Selass was with her, come to say farewell to her mate, Saak-Fas. He’d been leaning on the rail, staring, as the ship moved away, but if he saw her in the throng he made no sign. Now the ship had almost vanished against the dreary, light gray sky. They saw a wisp of smoke, a sense of ghostly movement. Otherwise all that marked her passage was a flicker of color at her masthead as the Stars and Stripes streamed aft in the sultry air, stirred only by the ship’s motion. Sandra watched the flag slowly fade with mixed emotions, an elusive memory of something Matt once told her rising to the surface. Something he’d seen a doomed British destroyer do in the face of impossible odds, and then Exeter did the same thing before her final battle. She strained to remember, sure it was important.

“Do you think they will return?” Selass asked quietly.

“They must. We’ll need them desperately when Walker returns.”

“I meant Walker,” Selass almost whispered. “I feel so guilty. I find myself almost hoping Mahan will fail. That would mean the end of Queen Maraan, but then I might have a chance when Chack returns. It would also probably mean the end of Saak-Fas as well.” She paused, then almost pleaded, “But that is what he wants, is it not?”

“I suspect so,” Sandra replied, saddened for her tragic friend, though not shocked that her thoughts had taken such a turn. “If that’s the case, if he truly wants to die, he’ll likely get his chance.” She sighed. “Jim Ellis is a good man and an excellent officer, but I’m not sure he should be commanding this mission. He still blames himself for losing Mahan when Kaufman shot him and took command. He thinks his ship’s honor is stained—his honor too. He feels he has something to prove. Nobody like that should ever command a mission like this, with so much at stake. I know Jim, and trust him, but I can’t shake the fear that he’ll take chances with himself and his ship, hoping to remove that stain, when his most important objective is to get himself and his ship back in one piece.”

She lowered her head in thought as they walked back through the bazaar in the direction of the hospital. They entered the textile section, where colorful tapestries and fine fabrics swayed gently in the light air. A matronly Lemurian female, with hard-used, pendulous breasts, was perched on a high stool, embroidering a smock with an ornate design, and Sandra paused to admire the work. Then it hit her.

“Excuse me,” she said excitedly. “Your embroidery is beautiful, but do you also sew fabric together?”

“Of course! What a silly question . . .” The female grunted rudely, then looked up and hastily added, “Esteemed healer!” She stood and bowed low. “My apologies! Indeed, I must first make these garments before I embroider them.”

“Excellent! I know you’re busy, but could I commission you to make something for me?”

“For you, anything! You healed one of my daughters, badly wounded at Aryaal. Nothing will take precedence. I will begin work today! What would the esteemed healer have me make?”

Sandra took her precious notebook and pen from her shirt pocket and began to draw. Curious passersby stopped to stare, and it occurred to Sandra that she’d probably doubled the old seamstress’s business by choosing her. She displayed the sketch and said how big she wanted the finished product.

“I have seen that before,” the matron said. “Everyone has. Certainly I can make it, but so large?” Sandra nodded emphatically. Then, thinking of the female’s embroidery skills, and her own Virginia heritage, she scribbled some more on the drawing. “And I want that on it too.”

Work on the well proceeded rapidly after that, surrounded by a surrealistic landscape of fire-blackened stumps and a jumble of fallen trees. At least the workers were no longer in peril from predators, although nighttime brought a variety of scavengers anxious to pick the cooked victims clean. Soon even they lost interest, and before long one could walk from the beach to the well at any time of the day or night in relative safety.

Shinya and Gray had a falling-out over the burn, but not for environmental reasons. Shinya wanted to leave a belt of jungle as a fallback defensive position. Gray even tried to arrange it, but the fire took off quicker than anyone expected. Angry, Shinya accused Gray of deliberately disregarding his advice, and, just as angry, Gray told him to go to hell. They coexisted even more uneasily than usual after that, and each concentrated on his own area of responsibility. As a result, both probably did a better, quicker job than they would have otherwise, but they drove their work crews unmercifully. By the time Isak brought in the well, everyone was exhausted.

The upside was, that left little strenuous labor for anyone to do. The storage tanks were erected and emplaced, and a pipeline had already been run to where the new refinery would be once Felts returned with the equipment. Shinya had overseen the construction of impressive works down at the beach, with multilayered defenses anchored on the impenetrable jungle on one flank, and a rocky mole extending into the sea on the other. The storage tanks were just outside the secondary defensive perimeter, but the wellhead was protected.

Gray sat on the edge of his cot under a makeshift shelter the Marines erected. It was a sturdy affair and would probably survive a moderate blow. It wasn’t big, but at least he had it to himself. All the workers and Marines shared similar structures with ten or more. He heard a loud crack and glanced up from the journal he was keeping, pen poised over the paper. He had a good view of the beach, and experienced a nostalgic moment when he realized it looked just like any other island beach he’d seen—like those in the Keys where he took the Boy fishing when he was on leave—before his wife got fed up and took the Boy away. He hadn’t seen him more than half a dozen times after that, so he’d been shocked to run into him, all grown up, in a bar in Cavite. The Boy was in destroyers then too, but he’d received a transfer. They had a few beers, talked about things, and then went to the beach and fished until the sun came up. The next day, the Boy shouldered his seabag and boarded an oiler bound for Pearl. From there he’d hitch another ride to the States and spend a few days with his mother before joining his new ship: The USS Oklahoma.

When things started getting hot with the Japs, the Pacific Fleet—and Oklahoma—moved to Pearl. Gray had been planning on taking some leave to get together with the Boy, but a little over a year ago now, on December 7 . . . The letter he got said the Boy was “missing and presumed lost.” He figured his ex got one just like it, but he never wrote to find out. There wasn’t any point. He closed his eyes and rubbed his face.

There was another crack and he focused on the cause. Down by the water a group of ’Cats was gathered around a man, and Gray did a double take. He snorted with amazement. He’d seen dinosaurs, monkey-cats, flying lizards, and Grik, but nothing rivaled this: Isak Rueben was teaching the ’Cats how to swing a baseball bat. Gray was shocked that he even knew how. The Mice had always scorned the ship’s team, back when there was one, and never even watched the games. While Gray stared, Isak tossed another of the softball-size, inedible nuts they’d discovered on the island into the air, and with a confident flourish twirled the bat and whacked the nut far out over the water. It disappeared with a splash, lost in the sound of the surf.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered, a grin creeping across his face. It vanished an instant later when he heard the insistent clanging of the general alarm bell. The bell was little more than a hollow bronze pipe, but its sound carried amazingly well when it was vigorously struck. There was only one reason for anyone to do that. Tamatsu Shinya appeared in the entrance to his hut, breathing hard, almost coming to attention.

“We have visitors,” he said, very formally.

“Three Grik ships—you can just see the red of their hulls—working up from the south. There’s another sail, southwest and farther away, but coming up fast. She’s got a better wind.”

“You reckon it might be Felts?” Isak asked, uncharacteristically curious. “She’s due back.”

“Could be,” Gray answered. “Whoever it is, they’re by theirself. If she’s ours, maybe she’ll get here in time to intercept those Grik bastards.” He grinned wickedly. “I wonder how they’ll like her guns.”

