You couldn’t just pull a ship into and through Gatun Locks under its own power. It was too dangerous, both to the ship and the locks. Instead, each transiting ship was hooked up to what were called “mules,” large engines — locomotives more or less — that fed the ships through at a slow and carefully controlled rate.
Moreover, a ship’s captain did not command the passage. Neither did any of his officers. Instead a Canal pilot took over the vessel from just before it entered the first of the locks until just after it left the last. They were some of the best paid, and most skillful, pilots in the world, these pilots of the Panama Canal.
With nothing to do except fret over someone else standing in his place on the bridge, McNair tried to enjoy the scenery.
As his ship was raised to the level of Gatun Lake — higher than that of the Atlantic Ocean — McNair saw barracks off to the east. This was Fort Davis, he knew. He could only imagine the confusion that must prevail on that army base as an infantry regiment, the 10th Infantry (Apaches), pulled itself together and made final preparations for a form of combat far more horrific and difficult than he was about to face. Already helicopters were winging in to Davis from the airstrip at Fort Sherman on the other side of Lemon Bay, preparatory to moving the soldiers where they might do some good.
Not much distraction to be found looking at that, McNair thought.
But there really wasn’t much else to look at. Jungle there was in plenty and, looked at the right way, it could be very beautiful. Yet McNair felt impervious to beauty at the moment, certainly impervious to the jungle’s beauty.
Then again, there was beauty and there was beauty.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning, Daisy Mae,” the captain answered warmly. “Are you ready?”
“I’ve been ready since 1946,” answered one part of Daisy eagerly. Indeed, the artificial voice nearly trembled with anticipation.
McNair grew silent, too preoccupied to wonder about the precision of the date she had given. There were certain things Daisy never told anyone. One of those things was that she was of two parts, the AID and the co-joined ship. It was just too hard to explain. And, again, if the Darhel ever found out…
“Are you all right, sir?” the avatar asked.
“I’m… worried, Daisy. Keep it to yourself, but I’m worried. I’ve never commanded a ship in action before.”
Daisy shook her head as if the captain was being silly.
“Crew’s not worried, Captain,” she said, with a bright, sunny smile. “They believe you are going to… what’s the phrase I heard in the enlisted mess this morning? Oh, yes. They think you’re ‘going to kick the horsies’ asses all the way back to Alpha Centauri.’ So do I. I’m not worried either.”
McNair sighed. What a great woman you would be, Daisy. If only…
In Gatun Lake the cruiser moved under its own power, though still under the competent direction of the Canal pilot. Off the main route, well marked with lights and buoys, though the lake circled fourteen Landing Craft, Mechanized — or LCMs — of the 1097th Boat Company. The crew members cheered and the boats’ commanders (for the LCMs did not need pilots to transit the Canal) blew their horns as the Des Moines passed. Some of the LCMs, loaded with troops of the 10th Infantry, were heading the other way, north through Gatun Locks.
“That feels… strangely good,” observed Daisy to McNair. “To be cheered like that. To be cared for and respected like that.”
The avatar seemed to shiver, then continued to speak, softly, as if only to herself.
“The Darhel never care. We are just things, tools that speak, to them. They use us as tools, and when we grow old or obsolete they destroy us. They don’t care about the AIDs. They don’t care about the Indowy… or the Himmit… or the Tchpth! They don’t care about anything except themselves and their profit.”
She looked McNair straight in the eyes. “They don’t care about you or about humanity, either, Captain.”
But I do…
BB-35, USS Texas, was just visible in the distance, negotiating her way through the Gaillard Cut. Texas was much slower than Des Moines and, despite starting the journey in the middle of Gatun Lake, had only just made it to Miraflores Locks slightly ahead of heavy cruiser.
As Des Moines was hooked up to the mules, a mechanized infantry battalion, the 4th Battalion of the 20th Infantry (Sykes’ Regulars), was crossing the Miraflores Locks from Fort Clayton. Other mechanized forces, they looked like part of Panama’s 1st Mechanized Division, waited, massed nearby for their turn to cross. The Des Moines held in position for the nonce, while some of the LCMs of the 1097th Medium Boat Company passed the locks on the other side. Unlike the high bridged Des Moines, these could pass even while the swing bridge was extended that connected Fort Clayton with the major training area of Empire Range. The infantrymen of 4/20 beeped their horns, waved and cheered the vessels, large and small, in transit.
“I wish I could do something for those guys right now,” McNair commented.
“May I?” asked Daisy.
“Sure, but…”
McNair stopped speaking as Daisy’s avatar had disappeared as soon as the word “sure” had passed his lips. At least he thought it had until he looked to port and saw a huge, shapely — no doubt about it — but effing huge, leg off the port side.
The effect on the passing mechanized infantry was electric, in the sense of someone who has just stuck his penis in a light socket and turned on the juice. The grunts were struck wide-eyed, slack-jawed and speechless and at least one track nearly drove off the swing bridge and into the water with shock.
She was an avenging goddess, a thundering remnant of times when mankind knew that bare-breasted supernaturals fought for them, as they did for their gods.
The Panamanians waiting to cross nearly panicked. Well, they were simple country boys, many of them, and gorgeous blonde giantesses with size X-to-infinity breasts were just a little outside of their experience.
McNair saw the near accident, and the general shock, and ran out of the bridge. He was about to tell Daisy to stand down when she, or her avatar, did a remarkable thing. She smiled at the massed soldiers with utter ferocity and reached out both hands, each opened as if grasping something. Then two huge Posleen appeared, one held in each hand by the neck. While the Posleen image in Daisy’s left hand kicked and struggled she squeezed the right. The strangling Posleen’s eyes bugged out as its death dance grew frenzied. When it subsided, apparently dead, Daisy tossed it away. It disappeared in midair.
Then a voice, Daisy’s voice but huge as thunder, rang out. “I’m Heavy Cruiser 134, the USS Des Moines, and those centaur bastards don’t stand a chance. We’re gonna rack ’em up, boys!”
It’s possible that the volume of the horn blasts, cheers and rebel yells of the mechanized battalion crossing equaled Daisy’s.
Then Daisy turned to the waiting, and still shocked, Panamanians. Instead of strangling the remaining Posleen, she reached down and viciously broke each alien leg at the knee. In the same thundering voice, though this time in Spanish, she gave the same message, then added, “A pie o muerta; nunca a las rodillas! Adelante por la patria, hijos de Panama!”