Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(80)

Behind Madras was a string of new fast transports, again, basically Scott class steam frigates built lighter and beamier to accommodate I’Joorka’s 1st North Borno. Part of Rolak’s I Corps, Major Simon “Simy” Gutfeld’s 3rd Marines had embarked aboard Santy Cat and Arracca and her auxiliaries in case Tassanna and Russ Chappelle wound up needing troops for any reason, including low-risk, irresistible opportunities to cause mischief for the enemy. The 1st North Borno would occupy the camps the 3rd Marines left behind.

At the moment, however, nearly every human or Lemurian in sight of the anchorage was focused on USS Tarakaan Island as she slowly flooded down, almost two weeks to the day since she’d taken Walker aboard. Water flooded into the repair basin, swirling, scouring, retreating in waves topped with floating wood debris, pumicelike torch slag, and oily, multihued tendrils. More water poured in as the SPD settled lower. Then, starting on Tarakaan Island and spreading to ships nearby, a great cheer mounted and echoed in the anchorage. Observers farther away couldn’t see anything but knew what it meant and joined the tumult. USS Walker was afloat.

A cable had already been secured to Walker’s baby sister, USS James Ellis, the tops of her funnels hazed with smoke. Slowly, the new DD took up the slack. The cheers redoubled and steam whistles sounded when Walker’s freshly painted fantail probed the harbor. Her aft deckhouse, dominated by the dual-purpose 4″-50, was crowded with ’Cats, mostly “yard dogs” (and the irony of that term, once explained, remained a source of hilarity throughout the fleet) who were waving and cheering back. Spanky was there, trying to look severe as ’Cats capered around the auxiliary conn, but even he leaked a grin now and then. Soon Ellie had eased Walker entirely out of the repair bay and, so close to each other for the very first time, they looked virtually identical from a distance—even down to the bold, white 163 painted on both their bows. This because the campaign against Zanzibar might require Ellie to impersonate Walker, as Mahan had once done. Maybe not, but they wanted to be ready. Presently, however, the two ships, stern to stern, resembled a mirror image.

Walker slipped the tow cable and it slithered wetly up between Ellie’s depth-charge racks, where ’Cat sailors coiled it down as it ran off the steam winch. Slowly at first, but gathering speed, Ellie moved away with another resounding blast from her horn. Smoke was already streaming downwind from Walker’s funnels as well, her hot heart beating again. Water foamed around her propeller guards and she twisted nimbly away from Tarakaan Island. Smoke chuffed insistently and she swung around toward a place at the pier that Jarrik-Fas’s USS Tassat had just cleared. Once there, she’d begin taking on more fuel, provisions, and ammunition from stockpiles unloaded from the SPD as soon as she’d arrived. Later that day she’d steam out of the harbor, theoretically ready to fight, but the purpose would be to make some high-speed runs and put her through her paces to see what they might’ve missed. No one had any illusions that she was as good as new; there simply hadn’t been time for a complete refit, and a close inspection would reveal that her plates, newly riveted in many places, were still dented and washboarded beneath the thick, fresh paint. Few of her once-sharp angles remained quite as crisp as they’d been, and despite all their efforts, she still leaked a little. Small streams of water were already starting to spurt from her sides as bilge pumps sucked it from below. But a great deal had been accomplished in the little time they had. She’d never be good as new, but hopefully, the repairs had made her good enough to face what lay ahead. Almost immediately, as soon as Walker was clear, Tassat began creeping toward the open stern of the SPD, anxious to begin her own repairs.

Captain Reddy had the conn and was personally steering his ship to the pier, his hands feeling the living machinery through the familiar burnished brass of the wheel. As always, he was amazed by the people’s enthusiasm for his old destroyer. Well, she’s damn sure earned it, he thought, surviving when no one thought it possible, time and again, and performing what must seem like martial miracles to many watching. He deeply appreciated their gratitude and approval, but knew better than anyone how truly miraculous some of those victories had been. And they’ll expect more, he thought, from Walker . . . and me. It isn’t fair, but it’s true. All I can do is pray that, critical as this old ship’s been to the survival of the Alliance and the new nation it spawned, she—and I—are no longer indispensable. Neither of us’ll last forever, and I don’t want all we’ve done—and lost—to be for nothing.

And it won’t be, he consoled himself. I have a lot of responsibility, but I’m not necessary to the degree Alan Letts, Adar, Saan-Kakja, Rebecca McDonald, even Keje and Courtney Bradford have become. Not anymore. I’m not even essential to the continuation of the American Navy Clan. There might be some rough patches if I buy it, but it’ll go on. The traditions we’ve established with so much blood’ll see to that. He did wonder how his ship, or whatever battle killed him, might fare if he was lost, but the thought of Spanky gave him peace of mind. Spanky’s a diminutive, gnarled red oak who naturally inspires confidence and obedience, loyalty and respect. He might have little interest in the big picture beyond the ship, but he can fight her as well as I ever have, and knows every rivet in her. If something happens to me, Matt thought, Walker and her people will be in good hands.

It never occurred to him, of course, that all of that—while possibly even true—would never have been the case if his example hadn’t formed the Alliance, the Union, his Clan—even Spanky and the rest—in the first place.