A blue-kilted staff sergeant scampered up and saluted. “The Marines are in place, sirs.” His tail twitched. “The Guards soon will be. I sent first squad, second platoon, to help them get sorted out.” The Guard captain bristled, but said nothing.

“Very well,” Shinya replied. “Once they’re in position, have them stand easy. It will be a while before the enemy arrives. Make sure there is plenty of water and the ammunition is distributed.”

The ammunition was mainly arrows and crossbow bolts, although some of the NCOs had Krags. There were also the two field guns they’d brought ashore, six-pounders, now emplaced halfway from the center to each flank, where they could sweep all approaches.

For the better part of the morning, the group stood rooted, watching the approaching ships. A single, towering cloud appeared and lashed the sea with a vicious squall before vanishing entirely. The Grik ships continued their relentless advance. So did the other “sail,” and before long they saw the white stripe between her gunports. Felts.

“This ought to be a pretty good show,” Gray surmised, and indeed, he was right. Felts slanted down, Stars and Stripes streaming to leeward, and crossed the bows of the tightly packed enemy squadron. A single, billowing white cloud erupted along her side, and long moments later a dull thumping sound reached them over the surf.

“Give ’em hell, Mr. Clark!” Mikey growled.

They couldn’t see the effect, if any, of the initial broadside, but Felts wore around and punished the enemy with her portside guns. They saw splashes of debris, and a mast toppled into the sea. Cheers erupted behind them. The Grik squadron’s precise formation fell into disarray, and two of the ships slewed around, beam-on to their attacker. Then, with disbelieving eyes, those on the beach watched sporadic puffs of white smoke gush from the sides of the red-hulled ships.

“Holy shit!”

Round shot kicked up splashes, skipping across the wave tops in the general direction of the beach, and a few of the staff cringed involuntarily.

“Holy shit,” Dobbin murmured again. “Where’d they get cannons?”

“Same place we did, idiot,” Gray growled more fiercely than he intended. “The bastards made ’em.”

Felts didn’t wear this time; instinctively Clark must have known it would expose his vulnerable stern. Instead, the sloop hove to and held her ground, pounding away at the enemy.

“Gonna be a better show than we thought,” Gray said ironically.

Felts’s gunnery was far better, and she hacked away at the red ships. She finally fell away before the wind, to keep the Grik at arm’s length, and took a pounding then, but when the now crippled squadron re-formed for the advance, she hove to once more and raked them again and again. The damage she inflicted was exponentially greater this time. Rigging and stays, weakened by the previous fire, parted, and shattered masts teetered and fell, taking others, less damaged, with them. One enemy ship was a wallowing, dismasted wreck, and the other two weren’t much better, but their gunnery was improving at the point-blank range of the duel, and Felts was suffering too. Over the next hour they watched while the battle raged on the sea, and Felts maintained the same tactics: pouring withering fire into her foes until they got too close, then gaining some distance again. The dismasted, sinking Grik ship fell far behind, but the remaining two learned to present their own broadside whenever Felts moved away. It was difficult for them, since they could barely maneuver, but the American ship had finally lost her foremast and maintop as well.

“Mr. Clark is fighting his ship well,” Shinya observed politely.

“He’s a brawler,” Gray conceded, “but he’s fighting stupid. Felts is faster and more maneuverable, and her gunnery’s obviously better. He should be taking advantage of that. He’s gotten sucked into a slugging match, and that’s the Grik’s kind of fight.” The ships were close enough now that there was only the slightest pause before they heard the sound of the guns. The tearing-canvas shriek of shot passing nearby was more frequent too, but the staff no longer flinched. “He needs to get out from between us and them. The tide’s out, and he’ll run out of water pretty soon.” Sure enough, while they watched, Felts heeled slightly, righted herself, then heeled sharply over as she went hard aground, beam-on to the advancing swells and the enemy.

“Dumb ass. Give the kid a ship and what does he do?” He shook his head. “Mr. Shinya, get a platoon of Marines into the boats and pull for Felts. Those Grik bastards draw more water and they’ll be aground too, I expect, but they’ll send boarders. I doubt they’ll fool with us while they’ve got the ship right in front of them. We have to keep them off her at all costs.”

Shinya saluted. “Very well.” He looked at the commander of First Platoon. “With me.”

Even aground, Felts kept up a withering fire, but the Grik remorselessly advanced. Inevitably, they too struck, and then it became a race to see whether the Marines or the enemy boarders reached Felts first. Another of the Grik ships, holed repeatedly, filled and heeled over on her side in the shallow water. Most of her crew were already in the boats, however, and Felts’s guns churned the sea with canister, splintering boats and scything down their crews. Before long, though, they were under her guns. At their upward angle they just couldn’t be depressed far enough, and when they gained her side they swarmed up and over the bulwarks. They were met by a withering fusillade of arrows and more canister from the guns that were loaded and waiting. Mangled bodies rained into the sea, and the “flashies” quickly went to work, thrashing the water beside the ship into a white, pink-tinged froth.

The Marines pulled as hard as they could, oars dipping and straining, with Shinya in the foremost boat, waving his modified cutlass and exhorting his troops to greater effort. They almost made it. They would have made it, Gray thought bitterly as he watched. The fighting was dying down, the first onslaught repulsed, when Felts’s own boats dropped to the water, and her crew, wounded and hale, scrambled into them. Dense smoke poured from the bowels of the grounded ship, and soon flames were licking up her masts.

“Goddamn it!” Gray seethed. “That better have been an accident, or I’ll have that useless bastard shot!”

Shinya paused his advance, resting his Marines while the abandoning crew joined him. Then, at a more leisurely pace, the flotilla of boats returned to shore. Behind them, Felts became fully involved, flames soaring high into the sky, still-loaded guns occasionally booming from within the inferno. The mainmast toppled amid a cloud of gray smoke and swirling sparks, about the time the first boats nudged ashore through the gentle surf. Guardsmen sprang forward to assist the wounded, and Marines and uninjured sailors mingled on the beach, sorting themselves out, while Shinya escorted Lieutenant Clark before Gray and his impatient staff.

Clark’s uniform was stained and bloody, and his hair and face were scorched. He’d clearly been the last to leave his ship. His cutlass was in its sheath, blood trickling down the side where it scraped from the blade when he thrust it in. He drew himself up before Gray and saluted. If either was struck by the irony of an officer saluting a noncom, neither commented on it; there was no question who was in charge.

“What happened?” Gray snapped.

“Why, well, we fought a hell of a fight!” Clark retorted after a brief hesitation, clearly surprised by Gray’s tone. “The bastards had cannons! We knew it was possible, of course, but we didn’t really expect it.”

“What do you mean, you knew it was possible?”

“That’s right,” Clark replied, “you couldn’t know.” He quickly outlined recent events while Gray stood, listening with growing rage.

