“Good morning, Mr. Bris-terr,” greeted Muln Rolak from the gloom. The elderly Lemurian held two cups of “coffee.” His English was still barely understandable, but Brister had become fairly fluent in ’Cat. He replied in that language.

“Morning, Lord Rolak,” he said, accepting one of the cups. He looked curiously at the other. “I thought you guys didn’t like this stuff. Only use it for medicine?”

Rolak chuffed. “I need medicine today.”

Perry nodded. He took a tentative sip and grimaced. “If bad taste is the measure of an effective dose, this stuff ought to cure you.”

“I need it to wake me up,” Rolak confessed. “I didn’t sleep well last night.” He scratched at an eye with one of his clawed fingers. “I’ve been a warrior all my life, and have fought many battles.” He blinked. “I’ve not always won, but I’ve usually enjoyed myself—and I always survived. Until the Grik came to Aryaal, I never faced the fear that I might not.” He uttered a grunting laugh. “Now I face that fear every day.” Subconsciously, Perry was fingering the binoculars again. Rolak gestured around them. “These warriors feel it too. All of them. They wouldn’t be sane if they didn’t.” He made a coughing sound that passed for a wistful sigh. “This is not a fun war.” He glanced ruefully at Brister and pointed at the binoculars. “So take a look if it makes you feel better. I doubt anyone will notice.”

Perry felt himself blushing. “You did,” he said.

Rolak blinked with humor. “But that is because I am drinking coffee.”

Slowly the sky began to brighten, and nervous, eager eyes stared hard at the strait. The sun would rise behind them—at least that was the same—so there’d be no silhouettes. They’d have to wait until the sun actually illuminated the water below.

“I see them!” came a shout, and Perry did look then. He squinted hard through the binoculars and adjusted them with his thumb.

“Where?!” he shouted in reply.

“Right there!”

He quickly looked up and saw a ’Cat pointing down toward the very mouth of the bay, and he jerked the glasses back to his face.

“My God.”

The squiggles he’d seen and written off as wave tops suddenly resolved themselves into scores of ships packed impossibly close. He’d been looking mostly at the horizon, beginning to emerge. Looking too far. The thing he’d dreaded to see in the distance was already here.

“Load your guns!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Batteries A, B, and C! Remember your training, and choose your targets!” He snatched a bleary-eyed ’Cat who’d appeared behind him. It was one of his runners. “Quick, to the semaphore tower! Have them fire the flare to signal the city the attack has begun!” He turned back to the front. Beside him was one of the massive thirty-two-pounder guns, resting on a naval carriage like the ones they’d developed for the Homes. The weapon’s crew was in the final stage of preparing it to fire. A gunner poured priming powder into and on the vent, and another ’Cat stood ready with a smoldering linstock. Perry looked at Rolak and shook his head with frustration. Then, tilting it back, he opened his mouth.

“Commence firing!”

“Sound general quarters! Tell Mr. McFarlane to light off number two. Where’s Gray? Pass the word: single-up all lines, and prepare to get underway!”

Campeti relayed the commands into the talker’s headset. Reynolds had gone to the head, and he raced back up the ladder and snatched the set from Campeti’s hand.

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled. Matt didn’t even notice. He was still issuing orders.

“Signal Mr. Alden—send a runner too—and make sure HQ’s aware the attack’s underway!”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Chief Gray was heard on the foredeck, bellowing at the line handlers.

“What’s our pressure?”

“Two hundred pounds on three and four, Captain. All night long,” Campeti quickly replied. “Just as ordered.”

“Very well.”

Suddenly there was a bright flash of light in the mouth of the bay, and burning debris soared high.

“Whoo-ee!” shouted Norman Kutas, standing behind the wheel. “Something just blew the hell up!”

“Quiet on the bridge!”

“Captain,” came Reynolds’s voice, “all stations report manned and ready, except torpedoes! Mr. Sandison has placed his division at the Bosun’s disposal—except the smoke generators, and they’re manned and ready.”

“Very well. Cast off all lines.”

Juan Marcos appeared on the bridge, accompanied by a haggard Lieutenant Garrett. Instead of the usual carafe, Juan held a large, wrapped bundle in his hands.

“Mr. Garrett, what are you doing here?” Captain Reddy demanded.

“Sir,” Garrett replied formally, “my command is incapacitated, out of the fight. I’ve moved her to a safe anchorage—I hope—and request permission to resume my previous post here, for the duration of this action.”

Matt glanced at Campeti, who shrugged.

“No complaints from me, Skipper. He’s a better gunnery officer than I am. ’Sides, we might need more than one before this is over.”

“Very well, Mr. Garrett, you have my permission.” Matt looked at Juan. “What are you here for?”

“I promised to bring you this, Cap-tan,” he replied with quiet dignity. “Lieutenant Tucker sent it out a short while ago. I did not want to wake you.”

Matt began to send Juan away, but something in the steward’s manner made him reconsider. Instead he took the bulky package and curiously peeked under the folds. He blinked in surprise and glanced back at Juan, a soft look of wonder on his face.

“Lieutenant Tucker commissioned it,” Juan explained. “She said you once told her we had seen such a thing, and you admired it greatly. The one who made it would take no payment.”

“That was . . . generous,” Matt said huskily. Gingerly he handed the package to Garrett. “Have this run up, if you please. On the foremast halyard.”

“The fort’s really pounding them,” Letts observed beside him. Most of the gawkers had finally fled, although Pete saw many Lemurians still crowding the nearby dwellings, trying to catch their first glimpse of the enemy.

“Not hard enough,” Pete growled, pointing at the part of the bay they could see. A phalanx of Grik Indiamen had appeared around the headland.

“They’ll be in the minefield soon,” said Letts. “Too soon. Do you think it’ll stop them?”

Pete shrugged. “It might slow them down. Bunch them up. That’ll give the fort more time to hammer their flank.”

“Look!” cried Nakja-Mur, pointing westward, toward the middle of the bay. Under the brightening sky, Walker lanced across the placid water at a flat sprint. Gray smoke streamed aft from three of her rusty funnels, and white water curled from her bow beneath the proud, faded numbers and churned along her side. She was rust blotched and streaked, and all the patches and welds gave her once-sleek hull a leprous look, even at the distance from which they viewed her. But her sad, frail appearance wasn’t nearly enough to offset the impression of bold determination she managed to affect. Straight out behind her high foremast, brilliant and new in the first rays of the sun, streamed a huge American flag. Alden raised his glasses and saw words embroidered on the broad stripes: Makassar Strait, 1^stJava Sea, Escape from Surabaya, 2^ndJava Sea (Salissa), The Stones, B’mbaado Bay, Aryaal, and simply Nerracca. The names of Walker’s major actions.

“Now, isn’t that just the damnedest thing you ever saw?” Letts managed to say. Pete only nodded. With the size of the lump in his throat, he didn’t trust himself to speak.

Another, different rumbling boom came from across the bay. They watched a dirty gray upheaval of water and debris gush skyward from among the leading Grik ships. The red-painted hull directly over the explosion lifted bodily into the air, breaking its back. It sank quickly beneath the settling spray. Several ships nearby looked mortally damaged, and masts plummeted into the sea or fouled other ships as they listed.

“It worked!” Letts shouted, clapping his hands. “My God, what a mess!” Nakja-Mur clasped his paws together in a gesture of thanks.

“Yeah,” muttered Alden, “but they’re still pushing through. Look at those coming up behind. They’re not even stopping for survivors!”

Letts nodded, his joy draining away. “The captain—and everybody with the AEF, for that matter—told me the Grik show no concern at all for losses. I guess I didn’t really believe it. Only at the end of the Battle for Aryaal, when all was lost, did they finally break.”

“It’s like they think they’re winning, no matter what, as long as they’re on the attack,” Pete agreed, remembering Bradford’s observations. Another depth-charge mine exploded, causing similar destruction to the first. The Grik sailed inexorably forward. Walker was nearer the enemy now, well within range of her guns. She slowed to a near halt short of the minefield and turned to port, presenting a three-gun broadside. Four, if one counted the three-inch gun on the fantail. In this instance, even it would have effect.

“She’s at point-blank range!” Letts said excitedly. “She can’t possibly miss from there, even with the new shells!” With simultaneous puffs of white smoke, Walker opened fire. Copper bolts slashed into the approaching ships near their waterlines. Another mine detonated, and more Grik ships and warriors were swept away. The entire center of the enemy advance had been thrown into disarray by the mines and the lonely four-stacker with the huge, streaming flag. Fort Atkinson continued its uncontested slaughter as well, firing down into the ships that waited to push forward. The semaphore tower was barely visible through the smoke, but a runner arrived with a hasty report. Brister had sent that many of the heavy copper balls were crashing completely through and out the bottoms of their victims, and the closer reaches of the entrance to the bay were clotted with settling hulks. In spite of the initial uncertainty, it looked like the battle was under control.

Another runner appeared, her yellow eyes wide and blinking with excitement and fright. “The Grik are landing on the south coast, east of the fort!” she gasped. “Amagi has been sighted to the south, accompanied by another large force!”

“Very well,” Pete replied without inflection, but his chest tightened with the news. Under control, my ass, he thought. It hasn’t even started yet. He turned to Letts and Nakja-Mur. “I ought to be down on the south wall, the way things are shaping up.”

Letts shook his head. “Not yet, Sergeant. The landing in the south might be a feint.” Alden raised a skeptical eyebrow. He didn’t believe the Grik were that subtle. “Even if it’s not,” Letts persisted, “sooner or later they’re going to get past Walker. She doesn’t have the ammunition to hold them forever. When that happens, it might get hairy on the waterfront in a hurry. The only way you can be two places at once is if you’re right here, where you can direct all the defenses.” He shook his head again, apologetically, looking at the man almost twice his age. “But you’re the Marine. I’m just a supply officer.”

A rueful grin spread across Alden’s face as he looked at the fair-skinned . . . kid, in front of him. “You’re right. I am a Marine, and this standing around is kind of tough to do. But you’re not just a supply officer anymore; you’re the goddamn chief of staff!” His eyes twinkled. “So the next time I start to go off half-cocked, just keep yankin’ my leash!”

Brister’s most pressing concern, however, was what was taking place on the other side of the fort. Scores of small boats plied to and fro between half a hundred Grik ships and the shore. The guns on that side were smaller than those facing the sea—twelve-pounders—and were emplaced to defend against a landward assault. So far they’d been silent. Now those that would bear began firing at the boats full of warriors as they neared the beach. The range was extreme, and they had almost no chance of hitting the anchored ships, but an occasional lucky shot spilled a score or more Grik into the deadly surf. In spite of that, a truly terrifying number of the enemy had begun assembling onshore, their garish banners flapping overhead.

“Look!” cried Lord Rolak, pointing. A peninsula of the thick, impenetrable jungle running east and west between the coast and Baalkpan City had been spared the axes of the defenders, all the way up to the Fort Atkinson road. On the other side of the road, across a wide avenue allowing the movement of troops, as well as visual communications between the city and the fort, an isolated island of vegetation called the Clump had been allowed to remain. Now, as intended, the jungle acted as a formidable obstacle preventing a rapid advance from that direction. The only clear avenue of approach lay through a narrow gap between the jungle and the fort itself. What aroused Rolak’s attention was the disciplined column of Lemurian troops marching up the road out of the drifting haze.

Even as Brister raised his glasses, he saw a battery of four field pieces manhandled forward of the column, deploying in the gap. He felt a surge of sympathy for the gunners. The only large domestic animals the local Lemurians used were the pygmy “brontosauruses.” They were ideal for leisurely, long-distance transportation of heavy burdens, including artillery, but wholly unsuited to rapid tactical maneuvers. They were surprisingly quick in a sprint, but had no endurance. Besides, they were difficult to control. When frightened or confused, they were at least as dangerous to their owners as to the enemy. Rolak told him Aryaal had maintained a small number of them as warbeasts, and Captain Reddy himself had actually ridden one into battle. Perry was skeptical, and even Rolak admitted they weren’t much good for anything beyond mobile observation points. In any event, he wished there were some local equivalent of a horse. By the time the guns were in position, their sizable crews were clearly winded.

“Cease firing on the boats!” Brister croaked. “Target the concentration on the beach!”

“Perhaps we should hold fire until they are closer?” Rolak suggested. “I believe the main assembly area is nearly a thousand tails distant.”

“Yeah. But they’re so bunched up, all we have to do is shoot in among them. We’ll get a few with every shot—even with solid shot. Maybe it’ll make ’em think.”

“I doubt it,” Rolak remarked. “It’s gratifying to slay them even at such a great distance, however.”

“Sure is. The farther the better.”

North of their position, Major Shinya’s force began deploying from column into line, a short distance behind the guns. At the sight of them the Grik on the beach uttered a collective ululating shriek and surged toward the gap, even while others continued landing behind them. “Here they come,” Brister breathed.

“I agree completely with your previous statement,” Lord Rolak remarked. “Farther was better.” He stepped back from the wall and drew his long, curved sword. “First Aryaal! Sularan volunteers! Stand to!”

They didn’t have enough, however. All the new copper bolts they’d taken aboard last night had been expended, and they’d dipped dangerously into their reserve of high-explosive shells. They’d discovered their star shells were highly effective against the wooden hulls of the enemy, able to penetrate and then set them afire when they burst. But they had only about ten salvos left, and they might need them for illumination when darkness fell. There were still a fair number of armor-piercing rounds in the magazines, but they’d been even less effective than the copper bolts against wooden-hulled ships. They just punched a four-inch hole in one side and out the other, and almost never exploded. It was better to save them for later. Riflemen and machine gunners fired at the barrels floating among the enemy ships. Many were decoys, of course, and a lot of ammunition was wasted sinking them. Silva tried to remember which ones were which, and concentrated only on those he felt sure supported a depth charge. Occasionally he was rewarded by a resounding blast and another expanding column of debris and spray.

The center, for the moment, was secure. The chaos and frustration there had become so intense, Grik could be seen actually fighting one another from ship to ship. It was on the flanks that things were getting out of hand. Ship after ship managed to squirm past the blockage and make its way into the clear. Some fell victim to the shallow water mines, but others got through. On the east side of the bay they came under the guns lining the southern waterfront, and a terrible destruction was heaped upon them. Regardless of losses, the Grik bored in, literally running their ships aground on the open beach between the Clump and the southwest wall of the city. Even as the warriors leaped into the surf and were shredded by the terrible fish, mortar bombs fell on the ships and set them ablaze. And still they came. What was more, an increasing number of the enemy were making it ashore. Whether because there were just so many of them or the carnivorous fish were strutted with their flesh was impossible to say. Whatever the reason, the road to Fort Atkinson was in growing danger of being cut.

Matt couldn’t do anything about that. If Walker moved closer to the waterfront, not only would she interfere with the gunnery from the city wall, but she risked accidental damage herself. Steel or not, the old destroyer’s thin skin wouldn’t stop a thirty-two-pound ball. She could do something about the Grik squeezing through the open lane in the channel, near the west side of the bay, however. Signaling the two frigates to hold where they were, she altered course and sprinted in that direction. An agonized, droning noise rose over the sound of the blower, and the PBY flashed by overhead, a depth charge slung beneath each wing, set to detonate at its minimum depth. Just one more flight, Matt hoped fervently as she passed. Just one more . . . With luck, Mallory would continue to contribute to the devastation in the center, while Walker raced to secure the flank.

Shinya’s modified cutlass parried and slashed across the top of the shield in front of him. Gaping jaws clamped down and tried to wrench it away, and a spear wielded by one of his staff drove into the top of the creature’s head. Tamatsu crouched down and slashed beneath the shield at feet and ankles on the other side as the wall began to stabilize. His wrist jarred painfully when the blade struck bone, and he was rewarded by a muted wail. A foot slammed down on his sword, pinning it to the ground. With all his strength he twisted the blade and wrenched it back, sharp side up. If there was a scream that time, it was drowned by others. His arms were already throbbing with pain. His left was in the shield straps, and the unending blows were starting to be felt. The awkward angle at which he was using his sword sent fire into his right chest and shoulder. The initial defiant yelling of the Lemurians had all but stopped, to be replaced by the panting and grunting of disciplined troops holding the wall, and heaving against the weight of ten times their number. Their only words were cries of instruction or encouragement to those behind, and the spears of the second rank remorselessly thrust and jabbed.

