Captain Rulio Horrendous casually leant against the ship’s railing, face shaded against the bright blue sky beneath his broad hat. He was surreptitiously watching the newest member of his crew practicing at the makeshift target range he had thrown together at the back of PT-109. The kid was taking to it eagerly, if not altogether naturally. Still, Rulio was confident he could reach a suitable level - after all, their work wasn’t entirely combat-focused. Indeed, the clash with the Japanese scout had been one of only a handful since he and Keresi had started privateering almost a year ago, although things did seem to be starting to accelerate. There was a feeling in the air now, a sense that something was approaching. Something that was not going to be for the better, for anyone.
Rulio was still perplexed about Marek. He wasn’t picking up anything malicious from the kid, and he was quite certain he wasn’t a spy. But who, then, was he? And where had he come from? Their little rendezvous in the middle of the ocean the other night had seemed a little too convenient for his liking.
“All’s well?”
Rulio turned in surprise, thoughts interrupted, and saw Jack Kennedy standing behind him. He nodded.
“Good, good.” Kennedy was wearing his sunglasses, as he seemed to do most of the time, which all but hid his eyes. Rulio found that it was hard to know whether the young captain gave off an aura of confidence or arrogance. Most probably, a bit of both. And why not? He was a dashing young man, probably of an age with Marek, sailing a torpedo boat around the Pacific with a crew of other youngsters. Rulio had a pang of apprehension, a vision of times ahead. In all probability, this war – once it really kicked off – would swallow Kennedy and his crew and then spit them out a shattered mess, if they were lucky enough to survive at all. Yet here before him now was another vivid demonstration of the eternal optimism of youth. Optimism, or blissful ignorance.
“You’re privateers?” Kennedy asked him amiably.
Rulio nodded.
“How long have you been doing that for?”
“About a year.”
Kennedy scratched at his chin. “So… you started before Pearl, huh?”
Rulio nodded.
For the United States, the attack on Pearl Harbour was like waking up to a bullet in the chest.
Five battleships had been sunk, three permanently, along with a number of other smaller ships. Around half the stationed aircraft were destroyed, and thousands of American lives lost. It had been just over five months since that dark day, and the US was still locked in a red haze of anger. As yet, it was unable to retaliate to the degree it wished, but it burned brighter with pent-up animosity as each day passed. Through their gamble, the Japanese had woken a power indefinite – in all likelihood, one such as the world had never seen before. When the US was ready, their hammer blow would fall on Japan as a swift and annihilating fury, without mercy or restraint. And Japan, as strong an empire as she was, would meet the blow with a fearless shield of steel and blood. For his part, Rulio was nowhere near confident enough to cast bets on an ultimate victor. But he feared that as with all wars, it would be the lives of young soldiers that would prove to be a fundamental unit of fuel in the approaching struggle. He found his thoughts drifting to…
“Why’d you start? If you don’t mind.”
Kennedy’s question snapped Rulio back into awareness. He smiled half-heartedly. “That’s a long story, Jack. And a sad one.”
Kennedy removed his sunglasses and smiled back at him, though his eyes seemed sad. “I fear most of our stories are, Captain.” He glanced over the railing, across the azure waters. “Or soon will be.”
Rulio was taken aback somewhat. Certainly, Kennedy still looked like a kid, but Rulio sensed now a streak of maturity in him. There seemed something poignant and profound about him, though Rulio couldn’t quite place it.
“What day is it?” Rulio asked.
“June 2nd.” Kennedy replied, looking puzzled. “Why do you ask?”
Rulio’s brow was focused. “No big reason. It’s going to happen soon though, isn’t it? The opening move.”
Kennedy squinted. “If you’re talking about Guadalcanal, Operation Watchtower, then I’m not sure. But I’d say so, yes. The pace is quickening.”
Rulio nodded. “I’ve felt it too. The tide is building.”
Kennedy nodded. “It certainly is.”
The silence hung in the air for long moments, broken only by the gurgle of the waves alongside them, the indistinct chatter across the rest of the boat, the odd seabird’s call.
“I should see how things are going with my crew,” Kennedy began again finally. “One other thing, Captain. In a couple of hours, we’re going to be stopping quickly to resupply.”
Rulio arched an eyebrow. “Supplies? Around here?” Then it clicked - the new base the US Navy had set up recently. “Gasoline City.”