“Let me get this straight,” Gray said at last. “Queen Maraan, Pete, and who knows who else are stranded behind enemy lines, Donaghey’s laid up, the rest of the new construction’s not ready for sea, Mahan’s gone—against orders—to rescue the queen, the goddamn Griks are gettin’ frisky and they have cannons now, the radio’s busted so we can’t even tell the captain”—he gestured out at the inferno—“and you just burned our only way home! You better convince me real fast why I shouldn’t have your sorry ass shot!”

Clark shook his head in astonishment. “Mr. Gray, there were three of them! We whittled them down to one, killed most of the boarding party they sent against us, but another was forming from the other, mostly undamaged ship. There was no way we could repel another attack.”

“The Marines were almost there!”

“Yes, sir, and maybe that would’ve helped, but I didn’t see any point losing more lives over a wrecked ship.”

“Was she wrecked?”

“She was hard aground!”

“Sunk? Leaking bad?”

“Well, not really, but . . .”

“But the goddamn tide’s out! We could’ve held her until it came back in and refloated her!”

“But . . .” Agonized realization dawned across Clark’s blistered face. “Oh my God.”

“Yep. You screwed up by the numbers in each and every category. We bett—”

Isak poked him in the ribs with his elbow. “Griks is comin’,” he said, motioning out to sea. Gray looked past the burning ship at the mass of approaching boats.

“We better get ready,” he growled. “Mr. Shinya?”

“Sir?”

“See to our defenses. Arm the sailors if they lost their weapons, and if we have anything extra.” He looked back at Clark. “If they’re true to form, there’ll be six or seven hundred of ’em. With your boys, we’ll have about two hundred and fifty. Looks like this’ll be the Grik’s kind of battle too.”

He emptied his Springfield into the mass, then slashed with the bayonet at its muzzle. Knocking a sword aside, he skewered what appeared to be an “officer,” if Grik infantry had such things. The “troops” under his command maintained a relatively cohesive front when they slammed into the enemy with their handmade shields and spears of sharpened wood. Enough of them, Alden’s personal guard and B’mbaadan warriors, had real spears to do most of the killing, while those on the flanks funneled the enemy toward them. There came a crash from the center when the disorganized remnants of the Grik mob slammed into the interlocked shields and those shields pushed back. Spears bristled and jabbed, and Pete’s little army fought with everything they had, from swords to garden tools. Some of these Grik had no weapons either, the earlier surprise sweeping them away before they had a chance to grab them, but even disarmed, the Grik were deadly with their terrible claws and teeth. Therefore, brief as it was, the fight was still unimaginably fierce. Finally, all the Grik that charged the line were dead or writhing on the ground, with the exception of a trickle that ultimately ran away as well. Gasping after the sharp fight and aching after the long morning of exertion, Pete took a drink from his canteen.

The sun hadn’t been up long, but the battle had raged since before dawn. With their amazing eyesight, Lemurians could see fine in the dark, where apparently their enemy couldn’t. The Grik had no “taboos” or anything against fighting at night, but they weren’t very good at it. The local ’Cats preferred not to either, for religious reasons. Therefore, aside from his huge numerical superiority, it must’ve never even occurred to the Grik commander he might be in danger even as he slept. The sight of the enemy army asleep, totally off guard, was too much of a temptation, and Pete kicked off the attack ahead of schedule.

The killing had been almost wanton, and those that survived the initial onslaught broke and ran in all directions. Pursuit was unthinkable, though, and Alden gathered his force and withdrew to his secondary position. The enemy reacted quickly, sending reinforcements against the thrust. Like most highly specialized predators, however, Grik seemed to key on motion even in the daylight, so they were completely surprised again when they ran right into Haakar-Faask’s force that Pete’s had retired behind.

Savaged again by the stalwart B’mbaadan general, the Grik reeled back in the direction of their own lines. That was when Alden’s rested troops struck them again on the flank. It appeared this element of the Grik advance, at least, was shattered beyond reclamation.

Alden wiped his bayonet on his pants leg and snapped it back on his rifle. Taking another long drink, keen eyes glancing all around, he spit and began thumbing slender .30-06 rounds back into his empty magazine. He was already out of stripper clips, and had only the dozen or so loose rounds in his pocket.

“All right,” he said, closing the bolt, “let’s pull back. Easy does it; don’t get split up in the woods. We’ll re-form with General Faask, and see what kind of hornet’s nest we’ve stirred up. Stretcher bearers, get our wounded out of here.”

The wounded would be carried back to the “reserve” commanded by the Orphan Queen, whose primary responsibility was guarding the younglings and noncombatants.

He glanced at the sun, now clear of the treetops overhead. “It’s gonna be a long day.”

“One of them,” Matt confirmed. “At least, I hope so. Took Sonarman Brooks long enough to get it working again, even though we had all the parts.” He shrugged. “We just never saw any point in it at first. It’s meant to find submarines underwater, and we had no reason to suspect we’d need it against any of those. I’ve heard active sonar plays hell with whales back home—our version of mountain fish, even if they’re a lot smaller—so maybe it’ll kick these big bastards in the head too.”

“Why are we going”—Keje grinned—“so slow? I thought you wanted to cross to Taa-laud as fast as possible.”

“I do, but I want to see if this works. We can’t get a return at anything much over fifteen knots. If we can get a return, Brooks ought to be able to tell us what effect it has on the big devils by how they react to it.”

They waited for the better part of an hour, crowded in the charthouse behind the nervous sonarman’s chair, while he listened intently through his headset. The constant, eerie pinging continued uninterrupted.

“Contact!” Brooks suddenly shouted, unaware his voice was so loud. “Bearing one nine five! Probable sub . . . probable mountain fish! Range fifteen hundred yards, down Doppler. Wait! Return is narrowing. Either he’s turning toward us, or away.”

Matt leaned out the hatch and caught the talker’s eye. “Sound general quarters,” he said calmly.

Knowing the cause, the talker gulped. “General quarters, aye!”

During Walker’s refit, much was repaired, but somehow they’d overlooked her ill-sounding general alarm. There’d been no emergency aboard since they began the mission, but daily exercises—something Matt insisted on—still took their toll. The musical, insistent gong! gong! gong! had gradually been replaced by something more like a loose guitar string being brutally plucked. The alarm was still referred to as “Gee-Kyoo” by the crew, but the act of setting it off had become: “Somebody up there’s (on the bridge) stompin’ on a duck.” Abused duck or not, the alarm still had the desired effect, and within seconds reports started coming in. Finally, the talker looked at the captain.

“All stations report manned and ready, Captain.”

“Very well.” Matt looked back in the charthouse. “Well?”

“He’s moving away, Skipper! First he was running straight away; now he’s on a bearing of two one oh, and picking up speed!”

“Let’s hope the neighborhood just got too noisy for him.”

“Captain,” shouted the talker, “lookout reports ‘something’ surfacing astern!”

He looked aft, but couldn’t see past the amidships deckhouse, so he scrambled up to the fire control platform. “Mr. Campeti,” he acknowledged as the new gunnery officer directed his gaze, and Matt raised his binoculars. It was a mountain fish, all right, a different one. It had risen directly astern, and was giving chase. Matt suddenly realized this “surprise” had one small weakness: Walker’s sonar was directed primarily forward.