“Major Shinya!” came a cry behind Tamatsu. He spared a glance in that direction and saw an American shoulder his way through the second line. Without another word, the man rested the muzzle of a BAR atop Shinya’s shield and held the trigger down for a magazine’s burst, sweeping it back and forth. Then he dragged someone forward to take Tamatsu’s place. “C’mon, sir! You got more important shit to do!”

Without resisting, and still a little numbed by the fighting and the close report of the automatic rifle, Shinya allowed himself to be dragged out of the wall. Behind the spearmen, he looked at the sailor. He’d seen him before, he supposed, but they’d never met.

He’d called him sir.

“What are you doing here, ah . . .”

“Torpedoman First Russ Chapelle. USS Mahan, originally. Donaghey now.” He had to scream to be heard over the roar of battle. “I said I was bored, and Alden sent me and Flynn and some of his sub pukes up the Fort Road. I’m such a dumb ass. We barely made it! Lizards is landin’ hand over fist!”

Flynn joined him, panting. “God, what a snafu! Except there’s nothin’ ‘normal’ about this situation! Captain Reddy wasn’t kiddin’ when he said he’d pulled us out of a fryin’ pan just to throw us in a fire!”

Shinya whirled and looked at the hell below the fort, but couldn’t see beyond the Clump to tell what was happening to the north. “I left Ramik and his warriors from Aracca to guard that approach,” he insisted.

Russell nodded. “They’re moving up here. There’s nothing they could do. Goddamn lizards took us by surprise—started runnin’ their ships right up on the beach. Ol’ Ramic never even had a chance to deploy.”

“We’re completely cut off?”

“Looks that way. There’s no way back to the city with the lizards between us and there. If we hit ’em in the rear we might get through, but the Baalkpan guns would have to quit shooting or risk hitting us.” He shrugged and pointed past the shield wall, beyond the fighting and screaming and blood. “Besides, I don’t think they’re gonna let us disengage.”

Shinya agreed. His eyes flitted back and forth, between the fort, his own force, and the road. Ramic’s column was approaching at the double-quick. Individually, the warriors from Aracca Home couldn’t have looked less like soldiers, with their multicolored pelts and bright kilts, but together the Aracca regiment moved like the crack veteran infantry they were. “All right then, Torpedoman Chapelle, Chief Flynn,” he said with a sharp nod. “This is what we’re going to do. . . .”

Some of Shinya’s staff managed to extricate themselves from the fighting and gathered around. Several were bleeding. Ramic hurried up, gasping for breath. He seemed oblivious to the swarms of crossbow bolts falling around him until he got behind the protection of the shield wall.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I had no choice but to join you here.”

Shinya nodded. Nobody hated the Grik more than Ramic—not after the loss of Nerracca and his son. If there was anything he could have done to prevent the landing, he would have. Tamatsu was just glad Ramic hadn’t sacrificed himself and his warriors in a hopeless attempt. “Of course,” Shinya said. “Now, as soon as you shake out of column, the Araccas will directly reinforce the shield wall. Relieve as much pressure as you can.”

“Yes! We must hold here!” Ramic agreed. The others nodded, but Tamatsu sighed.

“Impossible. We have only three regiments. If we had twice that, and the rifle company, we could hold forever, no matter what the Grik send against us—but the troops weary already.” He shrugged. “And the rifle company is in reserve in the city. We’ll bleed them awhile yet, but then we must fall back on the fort. The left flank will begin to collapse backward, refusing the flank as it does.” He looked at them nervously. “I know we’ve never practiced anything remotely like this, but the Tenth did very much the same against the walls of Aryaal, so I know we can do it. The Grik will try to get around the flank as it moves, and we must not allow that.” A crossbow bolt skated off his helmet, and he shook his head irritably. “We’ll pull the guns out of the line to cover our flank. Hopefully the pressure will ease when we no longer block the road.”

“Yes.” Ramic snorted. “We will have opened the gate to their objective!”

Shinya looked at him. “Perhaps. But our new objective must be the preservation of the fort so it can remain a thorn in their side.” He gestured at the bay. “Perhaps you’ve not seen, U-Amaki, Ramic-Sa-Ar! Fort Atkinson has already avenged Nerracca manyfold!”

Ramic blinked his rage and suppressed frustration, and replied through clenched teeth, “My revenge won’t be complete until the Grik are extinct, and the iron ship that aids them lies at the bottom of the sea!”

The nature of the enemy added yet another dimension to the overall horrific effect. They came as inexorably as the tide, entirely oblivious to loss. Baalkpan Bay was a cauldron of destruction and fire, and the air was thick with choking smoke that completely blocked the midday sun. Kas-Ra -Ar was burning, and Tolson stood by, collecting her crew and spitting hate at the tangled swarm threatening to overwhelm her. Walker couldn’t be seen, and if not for regular reports from the magical crystal receivers, they’d have no idea if she even yet lived. Beyond the southwest wall, more and more Grik streamed ashore. Propelled by the freshening breeze, they deliberately crashed their ships onto the beach. That was yet another act entirely alien to Nakja-Mur, and one even his American friends hadn’t foreseen.

The Grik that made it to the beach were destroyed as effortlessly as insect pests by the cannons, arrows, and mortars of his people. Even from his distant perch, he saw their mangled corpses lying in dark, grotesque heaps. Yet still they came. Driven by some incomprehensible, maniacal madness, the Grik forged through the storm. There were just too many to stop them all. It was like holding back the sea with a fishnet. He caught occasional glimpses of a sizable force through the haze, beginning to assemble in the jungle cut on the Fort Atkinson road. Beyond that, the fort itself was invisible through the smoke.

Nakja-Mur looked at his human companions. He was still unable to judge their emotions by the confusing face moving that they did. A grin was a grin, and a snarl was a snarl, but their eyes—so expressive among his own people—told him nothing. And, of course, they didn’t have tails. The tension in their unmoving stance was clear enough, however. Suddenly, even over the tumult, they heard a deeper, prolonged rumble. It was more like an earthquake or distant volcanic blast than anything else he could imagine. They glanced at one another uneasily. A different female runner approached them. “The road is cut!” she cried in near panic.

“Calm, child!” Nakja-Mur soothed, none too calm himself—at least inwardly. “You must not show fear, lest it spread to those around you!”

The young female lowered her eyes and blinked. “Of course. I am shamed.”

“Not at all!” Nakja-Mur retorted. “Now, what is your message?”

“Tower one reports a signal from the fort: Major Shin-yaa has withdrawn within its walls. His force is mostly intact, and they continue to engage the enemy, but the landing force is free to move on the city. The fort is under heavy attack, but Lew-ten-aant Brister believes they can hold for now.”

“Did they estimate the size of the landing force?” Alden demanded.

The runner nodded, eyes wide. “Sixteen to twenty thousands—but the landings continue.”

“Very well—thanks.” He turned to the others. “As soon as they join the ones in the cut, they’ll probably come right at us.”

“You don’t think they’ll wait for further reinforcements?” Letts asked.

Pete shook his head. “Not their style. The first try, anyway. I think now it is time for me to go.”

Letts nodded. “By all means.”

“What of the threat from the bay?” Nakja-Mur asked nervously.

“You two will have to handle it. The defenses are stronger there, and the lizards’ll have to land right in their teeth. It’ll be very difficult to consolidate their force. They already have in the south. I think that’s where the main threat lies.”

Alden turned back to the runner. “First Marines, Fifth Baalkpan and Queen Maraan’s Six Hundred will prepare to advance to support the south wall.”

“Reserves already?” Letts asked.

Pete shook his head. “Do the math. The First Baalkpan and the few Manila volunteers are all we have on the south wall. That’s about twelve hundred, counting artillery. There’s no way they can stand against twenty or thirty thousand. I wish the rest of the Manila troops had arrived in time! We’ll pull the Second Aryaal off the north wall and add them to the central reserve.” He cocked his head to one side when the strange thundering sound resumed. Realization struck.

“Son of a bitch! Amagi must be in range. She’s shelling the fort!”

Brister waved his hand and grated, barely above a whisper, “Your withdrawal was what was perfect. I never would have believed it.”

Shinya had to strain to hear him. “We lost two of the field pieces,” he brooded. “Their crews managed to spike them, but . . .” He shook his head. “It was that double load of canister from each of your guns just as we came over the wall that kept them off us long enough to re-form.”

“Later you may admire each other’s prowess,” Rolak growled tersely. His own part in the successful maneuver had not been inconsiderable. “Right now there is still a great battle underway.”

The fighting along the north and west walls of the fort was still fierce, but the pressure was easing. It was as if, sensing greater prey ahead, the majority of the Grik were content to leave the fort isolated and continue their push toward the city. Beyond the fighting on the wall, the seething mass sluiced through the gap and down the road. Midage younglings scurried behind the lines, distributing bundles of arrows. Guns barked, spraying their deadly hail into the flank of the mass, mowing great swaths through the rampaging mob, but for all the attention the bulk of the enemy paid them, they may as well not have bothered. “Cut off and bottled up,” Chapelle grimly observed.

Brister’s runner returned. “The message got through,” he announced with evident relief. “The tower confirmed receipt.”

“At least Baalkpan knows what’s coming.” Brister sighed hoarsely.

A high-pitched, deepening shriek forced its way above the din. It sounded like a dozen locomotives barreling directly toward them with their whistles wide open.

“Holy Christ!” Perry blurted, eyes going wide. “I forgot about the Japs!” He threw himself to the ground. Even as he fell upon it, the earth rushed up to meet him and the overpressure of titanic detonations drove the air from his lungs. Clods of dirt, jagged splinters, and various debris rained down, and a heavy weight fell across his back. For a moment he could only lie there, trying to draw a breath. Finally he succeeded, but the air was filled with chalky dust, despite the damp night before, and he coughed involuntarily. The weight came off and he was dragged to his feet. Chapelle’s face appeared before him, looking intently into his eyes. Then it disappeared. Brister shook his head, trying to clear it, and looked around.

A smoking crater was less than forty yards away, and bodies were scattered in all directions. One belonged to the runner who’d just spoken, and most of his head and part of his shoulder had simply disappeared, as if a super lizard had snatched a bite. Another shell had landed on top of the north wall, leaving a big gap surrounded by dazed and broken troops. He wondered why the Grik weren’t already pouring through, and lurched toward the wall and climbed to the top. “Form up! Form up!” he rasped over and over to those standing near. He doubted they could hear him. Even to himself he sounded as if he were shouting through a pillow. Rolak joined him, clutching his bloodied left arm to his side, and together they stared beyond the wall.

Ironically, most of the shells had fallen on the Grik. More smoking craters, surrounded by dripping gobbets of steaming flesh and shattered bone, formed a rough semicircle beyond the fort, extending about two hundred yards into the gap. Many of the enemy closest to the impact points were stunned into motionlessness, while others tried to force their way back through the press in panic. Those were mercilessly slaughtered.

“That’s something to see,” Brister muttered. “Panicked lizards.”

“Understandable under the circumstances,” Rolak agreed. “But few seem affected.”

“Yeah. But remember Bradford’s theory, and the way they acted at the Battle of Aryaal—you were there! When they were suddenly and unexpectedly attacked by overwhelming force, they flipped.”

Rolak nodded.

“Interesting. Friendly fire indeed,” Brister mused. He looked at Rolak. “Shinya?”

“Alive. He ran toward the west wall to see what damage there was. A Jaap bomb fell there.”

More shells began to fall.

“Quick!” Brister grabbed Rolak, and together they tumbled into the crater in the wall. Several defenders fell in on top of them, just as massive explosions pounded the fort again. Only one shell fell among the Grik this time. Brister brushed away debris and peered out of the hole. Most of the enemy were drawing back from the fort. In spite of the terrible damage they’d taken, they knew what Amagi’s true target was. Perry was up and running.

“Where are we going?” the old Lemurian asked, struggling to keep up.

“They’re trying to silence our guns! I have to make sure they think they have; otherwise they really will!” They came to a stop near the center of the fort to find the signal tower shattered.

“Damn!” Brister swore. He ran toward the west wall again. “Cease firing, cease firing!” he shouted with his damaged voice. He could see one of his guns already destroyed. Another tearing-canvas shriek sent everyone to the dirt this time. The concussion was so great it literally hurled him onto his back. Gasping, he sat up. With everything left to him, he shouted at the top of his lungs, even while debris was still in the air.

“Cease firing!”

With unspeakable gratitude he heard the command repeated, and the surviving crews stepped haltingly, dazedly from their guns. Another was wrecked by the most recent salvo.

“What are you doing?” Shinya demanded harshly, suddenly standing before him. “If you think you can surrender—”

“Surrender, hell!” Brister somehow managed. “Amagi doesn’t want to waste shells on us! She’s only trying to knock out our guns! If she thinks she’s succeeded, she’ll leave us alone!”

Shinya crossed his arms in front of him, face very stern. “This fort has a mission! You cannot accomplish it by hiding from the enemy! Lieutenant Brister, I had thought much more highly—”

Perry scrambled to his feet. “Now listen to me, you Jap bastard . . . !” he croaked.

Lord Rolak and Russ Chapelle managed to keep them apart.

“What have you in mind?” Rolak asked in a reasonable tone.

“Listen!”

“What?”

“Just listen! What do you hear?” Brister walked to the wall beside one of the guns and peered over it. In the middle distance Amagi was clearly visible, surrounded by her grotesque brood.

“What do you hear?” Rolak asked, and Brister sighed.

“Nothing. It worked. They’ve stopped.” For the moment the only sounds were the screams of the wounded, the crackling of fires, and the surflike noise of the Grik flowing past the wall. He pointed at the bay for Shinya’s benefit. “Look down there. We’ve sunk everything in range! Nothing else can even come into this part of the bay without running onto the wreckage of their friends. The battery’s done all it can! Despite all our shooting, the enemy’s getting past us now by hugging the far shoreline. That’s not in range, although the guys have been giving it hell. If we keep firing, all it’ll accomplish is to get us slaughtered.” He paused and looked at their faces. “Together, counting my gunners, we have close to three thousand troops in this fort. We may all die anyway, but I have an idea that might make it more worthwhile than just standing and getting pasted.” A shout rose up from the other side of the fort.

“It would seem our friends are preparing to return,” Rolak stated dryly.

“Swell. Can the guns on that side of the fort keep firing?” Chapelle asked.

“God, I hope so,” answered Brister. “Just don’t shoot at the bay anymore!”

“I still don’t know what you hope to accomplish by this!” Shinya hissed low, as they trotted back across the center of the fort.

“Maybe nothing,” Brister replied. “Maybe everything.”

He’d have been happy to let the mortars fire as well, and they might have wreaked some real havoc, but they didn’t have as many of the bombs, and the range was a little far—for now. His reserve mortar teams were rushing from the center of the city, and when they arrived he’d have thirty of the heavy bronze tubes at his disposal. He hoped the copper, pineapple grenade-shaped bombs would dilute the force of the Grik assault when it came, preventing it from hitting his defenses as a cohesive mass. Canister ought to blunt the spearhead; hopefully the bombs would shatter the shaft. Now all he could do was wait and listen as the reports flooded in.

Chack and Queen Maraan scaled the ladder behind him from the level below. A signaler escorted them to his side.

“The First Marines have deployed in support of the Manila volunteers,” Chack said, saluting. As always, the powerful young ’Cat wore his dented helmet at a jaunty angle, and a Krag was slung over his shoulder.

“The Six Hundred and the Fifth Baalkpan are in place as well,” Safir Maraan reported in a husky tone. She was dressed all in black, as usual, and her silver armor was polished to a high sheen.

“Good,” Alden murmured. “We’re going to need them.”

“It’s certainly shaping up to be a most memorable battle,” the queen observed.

“And how,” said Chack, using the term he often heard the destroyermen use. He stood on his toe pads and peered out over the wall. From across the field beyond came the familiar strident, thrumming squawk of hundreds of Grik horns, and the hair-raising, thundering staccato of tens of thousands of Grik swords and spears pounding on shields commenced. “I think they’re about to come,” he said, turning to Pete. “With your permission?”

“You bet. Give ’em hell.”