Kennedy nodded with a grin. “The very one. Now the domain of one Commodore Smith.”
Rulio had never heard of him, but detected an edge to Kennedy’s voice. “And what’s his deal?”
“Well, he just got promoted from Captain, got sent there a few weeks ago. Only, it’s no real promotion, and everyone knows it. Him most of all. Word is, some rival or other wanted to put him somewhere he couldn’t cause any trouble.” Kennedy chuckled gently. “Oh, he’s mighty unhappy, but what’s he going to do now? Orders are orders.”
Rulio nodded. Orders were orders. Especially out here, especially now.
“Well, we won’t meet him at any rate,” Kennedy continued. “Just need a quick stop, no more than an hour or two, and we’ll be on our way again. Should arrive at Nouméa around midday tomorrow.”
“Excellent.”
With that, Kennedy took his leave and departed to tend to other business. Rulio continued to mull against the railing, transfixed by the salty breeze against his face and the warm sunlight against his clothes. He was vaguely aware that Marek had finished his shooting practice, and was talking with Beck at the back of the boat. Keresi, unsurprisingly, was fraternising with PT-109’s crew. He fit in almost too well here, for Rulio’s taste.
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Eventually, the sun began to drop with increased rapidity, the shadows began to lengthen, and Rulio was roused from his thoughts. He made his way over to where Keresi stood chatting with the crew of PT-109. “Drag you away for a minute?” Rulio asked.
Keresi nodded, and the two made their way to as much of a private area as could be found on the small ship.
Rulio smiled. “How’s the shoulder, K?”
Keresi tilted his head. “Well… it’s been a lot better, that’s for sure.”
Rulio shook his head. “I don’t doubt it. Don’t worry, we’ll get it fully looked over when we get back to the Port Authority.”
Keresi looked unaffected. “Uh huh.”
Rulio held his tongue, sensing something else was on the way.
“But I mean – what happened though, Captain – Beck just dropped that fucking grenade?”
Rulio winced. “Yes, but – just go easy on her. She’s still learning.”
Keresi raised his eyebrows in exaggerated offense. “What, I haven’t been going easy on her?” He exhaled purposefully. “Ah, it just hurt like a sonofabitch is all.” His expression grew stern again. “And it shouldn’t have happened.”
Rulio put his hands out in supplication. “I know,” he sighed. “I know. It shouldn’t. But we’ll get it sorted.”
“I hope so.” Keresi stared out at the horizon. “We need more combat exposure. That Marek kid froze like an icicle for about twenty minutes.”
“You know it wasn’t anywhere near that long.” Rulio’s lip twisted into a smile. “And he did get off to a rather good start.”
Keresi rubbed at his eyes and then smiled softly. “Yes, he did. I’ll give him that. Although I still don’t understand what in the hell he was doing just floating around in the middle of nowhere. I mean, how was he even alive when we found him? And those strange things he was jabbering about, before he wised up and stopped?”
Unconsciously, Rulio rubbed a hand at his temple. “I don’t understand any of it either. But it wouldn’t make any sense for him to be a spy. We’re not military. We don’t know anything worth anything.”
“I suppose.” Keresi looked rather dejected at that, not liking to be reminded of their relative unimportance.
Rulio clapped Keresi on his good shoulder. “The important thing is, they’ve got potential, the both of them. We’re in no position to be choosy, and we need more crew. We got very lucky the other day. Very soon, things are going to escalate – everywhere, and for everyone. There’s a real possibility that the next time we run into some unfriendlies, it’s not going to be just one or two ships, like it has been. And yes, even with Beck and Marek, we might still be done for. But I’m not throwing away two sets of hands in the hopes of finding someone better, potentially. You and I both know we’re not going to get any soldiers.”
“I know, Captain. It’s just… why does it always have to be damn kids.”
Rulio laughed mirthlessly. “Yes, damn kids. Why, indeed, K?” His face grew solemn. “Why indeed…”
It was no more than half an hour later when Kennedy announced the news.
“My friends!” He shouted, as the giant floating structure loomed ever clearer through the evening gloom ahead of them. “Welcome to Gasoline City.”
