive arms had seemed actually frail when he wrapped Matt in the usual awkward greeting embrace. “You cannot know,” he’d said low, “how glad I am you have returned.” His eyes had even been misty. The stress he’d endured the last few weeks had been grueling, and if it hadn’t sapped his will, it had wracked his body. Since his greeting, he’d retired to his cushions and spoken little.