For just an instant, as he passed her, Chack paused beside Safir. Reaching out, he gently cradled her elbow in his hand. They blinked at each other, and then he was gone. The Orphan Queen’s eyes never left him until he disappeared from sight.

“Gen-er-al Aal-den?” she asked.

Pete nodded, still looking at the enemy. “Yes. Go. I think Chack’s right.” He turned to look at her. “Be careful, Your Highness. I expect I’ll be down directly.”

“Can’t be helped,” Matt ground out. Her ammunition nearly exhausted, Walker had only two objectives left. First, she had to prevent any Grik ships from probing the west inlet of the bay. Not many had tried so far. The lure of the city, as expected, kept most of them drawn in its direction. Mainly, though, Walker had to remain visible in the bay until Amagi arrived. So far the Japanese battle cruiser was taking her own sweet time. That was as they’d hoped, from a naval perspective, thought Matt, glancing at the setting sun. They’d savaged the Grik fleet without Amagi to protect it, and Walker would be a more difficult target in the dark. But in the meantime people were dying. There’d been no word from Fort Atkinson since it was smothered beneath several ten-inch salvos. Smoke still rose from there, so fighting clearly continued, but the guns overlooking the entrance to the bay were silent.

A continuous, impenetrable pall of smoke obscured the south side of the city as well, and no one on Walker could tell what was going on from her station across the bay. Matt now knew he’d been naive to think he could control the battle from his ship. He could transmit, and presumably someone could hear him, but he couldn’t see any of his friends’ signals at all. It was beyond frustrating, and there was nothing he could do but trust the people on the spot. They were good people, and his presence probably wouldn’t make any difference, but it was nerve-racking all the same. Letts had managed to get a single message to him by means of a small, swift felucca. Several major assaults against the south wall had been repulsed so far, but the last attack had been costly, and actually made it past the moat to the very top of the wall. Most of the casualties suffered by the defenders came from blizzards of crossbow bolts, but the enemy was also employing a smaller version of their bomb thrower they hadn’t seen before. Several Grik would carry the machine between them, and once it was emplaced they could hurl a small bomb about the size of a coconut almost two hundred yards. The weapon had little explosive force, but like the larger ones it dispersed flaming sap in all directions when it burst. It was a terrible device, and the Grik had an endless supply.

Most of the reserve had already been committed, but more Grik continued pouring through the gap and up the fort road. Letts had been forced to strip defenders from unengaged sections of the wall, even as the invading army lapped around to the northeast to threaten there as well. With this new attack on the waterfront, things would get tight.

“Send a message to HQ. Tell them they’re going to have a lot of company along the dock, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“They probably know that already, Skipper.”

Matt shrugged. “All the same . . .” The rattling drone of distressed motors distracted him, and he looked again toward the wreck-jumbled harbor mouth. The PBY was returning from somewhere beyond, its latest load of depth charges gone. Gray smoke streamed from the starboard engine, and the plane, less than a hundred feet in the air, clawed for altitude.

“Mallory must’ve tried to drop on Amagi,” Larry said. “Crazy bastard. Now the plane’s shot to pieces! I thought you told him to stay away from her.”

Matt nodded. He had. He also knew Mallory’s view of the battle was better than anyone else’s. Only Ben Mallory knew exactly how the enemy was deployed, and he must have thought things were desperate indeed to try to tip the balance single-handedly. Amagi must be getting close, and Ben must have thought the defenders couldn’t take it.

The plane rumbled by, heading for the north inlet, where a backup landing ramp and fueling pier had been established. Up close now, Matt saw it was riddled with holes, and a wisp of smoke trailed the port engine as well. Ben obviously had his hands full just keeping it in the air. The navigation lights flashed Morse.

“Amagi,” Dowden said.

As they watched, orange flames sprouted around the port engine and leaped along the wing, consuming leaking fuel. Black smoke billowed.

“Oh, no,” Matt breathed.

The plane turned into the failing engine, but with an apparently herculean effort, Ben managed to straighten her out with the big rudder and claw for the nearest shore.

“Come on!” someone murmured.

Even as the lumbering fireball fought for altitude, however, throttles at the stops, the fight ended with a suddenness as appalling as it was inevitable. The port support struts gave way, and the plane staggered in agony. An instant later the wing around the engine, weakened by fire, simply folded upward. Flaming fuel erupted, spewing from the sky with a heavy, distant whoosh! and the brave PBY Catalina and its gallant crew plummeted into the sea.

“Get a squad of Marines into the launch to look for survivors,” Matt said huskily. By his tone he didn’t expect them to find any. “Then you’d better resume your station, Larry,” he added, referring to the auxiliary conn. With only the Grik to fight so far, he’d allowed Dowden to remain on the bridge.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Larry said, still staring at the erratic plume of smoke hovering above the burning, sinking wreckage of the plane. He took a deep breath and looked at Matt. “Good luck, sir.”

“You too.”

He knew some still believed the Amer-i-caans had brought this upon them, that the horror they faced was somehow connected to the arrival of the slender iron ships. He also knew that was ridiculous. The Grik had always been there, and today was but a reenactment of that terrible, prehistoric conflict that fragmented and exiled his people. This confrontation had been preordained, inevitable, building to this point over countless generations. The Grik were a scourge, a pestilence, the very embodiment of evil, just as the Scrolls had said. Only distance and the hostile Western Ocean had preserved his people this long. But the Grik managed to cross that distance at last, just as they’d once crossed the water between that distant place the Amer-i-caans called Aa-fri-caa, and the ancestral home of the People.

Keje would never have known that much if Walker hadn’t come. They’d already done so much for his people, from that first time they helped save his ship until now. If it hadn’t been for their timely appearance, the People might already have been scattered again. Keje would certainly be dead. Far from being a party to the evil that descended upon them, Keje believed the Amer-i-caans were a gift: deliverers sent to aid them in this terrible time. That was all very well as far as the People were concerned, but it was terribly unfair to the deliverers. Whatever force for evident good had sent them to this place, its dark counterpart balanced that act by sending Amagi to their enemies. Fleetingly, he wished he were facing this battle beside his friend in Walker’s pilothouse, underneath that great colorful flag. Keje knew he was where he needed to be, however. His duty to his people—his family—dictated that he make this fight here, upon his precious Home.

He felt a presence behind him and turned. There stood his daughter, Selass, holding forth his polished armor. He already wore his finest embroidered jerkin and his old, heavy-bladed scota at his side. Reaching for the armor, he saw that the fur around Selass’s eyes was matted with tears, and for the first time in so very long he saw the true face of his daughter once more. Gone was the rebellious arrogance and air of condescension she’d so carefully honed. In its place there remained only a sad, wistful softness. He knew of her friendship with San-draa Tucker, and her dutiful attempts to help the tragic, tormented Saak-Fas come to terms with his ordeal. He also knew of her hopeless love for Chack, the one she’d once spurned. Now she’d lost them both. Saak-Fas had gone to Mahan. By all accounts he performed his duty, but Jim Ellis told him that he rarely spoke. Chack had earned distinction and the favor of an exotic foreign queen. The only things Selass had left were her Home and her father, and she stood on the brink of losing them as well. Keje’s heart shattered within him, and he took his daughter in his arms.

“Never fear,” he told her as softly as his gruff voice allowed. “All will be made right.” He squeezed her tight, then gently pushed her away. Behind her stood Adar. “I thought you were ashore,” he accused. “Go, take her with you. She belongs at the aid station, not here, and we have ‘medics’ enough. Besides, this will be a fight for the cannons. Our warriors are behind the fortifications.”

“I am going ashore, my lord.” Adar gauged the distance to the approaching enemy. More guns along the wall were firing now, and splashes rose among the ships.

“We have a moment yet.” That said, he spoke no more. He just stared at his lifelong friend.

“You’re likely to have a larger ‘official’ congregation before this fight is done,” Keje observed uncomfortably. “I hear Naga has climbed the Sacred Tree.”

“To the very top,” Adar confirmed. “He prays to the Heavens above the din of battle, so he might be heard.”

Keje grunted. “How did he get up there?” He shook his head. “Never mind. He knows the Jaaps may target the tree and the Great Hall?”

“He does. Suddenly he seems aware of quite a lot. He hopes his prayers will protect them.”

“Do you think they will?”

“No.”

Keje nodded. “Then surely mine won’t do much good,” he muttered wryly. He looked down. When he spoke again, his voice sounded sad, almost . . . desolate. “Will you pray with me now, Sky Priest?”

Adar blinked rapidly, overcome by emotion. “Of course.” Together with Selass and the few others on Salissa’s battlement, they faced in the direction the sun had set and spread their arms wide. As one, they intoned the ancient, simple plea:

“Maker of All Things, I beg Your protection, but if it is my time, light my spirit’s path to its Home in the Heavens.”

The traditional prayer was over, but before they could complete the customary gestures, Adar’s voice continued: “I also beseech You to extend Your protection beyond our simple selves to include all here who fight in Your name, even those with a different understanding of Your glory. Aryaalans, B’mbaadans, Sularans, and the others, all perceive You differently, but they do know and revere You . . . as do our Amer-i-caan friends. Our hateful enemy does not. I know it is . . . selfish of me to ask You to deny so many of Your children their rightful, timely reward in the Heavens, but Maker, we do so desperately need their swords! I beg You not to gather too many in this fight, for even should we be victorious, the struggle must continue, and it will be long, long. Instead, let those You spare be rewarded later, with a brighter glow in the night sky, so all will remember the sacrifice they made!” he lowered his head. “I alone ask this of You. If it is Your will to deny my own ascension in return, so let it be.”

The rest of those present stared at him, shocked by the bargain he’d made, and Keje’s red-brown eyes were wet with tears. Following Adar’s example, together they crossed their arms on their chests and knelt to the deck, ending the prayer at last.

“You take too much on yourself,” Keje insisted.

Adar blinked disagreement. “I only wish I had more to offer than my own meager spirit.”

“Then you may add mine as well,” Keje said, and Adar looked at him in alarm. Once spoken, the bargain could not be taken back. “Idiot. Do you think I would be separated from you in this life or the next, brother? The boredom would destroy me.” He paused. “Two last things; then you must leave. First, if we are victorious but I do not survive, send my soul skyward with wood from Salissa.” He grinned. “Perhaps the Maker did not hear me. Finally, I will trust you to give Cap-i-taan Reddy my thanks.”

Adar embraced him then, wrapping him in the folds of his cloak. “I shall.”

The central hospital had been reestablished beneath a long block of elevated dwellings and shops, half a mile southeast of the Great Hall. The sheltered area covered almost six acres, and as the hours passed the space was filling with wounded. Nothing of the battle could be seen from where he stood, gazing westward, but the noise was overwhelming, even over the cries of the wounded.

“I think you’re right,” Sandra said tersely. “Now put that rifle down this instant and help me with this patient!”

Self-consciously, Bradford leaned the Krag against a massive “bamboo” support and peered at the limp form placed before her. All around them, other nurses and Lemurian surgeons fought their own battles to save the wounded, even while ever more arrived. Many had terrible, purplish red burns, and their fur was scorched and blackened. Others had been slashed by sword or axe, and many were pierced by the wicked crossbow bolts with the cruelly barbed points. There were few minor wounds. Those were tended by medical corpsmen right amid the fighting, or in one of the several field hospitals or aid stations. Those who were able returned to their posts with a bandage and some antiseptic paste on their wound. Only the most severely hurt were brought before Sandra. In spite of the fact that she was, after all, still just a nurse, she’d become the most experienced trauma nurse in the world. An orderly passed by, lighting lamps with a taper.

“I’d love to help you, of course, but I fear there’s little point,” Bradford said. Sandra spared him a harsh glance, then looked at her patient’s face. The jaw was slack and the eyes empty and staring, reflecting the flickering flame. “Dead, you see,” Courtney continued bleakly. “Perhaps the orderlies would be good enough to fetch us another?”

Sandra closed her eyes and held the back of her hand to her forehead. It was a classic pose, and for a terrifying instant Bradford feared she would faint, leaving him alone to deal with everything. To his utmost relief, she sighed and wiped sweat from her brow. She strode quickly to a basin and began washing her hands. Surreptitiously Bradford yanked a flask from his pocket and look a long, grateful gulp.

“Yes. I’m sure they will,” Sandra said woodenly.

Bradford wiped his mouth and replaced the flask. Then he glanced around. “I haven’t seen young Miss ‘Becky’ since the fighting started. I thought she was in your care.”

“So did I,” Sandra replied, “but she told me last night that she’d decided to stay with Mr. O’Casey at HQ. Said he’s protected her quite sufficiently up till now, and she preferred to stay with him, where she might see more of the ‘action.’ ” Sandra sounded worried, and maybe even a little disappointed. “It’s just as well, I suppose. She should be perfectly safe, and”—she gestured at the wounded—“I doubt this is the best environment for a child.”

“Perhaps . . .” said Bradford. He lowered his voice. “You do know she represents . . . considerably more than is apparent?”

Sandra nodded. “I suspected as much, but every time Matt seemed about to tell me what it was, there were always other people around. I gather it’s a secret?”

“Of sorts,” Bradford confirmed, “for now.”

Sandra shrugged, gazing at the sea of wounded. “Well, whatever it is, right now I don’t much care. I only hope she’s safe.”

A thundering rumble came from the dock, almost uninterrupted now. They’d grown accustomed to the sound of battle to the south, but this was closer, louder. She looked up worriedly.

“Don’t fret, my dear. They’ll stop the blighters,” Bradford assured her. “It’s all part of the plan, you see. Rest assured, I know everything that’s going on, and it’s all part of the plan.” Sandra noticed that Bradford had picked up the rifle again, nervously fiddling with the rear sight.

“I haven’t heard Walker’s guns for a while,” she said, drying her hands and motioning the orderlies to bring another patient.

“Ah, well, of course not! She has limited ammunition, you know. Saving it for the Jappos! Besides, you wouldn’t hear her, would you? Not over all that noise!” He waved vaguely westward. “Goodness me!” he said, tilting his head to one side, listening. “They’re really going at it!”

As promised, Adar had taken Selass ashore, but he hadn’t gone much beyond it himself. Now he paced behind the wall with Chack’s sister, Risa, at his side, calling encouragement to Big Sal’s warriors, who defended this section. They were heavily engaged. A single Grik warrior either vaulted or was launched entirely over the top of the wall and the warriors behind it. It landed nearby with a crunching thud, and, wild eyed and slathering, it tried to rise to its feet. At least one of its legs was broken. Risa quickly dispatched it with a meaty chunk of her axe, and Adar looked at her appreciatively. “Well-done,” he said. “You made that look quite simple.”

“It was,” she answered disdainfully. “It was crippled.”

“Even so. I expect you’ve had much practice in war of late.”

Risa shook her head. “Not much, really, since the fight for Salissa. I was on her during the battle before Aryaal. We were late to the fight.”

Adar remembered. “Late perhaps, but instrumental. Both you and your brother have much honor due you.”

Risa blinked, and with a wry grin she shook her head. “You knew, before this all began, that Chack did not even like to fight? He was afraid of injuring someone.”

“I knew,” Adar confirmed. “Your mother was perplexed, but proud of his restraint. She was always utterly without fear,” he recalled fondly. “Where is she now?”

Risa gestured toward Big Sal, invisible through the choking clouds of smoke, except for the stabbing, orange flashes of her broadsides. “Home. She wouldn’t leave. She only ever wanted to be a wing runner; now she is a warrior as well.”

“We are all of us warriors now, I fear. Even your peaceful brother.”

“Even you, Lord Priest?” Risa asked.

“Even I,” he confirmed. “Even I have the battle lust upon me, if not the skill or training in war the smallest youngling has received. I yearn to do as you just did—slay the enemy that threatens my people, our way of life, our very existence as a species.” He looked at his hands, held out before him. “I do not have the skill for that, and after what I saw . . . once . . . it’s frustrating. In a way I envy your brother. The skill I now crave came so easily to him, he never even knew it was there. I understand why the B’mbaadan queen thinks so highly of him. Hers have ever been a warlike people, and must recognize the talent”—he blinked dismay—“the gift for war when they see it.”

He straightened. “I’ve learned much, however, about how battles are shaped. Major Shinya and the others have taught me that.”

“How is this battle taking shape?” Risa asked, and Adar sighed.