He’d known, intellectually, that mountain fish were big; he’d been told so often enough. But to actually see one this close! Jesus, he thought, the damn thing’s huge. Now I know what it feels like to be a grasshopper in a stock tank full of bass! “All ahead flank!” he shouted, knowing the order would be passed along. “Mr. Campeti, have the number four gun commence firing in local control! Stand by to roll depth charges!” It looked like they’d get to try all their “surprises” today. It would be a few minutes before they accelerated to their maximum speed. In the meantime, the thing was gaining on them! “Set your depth at fifty feet!” Any shallower and they ran a serious risk of damaging the ship.

“Depth charges report set at fifty feet,’” Campeti reported a moment later. “Ready to roll at your command!”

“Commence firing!” shouted the talker beside the gun, and an instant later the pointer stomped the trigger pedal. There was an earsplitting boom! and the gun jumped back, vomiting its empty shell to clang on the deck. Another shell went in and the breech slammed shut, while a ’Cat ordnance striker chased the empty shell with outstretched gloves, trying to catch it before it went over the side, and keep an eye on the approaching horror at the same time. Boom! The breech clanked open, spilling another empty, and the shell man slammed another home. Boom! Three high-explosive four-inch shells disappeared into what had to be the thing’s head and detonated with enough force to scatter gobbets of flesh hundreds of yards. A massive, gaping wound as big as a car had appeared where the shells struck home, and the wave it pushed had taken a pinkish tinge from blood coursing down. Suddenly, much closer than they expected—less than a hundred yards astern—another hump rose up, clearing the water and exposing monstrous ivory teeth. The thing emitted a roar like a hundred whales being electrocuted, and surged in for the kill. They hadn’t been shooting at its head at all!

“Out of the way, goddamn it!” Silva shouted, yanking the ’Cat pointer out of his chair and sending him sprawling on the deck. He jumped on the metal seat and looked through the eyepiece in front of him. He barely heard the shouted, “Roll two!” command and the muted splash of the depth charges. “Clear!” he roared, making sure no one was behind him, and he pressed the firing pedal with the crosshairs centered far back in the roof of the creature’s mouth. Boom! The overpressure of the gun’s report was like a lover’s embrace. “Load!”

The water beneath the monster’s upper jaw spalled suddenly, and two enormous spumes of water obscured their vision. There was a sense of massive motion, and then what seemed like tons of seawater deluged the men and ’Cats on the stern of the ship. Silva wiped his eyes and searched frantically for the target. For an instant he felt disoriented, and started to yell at the trainer, thinking he’d spun the gun out to one side. But wait, there were the depth charge racks right below him. He stared again, squinting, and realized it was true: the monster was gone. All that remained as Walker continued to accelerate away was a giant field of churning bubbles, harsh against the cerulean sea, and in its midst, like an oil slick, an expanding stain of black-red blood.

“Goddamn!” Silva whooped, joining the cheers around him. “I sunk him!”

“Which way, Skipper?” Dowden asked. They’d raised the island on its northeastern coast, and there was nowhere immediately apparent even a small boat—much less a submarine—might find shelter. Now they must decide whether to steam west, then south, to inspect the rest of the northern part of the island, then its western flank, or explore the eastern flank first. Matt glanced at Bradford, leaning on the rail, “his” binoculars glued to his eyes, oblivious to the question. He’d been morose when they’d been forced to injure and possibly kill one of the enormous mountain fish, and scandalized that he hadn’t been able to at least view its corpse—if there’d been one. Now his earlier petulance was gone, as he prepared for yet more fantastic discoveries. This would be the first time they’d visited a landmass far enough from any other and surrounded by deep and hostile enough waters that there’d have been little, if any, dissemination of land-dwelling species. He was excited by what he’d seen so far, even from a distance, and occasional happy chortles escaped him.

There were plenty of “birds.” Already they’d begun littering the deck again—and actual birds seemed to predominate. Bradford believed that, even if they weren’t as fiercely armed as their leathery competitors, they were lighter and probably had a longer range. Therefore, more species of feathered birds might make it to this isolated place to diversify and thrive. Perhaps the ones they saw before were even migrants from here? There were still plenty of lizard birds, but not in comparison, and most were larger than their northern cousins. In any event, Bradford was in no position to offer constructive opinions regarding which direction to go. He didn’t care.

Matt conferred quietly with Keje, and finally nodded in agreement. “We’ll explore the western flank first, Mr. Dowden. If we don’t find them there, or in the south or east, we’ll be in position to check out the smaller islands over there”—he gestured—“before heading home.”

“But . . . Captain, there’re still lots of other places they could be.”

“Possibly, but we don’t have time to look. It’s time we headed back, regardless.” He paused a moment, considering. “Have Mr. McFarlane secure a boiler of his choice. We’ll reduce speed to one-third, but let’s keep a close sonar watch, shall we? Helmsman, make your course two six zero, if you please.”

“Aye, sir, making my course two six zero.”

For the remainder of the day they cruised sedately on a calm, gently rolling sea. They saw nothing in the north and when they turned south it looked like more of the same at first: dense, impenetrable jungle growing right down to and beyond the shore, by means of a mangrove-type root system. It was unlike anything Matt had ever seen on such a large and isolated island, and always, in the distance, a large volcano loomed menacingly from the jungle mists enshrouding its flanks. Jets of smoke or steam curled from vents in its side. Eventually they began to notice irregularities in the shoreline, and they slowed to a crawl so they could glass them more carefully. Still, no true inlet was apparent, or even a beach. There was no sign of life at all, in fact, besides the ever-present, swooping, defecating birds. Even Courtney began losing interest by the time the sun edged toward the horizon.

“I say, Captain Reddy, shouldn’t we speed up? Hurry along, as it were? Surely the eastern side of the island is more hospitable and, well, easier to land upon.”

“We can’t know that, and we’re only looking once. If we ‘speed up’ we might miss something. It’ll soon be dark anyway, and we’ll have to anchor. I want to do it in the shallowest water possible, and right now there’s less water under our keel than we’ve had all day.” Making up his mind, he spoke to the talker. “Pass the word for Chack; have him call the special sea and anchor detail. This is as good a place as any.”

Before dawn, the anchor detail sprayed the heavy links with water as the chain came aboard, booming and rattling into the locker below. The crew stood to their battle stations as they did every morning when the ship was most vulnerable to observation, silhouetted against the graying sky. The practice had even taken on a more conventional feel. They knew they were looking for a submarine, and conventional wisdom said it was American. But they didn’t know it was American. Besides, even if it was, and even if it was out there, it might not know they were Americans, and after a year on this God’s nightmare of a world, it might have an itchy trigger finger.

