Not in his wildest boyhood fantasies had he imagined that a Navy life would put him in command of what was, for all intents and purposes, a square-rigged frigate. Like Stephen Decatur, Isaac Hull, or Porter before Valparaiso, he was living the life of his childhood heroes with the greatest assignment any frigate captain could ask for: independent command. It was a fantasy come true, and he was loving every minute of it. Revenge was fast — by Lemurian standards — and surprisingly well made considering her builders. The Grik had taken her draft directly from the lines of the stout, fast-sailing British East Indiamen, and it was obvious now that they’d captured one centuries before and used it as a pattern — scaled up or down — ever since. Revenge had one major difference, of course. She was armed with twenty guns. More a ship-sloop than a frigate, in the old scheme of things, where a ship’s class was reckoned by how many guns she carried, but «frigate» sure sounded better.
Rick’s crew was entirely Lemurian, with the exception of an ordnance striker named Gandy Bowles, fresh off of Mahan, who’d been jumped to «master gunner.» The rest of the crew couldn’t love their ship, remembering constantly what she represented. Despite everything they did to eliminate it, the cloying scent of her previous owners and what they’d doe he well lingered, and that didn’t help. They loved the idea of her, however, and they were ecstatic about what she could do. She was faster and more maneuverable than the stolid, plodding Homes — and faster than any other Grik ship they’d encountered. They’d encountered several. Rick remembered each action with a warm glow of excitement. All had been stragglers or scouts and showed no concern as Revenge drew near. She was one of theirs, wasn’t she? All were destroyed.
Revenge’s speed was due primarily to some innovative rig improvements that Rick and his crew came up with, and he liked to think his racing background helped. Also, in spite of her guns, she wasn’t as heavy as other Grik ships. Her crew was smaller and she didn’t carry a regiment of warriors and their supplies everywhere she went. That might be a problem if the enemy ever grappled, but so far, Revenge had destroyed her surprised victims from beyond the range of even the enemy’s shipboard bomb throwers. Whatever the reasons for her success, Revenge had been a wolf on the prowl for the better part of three weeks now, earning her name in spades, and the enemy had no idea she was even there. Rick felt like Robert Louis Stevenson had written this part of his life and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
«Good morning, Cap-i-taan,» greeted Kas-Ra-Ar as the Lemurian joined him on the weather side of the quarterdeck.
«Morning, Kas.» Rick smiled. «A brisk day and a stiff wind.» He glanced aloft at the single-reefed topsails overhead.
«When should we expect the plane, do you think?» Kas asked. Every four days, the PBY flew out and rendezvoused with them so it could carry a report of their sightings back to Surabaya. The latitude wasn’t prescribed for the meetings, but the longitude was. That way, the Catalina could just follow the line north until they met. In theory. Revenge’s consorts tried to stay in line of sight, and they would signal her with any sightings they made as well. Once, amazingly, they encountered a Lemurian Home headed north into the China Sea. They closed to speak to her and had nearly taken a fusillade of the giant crossbow bolts for their efforts. They finally managed to convince the Home they weren’t Grik (an understandable mistake) and they passed them the news of the war. That news came as quite a shock, since these people hadn’t even known there was a war. They told Kas they might go to Baalkpan, or they might not. They did turn around and head south.
«Sometime this afternoon, I think,» Rick replied to his sailing master’s question. «We’re farther north than they probably expect us, but not close enough to Singapore for Mallory to worry about being seen.»
«Will the plane try to find us if there is a storm?» Kas asked, nodding toward the horizon. Rick had been watching the growing clouds since dawn.
«You’ve got me there. If it gets bad, no.» Rick snorted. «If it was me, I wouldn’t let them fly the only bloody airplane in the world if the wind was over five miles an hour.» He glanced at his second in command and then pointed at the sky. «Do you think it’ll get bad?»
Kas cocked his head to one side and blinked. «It is difficult to say. Possibly. This is the stormy time of year.»
«So everyone keeps saying,» grumbled Rick.
A silence stretched between them, but it was broken by a high-pitched cry from the maintop. «Deck there! Sail!»
Rick snatched a speaking trumpet. «Where away?»
There was a short pause while the lookaboring. «Two points the left. the port bow!»
Rick scrambled into the port main shrouds and secured himself as best he could. Then he raised his binoculars. Yes! There she was, running toward them under all plain sail. Probably trying to escape the storm building behind them, Rick mused. «Shake that reef out of the fore-tops’l!» he shouted. «We’ll wait till they get closer. Act like we’re turning to run, too. We’ll rake him as we turn!»
He beamed down at Kas-Ra-Ar. «One way or another, it’s going to be an interesting day!»
«Captain, the launch is alongside.»
Matt nodded. «Single up all lines and prepare to cast off.»
The rain was falling in sheets now, and he could barely see past the fo’c’sle. He was accustomed to the dense squalls of the region, but this was different. He could feel the power behind the thing. He wondered fleetingly if this would be the event that snatched them back where they belonged? For some reason, in spite of everything, he caught himself hoping it wasn’t. Jim was right. Back home, Walker was just another over-age ’can. If they didn’t break her up and scatter her crew through the fleet, she’d probably spend the war towing targets for newer, more capable ships to practice against. Here, she and her people could make a difference. They had already begun.
«The work detail is back aboard and the launch is hooking on,» Dowden reported as he entered the pilothouse. Water coursed down his saturated clothes and drained away through the strakes at his feet. The work detail had been winching the screw onto shore, raft and all, so that working against the dock wouldn’t damage it.
The talker spoke again. «Radio says Lieutenant Mallory’s about to turn north, but it’s getting pretty boogery up there — his words — and he wants to know if you still want him to rendezvous with Revenge.»
«No sense. He can’t set down even if he spots her. Tell him to make for Baalkpan. Fly around the storm if he can — he should have plenty of fuel.»
The attention of the bridge watch was diverted by another figure entering the pilothouse. It was Keje. He must have come over on the launch that delivered Courtney Bradford, Sandra Tucker, and a few others to Big Sal. Matt sent them with the explanation that it wasn’t wise to keep all their eggs in one basket. Also, since they weren’t critical to the operation of the ship, it made no sense for them to endure a major storm aboard Walker—given her less than sedate performance in heavy seas. It would result only in unnecessary suffering. Bradford went with an appreciative smile, but Sandra had been reluctant. Matt finally traded heavily on her professional concern for the wounded that remained on Big Sal. Most had been shipped home on Fristar, but not all. As to her suspicious concern regarding his own injuries, he blithely reassured her that he’d take it easy.
«Good afternoon, Cap-i-taan Reddy.»
«Hello, Keje. I’m glad to see you, but we’re about to cast off. It looks like we’re going to have some of that ‘stormy’ weather you talked about.»