“Very much as planned, I’m afraid.”

Risa was confused. “But that is good, surely?”

Adar shook his head. “I believe the single greatest lesson in war we’ve learned from the Amer-i-caans is to hope for the best, but plan for the worst. Hope is necessary; without it you’re defeated before you even begin. But you must plan for the worst, so if it happens you will be prepared.” He blinked at her. “I fear this battle is going almost exactly as planned.”

A roar came from beyond the wall, and a new flurry of bolts rained down beyond them. Warriors tumbled from their posts, and Risa hurried to fill a gap.

“I have no objection,” she shouted over her shoulder, “as long as the plan was for victory!”

Thousands of Grik bodies lay heaped to the wall, and the three thousand mixed troops occupying the fort had been reduced by nearly a third. Yet they’d held. Now they could begin to prepare for what Brister had been planning ever since he silenced the guns.

“How did you know they would leave?” Shinya finally asked.

“I didn’t,” Brister rasped. “I thought we’d have to fight through them. Those horn calls must have been a summons for all their reserves. They have to be gearing up for their final push.”

They saw nothing of the city besides the flickering light of the fires, and the smoke was so dense they could hardly breathe. Cannon fire still thundered defiantly, however, and bright flashes lit the smoke-foggy sky to the north.

“I suggest we let the troops rest a couple hours, if we can,” Brister gasped. “Then we’ll form them up.”

“I certainly hope you know what you’re doing,” said Lord Rolak.

Perry shrugged. “Hey, this stunt is mainly based on what you guys told me—and Bradford’s cockeyed notions. I have no idea if it’ll work. Maybe we’ll at least create a diversion.”

“It will be better than dying here,” Shinya agreed, “trapped and cut off. You were right to silence the guns. There was nothing more they could contribute.” He paused. “I apologize.”

Brister waved it away. “Nothing to apologize for. I’m sorry I called you a Jap bastard.”

Shinya chuckled. “I called you worse. In Japanese.”

A runner approached. “Sirs,” he said breathlessly, “the iron ship of the enemy is passing into the bay. More Grik ships are leading it in.”

They looked to the west. Even in the darkness they saw the black, pagodalike superstructure of Amagi silhouetted against the sky. Smoke laced with sparks swirled from her stack, and small shapes moved behind the railings as she steamed relentlessly into the bay. It was a terrifyingly vulnerable moment. The ship was absolutely enormous, and in spite of her litany of imperfectly repaired wounds, she radiated an overwhelming, malevolent power. At this range her main guns were little threat to the fort, but the numerous secondaries and antiaircraft armaments certainly were. In the light of the many fires, the occupants of Fort Atkinson had to be visible. Surely they see us, Brister thought.

If they did, they made no sign, and the reason was obvious: the defenders in the fort were helpless. As far as the Japanese knew, the guns were knocked out, and even if they weren’t, they’d have no effect against such a leviathan. She’d shelled the fort only to protect her allies, and whoever remained crouching behind its walls was no concern of hers. The Grik would take care of them at their convenience.

In spite of his relief, and his intent that she should, the fact that Amagi was ignoring them as harmless stoked the rising anger in Perry Brister’s soul.

“We’re going to make them wish they’d blown us to hell,” he croaked.

“The enemy there is helpless, sir. We have knocked out their guns.”

“Precisely the best time to strike! Wipe them out while they cannot reply.”

“Captain,” Sato responded stiffly, “they could do little to reply before we silenced their guns. Against us, at any rate. Our ammunition is desperately low. I assumed you would wish to save what we have for the American ship. Besides, we don’t know what surprises they may have awaiting us.”

Kurokawa’s face reddened, but he didn’t attack as Sato expected. Eventually he even nodded. “Quite right, Commander. We can always pulverize the survivors in the fort at our convenience later. They are clearly cut off.”

“Yes, Captain,” Sato replied, with a sick feeling in his gut. He’d done everything in his power to avoid this moment, but there’d never been any real chance. He couldn’t openly recruit supporters willing to defy the captain, and despite their hideous allies, they would, before this night was done, certainly battle the Americans—their legitimate enemies. To take their side even now would have lost him any support he had. He wondered if his and Kaufman’s message got through. Not that it made any difference. His soul seethed with torment, and he knew Amagi had become a ship of the damned.

“Any sign of the American destroyer yet?”

“No, sir,” he managed. “Signals indicate it has wreaked havoc with our ‘allies’, though.” Sato couldn’t hide the bitter satisfaction in his voice when he made that report. To his surprise, Kurokawa chuckled.

“Excellent! The Americans will have depleted their ammunition as well, and besides, when we destroy them, it will show our barbaric friends who wields the real power here. The more Grik the Americans destroy, the more impressive our victory will seem! Let me know as soon as the enemy shows himself!” He paused, then added grimly, “This time, there is no place for him to run.”

Tsalka nodded. “At last, perhaps we will gain some advantage for having tolerated those insufferable creatures,” he said, meaning the Japanese.

“Kurokawa’s plan seems to be working, Lord Regent,” Esshk agreed. “His insistence on multiple attacks is contrary to doctrine, and at first glance seems to fly in the face of the very principle of the Swarm—yet never have we been able to utilize so much of our force at once. Many of our Uul have been slain—an unprecedented number, I fear—yet we have certainly ‘softened up’ the prey in preparation for his mighty ship to enter the bay. He did also put a stop to the slaughter of our ships by the guns in the fort. I am inclined to consider it a brilliant tactic.”

“His ‘tactics’ are indeed effective. Wasteful of Uul, but effective,” Tsalka agreed.

“The destruction of the fort of the prey was impressive, and accomplished at such a distance so . . . effortlessly. . . . We would have to watch these new hunters, even if they were not so disagreeable.”

“Their power is great”—Esshk nodded—“but so is the power of the prey.” He hesitated, then mused aloud, “Worthy prey after all.” He glanced at the regent consort. “Perhaps we should have made the Offer? Never has any Swarm been mauled so. I fear, no matter how this battle turns, even this Invincible Swarm will remain but an empty shell.”

“Perhaps,” Tsalka agreed, and uttered a long, sad hiss. “But that is the lot of the Uul: to die in the battle of the hunt, doing what they love, what they were bred to do. But there is no way we could have made the Offer. We face the ancient Tree Prey, the ones that escaped! They were not worthy of the Offer before, and long have we hunted them. The prey may have grown since last we met, but it’s still the same prey. The Offer cannot be made. Even so, I grieve for the Uul we will lose in this hunt. And I do envy them,” he added wistfully.

“Of course. As do I.”

Tsalka watched the massive iron ship drive deeper into the bay. “We should advance, I think,” he said. “It’s not the place of the Hij to gather the joy of the hunt to ourselves, but I would not have it said the New Hunters alone were responsible for success. I fear the Uul look to the iron ship too much as it is.”

“I agree,” General Esshk replied. “As may we all before this hunt is over.”

Walker had been steaming back and forth on the west side of the bay at the mouth of the inlet for over two hours now. To all appearances, she looked as if she were watching the distant battle with impotent frustration, her magazines empty at last. That wasn’t far from the truth.

Matt tried to freeze the expression on his face so the searing apprehension he felt wouldn’t show. All of Walker’s actions that day, and now into the night, had been building to this precise moment—when she’d deliberately put herself in Amagi’s sights. Now that the moment was finally at hand, doubt and fear warred with the certainty of necessity. So far everything had gone as they’d expected. In other words, nothing had broken their way. They’d slaughtered the enemy on a wholesale level beyond comprehension, beyond what any truly sentient species could endure, and reports from the city told of Grik piled as high as the walls. But still they came. It was up to Walker and Mahan now, just as they’d expected and dreaded. It was up to them to strike a blow that might shatter the enemy’s single-minded, maniacal will. To replicate the panic they’d seen in front of Aryaal. Hopefully.

There was no guarantee the enemy would break, even if the plan succeeded. They had only marginal evidence to support Bradford’s theory of “Grik Rout.” They’d seen it once at Aryaal, and once aboard Big Sal. When things had turned suddenly and overwhelmingly against them, and the Grik found themselves on the defense, they’d fled in mindless terror. It was like a dog chasing a bear. The bear was fearless when attacking, but when attacked, its only thought was escape. They were banking everything that the Grik behaved much the same way. There was glaring evidence the reverse was also true, however. When they’d followed the Grik belowdecks on Revenge, the creatures had fought like cornered animals. Of course, that was what they’d been, after all. Just as the bear would finally turn on the dog if it were brought to bay, the Grik fought furiously in the hold of the ship. But there’d been no coordination, no discipline, and it had been every Grik for itself. Except the Grik captain. It hadn’t fought at all, preferring suicide to capture—very much like what little Matt knew about the Japanese. He still wondered if that was significant.

Gray hadn’t seen Grik Rout on Tarakan either. The enemy came ashore and charged and died and killed in the same old way. In the end they’d fought savagely, and the battle raged hand-to-hand—but they’d been cornered too, hadn’t they? The sea was at their back, and there was nowhere for them to go. That had to be their weak spot; Lawrence, as safely as possible ensconced in Matt’s own quarters, believed it might be so. Now all they could do was pray.

At long last the terrible day had dwindled into twilight, and the twilight into an endless, terrible night. The sky was a muddy pall, shot through with flashes of light. Finally Amagi was coming—and Walker was the cornered beast.

Matt raised his binoculars. The dim shape of the battle cruiser was edging past Fort Atkinson into the bay. She was screened by at least a dozen Grik ships, probably there to soak up any remaining mines. One of the ships exploded and abruptly sank, even as the thought came to him. Amagi adjusted her course, carrying her farther into the cleared lane they’d left for her. Matt tensed. The “special” mine was their last chance to do it the easy way, their last chance to survive, more than likely. The minutes passed, and the dark apparition continued to grow, inexorably. Surely she must have passed over Mr. Sandison’s mine by now! He sighed. He’d never really expected it to work. The MK-6 magnetic exploder had let them down so many times, he’d known in his heart it would fail. He was still surprised how let down he felt now that it had once again. That was one break that would have made all the difference.

Matt lowered the glasses and looked at the men around him. He sensed their fear, even in the gloom. They knew their chances were poor, but they also knew they had no choice. Even if they could still flee, they wouldn’t choose to, despite the odds. This was the rematch. The game that was called on account of rain almost exactly a year ago would be played out here at last, and the opponent they faced wasn’t only the hulking brute they associated with all their trials; it was the Japs. Somehow that seemed profoundly appropriate. The terrible battle raging around them on land and sea would be won or lost. Perhaps what they did here would influence that, but regardless, this was Walker’s fight, and Mahan’s. Nothing anyone else did could influence that. For a moment Matt was silent, remembering the long list of names stricken from the rolls since the last time these three ships met, and he could almost feel the ghosts gathering ’round, expecting him to exact revenge or join them in the attempt. He looked again at the men and ’Cats in the pilothouse, and forced a slight smile.

“Just a few good licks; then we run like hell.” He rolled his shoulders and faced the front. Beneath his hand was the back of his chair, bolted to the front of the pilothouse. Part of the ship. Gently, almost lovingly, he patted it. “One more time, old girl,” he whispered, then raised his voice. “All ahead full. Make your course zero one zero.”

“Ahead full, zero one zero, aye,” came the strained reply.

“Mr. Garrett may commence firing as soon as he has a solution. Armor-piercing.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Reynolds said, and repeated the order to the acting gunnery officer. “Sir, Mr. Garrett wants to know if he should withhold a reserve?”

Matt shook his head. “No. Give ’em all he’s got.”

Even as Walker accelerated, her tired sinews bunching for a final sprint, they saw winking flashes and blooms of fire erupt from the Japanese ship.

“Where?!”

“Port bow, Captain,” Sato said in a quiet, clipped voice. Kurokawa rubbed his hands together with glee.

“Commence firing, Commander Okada! I want that ship erased!”

“Yes, Captain.” Sato prepared to relay the order with a heavy heart, but Kurokawa speared him with a cold stare. Sato’s tone had finally penetrated the captain’s euphoria.

“Commander Okada does not approve the destruction of His Majesty’s enemies?” he mocked. Sato turned to him, expression hooded. But before he spoke, something deep inside him snapped and he stiffened to attention.

“On the contrary, Captain. But I remain unconvinced the American destroyer represents His Majesty’s chief enemy in this world.” He looked pointedly at Kurokawa. “We are about to waste ammunition, lives, and possibly an opportunity as well.” Sato knew he’d said too much, and was fully aware of the consequences, but he couldn’t stop himself. He no longer would, even if he could. Following his revenge-maddened captain’s orders was one thing, but by doing so he was aiding the loathsome Grik. That made him feel loathsome too, and his honor was stained beyond any effort to cleanse it. “Sir, the emperor’s greatest enemy in this world can only be the Grik, and you are their tool.”

“You are relieved!” screeched Captain Kurokawa. “Place yourself under arrest and await punishment!” Sato only nodded. Suddenly the deck shuddered under his feet and there was a loud explosion from below, in the flag bridge. A sheet of fire enveloped the windows for an instant, and then it was gone.

“Commence firing!” the captain shrieked, then turned back to look at Sato. “Another blow to avenge, and all because of you! Your American friends are not restrained by your doubts, I see.” Sato did not even challenge the ridiculous statement. He turned to leave the bridge.

“Wait! Fetch your American pet and bring him here! It might amuse him to watch the destruction of the last of his people on this world, and it’s only fitting you should see it together—since you will share his fate!”

Kurokawa’s sweaty, feverish face was illuminated by the flash from Amagi’s first salvo in response to the American fire.

“I think the Grik are almost ready too,” Chack warned. He pointed across the battlefield to the south. The ground in front of them was covered with dead Grik, and the moat before the wall was so packed with their bodies, the attackers could run straight across without even touching water. The sharpened stakes and other obstacles were so choked with corpses they’d lost most of their effectiveness. Small fires from burning brush and garments cast an eerie red glow upon the scene. A larger fire near the trees, where one of the big Grik bomb throwers was destroyed by a mortar, illuminated the seething mass of enemies beyond. It was impossible to guess how many there were, but it was apparent they’d been heavily reinforced.

“They’ve called up the last of their reserves,” Chack speculated. His usually good English was difficult to understand because his lips were swollen and bloody. His fur was dark with sticky, half-dried blood, and he was limping from a slash on his leg. “After that last attack, they must believe one more heavy thrust must break our line.”

“They’ve pulled out all the stops,” Alden agreed. “And it might just work, because we have too. There’s nothing left on the north and east walls. Everything’s either here or down at the waterfront. The waterfront has bigger guns and more troops, but they’re too spread out. It’s tough going down there.”

“Here as well.”

Alden looked at him. “Listen. I don’t know what those lizards use for brains, but if it were me, I’d pile as much as I could against a short section of wall, with just enough everywhere else to hold the defenders in place. If they do that, my guess is we’ll crack wide-open. I want you to take personal command of the rifle company, and stand ready to hammer them back if they force a breach. Use the B’mbaadans too. Rifles are great for distance work, but up close you’re going to need swords to back you up.”

“My place is in the line with my Marines,” Chack protested.

Alden suppressed a sad smile. “The rifles are your Marines too. I need someone I trust, who’ll wait till they’re needed, but won’t wait too long.” He paused. “I also need someone who’ll keep his head, and knows when it is too late. If that occurs, pull back immediately. If they knock down the whole line, save what you can and fall back on the hospital. You’ll be in command of the rear guard, as well as the effort to evacuate into the jungle. Is that understood?”

Chack blinked furiously. “You ask too much! To leave my Homes, my people . . .”

“I’m not asking shit!” Alden snarled. “I’m telling you what you will do! The only thing I’m asking is if you understand your duty.”

Chack slowly nodded. In the distance the raucous horns began to blare. The terrible thrumming sound continued to build until it seemed like thousands of them this time. The thunderous rumble of the shields rivaled even the nearby guns. Across the field in the flickering light, the Grik began to move.

Then, from nearby, a low moan was heard that seemed to have nothing to do with the approaching horde. Pete quickly looked in the direction many heads had turned. On the bay, considerably farther to the north now, a rising ball of fiery black smoke roiled into the air, briefly illuminating the stricken destroyer beneath it.