In the pilothouse, holding his steaming “Captain’s” mug, Matt didn’t try to lighten the fresh tension around him. He knew there was almost no chance the iron fish would even be at sea, much less stalking them, but after the tiring night they’d passed, heightened awareness was a good thing. He gulped Juan’s coffee and didn’t even grimace. Bradford clomped up the ladder behind him, yawning loudly, followed by Adar and Keje. One way or another today would solve the mystery, at least so far as it was in their power to solve it, and they’d either find the elusive submarine on Talaud’s eastern flank or the little islands to the northeast, or they’d turn for home. Either way, everyone was anxious to get about it. The sense of “something’s not right” at Baalkpan had become a palpable thing, and every day they remained away added an exponential layer of anxiety. Even Bradford seemed resigned when Matt told him that unless they saw some evidence of the submarine, there’d be no excursion ashore.

“Anchor’s aweigh, Captain,” Dowden reported quietly in response to the shrill call of the bosun’s pipe on the foc’s’le. Matt nodded. He’d been wondering how ’Cats could toot on a bosun’s pipe when they couldn’t make a sound with a bugle. They’d learned at the Battle of Aryaal that they needed something like bugle calls to pass commands on the battlefield. Maybe they could adapt something like a giant bosun’s call. Use whistles or something? He shook his head. He’d have to ask someone. All he could make a bugle do was fart.

“Very well. All ahead slow; make your course zero seven five. Extra lookouts to port.”

When they rounded the island’s southern tip and headed north, they began to discover beaches. Visibility was excellent, and the rising sun penetrated the shadows of the suddenly less dense forest, and they caught glimpses of a few animals here and there. Most, beach scavengers probably, scampered quickly under cover at the sight of them, but one creature the size and shape of a rhino-pig, but with a powerful neck as long as its body and a head like a moose—with tusks—stared insolently at them as they passed. It occasionally even rushed the surf, as if warning them away.

“Oh! You’re a nasty fellow, aren’t you!” Courtney giggled happily. “Oof! Oof! Orrrrr!” There were chuckles in the pilothouse, and Matt stifled a grin.

By late morning the distant humps of the small islands to the northeast appeared through the haze, and everyone knew they were about out of luck. There’d been a couple of promising lagoons, but they turned out to be little more than crescents eroded into the island by the marching sea, and they could see clearly to their termination. Another such lagoon, or the point at the mouth of one, was coming up, and all were grimly certain it was their final chance. They’d almost reached the point where they’d initially turned west.

“Captain,” called Reynolds, “lookout reports this one’s deeper than the others. Maybe better protected.”

“Very well. We’ll stick our nose in and take a look. Pass the word for the lead line. Dead slow when we round the point, consistent with the current, of course.”

They passed the point and Walker slowed, Norman Kutas inching the big wheel ever so slightly to bring the bow around. The long swells pushed them toward the cove, and a series of constant adjustments were required.

“It is a deep inlet,” Reynolds confirmed, passing the lookout’s observations. “Surf’s a little gentler inside.”

“What’s our depth?” Matt asked.

“Seven fathoms, coming up fast.”

Reynolds looked up, eyes wide, and holding his earphone tight against his head as if not sure he’d heard correctly. “Uh, Captain, lookout says—I mean reports . . . there’s something on the beach, high on the beach, twenty degrees off the starboard bow. It looks sort of like the pictures you showed them.”

There was a rush to the bridge wing.

“Five fathoms!”

“Left full rudder,” Matt commanded, “port engine ahead two-thirds, starboard back two-thirds!” Walker eased to a stop and the stern began swinging right. The ship pitched uncomfortably on the rollers for a moment, then began to roll. “Drop anchor. Mr. Dowden? How’s the tide?”

“Low ebb, sir, about to turn.”

“Very well. Leadsman to the stern. Prepare the launch.” Only then did Matt go to the bridge wing, shouldering his way through the onlookers, and raise his own binoculars.

“I’ll be damned,” he said with a sinking heart. “Jesus, there she is . . .” He lowered the binoculars, but continued to stare. One of his questions had been answered. The stern continued coming around until Walker rode at anchor, pitching against the incoming sea.

“Stern lead reports three fathoms.”

Matt raised his glasses again and studied the object of their search, the object of so many secret hopes. “Well,” he said, his voice neutral, “stand by to lower the launch. Have Silva prepare a full weapons load for a shore party of twelve. Food, water, and medical supplies as well, in case there’re survivors.” He sighed. “As for the sub, we won’t be getting her off that. Not this trip, anyway.”

The submarine wasn’t only beached; she was high and dry. Even the incoming tide wouldn’t float her. It would barely reach her. It would’ve taken a severe storm indeed to leave her that high on the beach, and there was absolutely nothing they could do with the time and manpower available to get her off—not that there seemed much point. She lay at thirty degrees, keel toward the sea, and rust streaks ran from her cracked, peeling, faded gray paint. It was an old S-Boat, as Matt suspected all along. There’d been quite a few of the obsolete submarines attached to the Asiatic Fleet, and this one was clearly a Holland class, based on its unique stern configuration and distinctive sow-belly shape. Matt quickly reviewed what he knew about Holland boats in his mind: a little over 200 feet long with 20-foot beam, somewhere around a thousand tons, with two diesels and electric motors. Top speed of fourteen or fifteen knots on the surface. Four torpedo tubes, a four-inch-fifty deck gun—just like Walker’s main battery.

“S-19,” Spanky announced when the weather-ravaged numbers on her hull finally came in view. They couldn’t see the larger numbers on her conning tower at the angle she lay. “I know that boat,” he continued. “She was trying to clear Surabaya the same time we were. Having trouble with one of her diesels or something, and awaiting special orders. Battery trouble too, if I remember right. I talked to her chief, and he was run pretty ragged.”

“We all were,” Matt reminded him.

“True, but that boat’s even older than Walker and Mahan. And to think fellas would go underwater in it. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.” Another detail about S-Boats came to Matt’s mind as the barge scrunched onto the sandy beach and the shore party scrambled ashore: they had a crew of about forty officers and men. So far they’d seen no sign of them.

Stites and one of the Marines secured a line from the barge to the submarine’s port propeller shaft, and joined the others fanning out to inspect the environs. The Marines and Bradford had their Krags, and Silva and Stites both carried BARs. Matt and Keje were the only ones with Springfields, and Adar wasn’t armed at all—beyond a short sword at his side. Keje had become quite a marksman, but Adar wasn’t any kind of fighter. Heavens knew he wished he was, but he thought he’d be more dangerous to his friends than to an enemy with the powerful American weapons. He didn’t mind the little sword, because he could use it to hack brush—and he probably couldn’t hurt anyone with it but himself.

“There are many tracks in the sand,” Chack observed, and Bradford and Silva stooped to examine the impressions.

“Indeed there are!” Bradford exclaimed. “Some quite unique! I’ve never seen them before.” He pointed. “Here’s one that might have been made by one of those unpleasant buggers we saw earlier today!”

“I’m more interested in human tracks,” Matt replied, also stooping, “like these.” There was a large, well-beaten path leading from the submarine into the jungle. The tracks ran both ways, and some were relatively fresh. One very distinct set of tracks left him puzzled, however; the impressions were human, but only about half the size of the others.

“Jumpin’ Jesus!” Silva exclaimed. “There’s Grik tracks if I ever saw ’em! Lookie here, Skipper!” Matt hurried to where Silva stood, swatting sand off his knees.

