Read Online Iron Gray Sea: Destroyermen by Taylor Anderson - Free Book Online
Authors: Taylor Anderson
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condition of the men could make this even harder. He took a breath and crossed the remaining distance to the table, where he stopped and waited until the men noticed his presence.
“Which of you is Commander Herring?” he asked as courteously as he could. They all wore dungarees they’d been issued in Maa-ni-la before Saan-Kakja tossed the very hot potato they represented at Alan, but none wore any rank designations.
With a grimace of pain, likely from aching joints, one of the skinny men stood. “I’m Commander Herring,” he said softly. “Commander Simon Herring, United States Navy.”
Letts looked at him. The two were about the same height, but Herring’s graying hair established him as at least a dozen years older than Alan’s twenty-five, though it was hard to tell. The ordeal he’d endured had doubtless aged him.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Alan replied. “I’m Commander—or Lieutenant, jg, if that’s how you prefer to look at it—Alan Letts. And this is Commander—Lieutenant—Perry Brister. Might I ask that you and your companions follow me? Maybe we can find someplace a little quieter to talk.”
“That’s fine, Lieutenant,” Herring said, “as long as you don’t mean ‘more private.’ Right now, I don’t want to go anywhere my friends and I might just . . . disappear.”
“Sir, I strongly resent the insinuation. . . .”
“Resent all you want,” Herring said. “But maybe you can forgive me if, after what we’ve been through and under the circumstances, I’m a little careful.”
“The parade ground surrounding the Great Hall is as public as it gets,” Brister ground out, “but it’s quiet. It’s a military cemetery now, see?”
* * *
The Parade Ground Cemetery that occupied the space around Adar’s Great Hall and the mighty Galla tree around which it was built seemed sparsely populated at first glance. Only about four hundred actual graves occupied a relatively small portion of the vast area at the center of the city. Looks were deceiving. Lemurians much preferred cremation to burial, but a surprising number, Navy ’Cats mostly and a few Marines, lay beneath simple markers alongside their human comrades. They’d ended up more devoted to their shipmates than to tradition. Less than half the humans lost from Walker , Mahan, and S-19 actually rested there either; many had been lost at sea or died too far away to be brought to this place. For now. Many hundreds of names had been engraved into a great bronze plaque, however, and like the cemetery itself, there was plenty of room for additions. Another, separate plaque, with thousands of names representing the people and crew of Humfra-Dar , a Lemurian Home that had joined the American Navy and been altered into a carrier (CV-2), had recently been emplaced. The bronze was still shiny, the names still bright.
The cemetery was a quiet place for reflection in the middle of the bustling city, and there were benches here and there in the shade of bordering trees. Ben Mallory was waiting for them when they arrived, gazing grimly at Humfra-Dar ’s plaque. The scenes and memories that haunted his eyes and hardened his features warred with his otherwise boyish face. He’d known every flyer on Humfra-Dar and personally trained many of them. He turned at their approach.
“That never should’ve happened,” he snapped, gesturing at the plaque. “One damn bomb, and Captain Tikker said she went up like a volcano! ’Cats are fanatics about fire safety on their Homes, but we’ve got them carrying fuel oil, high-octane gas, bombs, and loose gunpowder for the cannons, for cryin’ out loud! When you think about it like that, it was inevitable . . . and it’ll happen again!”
“I know, Ben,” Alan said softly. “Keje’s working on new procedures, better magazine and bunker protection. . . .” He shrugged. “None of us were ever on a flat-top. There’s so much we’re still making up as we go—and nobody
“Which of you is Commander Herring?” he asked as courteously as he could. They all wore dungarees they’d been issued in Maa-ni-la before Saan-Kakja tossed the very hot potato they represented at Alan, but none wore any rank designations.
With a grimace of pain, likely from aching joints, one of the skinny men stood. “I’m Commander Herring,” he said softly. “Commander Simon Herring, United States Navy.”
Letts looked at him. The two were about the same height, but Herring’s graying hair established him as at least a dozen years older than Alan’s twenty-five, though it was hard to tell. The ordeal he’d endured had doubtless aged him.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Alan replied. “I’m Commander—or Lieutenant, jg, if that’s how you prefer to look at it—Alan Letts. And this is Commander—Lieutenant—Perry Brister. Might I ask that you and your companions follow me? Maybe we can find someplace a little quieter to talk.”
“That’s fine, Lieutenant,” Herring said, “as long as you don’t mean ‘more private.’ Right now, I don’t want to go anywhere my friends and I might just . . . disappear.”
“Sir, I strongly resent the insinuation. . . .”
“Resent all you want,” Herring said. “But maybe you can forgive me if, after what we’ve been through and under the circumstances, I’m a little careful.”
“The parade ground surrounding the Great Hall is as public as it gets,” Brister ground out, “but it’s quiet. It’s a military cemetery now, see?”
* * *
The Parade Ground Cemetery that occupied the space around Adar’s Great Hall and the mighty Galla tree around which it was built seemed sparsely populated at first glance. Only about four hundred actual graves occupied a relatively small portion of the vast area at the center of the city. Looks were deceiving. Lemurians much preferred cremation to burial, but a surprising number, Navy ’Cats mostly and a few Marines, lay beneath simple markers alongside their human comrades. They’d ended up more devoted to their shipmates than to tradition. Less than half the humans lost from Walker , Mahan, and S-19 actually rested there either; many had been lost at sea or died too far away to be brought to this place. For now. Many hundreds of names had been engraved into a great bronze plaque, however, and like the cemetery itself, there was plenty of room for additions. Another, separate plaque, with thousands of names representing the people and crew of Humfra-Dar , a Lemurian Home that had joined the American Navy and been altered into a carrier (CV-2), had recently been emplaced. The bronze was still shiny, the names still bright.
The cemetery was a quiet place for reflection in the middle of the bustling city, and there were benches here and there in the shade of bordering trees. Ben Mallory was waiting for them when they arrived, gazing grimly at Humfra-Dar ’s plaque. The scenes and memories that haunted his eyes and hardened his features warred with his otherwise boyish face. He’d known every flyer on Humfra-Dar and personally trained many of them. He turned at their approach.
“That never should’ve happened,” he snapped, gesturing at the plaque. “One damn bomb, and Captain Tikker said she went up like a volcano! ’Cats are fanatics about fire safety on their Homes, but we’ve got them carrying fuel oil, high-octane gas, bombs, and loose gunpowder for the cannons, for cryin’ out loud! When you think about it like that, it was inevitable . . . and it’ll happen again!”
“I know, Ben,” Alan said softly. “Keje’s working on new procedures, better magazine and bunker protection. . . .” He shrugged. “None of us were ever on a flat-top. There’s so much we’re still making up as we go—and nobody
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