“Oh, my God,” Alden breathed. “Walker . . .”

By then, hidden in the darkness and her dense curtain of smoke, Walker had to have been invisible. The wind was still out of the south, and the man-made cloud spread, wafting around her. She’d ceased firing as soon as she turned, and all lights were out. Where she headed, there were no fires or lights to silhouette her, and overhead no moon betrayed her. It must have been just a lucky shot.

“All ahead flank!” Matt shouted as his ship slowed even further. A few shells continued falling, but the fire was desultory now. They must think they got us, he realized. Stepping around the chart house and looking aft, he could see why. Walker was afire from just behind the bridge to somewhere aft of the amidships deckhouse. The Japanese shell must have penetrated the fuel bunker they’d installed in place of the number one boiler, and blown burning oil all over the ship. Steam gushed from somewhere to rise and mix with the black, greasy smoke. Even as he watched, hoses began to play on the fires.

“Captain!” Reynolds called behind him. “Mr. McFarlane says the number two boiler took a direct hit, and the fuel bunker’s been punctured! There’s major flooding in the forward fireroom—he says it’s gone, Skipper—there’s nothing he can do. There’s also minor flooding in the aft fireroom he thinks he can keep under control.”

“We’re losing steam!”

“Yes, sir. The valve’s sprung. He can’t cut number two out of the main line from below. He’s going to have to do it topside, but the fire . . .”

“Right. Have the hoses concentrate on that area. We’ve got to have steam!”

Walker slowly drifted to a stop while her crew battled the inferno amidships, and Matt kept expecting another flurry of shells to finish them. For some reason the final salvo never came, even though his ship was an easy target now, burning like a beacon in the night. “Don’t want to waste the shells,” he mused aloud, watching the Japanese ship once more. “That, or they hope we can keep her afloat and they’ll take her later at their leisure.”

Chief Gray clambered up the ladder onto the bridge. He was covered with soot, his thinning hair and beard curled by the heat of the fire. “We got problems, Skipper,” he said. Matt arched his eyebrows at the ridiculous statement. Gray realized what he’d said, and shrugged. “More problems. The fire main’s losing pressure, because we gotta have steam to run the pumps—which Spanky says we ain’t gonna get no steam till we can move the fire away from the topside cutoff—”

“Which we can’t do without steam for the pumps. I know. Do the best you can. If you can’t get to that valve, we can’t move.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper, but I bet if we even twitch, the Japs’ll pound hell out of us.”

“That may be, but we can’t just sit here like this.” He clenched his fists in frustration and paced. “How many did we lose?” he asked at last.

Gray shook his head. “I don’t know yet, Skipper. Most of the guys got off the amidships gun platform. That damn Silva deserves a medal. He even saved the machine guns. Got burned some, too. Wasn’t for him, a lot more woulda died. Other than that . . . we still have the comm, so we can talk, but the front of the ship’s completely cut off from the back as long as that fire’s burning. I just don’t know.”

“Captain . . . Mr. Garrett asks if he should resume firing. There are still a few AP shells left,” Reynolds said.

Matt shook his head, looking at the distant enemy ship. “Not just yet.” He cleared his throat. “Send a message to HQ. Tell them they’d better already be out of the Great Hall, because it’s about to be remodeled.”

Amagi had stopped her advance, and now lay reflecting the fires and the glow of battle right in the middle of the bay. Several Grik ships were still nearby. One looked a little larger than the others. Maybe it was one of the white ones like Mallory had seen, Matt thought, as he watched Amagi’s main gun turrets train out to starboard. They fired.

Without a word, Sato Okada returned to the bridge, escorting the bedraggled, bearded American officer. Kurokawa regarded them both in silent triumph as Kaufman crept unsteadily to the windows and gazed into the darkness at the fiercely burning destroyer. His frail frame convulsed suddenly, as a most unmanly sob escaped him.

“You may use the radio now, Commander Okada,” Kurokawa said in English. “Your American friends might appreciate an offer of unconditional surrender. The water will soon be rising, and without any boats . . .” He smiled, “A most unpleasant death, I should think.”

“Go to hell!” Kaufman snarled.

Kurokawa paused, as if a thought just came to him. “Of course, you deserve my thanks, Captain Kaufman. If not for your capture, and all the important things you’ve told us, I would never have even known about that destroyer. At least, not before this campaign began. That knowledge was what ultimately made me decide to help the Grik.” He looked keenly at the aviator. “Thank you.”

Kaufman would have gone for him then. It was as though, for the first time since he’d stepped aboard Walker in Surabaya, his wits had finally completely returned. Only a battered, empty shell of the man he’d been remained, but regardless of what the Grik and the Japanese had done to him, he knew Kurokawa was right. They’d broken him, and it hadn’t even been that hard. He was already broken when they got him. He was responsible. It was his fault. For an instant he stared at the Japanese captain, saw the mocking smile.

A hand like iron clasped his withered arm, restraining him before he could strike. It was Sato. Kaufman didn’t know what he’d have done: torn out Kurokawa’s throat with his teeth, he supposed. It didn’t really matter.

“No,” came a whispered voice in his ear. It was a voice of resignation, but it came from the only person who’d shown him any compassion at all. He stopped; then, realizing how easily he’d been restrained, he knew it was no use. He lowered his eyes in abject misery, and even above the sound of the crashing guns he heard Kurokawa’s thin laugh rise within the confines of the bridge.

“Down!” Letts screamed, and for the next several moments there was nothing but the overwhelming sound and pressure of titanic detonations. The entire massive structure of the Great Hall sagged beneath them, and there was a terrific crash from above. Oil lamps fell from the walls and rolled away down the sloping floor. One came to rest beside a crumpled tapestry that once adorned the wall of the entrance chamber, and the beautifully woven fabric began to burn. In the eerie silence immediately following the salvo, a deep, rumbling groan could be heard.

Letts scrambled to his feet and looked quickly around. One of the runners had been crushed by a massive limb. It had fallen from the tree far above and crashed down through all three levels of the hall, driving him through the deck on which Alan stood with its jagged stump. The others rose shakily, but Nakja-Mur still lay sprawled. “Quickly!” he shouted at O’Casey. “We’ve got to get him out now! There may be only seconds before the next salvo!”

Between them and the staff members who’d gathered their wits, they managed to heave the High Chief through the opening and lower him quickly to the ground. By then Nakja-Mur was recovering his senses, and he looked around, blinking surprise. People were running in all directions, and the Great Hall no longer looked quite right. Flames leaped up from nearby structures, and over all there was a wailing, keening sound.

“Take his legs!” Alan yelled. O’Casey could only grab one, but there was plenty of help now. They ran as fast as they could toward the edge of the parade ground, while a sound like a roaring gale and tearing canvas descended upon them.

“Down!”

Even as they dropped, there came again the avalanche of deafening sound and mighty flashes of searing fire as the earth heaved into the sky.

Letts tried to stand, but fell to his knees, stunned by the proximity of the blast. He looked back. Somehow the Great Hall and Sacred Tree still stood, but the building was engulfed in flames. Any shells that actually struck it must have passed right through and detonated on the ground or against the tree itself. Flames licked up and across the huge sloping roof, clawing greedily at the branches above. Smoldering leaves and drifting ash descended all around. Up beyond the light of the fire where the tree disappeared into darkness, they could only just hear Naga’s plaintive, wailing chant.

“So now I see war as you are accustomed to it,” Nakja-Mur rasped beside him.

Letts glanced down and saw that the High Chief had risen to a sitting position. O’Casey just looked stunned. At least he’d acted, though.

“Nobody ever gets accustomed to it,” Alan said, managing to stand. “But yeah, this is the war we left behind when we came here.”

“You all tried to tell me, but I never . . .” Nakja-Mur’s eyes reflected an expression almost of wonder. He looked back in the direction they’d come. “The Tree . . . !”

Letts motioned the others to grab him. “Never mind the tree! We have to keep moving away from it, in case they aren’t satisfied with their handiwork yet.”

“The Tree . . .”

“What is it? What’s happening?” she demanded. Bradford turned to her, and his face seemed pasty in the torchlight.

“It’s . . . it’s all going according to plan,” he repeated once more.

She glared at him. “It’s not!” she snarled. “It can’t possibly be! There are no more wounded coming in. Have the field hospitals been overrun?”

“No—no, that’s not it at all. Most of the wounded are returning to the fight, and those who cannot must remain where they are for now. The ambulance corps have gone to strengthen the walls.”

“But . . . how . . .” She stopped. “We’re losing then?”

“Not as you would say losing, precisely,” Bradford hedged.

“What were you and that messenger just talking about?”

“Um. Well, you see, I’ve been asked to send whoever can still wield a weapon up to the east wall. It’s not engaged—and probably won’t be,” he quickly added, “but they’ve taken everyone off it to reinforce those areas that are.” He stopped. “We’ve also been told to prepare to evacuate into the jungle if the word should come. If it does, we must move quickly.”

Sandra felt numb. “Is there any word of Walker, or . . . or Captain Reddy?” she asked quietly.

Bradford’s expression became even more strained, and he placed a hand on her shoulder. “Walker is afire, my dear,” he said gently, “and dead in the water.” He gestured vaguely. “She gave a lovely account of herself but . . .” He shook his head. “The Japs aren’t even shooting at her anymore.”

Sandra could only stand and stare at him as hot tears came to her eyes. “Mr. Bradford,” she said very formally, voice brittle as glass, “would you be so kind as to cover for me here awhile?”

He gawked at her and then looked helplessly around. “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t have the faintest idea—”

“Oh, but you do! You’ve been a tremendous help!” she pleaded.

“I am not a doctor!”

Sandra giggled hysterically. “Neither am I!”

Bradford’s face became severe. “Listen to me, young lady! You are a doctor—the best in the world! There are hundreds of people here who need your help. If you leave now, many may die!” His voice softened slightly. “There’s nothing you can do for him, my dear.”

Suddenly she was in his arms, sobbing against his chest, and all he could do was stare straight ahead and pat her lightly on the back. A suspicious sensation caused his own eyes to blink.

“There, there. There, there,” he said over and over. “All is not lost. I told you there was a plan. That young man of yours may surprise us yet.”

A disturbance nearby alerted them to the arrival of several figures, carrying another. A few of the closest wounded recognized the burden, and a cry of alarm rose up.

“What is it?” Sandra demanded, wiping her face on her shirtsleeve. “Let me through!”

“Quick!” said Alan Letts. “It’s Nakja-Mur! We got him out of the Great Hall when the Japs started shelling it. He was a little roughed up, but he seemed okay. He even walked a little. Then, all of a sudden, he just collapsed!”

“Get him on the table!” commanded Sandra. Letts, O’Casey, and a couple others set him down, and she shone a light into the High Chief’s face. His mouth was slack and his eyes moved lazily from side to side. He seemed unable to focus. She plugged the stethoscope into her ears and listened to his chest. Lemurian hearts sounded different from humans’, but she’d learned to recognize those differences. What she heard now wasn’t just different; it was wrong. In the midst of all the turmoil and strife, Nakja-Mur’s noble heart was fighting a battle of its own.

“Where is Rebecca?” O’Casey suddenly demanded, and Sandra, momentarily distracted, glared at him with wide eyes.

“I thought she was with you!”

The green curtain parted suddenly, and he blinked in shock when Rebecca’s small head poked inside.

“There you are, you silly thing! Come out of there this instant! You will be cooked alive!”

“’Ecky! Here?”

“Of course I’m here,” she answered severely. “Where did you expect I’d be? Now come along!”

Without objection, Lawrence obeyed. He’d been given an order, after all. As they passed down the short hallway, they heard the roaring flames and shouted commands nearby. “Do they know you’re here?” he asked, already sure of the answer.

“Well, probably not, I suppose. Not everyone, anyway. Mr. Miller and a few of the wounded in the wardroom do—that’s where I stowed away! Some of the cabinets are quite spacious. When I popped out and came looking for you, I’m sure he saw me, but he was somewhat busy.” Her voice turned grim. “This battle has cost our friends severely, I’m afraid. We must discover some way to be of help.”

“How?”

Rebecca chewed her lip. “That’s the thing; I haven’t the slightest idea. But we’ll think of something; we must!”

Amagi’s attention had been firmly fixed on Walker, just as they’d hoped, but whatever catastrophic injury Mahan’s sister had suffered was definitely not part of the plan. The other four-stacker was supposed to be clear, “chased” into the dark, dead-end reaches of the north inlet. Jim watched her burn with a sick, wrenching sense of loss.

The effect was the same, however. With Walker afire and apparently no further threat, the last obstacle had been removed, and the Japanese diverted all their attention to reducing Baalkpan to rubble. With any luck, no one would even suspect Mahan’s approach. Bernard Sandison stood on the starboard bridge wing, running a final check on the sole surviving torpedo director. Everything had been carefully examined over and over, but it never hurt to check again. They’d have only one chance, and all their hopes were riding on the single MK-10 torpedo in the number one mount. Almost all their hopes, Jim amended grimly to himself. If all else failed, he’d added one small addition to the plan.

Mahan had only a skeleton crew aboard, more than half of them Lemurians. All were volunteers. The crew was actually leaner than Jim had led Matt to believe it would be, and damage control might be a problem, but that couldn’t be helped. There were full crews for the numbers one and two, four-inch-fifties, as well as the number one torpedo mount. Four people were in the boiler room and two at the throttle station. There was no one at all on the fire-control platform, since the equipment was destroyed. The bridge watch consisted of five, including Jim and Bernie, and all weapons except the torpedo mount were in local control. If all went well, Mahan would still have a larger crew than she needed for her task. If things didn’t go well . . . Mahan’s only launch was towing far astern, beyond the worst of her wake. Just in case.

“Ahead two-thirds,” Jim almost whispered. He sensed the ship respond with a growing vibration he felt through the soles of his shoes and the increased pitch of the blower. To him the ship was very much alive, with feelings and thoughts of her own. In spite of everything, he’d come to love her in a way he’d never expected when he first set foot on her shattered decks. Even more, he believed she somehow knew how he felt, and what, exactly, was expected of her that night. The two were of one mind, and each had become an extension of the other. Mahan was, after all, Jim Ellis’s first command.

The closer they got, the larger and more formidable the enemy ship appeared. Blooms of fire erupted from her ten-inch guns as she continued pounding the city. At first Amagi had concentrated on the center of Baalkpan, where the Great Hall and Sacred Tree stood. They’d expected as much. It was an obvious target because of the excellent view it afforded of the battlefield. Now the great tree was enveloped in flames, burning with a surprising intensity like some great torch, illuminating everything for miles around. Satisfied with that achievement, the giant guns began hammering the harbor defenses. It was like taking a sledgehammer to an anthill. Doubtless far more Grik were being slaughtered by the dreadful salvos than defenders, but it was also clear they were having the desired effect. Already many guns along critical portions of the harbor wall had fallen silent, and fires raged out of control along the wharf and among the warehouses beyond.

Fires that beautifully backlit Amagi. She was a perfect target: stationary, unsuspecting, and highly visible. Mahan’s approach was from directly abeam of Amagi’s port side, and at over eight hundred feet in length, it was unthinkable they could miss her. Even so, the tension Jim felt was so intense, he couldn’t stand in one place any longer. He began to pace.

“Mr. Sandison?” he asked, clutching nervous hands behind his back.

“Range to target is eleven thousand yards,” Bernie replied, his voice strained.

“Very well.”

Together they waited in silence with the others as the range wound down. Even as it did, the battle cruiser began raining destruction on Big Sal, but not a single shot was fired in Mahan’s direction.

“Eight thousand yards,” Sandison announced.

Jim Ellis stopped his pacing and took a deep breath. “Come left, zero eight zero,” he instructed the Lemurian helmsman.

“My course zero eight zero,” announced the ’Cat after a few moments’ pause.

“God be with us,” whispered Jim, and then he spoke aloud: “You may fire your torpedo, Mr. Sandison.”

With a shudder they felt through the ship itself, and a muffled whumpchuff! , the MK-10 torpedo leaped into the air, surrounded by a shroud of smoke and steam. The fires of the city cast an angry red glare on the burnished metal body, and an instant later the weapon was swallowed by the choppy sea flowing beside the ship. A gush of bubbles rose to the surface, barely visible in the gloom, as the torpedo accelerated toward its target. Just like that, they’d cast the final die. Now all they could do was wait until they rolled to a stop to see what the numbers were.