“You’re right,” he confirmed darkly. “Everyone, there’s definitely Grik on this island, so keep your eyes peeled.” He stared at the trail leading from the submarine for a moment, then looked at the source. “I’d rather we all stuck together, but I’d also rather we didn’t waste any time. Spanky, Yager, and I will inspect the submarine, see if there’s anything we can salvage immediately. Maybe we can at least dig up some more four-inch-fifty ammunition. Stites’ll remain topside on the sub as security while we go inside. Chack, you and Silva lead everyone else up the trail and search for survivors. Keep an eye on Mr. Bradford.” He looked at Adar and Keje. “Would the two of you prefer to stay or go?”

Both Lemurians looked dubiously at the sharply leaning submarine.

“Fascinating as it might be to crawl inside that . . . contraption,” Keje hedged, “for myself, I would prefer to stay in the open.”

“I as well,” Adar agreed fervently.

“Suit yourselves. Can’t say I blame you. I’m not wearing dolphins for a reason.”

A cargo net hung from the shoreward side of the submarine, and they scrambled up without much difficulty. The deck was a little rough to stand on, since there were few stanchions, and S-Boat decks were notoriously slender to begin with. Only the area around the gun was very wide, where it swelled abruptly to give the gun crew footing when it was traversed. Matt eyed the gun greedily. If they couldn’t salvage the sub, he at least wanted that gun someday, and it looked more and more like he’d have it. Onboard, the sub looked even worse. The wooden strakes were rotting and a few had collapsed. They had to be careful not to fall through to the pressure hull below. One of the periscopes was badly bent, and the hull plating was washboarded like one would expect after a severe depth-charging. They climbed up to the conning tower hatch, and Spanky un-dogged it easily enough. He stuck his hand out to Gilbert, who fished in a pack and produced a pair of battle lanterns. Spanky briefly shone one down the hatch, and then slid down the ladder. Matt followed him, and Gilbert brought up the rear.

“Stinks in here,” Gilbert said, joining the others in the cramped compartment. “Ow.” He’d jabbed himself with something. Matt had been aboard submarines before, and knew they weren’t made for people as tall as he was. He had to crouch everywhere he went, and there was always something, a valve handle or pipe or who knew what, waiting to conk his head or poke his ribs. With only the light of the battle lanterns, it was even worse.

“Ow,” he echoed.

“Always stinks in a pigboat,” Spanky said. “That’s why they call ’em that.”

“There’s something else,” Matt said.

“Yeah,” answered Spanky, “smells a little gassy.” He cocked his head. “A little smoky too.”

They descended another ladder to the control room. There was slightly more space, but the protuberances were even more aggressive, particularly at the angle the boat lay. Spanky shone his light at something.

“I wonder,” he murmured, and flipped a switch. Much to their surprise, an eerie red light flickered to life, glowing dully in the compartment. “Night-light,” he explained. “So there’s a little juice, anyway.”

“Which way?” Matt asked the engineer, leaving the decision to him. It was stiflingly hot, and he knew they couldn’t stay below long. “Forward or aft?”

“Torpedoes would be forward, engines aft. What’s our priority?”

“Torpedoes.”

“This side of the island is more exposed to extreme weather,” Bradford explained. “Saplings are often swept away before they take root, I should think.”

“Mmm.”

There were still areas that were quite dense, but occasionally the trail opened into clearings, of a sort, where strange pine/palm-like trees stood tall with little undergrowth. Whenever they came to such a place, Silva covered Chack and his Marines while they split up and scouted ahead, in case someone or something intended to use it for the excellent purpose of laying an ambush. Super lizards weren’t the only creatures that knew clearings were well suited for that. When the Marines were satisfied no threat existed, the party moved on. Currently the trail was clear, but the foliage was dense on either side. Up ahead another clearing opened, however. Silva advanced slowly, BAR at his shoulder. When he reached the edge of the opening, he’d scan it for obvious threats before the Marines cast ahead once more.

“Leapin’ lizards!” he hissed. Standing in the center of the clearing, about thirty yards away, was a Grik. It was broadside-on, motionless, nose sniffing the air. The light filtering from the canopy above made it a perfect target. Even as Silva’s finger automatically tightened on the trigger, his subconscious mind noticed several startling things: the Grik was an entirely different color from any he’d seen, kind of a stripey, orange-ish-black—like a tiger—and its tail seemed longer. It wore no armor, only a ridiculous, uselessly oriented leather breechcloth. A pouch hung at its side. The most outlandish thing about it, however, had only an instant to register before Silva’s instinctual reaction to shoot it fully manifested itself. Maybe the subconscious realization threw his aim, or maybe he sensed something creeping up on him even as he fired. Whatever the reason, he knew the shot was bad even as the deafening bark of the BAR shattered the silence of the forest and a number of things struck him at once.

First, something was creeping up on him—rushing, in fact. The second thing to strike him was a club of some kind, moldy-soft on the outside, but with a core as dense as iron. Third, even as he staggered from the blow and heard high-pitched shrieks accompanying it, his subconscious mind screamed out the shocking detail he’d half missed about the Grik: it was carrying a musket.

He fell to the ground, too stunned even to defend himself, much less strike back. For a moment he had no idea what was on top of him, shrilly shrieking and landing blow after blow. As his head cleared from the initial strike, he realized whatever had “ahold” of him wasn’t very big, it wasn’t eating him, and the incessant blows didn’t really hurt. He also understood the hysterical screaming—as well as the hysterical, chittering laughter accompanying it. He opened his eyes. There, straddling his chest, was a nymph-size fury, jade eyes wide with rage, lips skinned back from perfect, if yellowed teeth, long, wildly disheveled hair revealing glimpses of the golden radiance beneath the filth.

“Oh, you monster! Vile, loathsome, horrible beast!” it ranted, still pounding him with little fists.

“Goddamn it, fellas! It’s a girl!” Silva almost squeaked, to a fresh round of laughter.

“Don’t you use such language in front of me, you filthy murderer! You . . . you bastard!” The blows resumed with renewed fury.

“Get this wildcat offa me! Chack, you little turd!” Silva yelped, but Chack couldn’t move; he could barely breathe. He was paralyzed by the sight of a clearly human youngling beating the stuffing out of the mighty Dennis Silva. Silva finally resorted to simply immobilizing the girl in a tight embrace. She struggled mightily, but there was no escape. Finally her shouts became desolate sobs.

“Listen . . . girlie . . . I ain’t gonna hurt you none—nobody is—but you gotta leave off whuppin’ on me, see? It ain’t polite.”

Courtney Bradford shook off the shock of the moment and raised a restraining hand to Chack’s Marines. Keje and Adar weren’t laughing. They’d instantly realized the possible significance of their discovery.

“Chack!” Keje rumbled. “If you cannot control yourself, or your Maareens, I will do it for you!” Keje might no longer be Chack’s personal High Chief, but the young Lemurian still respected him tremendously. Chastened, he and the three Marines sobered.

