CHAPTER 27
////// PT-7
The “Seven boat,” or Lucky Seven, as Irvin Laumer called her since she had, after all, survived the sinking of Respite Island, crept slowly through the jutting, burning remains of the Grik fleet in the shallow harbor. It was a surrealistic sight, even blurred by the sudden downpour drenching everyone aboard. Blasted carcasses of mighty ships, laid open and gutted on their sides, bore stark testimony to the quality of Bernie Sandison’s Baalkpan Naval Arsenal Mk-3 torpedoes. Between them, Walker’s new armor-piercing shells and the work of Big Sal’s 1st Naval Air Wing, it didn’t look like a single capital ship had survived the predawn onslaught. It was possible a few cruisers remained, anchored beyond the cluster of Grik “Indiamen” deeper in the harbor, but none were reported by the flyboys. Many of the Indiamen themselves were burning too, but they hadn’t been priority targets. They were crewed by warriors, and it was most likely they were abandoned while their crews fought on shore. Besides, considering the growing strain on Allied supply lines, captured Grik Indiamen, once despised, were now prized for their cargo capacity—and easy conversion to better ships, of course. They were helpless right now, and wouldn’t all be destroyed until it was decided whether the Allies could get them or not.
Lieutenant Irvin Laumer had taken the wheel of the Seven boat himself, coaxing her through the treacherous anchorage like a trout in a rocky stream, while crewfolk on the fo’c’sle warned of hazards such as underwater obstacles or floating debris. It was hard to see. The rain was churning up the surface of the water, and the flashies were doing the same as they feasted on countless Grik corpses. All the nearby ships were burning brightly, and there wasn’t a live Grik to be seen on any of them.
“Lawsy, what a awful place!” Isak Reuben muttered, clutching his Krag close to his skinny chest with one hand while he lit one of his vile, soggy cigarettes with the other, under the shelter of his helmet. “I bet I shoudn’t’a come,” he added.
“Why did you, you nutty twerp?” Silva demanded, taking a chew. “Tabby’ll have your skin when she finds out!” he mumbled around the yellowish leaves he stuffed in his cheek.
Isak shrugged. “She don’t need me. Walker don’t even need me anymore,” he added miserably. “Least not with her all scrunched up ashore.” His voice firmed and he glared up at Silva, the rain trying to quench the butt dangling from his lips. “An’ besides, that sequittal, lizardy grub worm all the Griks is so worked up over has been havin’ her nasty critters tryin’ to kill my boilers ever since the day we brung ’em here.” He shrugged. “Gilbert’s my half brother, you know.” Silva nodded, surprised by the sudden confession. Everybody knew, though the Mice had never openly admitted it before. “Well, he ain’t here. He’s off engineerin’ in Maaka-Kakja, with Second Fleet, fightin’ the Doms.” He took a long drag and coughed. “Just seems one of us ought’a try to hit a lick against the damn thing, after we come all this way.” He waved his hand helplessly.
“You’re gonna get ate, Isak,” Silva stated matter-of-factly.
Isak shrugged again, but glanced back the way they’d come. Walker was barely visible through the smoke and rain several miles away, but her guns still flared against the dreary day and the deadly shore. “Could be,” he answered quietly, “but I bet I would have back yonder, anyway. Least this way, if I get ate, it’ll be doin’ somethin’ different. Ever’body’s always on me to try new things.”
“I didn’t come along to get eaten,” Gunny Horn stated, and Silva looked at him.
“Why’d you come? You at least could’a been of use on the ship. I thought Marines always craved fightin’ on ships!”
“He came for the same reason as me, stupid,” Pam snapped, speaking for the first time since she presented Silva with the knife. “Because you did.”
Horn regarded the woman strangely. She had a Blitzer Bug slung over her shoulder, and a bulky bag of magazines hung from a strap. The rain had turned her T-shirt translucent to the point that she might as well have worn nothing at all. Like the rest of them, she wore a “tin hat” helmet, but her dark hair was soaked and strands were plastered to her face. He knew how tough she was, but right then, she looked very small and vulnerable. “Maybe, in a way,” Horn admitted. “Me and that idiot ape have a long history, all the way back to the China Station, of getting into scrapes together.” He fingered a little leather thong around his neck that was threaded through a tooth with a hole in it. “Kind of unnatural, come to think of it, considering I’m a Marine, and he’s . . . whatever the hell he is,” he continued. “But I surely doubt the real reason we both came is exactly the same.” He scratched his thick black beard. “I’m here because Dennis always throws a helluva party. I figure you tagged along to make sure he doesn’t have too much fun.”
Pam looked away. “Just shut up, wilya?”
Laumer coughed. “I’m here to get your crazy butts ashore. Lieutenant Miyata? You’ve been here before. Point the way, if you please, to the best place to land.”
Miyata complied, indicating a long section of dock, crowded with small boats a little beyond the jutting funnels of another dead Grik ship. This one had some survivors, crowded atop the exposed casemate, but they weren’t any threat. As far as they could see, the dock was deserted.
“It looks like you may have been right,” Herring told Silva. He hadn’t said much either. Now he was looking through an Imperial telescope. “I don’t see any Grik at all, ashore.”
“There may be quite a few in those warehouses and shops beyond the dock,” Miyata advised, “or in the—I think you would say ‘shantytown’—between them and the palace.”