“Ahead full. Left full rudder! We’ll wiggle around a little until we know whether they noticed the impulse charge.” As the ship came about, Jim moved to the port wing and raised his glasses. First he looked aft, making sure the sharp turn wasn’t too much for the launch to follow; then he looked to Amagi as she appeared aft, beyond the funnels.

“Rudder amidships!” he called. Amagi was still clearly outlined, still busy with her terrible work. She’d taken no notice of what transpired to port. Jim focused the glasses more carefully, then clenched them in his hands.

“No!” he moaned. A Grik ship was slowly creeping up alongside Amagi, the black outline of its masts and sails beginning to obscure the stern of the Japanese ship. “How deep is that fish?” he shouted across the pilothouse. Sandison looked up in alarm and raced to his side.

“Ten feet, more or less.”

“Shit!” Everyone on the bridge was startled by Ellis’s uncharacteristic profanity.

“What?” Bernie asked, then he saw it too. The Grik ship was almost directly abeam of Amagi now. “Maybe it’ll pass under?” he said anxiously.

“Not a chance! Revenge drew thirteen feet, and they’re all about the same!” Jim didn’t stop to consider that, without her guns, the captured ship had drawn only slightly less than nine feet of water. The ship between Amagi and the torpedo was packed with hundreds of warriors, however. In the end, it didn’t make any difference. A brightly luminescent column of water snapped the Grik vessel in half, lifting the stern high in the air. The bow section was already half-submerged when the shattered stern crashed down upon it. A loud, muffled boom reached them across the distance, almost drowned by Amagi’s next salvo. Jim turned to the helmsman and snarled: “Come about!”

Keje was sitting on his beloved wooden stool, which someone had brought to him when an enormous splinter of wood slashed his leg. He was still on the rampart—what was left of it—and expected that he had only minutes to live. The Grik had made no real attempt to board Big Sal as yet; they were too preoccupied trying to break through the wall, and it even looked like they’d succeeded at a couple of points. Amagi had made that possible by knocking the wall flat. Somehow the Jaaps must have known they’d been successful and the ensuing salvos were only slaughtering their allies. That was when the mighty guns became devoted to demolishing Keje’s Home.

Keje had never seen Amagi before this night, and he’d been simply incapable of imagining her power. He knew the Amer-i-caans were afraid of her, and that had given him pause. Because of that he’d known, intellectually, that the Japanese ship was a threat. But deep down, he realized now, he’d really had no idea. They’d been fools to stay and try to resist it! Fools. Cap-i-taan Reddy tried to warn them—to explain what they faced. But he’d been willing to stay and fight, and that had given them heart. Surely it couldn’t be that bad? Keje now knew it was. He’d stayed out of pride and disbelieving ignorance. Friendship too, and a sense of duty to his people, but mostly because he hadn’t truly known.

Alone, perhaps, among all the People now engaged in this apparently losing fight, Cap-i-taan Reddy and his Amer-i-caans had truly known what they faced. But instead of running, they’d elected to stay and defend their ignorant friends. Now, just as Salissa Home lay helpless under Amagi’s onslaught, Walker lay helpless and burning out in the bay. Keje had no idea what had happened to Mahan, but he suspected the explosion beyond Amagi was probably the result of the weapon she’d been sent to deploy. If that was the case, all was truly lost, and he felt a terrible grief for his friends and his people. Some might get away through the jungle to the east, and perhaps Mahan might yet escape. But for Salissa and her little sister Walker, who’d come to her aid so long ago, Keje was convinced this would be their final fight. Fire blossomed once more from end to end of the massive enemy ship, and he listened to the shells approach. A sudden calm overcame him. At least he’d die with his ship. He hoped the souls of the destroyermen would find their way to wherever it was they belonged, but he also hoped he’d be able to thank them first—and tell them farewell.

Matt closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew instinctively that the explosion had been no mine. It was too coincidental and the setup too perfect. He was convinced Mahan had made her attack and the Grik ship blundered into the torpedo’s path.

“Any reaction from the Japs?”

“No, sir. A searchlight came on for a few seconds and scanned the water close aboard; then it went out. They must think it was a mine.” Like all of them, Reynolds didn’t want to admit their last chance was gone. Then he stiffened, listening to his headset. “We got steam!” he suddenly shouted excitedly. “Spanky—I mean Mr. McFarlane—just reported that they finally managed to make their way to the valve and shut it off! Steam pressure’s coming up, and so’s the water pressure in the mains!”

“What’s the steam pressure?”

“Eighty-five, sir, but coming up fast.”

“Very well. What’s the status on the amidships guns?”

“Unknown, Skipper. It’s still too hot to get up there. None of the ammunition’s cooked off, though, so the damage may not be too bad.”

“Very well. Ask Spanky to report when he’s ready to move.”

Thirty minutes later Reynolds announced: “Pressure’s up to a hundred and ten. We can move, but just don’t goose her . . . Lieutenant McFarlane says.”

“Right full rudder, starboard engine ahead slow, port, slow astern,” Matt commanded by way of response. “If the Japs are still looking at us, let’s make ’em think we’re just floating in circles,” he explained.

Chief Gray reappeared on the bridge, looking even worse than before. This time his hands were bundled in rags, and he raised them up and shrugged when he caught the captain’s glance. “Damn valve wheel was hot.” Walker groaned beneath their feet as she began her turn. “You asked for a casualty report,” he said, and Matt nodded. “Four men and nine ’Cats dead. Most of the ’Cats were in the forward fireroom. There’re also eleven more with major and minor burns. Some real minor, countin’ me.”

“The men?”

Gray let out a breath. “Mertz, Elden, Hobbs, and Yarbrough. Mertz was tryin’ to make sandwiches for us.” He snorted. “The galley’s wrecked again and the refrigerator too, this time.”

“Where was Lanier?”

“In the head. That must be his battle station.”

Matt nodded sadly. The list was likely to get longer soon. He watched as the bow slowly came around. He could see Amagi now, dark and malignant. The flashes of her guns left bright red blobs across his vision. A new fire burned fiercely near the dock, and he could see the battle cruiser had turned her wrath on Big Sal. He felt a white-hot fist clutch his chest. “Left standard rudder. All ahead full! Gunners to the amidships platform, if they’re able. Torpedo mount number one, prepare to fire impulse charges! Maybe that’ll shake them up!”

Walker heaved against the unaccustomed weight of the flooded fireroom, but sluggishly she gathered speed. The heat from aft began to ease, now that they were steering into the wind, and a refreshing breeze circulated inside the pilothouse, scouring away the acrid smoke. Matt looked at Chief Gray, standing beside him. Both knew this was the end, but there was nothing left for them.

Gray grinned. “It’s been an honor, Skipper. A strange honor, but . . .” He shrugged. “I always knew we’d make an Asiatic Fleet destroyerman out of you, and we damn sure did.”

“Thanks, Chief.” Matt smiled. Then he raised his voice so the rest could hear. “Thank you all.” He turned. “Reynolds, inform Mr. Garrett he may comm . . .” He stopped, looking out across the fo’c’sle. A blizzard of fire and tracers suddenly arced out into the night from Amagi’s port-side secondary armament. The Japanese must have spotted Mahan. Maybe Jim had made the same decision he had. “Commence firing!”

The salvo buzzer rang, but there was only a single report, and a lone tracer arced toward the enemy from the number one gun. They were almost bow-on to Amagi, and just like during their first meeting, if Walker could get close enough, there was little the Japanese could engage her with from that angle. Some of the heavy antiaircraft emplacements situated high on the superstructure could tear them apart, but so far they were silent. Perhaps they’d been hit during the earlier fight? The ten-inch guns were still trained to starboard, but for the moment they weren’t firing. Just about everything on the port side was, however, and there were a series of explosions in the sea much closer to Amagi than they’d expected.

“Send a final signal to HQ. Tell them . . .” In his mind Matt saw an image of Sandra Tucker: her sad, pretty face looking up into his as he held her in his arms, tears reflecting the lights of the city that now lay in flaming ruin off the port bow. He shuddered at the thought of all the promise that was lost. He hoped Alan and Karen would survive, and somehow find happiness. “Tell our friends we love them all. God bless.”

Walker’s deck rumbled as she increased speed, and the buzzer rang again. Amagi’s foremost turret had begun to traverse in their direction. Wham! The number one gun was rewarded with an impact near the enemy’s bridge. One of Amagi’s port-side searchlights flickered on again, and the beam stabbed down at the water. Matt was amazed to see Mahan’s riddled, smoking form illuminated less than four hundred yards from the Japanese ship. Incredibly, a tongue of fire spat from the gun on her exposed foredeck. An almost panicky fusillade churned the sea around the old four-stacker, but few shells were hitting her now. The unsuspected second destroyer had appeared so shockingly close, the gunners were taken completely by surprise. If she could make it just a little farther, she’d be beneath all but Amagi’s highest guns. If there was a single blessing in all this, powerful as she was, Amagi hadn’t been designed for a knife fight.

Mahan was low by the bow, and smoke gushed from a hundred wounds. Her bridge was a gutted wreck, and yet some hand must still be guiding her, because she forged relentlessly ahead, unerringly aimed at Amagi’s side. Matt turned his attention back to the battle cruiser. In that instant the sky lit up in front of him, and Walker was tossed into the air like a dog would toss a stick. She came back down with a sickening lurch, and a towering column of water cascaded down upon the foredeck. There was another brilliant flash, and the next thing Matt knew he was facedown on the wooden strakes of the pilothouse, covered with broken glass.

His nose felt as if it had been pushed inside his face, and his lips were hot with the taste of blood. He struggled to his feet and shook his head. His hearing was totally gone except for a high-pitched, ringing buzz that sounded just like the salvo alarm. He couldn’t focus his vision through the smoke filling the pilothouse and the tears in his eyes. For a moment he thought he was alone, because there was no movement whatsoever around him. Wiping desperately at his face with a suddenly dark and tattered sleeve, he finally saw Norman Kutas trying to rise and resume his post at the wheel. Kutas had blood running from his ears. Matt helped him up, and saw his mouth moving in the flickering light, but couldn’t hear what he said. He glanced behind him and saw Reynolds was up, but dazed. Gray was sitting on the deck beside the unmoving form of a ’Cat. Two other men were still down as well. Matt looked through the window.

They were much closer to Amagi now. They’d made it under her main battery—which simply couldn’t depress enough to fire at Walker anymore. They were still racing through a forest of smaller splashes from Amagi’s secondaries, however. Matt felt the staccato drumming as tracers probed for Walker’s bridge. He wondered why the number one gun was no longer firing and looked down at the fo’c’sle. A long, deep gouge began near the small anchor crane forward, and sprouted into a gaping, jagged hole just in front of the gun. One ’Cat was crawling around on her hands and knees, but the rest of the crew was just . . . gone. Then he saw Dennis Silva’s unmistakable form, closely followed by another man and two ’Cats, dash through the sleeting tracers and duck behind the dubious protection of the gun’s splinter shield. Each had a pair of shells under their arms.

A 5.5-inch shell exploded against the tall foremast behind and above their heads. With a tortured shriek of tearing steel and the high-pitched wail of the lookout, the whole thing crashed into the sea to starboard. Still secured by a twisted spiderweb of cables and stays, it began pounding against the hull. Two more heavy blows aft pitched Matt forward against his chair. Distractedly, he thought either his hearing was better or the explosions were very loud. Reynolds had recovered himself and was screaming into his microphone in frustration, apparently getting no response. The number one gun fired.

Gray was up now, pointing through the shattered windows. His mouth was moving in a shout, and Matt thought he heard the word “Mahan.”

“Enemy destroyer off the port beam, sir! Closing fast!” came the alarmed reply.

“But . . .” Beyond that, he couldn’t speak. The American destroyer was in front of them! It was still burning—although it did seem to be moving now. . . .

Sato Okada seared him with an expression of utter contempt. “Surface action, port!” he shouted. “Commence firing, all guns, commence firing!”

Ahead of them, Walker had completed her turn. Her bow lit with the flash of her number one gun, and an instant later the forward part of the bridge near the helm exploded in upon them with a terrific blast and a searing ball of flame. From where he lay on the debris-strewn deck, Sato heard Kaufman’s gleeful laugh.

He clenched his teeth against the pain and tried to rise once more. To his surprise, he felt a pair of hands under his arms, helping him to his feet.

“You go!” came an urgent, heavily accented voice. “Go, go! Time . . . small!” Jim shook his head, amazed by how quiet it suddenly seemed. The blower still roared behind him, but the shooting had all but stopped. There was a great rumbling, crunching sound forward, as Mahan still drove against the side of the Japanese ship.

“I can’t go. I have a job to finish!”

The Lemurian fixed him with intense, desperate eyes, and Jim suddenly realized who it was. “I do!” said Saak-Fas. “I help make ready! I know, I . . . do!” The Lemurian straightened to his full height. “I need do!”

Jim looked at him, but it was hard to see through the darkness and the blood running in his eyes. “It’s my ship. My responsibility,” he gasped. The ’Cat gestured to a form on deck. It moaned.

“ ’Spons-baal-tee?”

Torn, Jim could only stand rooted to the deck. He felt it beginning to settle. Suddenly the Lemurian blinked and began making his way to the ladder at the back of the pilothouse. “I do! No time!” With that, he disappeared down the ladder. Realizing he had no choice, Jim staggered to Bernard Sandison, lying in a pool of blood, and began dragging him toward the ladder.

He’d rarely been in the water before, except for baths of course. Other than surf, he’d never stood in seawater up to his waist. That just wasn’t done. He felt a chill at the thought that some flasher fish might somehow have wriggled into the ship, but he knew it was unlikely. Most of the holes were probably too small, and besides, it was after dark. He stopped at the entrance to the passageway and looked inside with a sense of growing peace. The ordeal he’d suffered at the hands of the Grik still tortured him. He’d fought to suppress the terror, the agony of that experience, knowing that somehow, if he did, the Heavens would reward him with the opportunity now at hand.

It had been so hard at times, the added misery he heaped upon himself. The rejection of his beloved Selass, his self-imposed isolation from his people. But everything he did to torment himself further had helped create the buffer that now existed between his mind and the real pain and lingering terror that threatened to drive him mad. He’d passed the ultimate test, and now the reward was near. He looked fondly at the twelve half-submerged depth charges jumbled in the passageway by the collision. He smiled at the feeling of unaccustomed happiness that slowly filled his being. He’d savor the short additional time he’d give the Amer-i-caan, Ellis, to try to get clear. Then he’d strike a mighty blow against the hated Grik and finally end his agony in the same, glorious instant.

With a wild, triumphant, hissing roar, like the sound of heavy surf pounding against the rocks, a densely packed mass of Grik sent them reeling back. A wedge was driven between the intermingled First and Fifth Baalkpan on the left, and Company B, First Marines, and the Humfra-Dars on the right. What ensued was a wild melee like nothing Pete had yet seen since the long, long battle began.

Bellows of rage and screams of agony intermixed with the harsh clanging of weapon on weapon and shield on shield. The terrifying jaws and sickle-shaped Grik swords and claws slashed and tore and hacked their way through the line, while the defenders did their best to close the gap. Inexorably, the line peeled away from the break as the defenders tried, instinctively, to re-fuse their new flanks, and the Grik pressed even harder. Pete had a sick, sinking feeling in his gut, and he could almost see the entire line rolling up from within, and marauding, slaughtering Grik surging unopposed through the city pathways. The end of everything was as clear before him as if it had already happened.

Suddenly the ripping sound of a light machine gun, one of Mahan’s .30’s most likely, chattered above the seething, shrieking mass. Then came the stutter of a Thompson, then two. Soon a steady crackle of rifle fire joined in. Chack must have committed his rifle company at last. Alden remembered his last conversation with the remarkable young Lemurian, and he only hoped he hadn’t waited too long after all. For just an instant, the Grik penetration hesitated, confused.