Bradford knelt down. “There, there, child. Please do compose yourself,” he said gently. The small girl was filthy, and dressed in rags. Clearly she’d suffered a terrible ordeal. Perhaps she was unhinged. What else might motivate her to attack Silva that way?

“Yeah,” Silva grated as softly as he could. “If you’ll cut it out, I’ll turn you loose.” The grimy, tear-streaked face nodded, and Dennis let her go. Instantly she scrambled to her feet, and bolted toward the Grik on the ground. Silva jumped up, snagging his rifle. “Shit, girlie,” he yelled, “are you nuts? The damn thing might still be alive!”

“I certainly hope he is, for your sake, you vicious, murdering villain!” the girl shouted back. Unable to shoot even if it was, with the girl in the way, Silva ran after her. So did the others. When they arrived at her side they were in for another shock. The girl had collapsed, sobbing, beside the writhing Grik. It moaned piteously and she stroked it with the utmost tenderness.

“Lawrence!” she cried tearfully. “Oh, Lawrence, you mustn’t die!”

The evil jaws opened slightly, and a long, purplish tongue moved inside them. “Hurts!” it said. The humans and Lemurians looked on, stunned.

“It spoke!” jibbered Bradford.

“Of course he spoke, you silly man! This is Lawrence,” she snarled, “my friend!” Looking up, she seemed to notice for the first time that they weren’t all humans, and her eyes went wide again, but with something besides rage. “My God!” she said, hushed. “You are not all people!”

Adar hesitantly stepped forward and bowed to the girl. If he was affected by the bizarre irony, he managed to conceal it. That must have taken considerable effort, since few loathed the Grik as much as he. “I am Adar, High Sky Priest of Salissa Home, and currently Steward of the Faith to the various members of the alliance under the Banner of the Trees. We are indeed ‘people,’ just a little different. Where we come from, creatures such as your ‘Lawrence’ are vicious predators, intent on exterminating us. Our Amer-i-caan friends have explained their concept of ‘pets,’ however, and though I consider it foolhardy and . . . astonishing . . . you have chosen such as this as your own, I . . .” He started to say he was sorry, but simply couldn’t manage it. “We would not have harmed it had we known,” he concluded gently, but with little conviction.

“Lawrence isn’t my pet, you furry imbecile! He’s my friend!”

“Rend!” confirmed the Grik with a gasp.

Adar tried to reply, but ultimately he could only blink.

“Goodness gracious!” Bradford breathed, then cleared his throat. “My dear, I’m Courtney Bradford, and these are my friends.” The girl looked at him, zeroing in on his accent, strangely similar to her own. “If you guarantee your . . . friend’s . . . good behavior, I think we may repair him. He’s most fortunate, actually. Mr. Silva’s usually a remarkably good shot. You cannot know how glad I am his aim strayed just this once! We have a doctor, of sorts, aboard our ship. . . .”

“Ship?”

The word came from behind them, and Silva and the Marines whirled to see a variety of weapons pointed in their direction. They’d been so focused on the girl and the Grik, they’d never sensed the strangers’ approach. Most of the weapons were Thompson submachine guns, or 1911 Colts, and they were held by men dressed in remnants of garments once issued by the United States Navy. One man, dark skinned, with a huge mustache drooping over his beard, held a sawed-off musket in his one hand like a pistol. It was he who’d spoken.

“S-19?” Silva challenged.

One of the apparent Navy men lowered his Thompson slightly. He was short, with a scruffy red beard and long, thinning hair poking from under a battered chief’s hat. “I really am in hell,” he muttered, “and here’s the devil himself!”

“In the flesh,” Silva said absently, staring hard at the speaker. “Billy Flynn! It is you, you redheaded Irish ape! You owe me seventeen dollars!” The tension evaporated, and all the weapons were lowered except the musket/pistol held by the dark, mustachioed man. Silva regarded him appraisingly, recognizing a fellow predator. He nodded slightly before returning his attention to the others. “Who’s with you, Billy?” he asked, then added for his companions’ sake: “Billy’s the sub’s chief of the boat—sort of like the bosun, in a slimy pigboat sort of way.”

“We’ve lost some guys,” Billy acknowledged, “but we’ve preserved most of our passengers.” He nodded at the girl, the Grik, and the one-armed man. “Picked up a couple too,” he added enigmatically. Then his fierce visage disintegrated into an expression of open joy. “I never thought I’d say this, but damn, am I glad to see you!”

“You know this guy, Chief?” one of the others asked.

“You could say that.” He paused, gesturing at the Lemurians. “What’s with the monkeys? You friends of theirs?”

“Yeah,” Silva answered, a hint of threat in his voice, “good friends. Why?”

“We ran into one of their ships once. Great big bastard. Damn thing launched giant spears at us!”

Silva laughed. “That’s how we knew you were here! They thought you was a metal fish! Don’t take it personal; I’m sure you know there’s bigger fish than yours in this sea!”

Billy’s expression became grim again. “Tell me.”

“Tell me,” insisted the dark-haired man, still holding the gun, “about your ship!”

Silva bristled, then slowly grinned. “USS Walker, DD-163, at your service!”

Jim Ellis was on the port bridge wing, watching a small boat approach. Four adult ’Cats were at the oars, and a number of younglings filled it to overflowing.

“Lower the whaleboat,” he ordered. “Tow them in. We don’t have all day.”

Shortly, both boats were alongside, and willing hands helped the younglings to the deck. One of the adults raced to the bridge, accompanied by Lieutenant Steele.

“What’s up, Frankie?” Jim asked when they arrived. Steele waved at his companion, who spoke English. He was one of the Marines who’d gone ashore with Pete.

“Cap-i-taan Ellis, Gener-aal Aalden sends his compliments. Our scout saw your approach and reported your presence.”

“What’s the situation?”

“Complicated and desperate,” the ’Cat conceded, but there was pride in his tone. “Gener-aals Aalden and Faask defeated a large enemy force advancing from the city, but we took many casualties. They then turned on the force those ships landed”—he gestured at the burning wreck—“and struck their left flank, cutting a gap to this beach. Even now, Queen Maraan leads the wounded and noncombatants here. We have the boats of the Grik landing force, but if you can tow them out as you did us, it would help.”

Ellis nodded. “Of course, but what of General Alden?”

“His force now numbers little more than a hundred. He is ‘rolling up’ the enemy flank—a tactic that has worked very well—but he is . . . significantly outnumbered. When the enemy stiffens its spine, he will try to hold them long enough to complete the queen’s evacuation. The difficulty is, besides the numbers before him, it would seem the force approaching from the city has been reconstituted and reinforced. It will soon flank him in turn.”

Ellis looked thoughtfully at the shore. The battle couldn’t be far away, though he couldn’t hear anything. That was still so weird!

“How long before the second force arrives?” he asked.

“An hour. Perhaps two.”

“Very well.” He looked at Frankie. “Here’s what we’ll do. You stay here, and be ready to support us with gunfire.” Steele tried to protest, but Ellis continued talking. “Keep an eye out for more ships too. I’ll take a company of the First Marines ashore”—he nodded at the Lemurian—“if this gentleman will be kind enough to lead us. We should be able to hammer the enemy hard enough to let Pete break contact; then it’ll be hell-for-leather back to the boats.” He frowned. “That means you’ll have to have all the queen’s people aboard, and the boats back ashore, before we need them.”