Herring grunted. “What does the Jap say about palace guards?” he asked. He’d rarely been able to bring himself to address Miyata directly.
Miyata bristled. “Commander Herring, we are about to go into action together, and if you want my best assistance, I hope you will remember that my name is not ‘the Jap’!”
“Settle down, Lieutenant,” Silva soothed. “Mr. Herring’s only met the kinda Japs that murder pris’ners. He ain’t as forgivin’ an’ open-minded as me an’ Larry are. Hell, I even got a Jap friend! Gen’ral Shinya’s a right guy!” His face turned serious and his tone hard. “Now, that said, you an’ me don’t know each other very well, but anybody’ll tell you that if I do get a notion you’re settin’ us up for any Grik or Jap buddies o’ yours, I’ll feed you to Petey a strip at a time!”
“Eat?” Petey chirped happily.
“I am on your side!” Miyata objected. “Surely Becher Lange has convinced you of that by now.”
“Don’t personally know the Kraut neither,” Silva replied reasonably.
“Leave Lieutenant Miyata alone,” Irvin Laumer ordered with an authority Silva didn’t remember. “He’s okay.”
Silva sniffed.
“The ‘palace guard,’ as you call it, is quite numerous,” Miyata said crisply. “But its members are dispersed between several levels, and more entrances that we can see from here. I doubt they have ever considered a need to practice massing in one part of the palace to prevent an actual attack, and they may not know how—or even be able to.” He considered. “There is another possible reserve the palace might call on that could prove even more problematic, if it has not already been sent to the fighting.”
“What’s that?” Irvin asked.
“The ‘sport fighters.’ Consider them like ‘gladiators.’ They are all skilled warriors with considerable experience. It is that experience, in fact, that makes them ‘entertaining’ to watch, I understand.” He looked at Herring. “You may recall that I reported that it was from that group that Kurokawa initially selected leaders for their ‘new’ army, and their General Halik rose.”
Herring nodded. “I remember,” he said, finally looking straight at Miyata. “How many?”
“I cannot say. There were several hundred, at least.” He glanced at the gloomy palace growing near. “There may be even more now—or perhaps there are none, if they have all entered their armies.”
Lawrence looked from one man to the other. He hadn’t said anything at all, but had observed his friends and all the strangers on PT-7 with considerable interest. He’d learned a lot about humans and Lemurians in the last couple of years and recognized that there were a lot of differences between his kind and theirs. His folk were much less emotionally complicated; that was certain. He sensed many emotional undercurrents on the boat just then, and like the predator he was, he wondered who might be the weak link in their little pack of “hunters,” and how that might affect their mission. He sensed a lot of fear, and that was normal. He was afraid himself. He didn’t remember when he hadn’t been afraid, on some level, since he’d set out on his “awakening,” or “rite of passage” voyage so long ago. That was what brought him in contact with humans and Lemurians in the first place. It was also what truly “awakened” him to what he could become, and he was wholly devoted to his friends. He wasn’t worried how they would perform—even Pam. He already knew. As usual, he was utterly content to follow Silva’s lead while he watched for the weak link. If necessary, he’d cut it out himself before it had a chance to break.
They motored closer to the dock in silence, always on the alert for threats. Laumer coaxed his boat between a pair of smaller vessels that looked a lot like Lemurian feluccas, and a pair of ’Cats leaped across to the dock. One had a coil of rope, and the other stood by to fend off, as Laumer cut his throttles.
“Single up there,” Laumer called in a loud whisper, wondering as he did it why he was trying to be so quiet. The rain and the battle raging behind and to the east were sufficiently loud to keep his voice from carrying far. Almost immediately, Lawrence scampered ashore, his head bobbing as he tasted unfamiliar scents. Silva jumped after him, followed by the rest of the party in a rush. After a moment, and without a word, Laumer chose a shortened smoothbore Allin-Silva from the rack beside him in the cockpit of the boat and slung a bandolier of 20-gauge shells over his shoulder. The shells were made of thick, waxed paper with a brass base, and were loaded with a dozen roughly .30-caliber balls on top of one hundred grains of powder. Initially called “buckshot,” the shells had quickly been renamed “Grikshot.” The weapon that fired it, so similar to the standard issue rifle in every other way, was simply called a shotgun. Winny Rominger had lobbied for their issue to the PTs in addition to some of Chack’s Raiders on the grounds that if one of his boats ever lost power, its small crew would need all the antipersonnel firepower it could get.
Ensign Hardee looked at Laumer with wide eyes. “You’re not going with them, are you, sir?” the sixteen-year-old boy almost squeaked.
“Yes, I am,” Irvin replied. “You can handle the Seven boat as well as I can, and they might need the help.” He frowned. “Besides . . . I have to. For S-Nineteen, and, well, other reasons too.” He patted Hardee’s shoulder. “You’re in command. Back her off and keep station by that wreck we passed—not the one with the Grik on it!” He grinned. “Keep an eye on the dock here. If you see us running back, we might need a lift in a hurry!” He paused. “Get on the TBS and report that we’re ashore, and anything else you see, got it?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Irvin Laumer nodded, then trotted forward and hopped off the boat, joining the others as they prepared to enter Grik City itself.