Rulio had heard about this place, but without being military had never been permitted to visit it. ‘Gasoline City’ was a huge network of linked floating steel platforms arranged around a towering central structure, built up in the middle of the ocean about 400 kilometres off the northern tip of New Caledonia. Officially, it was called Resupply Station South-Western Pacific, but no one much cared to call it that. Once completed, it had taken on a crucial role as a remote supply base for US forces in the south-western Pacific – not least in making sure the various Navy ships were well stocked with gasoline, which was now being regularly burned through at exorbitant rates. From Gasoline City, ships trawling the sea between New Caledonia, the Solomon Islands to the north-northwest, and Vanuatu to the north-northeast could resupply from a more or less central point, without having to return all the way to the Port Authority at Nouméa or elsewhere every time. The net effect was to drastically increase the efficiency of US Navy logistics, reducing the downtime between operations. Furthermore, Rulio was sure that Gasoline City would play a pivotal role in the upcoming Guadalcanal offensive in the Solomon islands, the opening action in the US attempt to wrest control of the Western Pacific back from Japan.
Rulio looked on in wonder as they sailed further into the waterways of the floating city. It only got larger and larger, until his field of vision was filled with nothing else but the immense maze of steel docks, buildings, and dizzyingly high walkways and cables that seemed to crisscross them at random up and up into the sky. He could see large numbers of men scurrying around like ants across the multitudes of levels. Dozens of warships filled the central docks, and thousands of warm yellow lights punctured the night like fireflies. As he gazed in astonishment, Kennedy brought the PT-109 steadily up to one of the smaller docks near the edge of the structure, where waiting workers threw out lines and secured the moorings. Rulio had no idea how Kennedy knew where to go, but they had seemed to arrive without issue.
Not privy to the particularities of resupplying at Gasoline City, Rulio found himself watching for the better part of an hour as workers filled up the ship and hauled aboard reserve fuel drums, as well as delivering some special treats from the messrooms – fresh donuts, ice-cream, and piping hot pepperoni pizza. It seemed an exceedingly efficient system. When the time came for them to cast off and depart, not a single trace of the treats had survived, and most everyone was feeling various degrees of bloated.
“Thanks, Commodore,” Kennedy said flippantly, as PT-109 made its way through Gasoline City’s labyrinthine system of artificial canals, and out into the open sea again.
“Not a bad establishment he has going there. For a depressed bastard,” one of Kennedy’s men added, setting off an outbreak of laughter.
Rulio smiled. It was good to have some brevity, and the special treats had proven a hit with all onboard, but their stop at Gasoline City had only served to deepen his apprehension about what was coming. Seeing the scale of this single resupply outpost, the resources it wielded, the manpower and weaponry being concentrated here, he was now even more certain. Once it really began, this war would be something beyond human understanding.
His thoughts continued to darken as the small boat plunged ever onwards toward Nouméa through the deepening night.
----------------------
“Any update on when Guadalcanal is going to get hit?”
Calden Moss Anthony mused over Herabee’s question for a moment. They were seated across from each other at the Bolthole, Calden in a crisp black suit and Herabee in a rather more creased one.
“I’ve heard nothing concrete yet,” Calden finally replied, “but Nimitz will have all his ducks in a row soon enough. A couple of weeks at the most, I should say. Based on what I’ve heard.”
Herabee nodded and took a sip of Macallan, letting the strong whisky swirl around his mouth for a while before swallowing with a slight grimace. “And what have you learned about these godforsaken mists?”
Calden considered the question for a moment. “Well, BARO have been sending their recon teams progressively further into the fog. No doubt to shore up the data needed to implement this new Port Authority directive.”
Herabee furrowed his brow. “Recon teams? How have BARO got recon teams on such short notice?”
Calden laughed. “By siphoning off soldiers from the Army, of course.”
Herabee wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “And what have they learned? Have they seen anything?”
Calden shrugged. “The heavier the fog, the more powerful the entities within. It’s quite predictable.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Not in the sense of the enemies themselves, mind you – whatever they are, they are quite exotic – but in the impact it will have for both BARO and the Port Authority.” Calden smiled sardonically. “If they really want these routes made, and sectors cleared, then they will need to put in the resources. Men, ships, weapons. All of which they cannot spare in the face of this unceasing Japanese aggression.” Calden threw out his hands in a flourish. “Hence, the new directive.”
Herabee nodded knowingly. “It all seems to be in order then. A new paradigm for our new world.” He scratched unconsciously at his beard. “And will these new civilian crews be told about what is waiting for them in the fog?”
Calden took a sip of Vat 69, savouring the whisky before he replied. “No.”