Free Blood In the Water by Taylor Anderson

USS
Houston
’s Marine contingent, left at a hospital in Surabaya when his ship met her fate. Ben Mallory, chief of the Army and Naval Air Corps, had been “just” an Army pilot. And the list went on. Ordinary men and women had risen to the challenge of this terrible war and the bizarre situation they faced in various ways, but even the few who’d never advanced beyond their original ranks and occupations, who remained “mere” destroyermen on
Walker
or any number of other ships now, had provided a professional, steadying influence on the hundreds of Lemurian sailors they’d helped form over time.
    Now Matt realized that of them all, Dean Laney had always struck him as the absolutely least likely
Walker
veteran to distinguish himself in any way and advance beyond Machinist’s Mate 2nd Class. He’d been a troublemaker all his life and Dennis Silva’s chief nemesis in the old world they’d left behind. His technical knowledge was impressive, probably second only to Spanky’s when it came to engineering plants, and he’d bounced from job to job in the various Allied industries making real technical contributions—until no one could stand being around him anymore. Engineering officer on
Santy Cat
had been his last chance before . . . banishment, Matt supposed. And even now he remained, by all accounts, an asshole, but Russ had no complaints about his performance.
    â€œLaney,” Matt said, nodding.
    â€œCap’n Reddy,” Laney replied stiffly, self-consciously.
    â€œIf you’ll follow me, Skipper,” Russ said, gesturing aft, “everyone else is waiting in the dining salon.” No longer under Matt’s direct gaze, Laney drifted away and Matt got the distinct impression he was anxious to be just about anywhere else. He shook his head. “The ‘dining salon’?” he asked Russ with a smile. Russ managed a sheepish shrug. “Aye, sir.” Despite major alterations to turn her into a warship, including bolted-on armor plate and rebuilding much of her superstructure as a casemate to protect six heavy guns—part of the Japanese battle cruiser
Amagi
’s secondary armament of 5.5-inch rifles, to be precise—
Santa Catalina
had once been equipped to carry a few passengers. In her off-and-on role as a naval auxiliary over the years, these had usually been naval officers, and in the prewar, pre-air-travel naval culture she’d accommodated, officers had been accustomed to traveling in a degree of style, and a tasteful, if not luxurious, dining salon had been provided. During her refit, it was envisioned that such a convenience might still have merit and the space was not only retained but somewhat embellished with ornate Lemurian woodwork and tapestries. The ostentation of the furnishings had embarrassed Russ Chappelle when he first took command, but he’d grown to accept the salon’s facility as a conference center. It was even larger and more luxurious than similar accommodations aboard the great carriers such as
Salissa
, now that their Great Halls had been done away with, and he was actually rather proud of it now.
    They moved aft, past the casemate, and entered a protected doorway into the salon. Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar stood, teeth showing in a grin from his white-streaked, rust-colored fur, his white tunic and blue kilt covering his bear-shaped frame. Captain Jis-Tikkar (Tikker) was beside him, dressed in a flight suit. Apparently,
Salissa
’s—or
“Big Sal
,
”
as she was affectionately known—COFO, or Commander of Flight Operations, had flown Keje over himself. Tikker had been the very first Lemurian aviator and still proudly wore a highly polished 7.7-mm cartridge thrust through a hole in his long, pointed ear as a memento of an early hair-raising flight with Ben Mallory in the long-gone PBY. Standing quickly to join Tikker was Lieutenant Araa-Faan, another Lemurian pilot