With a wild, high-pitched squall like hundreds of maddened cats, and shouts of “B’mbaado! B’mbaado!” Queen Maraan’s personal guard, with their silver sunbursts on jet-black shields, rose from behind the low secondary redoubt and slammed into the teetering Grik with a berserk frenzy. Without hesitation Pete joined the charge, emptying his automatic pistol almost as fast as he could slide magazines into it. His staff joined in, swinging their swords. The counterattacking force was far smaller than the enemy breakthrough, but the effect of the attack was all out of proportion to the numbers involved. The Grik staggered back, away from the devastating blow. Those directly at the point of contact turned to flee in wild-eyed panic. Finding their escape blocked by those behind them, they turned their weapons on their comrades—even as they were cut down from behind.

Pete watched in dumbfounded amazement as the catastrophic breakthrough degenerated into another kind of catastrophe—for the Grik. The battle to escape became a real battle, Grik on Grik, as those caught within the Baalkpan defenses fought against those still trying to get in. Because they were sandwiched between their own kind and the frenzied defenders, the breakthrough was quickly exterminated. And yet . . . something of what happened within the wall seemed to take hold beyond it. A small nucleus of panicked warriors had escaped destruction and continued fighting their way through the press. The entire attack ground to a halt while the situation in front of the breach sorted itself out.

Queen Maraan appeared beside him to his right, looking over the wall. She was panting heavily, bloody sword in hand. “It looked like we would break them for a moment, just as we did at Aryaal,” she gasped. “It’s like they cannot comprehend defense. If they are not attacking, they are losing.” She shrugged. “But they are so many.”

Pete stared at her, struck by sudden inspiration. He hadn’t been at the Battle of Aryaal, and hadn’t seen what she had. In the heat of battle, he’d completely forgotten Bradford’s crackpot theory. Then, over her head, and far out in the bay where the flashes of Amagi’s guns had become so common, there was another mighty flash, much bigger than the others. A sheet of fire vomited into the sky, and Amagi’s stricken silhouette was at the very heart of the massive plume. Many others saw it too, on both sides, and the fighting became almost desultory as thousands of heads turned toward the bay. The noise of the explosion, when it came, was fantastic. Not so much in actual sound, though it was great, but in the sense of size and power it represented over such a great distance.

“My God!” shouted Pete. “It worked! That God-damn, idiotic, torpedo stunt worked!” An enormous, rising, thunderous cheer built throughout the city. “It worked!” screamed Pete again as he turned back to look at the stunned sea of Grik. If there was any chance Bradford was right, now was the time to find out. “Push them!” he bellowed. “Push them back! Up and at ’em!” He holstered his pistol and unslung his Springfield. “The army will advance!”

“I want a report from Spanky now!” he shouted.

“I’m trying, Skipper!” The young seaman looked close to tears. “I can’t get through! I can’t get anything!”

“I’ll find out, Captain!” Gray shouted back, as he helped the blinded, moaning helmsman down the ladder. Matt looked back at Amagi. A giant towering mushroom of fire and smoke was still rising and expanding into the dark, hazy sky. At the base of that pyre would be Mahan’s shattered remains.

“My God.”

He was thankful he couldn’t see Mahan, as Walker ranged down Amagi’s opposite side. The battle cruiser was beginning to list heavily to port, and a wide strip of red bottom paint was rising into the light of the burning city. They’d make sure, Matt grimly determined, although he couldn’t imagine anyone on Mahan having survived. A dreadful, heavy sadness descended upon him when he remembered Mahan’s farewell the night before. Jim must have been planning this all along, and never said a word. He continued Walker’s slow turn to port, and when Leo Davis appeared and relieved him at the wheel, Matt told him to steer around to the other side of the Japanese ship.

Amagi was engulfed in flames, from just aft of her funnel where Mahan struck, all the way to her number four turret. Japanese sailors scurried madly about her decks, dragging hoses and directing streams of water onto the conflagration. Some were removing covers from her lifeboats. Clearly her crew was concerned with more important matters than the battered, smoldering destroyer describing a wide, decrepit turn off her starboard side. It never even occurred to Matt that she wasn’t finished yet.

Spanky himself staggered onto the bridge, looking even worse than the chief. Most of his hair was gone, and his skin looked purple and angry. His clothes were a uniform dark gray from the soot and oil that stained them. He wiped his face with his hat.

“I didn’t mean to take you from your work, Spanky,” Matt told him. “Gray could’ve brought the word.”

“Not this word, Skipper,” he said, looking down at the deck. Then he raised his scorched face to Matt’s and looked him in the eye. “We’re gonna lose the ship.” He spoke the words quietly, but they had the effect of a shouted curse. “The forward engine room’s flooding, and we can’t keep ahead of it in the aft fireroom much longer.” He sighed. “Hell, there’s flooding everywhere. The pumps are overwhelmed. Those last two five-and-a-half’s opened us up like a sardine can, aft. You don’t even want to know what that ten-incher did to us belowdecks.”

“How long does she have?” Matt asked him stiffly.

“Couple hours. Maybe three, if nobody shoots any more holes in her. Most of the leaks aren’t too bad, but they’re everywhere.” He shook his head. “She’s just had enough. We got maybe an hour and a half left for the engines, but after that she’s gonna go fast.”

Matt slowly nodded, and tried to keep his voice under control. “Thanks, Spanky. Stretch it out as long as you can. I’ll try to get some shallow water under her before she goes down.” He looked out through the bridge windows. Davis had glanced over his shoulder to listen to the conversation and saw the sudden surprise on the captain’s face. He quickly turned back to the front. When they brought the ship about, she should have passed far ahead of the sinking battle cruiser. Now he could see they were headed almost directly at her, and her bow was now reaching for the west. Davis broke the stunned silence himself.

“Holy Toledo! The Japs are underway!” He pounded the wheel under his hands. “They can’t do that!” As if in answer to his protest, a stream of tracers marched toward the ship. On the fo’c’sle, Silva opened fire without even waiting for orders.

Across the corpse-choked moat and onto the open plain beyond, the defenders-turned-attackers kept up the unrelenting pressure while somehow, miraculously, maintaining a semblance of shield-wall integrity. The discipline and careful training Alden had insisted on was paying off. Even so, the advance began to slow. The troops were exhausted after the long fight, and the exertion of just climbing over bodies so they could keep slaughtering Grik began to tell. The thousands who fled were being killed by both sides, and the unrouted mass behind them began to move forward bit by bit. The charge finally ground to a halt, and then it was like the field of Aryaal again in yet another way: both battle lines stood in the open without support or protection, and in that situation, the overwhelming numbers of the enemy began to swing the tide back.

Alden slashed with his rifle, butt-stroking and stabbing with the bayonet, as he’d demonstrated so many times on the drill field. His pistol was empty and he had no more ammunition. Before him was a scene from a nightmare hell. Gnashing teeth, slashing weapons, and high-pitched shrieks of pain punctuated the rumbling roar of shields grinding together. The damp earth at his feet had been churned into a bloody, viscous slurry, and the only traction afforded to those holding the shield wall were the mushy mounds of unrecognizable gore half-submerged in the ooze. The frothing, working mass of Grik beyond the shields were illuminated by a red, flickering light from the fires—adding to the unreal, otherworldly aspect of the battle. Chack almost stumbled past him, shouting his name, and Pete grabbed him by the arm. “Where’s the rifle company?” he shouted.

“The machine guns are empty, and I ordered the others to stay on the wall. They’re of little use in this type of fight. If all had bayonets it might be different. . . .”

“Never mind. You did right. Have them prepare to cover our withdrawal. I’m going to try to pull back to the wall.”

“It will be risky. The enemy will sense victory and strike even harder.”

“I know, but that’s all there is. We can’t move forward and we can’t stay here. There’re just too damn many.” Chack blinked reluctant agreement. He turned to run back to the wall and prepare his troops. Then he stopped. Alden looked in the direction he faced and was stunned to see hundreds of Lemurians pouring over the wall and racing over the ground he’d been preparing to yield. More than hundreds, perhaps a few thousand in all, and he had no idea where they’d come from. There simply were no more reserves. Then he saw the proud regimental flags whipping in the breeze as their bearers crossed the wall in the wake of the charge. The Second Aryaal, the Second B’mbaado, and the Third Baalkpan were three he recognized. All were “veteran” units that had been deployed in defense of the shipyard and the north wall.

Screaming their rage, they streamed across the abattoir and surged directly into the faltering line. The weight of their unexpected charge carried the entire shield wall forward into the face of the enemy, and once again there was a distinct change in the Grik. Once again those facing the added spears turned on those behind them, slashing and screaming in panic, and slaying their unprepared comrades before they had a chance to even realize what had happened. The rout began to grow, and the air of terror was even greater this time. As the shield wall churned forward again, it became apparent that many Grik still fighting bore the same wild-eyed expressions as those trying to get away. Something was pushing them from behind, just as the reinforced attack was driving them back. Almost as if it shared a single collective awareness, the entire host suddenly shifted in the one direction it perceived safety might still be found: toward the sea.

What began as a steadily growing tendency to move west quickly built into a panicked rush. Soon the horde of Grik was flowing past the shield wall from left to right with the unstoppable chaotic urgency of a massive, flooding river. Spears continued to slay them as they hurried past, but there was no reaction from those around the victims except, perhaps, to quicken their pace. It was shocking and amazing and dreadful all at once, and a vague cheer began to build as Alden’s troops realized that this time there’d be no stopping the rout. Whatever force enabled the Grik to operate with some semblance of cooperation, cunning, and courage had disappeared just as surely as if the strings of a marionette had been cut.

The cheering grew frenzied when the flag of the Second Marines resolved itself in the flickering gloom beyond the raging torrent of Grik.

“It’s Shinya! Shinya!” came a gleeful shout at Alden’s side. He turned and saw Alan Letts actually jumping up and down and waving his arms in the air. His hat was gone and his red hair was plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. Mud spattered in all directions as he capered. Pete grinned happily at Letts’s enthusiasm, and his unexpected presence. He was obviously right. Somehow the force in Fort Atkinson they’d feared was doomed had managed to break out and attack the enemy in the rear. Not only that, but they’d timed it just about perfectly as well. Now it looked like it would be only a matter of minutes before the forces were reunited, as what once had been the Grik right fled between them.

“Where the hell did you come from?” Alden asked the ecstatic Letts.

“After the Japs pounded the Great Hall, there was something wrong with Nakja-Mur, so we carried him to the hospital.” He shook his head. “It looked like everything was falling apart. The lizards broke through on the waterfront, and some are even roaming through the city.” He sobered. “Big Sal got pasted. I don’t know if there’s anybody left alive. Anyway, I sent runners to fetch every regiment not actually engaged. Stripped everything, and had them converge on the parade ground.” He grinned. “Then when Amagi blew up, the lizard breakthrough just fell apart. We charged them, and most went scurrying back to their ships!” He laughed gleefully. “The ships’re all hard aground, and the surviving gunners on the harbor wall are feedin’ the fish with ’em right now! Anyway, we left them with it, and hurried here as fast as we could.” He winked. “Good thing too.”

“No foolin’!” Pete looked at Chack. “As soon as we link up with the ‘lost garrison,’ we’ll continue to press the enemy! We’ll sweep those bastards right into the sea!”

For a moment Chack just stood there, amazed. The Grik that fled before them still outnumbered them by a very large margin. And yet, somehow, they were no longer even warriors. They’d become more like the skuggiks they slightly resembled: dangerous individually, but no more capable of concerted action, and no longer a threat to the city. Many would still die destroying what was left when the army swept forward to finish them, but he agreed completely with Alden’s intent to do it now while the panic was fresh. He didn’t know if “Grik Rout” would ever fade from such an acute state; they’d never again seen any of the Grik that fled before Aryaal. Nevertheless, they couldn’t take any chance it might, and besides, the combined defenders of Baalkpan deserved the slaughter that had been given them.

“It’s hard to believe it’s almost over,” he said at last. Then he ran to detail a runner to make contact with Shinya.

“Almost over,” Letts repeated happily; then his smile faded. Out on the water he could see the flames of the battle cruiser, but she wasn’t where she’d been before. She was creeping toward the mouth of the bay. Behind her, moving just as slowly, was another, smaller ship, also burning. Tracers arced back and forth between them. Was that Walker or Mahan? He couldn’t tell in the dark. Whichever it was, it wasn’t over for her. With a hurried word to Alden, he raced back toward the city.

Walker had found a seemingly magical place directly astern of Amagi, where the battle cruiser could bring nothing heavier than light, fixed, or handheld machine guns to bear on the battered destroyer that dogged her. The problem was, that was all she needed. Walker’s bridge and foredeck were a bullet-riddled wreck. Only one of her machine guns still spoke from the fire-control platform, manned by Lieutenant Garrett alone. A steady stream of replacements ran to the number one gun, as those crewing it were killed or wounded. Only Dennis Silva remained of the original four who got it back in action, and he was wounded in a dozen places. Still he stood there, drenched in blood, directing the gun at the retreating ship. An occasional stream of yellow “tobacco” juice arced onto the deck. The shots he fired were few and far between, however. There couldn’t be more than half a dozen AP shells left on the entire ship, and those were mainly scattered on the wrecked aft deckhouse, where the number four gun had been knocked out by that last 5.5-inch shell. They had to be found and carried forward the length of the ship.

On the bridge, Leo Davis was dead, hit above the left eye by a ricochet. The ’Cat who’d replaced him at the helm was also down. Matt now stood there alone, crouched low behind the thin bulwark and the upright compass housing. Communications were cut off throughout most of the ship, and Reynolds was effectively out of it, yet he stayed on the bridge, curled in a fetal position against the chart house bulkhead, still trying to raise the ship’s various compartments. They’d heard only by word of mouth that the auxiliary conning station, aft, was destroyed. Its crew—including Larry Dowden—had never known what hit them. Matt mourned Larry, and all the others lost this night. If there was a later, he’d mourn them properly, but without the auxiliary conn, somebody had to steer from the pilothouse. And so it was there, on Walker’s bridge, that Matt played tag with the devil.

With the loss of the foremast, the radio was out, and Clancy had been ordered to remove it and place it in the whaleboat—the only boat left. The launch was a shattered wreck, and the other launch never returned from searching for survivors of the PBY. Of course, they’d been steaming at high speed ever since it left. Maybe it was still out there somewhere, vainly trying to catch them.

An intermittent pounding, metallic drumming, came from the front of the pilothouse where bullets struck, but the enemy fire had begun to slacken. Matt saw Spanky crawling across the strakes from the ladders. He was bleeding and seemed disoriented. Matt risked a peek out the window to make sure their position relative to Amagi was unchanged. His hat had been snatched off his head during a recent similar check. “Are you all right?” he shouted.

McFarlane shook his head. “I’m shot, God damn it. How’re you?”

The captain almost laughed. “Nothing, would you believe it?” A throbbing pain resurfaced. “Busted nose, a few scratches,” he amended. “How’s she holding up?”

“The bow’s a sieve, and she’s down four feet by the head. I just came from there. A Jap bullet came through the goddamn hull and got me in the goddamn ass! Everybody’s out of the aft fireroom but the Mice, and they’re in water up to their shins. If we don’t head for shore right damn now, the fish’ll get us all!”

Matt nodded, but at the same time he knew he couldn’t give up. Amagi might be finished—Walker certainly was—but as long as the battle cruiser was afloat, she was a threat. He couldn’t break off before the task was done—not as long as they had a single shell for the number one gun. It had to end here, now. If Amagi got away and somehow survived, Baalkpan would never survive her eventual return. Worse than that, the sacrifice of all those who’d died and suffered this long day and night would have been for nothing.

“Soon,” Matt promised. “We’ll break off soon.”

Machine-gun bullets still rattled off the splinter shield, but only a few. It was as if the Japanese sailors knew Walker had done her worst, and had nothing left to throw at them. They were going to get away.

“Mr. Silva!” came a cry behind him, and he whirled in shock. Through the warped, twisted hatch on the starboard front angle of the superstructure appeared a small girl and a striped lizard.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he choked. “Goddamn, there’s bullets and bombs . . . and we’re fixin’ to sink! Get your stupid asses under cover, for crissakes!”

Rebecca looked at her companion. “Well, Lawrence, clearly we’re not wanted, and apparently they don’t need this as badly as we thought—with everyone running around looking for them!” It was only then that Silva realized the small girl and large, but still sore lizard were struggling with a heavy, four-inch-fifty shell suspended between them.

