Chack blinked and bowed. “Thank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy.”
“Who’s going straight to Baalkpan, sir?” Lieutenant Irvin Laumer asked politely but intently. He had a very personal reason to be curious. Like most submariners, Laumer wasn’t tall or physically remarkable in any way, but Matt had learned he had an extra helping of guts. He’d successfully led the effort to salvage his old submarine, S-19, off a Talaud Island beach-a beach that no longer existed, since the whole island had blown itself apart in a volcanic fit reminiscent of Krakatoa on the “old earth.” More recently, he’d been acting exec of Maaka-Kakja, a prestigious post, but one he’d relinquished so he could go back to his old sub. He seemed to feel, despite all he’d accomplished, that he still had something to prove, and he could only really do that with S-19.
Matt reflected that Laumer’s fixation on the old boat could be good… or bad… and he had no idea which it would ultimately be. He’d been advised that S-19 could never be a submarine again. Most wanted to just scrap her-but that wasn’t right either. Not only would Laumer and all the men and ’Cats who’d worked so hard to save her be crushed, but the boat did float and had two running (or repairable) diesels and a four-inch-fifty gun. Matt decided to give the determined submariner his head and ordered Laumer to rebuild S-19 into… something else. Even if nobody really knew what that would be yet, Laumer didn’t care. Whatever S-19 was fated to become, she would still be his.
“You are,” Matt answered, “along with Lawrence, and”-he arched an eyebrow at Silva’s looming form, expecting one of the man’s… imaginative arguments-“Chief Silva.” To Matt’s surprise, Dennis Silva didn’t do anything other than arch his own eyebrows and form that disconcerting, gap-toothed grin of his. “You’ll resume command of S-19,” he continued to Laumer, “and figure out what to do with her. You may consider that a reward for your efforts, if you like, but I think it’s going to be a bigger chore than you imagine. My only advice is not to get any fixed ideas before you start. Talk to your people who stayed aboard; get with Bernie Sandison, Perry Brister, anybody who might have a notion. Draw pictures. Whatever you do with her though, remember: we need practical warships, not pie in the sky.”
“Or a pigboat in a poke,” Silva murmured down at Lawrence, and Laumer fired a scathing look at him before replying, “Aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Matt nodded.
“You ain’t gonna stick me on that big, leakin’ weenie, are you, Skipper?” Silva spoke up. It wasn’t really a question.
“No. That would be a waste of your few real talents, and you’d be much worse than useless to Lieutenant Laumer. That said, though you are going to Baalkpan, you’re not on the loose. When not directly involved in the assignment you’re about to receive, you belong to Bernie Sandison in Ordnance. As far as he’s concerned, you’re still AWOL. If you don’t do exactly what he says, he can hang you, for all I care.”
“I swear,” Silva mumbled, barely audible. “How come folks are always shakin’ ropes at me?”
“What was that?” Spanky demanded.
“Nothin’, sir,” Silva said, suddenly making a caricature of the position of attention. “Aye, aye, sir! I’ll stick to Bernie like malaria! Why, he won’t be able to scrape me off with assi-tone-but I’ll be back with Walker when her refit’s done… Won’t I?”
“We’ll see,” Matt said seriously, stifling a chuckle. “In the meantime, Adar still wants that expedition into the interior of Borno, to make contact with those ‘jungle lizards’ you discovered. I think it’s past time myself, now that we know not everybody who looks Grik is Grik.” He grinned at Lawrence, then looked back at Dennis. “We also know for a fact that looking Grik doesn’t save them from the Grik either, so they have a stake in this war whether they want it-or know it-or not.” Matt’s eyebrows rose. “According to General Alden, we need jungle fighters, for scouts if nothing else, and we might use them as commandos too. Adar’s already begun accumulating supplies and personnel for the expedition. The ’Cat hunter, Moe, a couple of Chinakru’s Sa’aarans, and even some of the Grik we captured at Aryaal have committed to participate.”
There was a murmur in the wardroom over that. When they left Baalkpan, little progress had been made toward communicating with the creatures.
“So, I guess I’ve also committed to participate?” Silva asked, arousing chuckles.
“Yes, you have,” Matt replied seriously. “You and Lawrence will ensure the safety of the expedition, and do whatever you can to make it a success.”
“Who’s gonna be in charge?”
“Abel Cook has been commissioned an ensign, and he’ll be your superior officer. With Courtney in the east, Mr. Cook is the best-qualified man to lead this…” Matt looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “This Corps of Discovery. I know he’s awful young, but as you know, he’s got a level head-and I’m sure he’ll listen to you. I know he’s learned to value your… opinions… in dangerous situations.”
Cook had been one of a number of civilian refugees from Java, mostly children of diplomats and other big shots, aboard S-19. Since his rescue, he’d been Courtney Bradford’s protege in the natural sciences. He’d also been abducted and ultimately marooned along with Sandra, Silva, Princess Rebecca, Lawrence, Imperial Midshipman Stuart Brassey, Lelaa-Tal-Cleraan, Sister Audry… and others not as lucky. He’d packed considerable adventure into his barely sixteen years, and the gangly teen had generally comported himself well by all accounts.
“Cook’s a good kid,” Silva said thoughtfully. “And he’s probably been livin’ in a igloo made outta Courtney’s books since he got back to Baalkpan. He’s a good choice.” He chuckled. “I figger his biggest problem’ll be givin’ me orders!”
“You may have to teach him how,” Matt agreed, “and I feel a little guilty inflicting you on him, but he’ll need you. Tell him to feel free to accept a few more volunteers, if he wants.” Matt knew Abel’s friend, Midshipman Brassey, would be begging Ambassador Forester to let him go as soon as the meeting adjourned.
“Sounds like a hoot, and me and Larry’ll do our best for the kid…” Silva’s twisted grin spread. “I mean, for Mister Cook.” He poked Lawrence with his elbow. “Won’t we?”
“So, who else is leavin’ the ship?” Spanky grumbled. “Not too many more, I hope. We’ve got a lot of work to do when we make Respite, just so we can get the rest of the way home and get to work!” Walker ’s machinery needed considerable attention after her long voyage and hard fighting; more than they’d been able to give her in the Imperial shipyards. Even more critical than that, however, she needed a dry dock, and the closest one was in Maa-ni-la. She had some damage below her waterline, but what had come to worry Spanky most were the rivets they’d rebuilt her with in Baalkpan. He considered that his fault. They’d formed her new plating from good steel salvaged from Amagi, but the rivets were local “iron.” It wasn’t really iron but some of the first steel they’d attempted, and Spanky had thought it would suffice and made the call. Unfortunately, the rivets had proven remarkably brittle. They resisted shearing, so they weren’t apt to fail with the normal working of the ship, but even some of the light roundshot strikes they’d taken had opened seams and launched shattered rivets like bullets. They’d repaired Walker ’s worst topside damage with good-quality “Impie” rivets at Scapa Flow, but Spanky was increasingly worried they’d pop a bottom seam if they ran into another big storm, or Strakka, like the one they encountered on the voyage out. The ship survived that blow with no hull damage, but real or not, Spanky felt the growing stress on the bottom rivets as if the same ones had been used to hold his guts together.