“It’s gonna be tight,” Frankie observed.

“Sure, but . . .” Jim’s eyes got a faraway, haunted look. “It’ll give us . . . and Mahan . . . a chance to do something right foyr a change.”

To Matt’s bitter disappointment, there’d been no torpedoes. S-19 carried only two when she left Surabaya—there just hadn’t been any there, as Matt well knew—so that still left only the single MK-10 they’d scrounged. Besides, the sub had needed space for her “cargo,” and couldn’t have carried many more torpedoes anyway. She’d fired the two she had at a Japanese transport that blundered across her path and even got a hit, Billy claimed, but they got worked over by the transport’s “tin can” escort for their trouble. That was when their problems began. The sledgehammer blows of the depth charges cracked a battery and popped a bulb, causing an explosion in the forward battery compartment. The forward crew and officers’ berths—as well as the radio room—were incinerated. They shut the hatches to the torpedo room (S-19 had only one, forward) and the control room, but six men died, either burned or suffocated by chlorine gas, created by seawater flooding the damaged batteries.

Their “cargo,” twenty children—mostly of diplomats and highly placed executives, as well as four nannies and a nun who’d been sent to care for them—spent several terrifying hours isolated in the torpedo room while S-19 lay on the bottom of the Java Sea, a hundred feet below her test depth. Finally, the Japanese destroyer lost interest. Pressurizing the half-flooded compartment, S-19 slowly rose to the surface after dark to vent the gas and pump out the water. Still trying to reach Fremantle (and avoid enemy planes), they barely managed to submerge the following day. That was when they heard the thrashing screws and heavy detonations of Walker and Mahan’s battle with Amagi. They had no idea what was going on, of course—the search periscope had been damaged by the depth charges—but that must have been what they heard, because soon after that their screws ran away and they shut the motors down. Unlike the two American destroyers’ traumatic experience on the surface, that was the only effect of the Squall they felt.

Of her crew of forty-two officers and men, only twenty-six remained—and none were senior officers. The highest-ranking crewman was an ensign, who’d wisely deferred command to the more experienced chief of the boat. The rest were killed during her various attempts to land in different places, or by the local predators over the last year.

Matt could only imagine what it must have been like. He and his people had figured out pretty quickly that things were out of whack, and they’d also made some friends. S-19’s people had spent the last year living on the edge, never really knowing what had happened. Except for the moment when the screws ran away, there hadn’t even been a “transition event” to blame. They just went underwater on one world and came up on another. Their first idea that that might be the case came when they met fish as big as their boat. Matt shuddered. Walker wasn’t much bigger than the sub, but she was higher out of the water and a hell of a lot faster. It didn’t feel as much like swimming with the sharks.

“My dear Mr. Flynn,” Bradford puffed, wiping sweat with his sleeve, “a dreadful adventure indeed.” He peered at the one-armed man. “But who might you be, and the young lady, of course, and where did you find her fascinating . . . friend? We’ve tried to capture them before, you know, but . . .” He shrugged. “They simply won’t surrender, you see.”

The man saw them all staring at him, expecting answers. Matt noticed even Flynn appeared curious. Why would that be?

“I’m O’Casey,” he said at last. “Sean O’Casey.” He paused, considering, glancing at the destroyer riding at anchor in the mouth of the lagoon. “The lass’s name is . . . Becky. We was shipwrecked an’ these . . . fellas was good enough to pick us up. As for her ‘friend,’ the beastie was a maroon hi’self. We found ’im on a little isle where nothin’ could survive.” His voice was deep, with a kind of lilting accent that stressed unusual syllables. It was almost as if he spoke a different language, and his awkward insertion of words like “fellas” were substitutes he’d picked up.

“Found ’em floating in an open boat, drifting with the current, when we crossed from Mindanao to here,” Flynn supplied. “O’Casey was almost dead. Bad fever from a recently severed arm.”

Matt put his hands on his hips. “That tells us who you are, Mr. O’Casey, but not what you are, or where you come from.” He looked at Flynn, who shrugged.

“He never would say, Captain. Once he got well, him and the girl sort of kept to themselves. The . . . ‘beastie’ was friendly enough, even if he’s scary as hell, and to be honest, he prob’ly brought in more than his share of game. But the girl never played with the other kids, and O’Casey didn’t talk much. Carried his weight, though, even with one arm, and after a while that was all that mattered, you know?”

“I do know, Flynn, but that’s changed. It matters a lot—before I let him on my ship.” He scrutinized O’Casey. “So far, I’ve had a better character reference for an animal whose species we’re at war with. You’re not a shipwreck survivor from our world at all, are you?”

“Of course he is not,” Adar said, his face inscrutable, but his ears quivering with excitement. “He is a descendant of the Others, the tail-less beings that came before! The ones who taught the ancient tongue to the Prophet, Siska-Ta, then sailed across the Eastern Sea.”

Conscious of Captain Reddy’s veiled threat, O’Casey nodded reluctantly. He didn’t think for a moment these Americans—more Americans! how much more twisted could the world his ancestors left behind have become?—would leave the girl behind, but there was a distinct possibility they’d leave him, and he wanted to get to know them better despite his need to be circumspect.

“There’s old . . . tales of folk such as ye,” he admitted to Adar, “an’ our founders did pass through yer seas.”

“I knew it!” Adar exulted. “As soon as I saw the youngling! There is so much about our early history we can learn from you! So many missing pieces of the puzzle! Where did you ultimately go?”

“East,” he said vaguely. They knew that already. “Some islands. I’ll tell ye what I can, but ye must respect the fact that I know as little of ye as ye know of me. I may tell ye more as me knowledge of yer intentions . . . an’ capabilities grows.”

“Fair enough,” Matt conceded. “You can come with us, but I’ll expect further revelations.” He noticed that Silva’s attention had been diverted, and saw the “nannies” climbing aboard one of the boats with the remaining children. He’d spoken to them briefly. One was British but the others were Dutch. All spoke English, as did the nun. The children were about half Dutch and half English, with a young Australian boy thrown in. Dennis had pronounced one of the nannies an “old frump,” but the others were young. One was even attractive, as was the young nun. She’d managed to keep her habit fairly well preserved, even her bizarre hat. The women doubled the number of human females they knew about—not counting the children—and even the “frumpy” one would probably be the object of more attention than she’d ever known. He shook his head. He’d have to speak to them again.

The whaleboat was coming back, its coxswain really laying on the coal. It smashed through the marching rollers, throwing spray, until it gained the calmer water and accelerated to the beach. Clancy leaped out and hurried to him, a message form in his hand. He looked a little green after his wild ride, but his expression was grim and purposeful.

“Captain!” he said urgently. “We picked up a faint transmission in the clear! You need to see it right away!”

A tendril of dread crept down Matt’s spine as he took the sheet. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, walking a few paces away.