Torn, he glanced at the retreating battle cruiser. For the moment the incoming fire had stopped completely. Maybe the enemy gunner was out of ammunition—or he’d simply given up. “Shit!” he groaned disgustedly. “Gimme that; then get the hell outta here!” He sprinted across the blood-slick deck to meet them. “Let me guess: Lieutenant Tucker still thinks you’re with O’Casey and vicey-versey?”

“I tried to sto’ her,” Lawrence announced virtuously, but the girl only grinned.

“My safety is still primarily your responsibility, Mr. Silva. I have no control over assumptions others might make,” Rebecca stated sternly. “Besides, whether they like it or not, or even know it, my people must be represented in this fight!”

“Skipper’s gonna kill me,” Silva muttered with absolute certainty, taking the shell in his massive hands. He noticed with a sinking feeling that it was high-explosive. “Here,” he said, resignedly, handing it to the loader, “let’s make it count!” He glared back at the girl. “I’ve pulled some stupid stunts, but this . . . at least get behind the splinter shield!”

Rebecca’s grin faded. “Your eye!”

“Just a scratch.” Silva turned to Pack Rat, the Lemurian pointer. “Well? Quit screwin’ around, and let ’em have it!”

“You gonna aim for us?” Pack Rat cried sarcastically. His gunners were all Lemurians, too short to look through the sight and push the trigger pedal too. They could elevate and traverse if he guided them, though. He was positive just a few more rounds would finish Amagi, but they just didn’t have them. A single HE shell wouldn’t make much difference.

“Yeah, if somebody’ll load the goddamn thing!” he growled disgustedly. It was then that he saw his trainer was down. “Hey . . . Lawrence! Get your stripey ass on the training wheel!”

Lawrence’s jaw went slack. “Trainer? I?”

“Yeah, trainer, you! Step on it!”

The breech slammed shut, and Silva squinted with his good eye through the telescopic sight mounted on the left side of the gun. Only the smallest part of his consciousness even noticed when a tiny hand squirmed its way into his clenched, bloody fist.

“Port a little,” he crooned, “port . . . port . . . Good! Up, up . . . Good. Shit! Stop when I say ‘good,’ damn you! Down . . . Good!” He stepped aside. “Fire!” Pack Rat stomped on the pedal. The gun barked and recoiled backward, but Silva was watching the tracer. It struck right in the middle of the gaping hole aft, and he thought he saw a brief flash deep inside the ship.

“A hit!” Rebecca cried excitedly.

“Woop-te-do. Might as well throw hand grenades at the bastard,” Silva explained dejectedly. “Well, that’s that,” he said, squeezing Rebecca’s hand before letting it go. Suddenly he hurt all over, and he was sick inside as well. “Beat feet back to the pilothouse. There’s no sense standing around and getting shot if we ain’t got no more bullets! I’ll tell the captain we’re dry.” He started to turn.

“Silva, look!” Pack Rat shouted. Dennis did. Amagi was suddenly leaning a little farther to port and veering hard right.

“What the hell?” he murmured. “Maybe we hit her steering engine or something?” Whether that was the case, or Amagi had simply tired of the dog yapping at her heels and decided to present her remaining broadside of secondary guns and destroy the nuisance that tasked her, Silva had no idea. He knew the latter would be the result, however, and Walker heeled as the captain saw it too. Sluggishly, Walker turned hard a’port, but her grace and quickness were gone. The short delay was just enough to put her at a disadvantage, and there was nothing she could do. Silva clutched the girl to his side and braced himself for the final fusillade, while Amagi continued her sharp turn, out of the main channel, and into the prepared lane they’d left the day before. She was drawing considerably more water this time when she passed directly over the MK-6 magnetic exploder—and the cluster of depth charges it was anchored to.

The sea convulsed around her, just under the number two turret, and her entire bow heaved up upon the gigantic swelling of foam. Then a geyser of spray erupted forth and completely inundated the forward half of the ship. There was very little flash, but the sound of the blast was enormous. Amagi collapsed into the hole the charges left in the water, the sea closing over the bow before it shuddered back to the surface like a submarine. Only now, it was . . . crooked . . . somehow. The outline of the ship had visibly changed, and even as they watched, it contorted still more. Water surged near the base of the forward superstructure, but there was red paint visible beneath her pointed bow.

“Broke her goddamn back!” Silva bellowed. “I knew it would work!” Pack Rat looked at him incredulously, and Rebecca threw her arms around his waist.

“Nooooo!”

He didn’t recognize the cry that escaped his lips. It was primordial. Staggering to his feet, he looked about. All the windows were smashed, and sparks fell like fiery rain from shorted conduits on the overhead. The flames that engulfed his ship aft boiled to unprecedented heights—then began to subside. The tilt of the deck was becoming more extreme. “No!” he shrieked again. The bridge seemed deserted of all but bodies. Those who’d left their posts would pay, he grimly swore. Then he saw movement on the blistered bridge wing. Still groggy, Kurokawa recognized the American, Kaufman, by his beard and skinny frame. The man was whooping with savage joy, even as the ship sank beneath him. Fumbling at his side, Kurokawa slipped the Nambu pistol from the leather holster and moved carefully across the sloping deck.

“This is the cost of your madness!” came a feeble shout from beneath the wreckage of the engine room telegraph. Without hesitation, Kurokawa snapped off a shot in the direction of the voice. He was rewarded by a moan of anguish. Looking closer, he peered into the sputtering darkness to see Sato Okada. Just as he thought. He leveled the pistol at the dark form and advanced.

“Your treachery has brought us to this, Commander.” His voice was almost calm, but his eyes bulged with maniacal fury. “My strategy to subvert the Grik, and ultimately have them serve us, would have succeeded in the end.” He straightened. “It will yet. They will win the battle and the ship will be saved. I will continue to serve the emperor in spite of you, wherever we are!” Carefully, he aimed the Nambu at an eye that seemed to glow in the darkness. “You won’t live to see it, however.” His finger tightened on the trigger.

More sparks seemed to pour from his eyes, and he crumpled under the force of a blow to the back of his head. He vaguely knew the pistol had fired again as he fell. Rolling over, he looked up in time to see his attacker. Skinny arms raised above his head, clutching a twisted piece of conduit, David Kaufman stood silhouetted against the burning night beyond the windows.

“Wait!” he cried, and to his amazement the man actually did. The final blow didn’t fall, and Kaufman stood gasping, waiting expectantly. Kurokawa shot him. With a roar of rage, Kaufman raised the pipe to strike, but the Nambu barked again and again, until the conduit clattered feebly against the deck beside Kurokawa’s head.

Kaufman was on his knees. “Goddamn sneaky Japs,” he murmured, and pitched forward onto his face.

Amagi groaned in agony, and Kurokawa quickly pointed the pistol at Okada, where he still lay trapped. “Where were we?” he asked.

“You were going to shoot me, but you can’t anymore. The magazine is empty.”

Kurokawa jerked the trigger, but nothing happened. Where did all the bullets go? “No matter!” he barked in frustration. “Your reprieve will be quite short, I assure you! As soon as the battle is over and the damage attended to, I’ll have you executed in disgrace!” There was a shuddering rumble deep within the ship, and Sato Okada began to laugh. “Silence, you fool!” Kurokawa raged.

Okada stopped laughing and just looked at him for a moment. “You are the fool, Captain. There will be no repairs!”

Great clouds of steam and smoke gushed skyward aft as the sea closed over the fires. A heavy detonation rumbled across the water, and soot and steam belched from the stack. Finally the savaged fantail disappeared from view with a tremendous, thundering gurgle of escaping air. Only then did a heartfelt cheer erupt from Walker’s survivors.

Finally! Matt thought. His entire body felt almost rubbery with relief. My God . . . Finally! He closed his eyes briefly in thanks. A few Grik ships frantically tacked past the smoldering wreck, headed for the Makassar Strait. Walker had nothing left to shoot at them.

Matt looked at his watch. “Oh two five eight, Mr. Reynolds. Please record it in the log.” He looked at Gray. “Now, if only things are going okay ashore,” he said grimly, watching the fleeing ships. It was impossible to tell if they were going to reinforce the landing in the south, or just running away. He had no idea if they were winning or losing the battle on land, and all of Baalkpan seemed to burn.

“Survivors?” Gray asked with distaste, gesturing at the boats in the water and the protruding pagoda. Matt shook his head.

“They’re fine for now,” he said. “If we take time to bring them aboard, they’ll just be in the water with us. How fast can we push her without putting too much stress on the forward bulkheads, Spanky?”

McFarlane seemed distracted, concentrating. “Six knots?” he hazarded. “Faster than that and you’ll drive her under. Slower and she’ll sink before we get there. I expect you’ll try to make it to the shipyard?”

Matt nodded sadly. “That’s my hope. I’ll angle her toward shore, though, just in case she doesn’t make it.”

He looked back at Amagi’s wreck as he spun the wheel for home. “I wish Jim could’ve seen this,” he said.

Jim and two ’Cats had dragged Sandison into the meager protection of the battered aft deckhouse before the huge explosion drove them to the deck. One of the ’Cats was blown over the side, but the other had been there to revive him. Still lying on the deck, Jim watched with stunned bitterness, and a profound sense of betrayal and futility, as Amagi began to steam out of the harbor in spite of her massive wound. He’d killed his ship, and who knew how many of her crew, for nothing. Then, to his bleary-eyed astonishment, he saw Walker giving chase.

He knew it was a pointless gesture, as futile as his own had been. Walker could never finish the monster with only her lonely number one gun, and clearly that was all she had left to fight with. Even so, in spite of his despair, he felt a thrill of pride. In the flickering light he saw that Walker’s foremast was down, but someone had removed the big flag and run it up to the top of the shorter mast, aft. It was scorched and torn, but it streamed with a stately, defiant grace. The sight brought tears to his eyes.

He staggered painfully to his feet with the Lemurians’ help, and stood unsteadily on the canted deck. The vibration of the engine had subsided at last, and the screw stopped thrashing at the water as it rose into the air. Far across the bay his friend pursued Amagi, an occasional flash from the four-inch gun amid the tracers proclaiming that, however hopeless, Walker was still in the fight.

The deck lurched beneath his feet. Mahan was going fast. He looked down at the unconscious torpedo officer and was grateful that Bernie wouldn’t suffer what was to come. He hugged the ’Cat supporting him tightly against his side.

“Cap’n Ellis!” came a cry. Jim whirled and caught a glimpse of a dull white reflection in the water alongside. It was the launch! There was movement aboard, and it was full of men and ’Cats. He’d forgotten all about it—other than a brief suspicion that it had been sunk by the blast.

“Mr. Steele? Is that you?” he cried.

“Aye, sir. Sorry it took so long to come back for you, but with that screw churnin’ up the water, we couldn’t get close. Better hurry, sir; the old girl’s goin’!”

“There’s a wounded man up here. Can you give us a hand?”

At that moment his dying ship lurched again, but almost before it registered, he heard a momentous blast. He jerked his head back to the south. Walker’s now distant shape was outlined by Amagi’s flames, and an enormous cataract of luminous water engulfing the enemy ship.

Wild cheering erupted in the launch, but Frankie Steele’s voice remained intent.

“Just slide him down the deck and we’ll take him on the boat, Cap’n.” He turned to the other occupants of the launch. “Shut up, you guys! I know it’s a hell of a thing, but we gotta save the skipper!”

With a final magical image of the sinking battle cruiser etched on his mind, Jim and the Lemurian pushed Sandison down the sloping deck, toward the rising water and waiting hands.

Across the cratered parade ground they ran, oblivious to the smoking ashes of the Great Hall and the blackened wreckage of the Sacred Tree, through throngs of celebrating People, and into the desolated trading sector. They finally emerged behind the battered seawall and stared in wonder and horror at the scene before them. It was like the very pit of hell. The colorful, cheerful ambience of the area was entirely gone. In its place was a gray, blood-washed ruin that must have resembled the Great War battlefields of France and Belgium. Bodies were everywhere, friend and foe, but the Grik corpses were beyond number. The earth behind the wall had been churned into a slush of gore, and the stench of death was overpowering. One of the huge cannons still poked through its embrasure, its exhausted crew leaning on it or lying nearby. They were covered in mud and blood, and their pelts were a uniform matted reddish brown. But their white teeth flashed incongruous grins as Sandra approached. They were alive, and they’d won.

She scrambled atop the wall, leaving the one-armed O’Casey struggling clumsily to join her. Beyond, the scene was even worse—if that was possible—except in this case almost all the dead were Grik. Forests of masts protruded from the water, and shattered hulks lay half-submerged against the docks. Fires burned out of control, and she saw some of the enemy still dying even now, writhing in the flames or cringing in parts of the ships not yet burning. Past the dock, and a little to the right, lay the massive sunken carcass of Big Sal, her pagodalike habitations blackened by fire, the foremost one still burning. All her masts were gone.

“Wait, my dear!” huffed Bradford behind her. “Please wait just a moment!”

She paid him no heed. Running along the top of the wall, she dashed down past the fitting-out pier and emerged among a large assembly of Lemurians gathered near the shipyard. There’d been no fighting there, almost as if the enemy had deliberately avoided damaging the facility. Probably they had. Because it was mostly clear of Grik, many of the wounded had been carried there, but not everyone present had been injured. Many had come just to see. They were staring seaward, and she looked in that direction.

Two motor launches, the whaleboat, numerous feluccas, and boats of every description strained to nudge or tow Walker into the large refit basin. With a rush of terror Sandra saw that the old destroyer had been savaged. Her bridge was riddled with holes, and empty windows gaped. An enormous hole in her foredeck was surrounded by jagged plates peeled back like flower petals. The weather deck was a scorched shambles, and the aft deckhouse had been demolished. The gun once perched atop it had collapsed into the debris and lay on its side, muzzle askew. Most of her length was blackened by fire, and the foremast trailed alongside, tangled in a jumble of cables. Smoke still wafted weakly from her aft funnel—the cantankerous number four boiler—but steam was escaping as well. Less than a foot separated the fo’c’sle from the debris-strewn water, as the bow slowly nudged through the flotsam. Her proud number, 163, was already lost to view. From the aft mast the giant flag still flew, almost shredded now, but stirring fitfully in the light morning breeze. Sandra choked back a sob.

The ship’s blood-spattered decks were almost empty, and Sandra assumed most of her survivors had already been removed by the flotilla surrounding her. Several men and ’Cats stood on the fire-control platform, and there was movement on the bridge as well. If Matt still lived, that was where he’d be. She shouldered her way through the throng for a better look, and seeing who she was, most parted and made a lane for her to pass. She didn’t notice them, but if she had, she’d have seen the deferential lowered ears and blinks of respect running through the crowd.

Walker edged into the basin and slowed to a stop less than fifty yards from the pier. The overtaxed launches tried to pull her closer, but it was clearly no use. The ship was going fast. As Sandra watched, the aft fireroom access trunk opened with a clang, and a mist of steam gushed out. A short female ’Cat crawled onto the deck, then reached back inside the opening. With a mighty heave she pulled first one, then another pale, grimy form into the light. Coughing and leaning on one another, the three quickly shuffled under the amidships deckhouse toward the ladder at the back of the bridge. As if she’d been waiting for that very event, Walker finally surrendered herself to the sea. Water crept over the fo’c’sle and coursed into the jagged hole. The rasping blower went silent, but the sound was replaced with a massive, urgent whoosh as the bow dipped lower and lower. With a juddering, grinding thump, it struck the silty bottom. There was an almost dying groan as the rest of the ship quickly settled. All that remained above water was the top of the bridge and her four battered funnels resting at a slight angle to port. Most of the flag was still visible too, jostled by the rising, turbulent froth of escaping air.

There was an audible, mournful sigh from the crowd, replaced by a frenzied cheer when a large, bloodied man above the bridge—whom Sandra recognized as Dennis Silva—gave a jaunty wave with one hand, while the other supported a small girl sitting on his shoulders. Tabby and the Mice stiffly ascended the ladder to the crowded platform, and Sandra felt her heart leap into her throat when Matt climbed wearily up from the bridge to join them. She was yelling now too, waving her arms over her head, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Wherever she came from, there was no doubt: USS Walker, DD-163, and her lost and lonely crew had found their way home at last.