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members—Baalkpan and the Fil-pin Lands, represented by Adar and Saan-Kakja—shared the vision of a united nation, even if they didn’t always agree on priorities, and most of the other allies were willing to follow their lead. “Letting First Fleet have all the heavy stuff should make it easier for Adar to swallow my sideshow,” Matt continued, “and maybe let Keje bring
Big Sal
along. Keje wants to go, and we need
Salissa
for her aircraft.” He pointed at the closest wooden hull. “Now we need her to carry them too.”
    Admiral Keje-Fris-Ar was Matt’s oldest Lemurian friend, and resembled nothing more than a short, powerful, rust-colored bear. His
Salissa
Home had been an immense, sail-powered, seagoing city before the war, but had been converted to a steam-driven aircraft carrier. He was CINCWEST, but had been forced to retire to Andaman Island with a battered flagship and a fleet that couldn’t, at present, challenge the monstrous new Grik warships. He didn’t want to abandon First Fleet, but he loved the idea of Matt’s current scheme and desperately wanted to participate.
    “But . . .” Winny tried to protest again. “Who’ve you got with PT experience? Who’ll command your squadron?”
    Matt looked at him. “Are you volunteering for
my
Navy, Mr. Rominger?”
    The carriage driver entered and stood before Saan-Kakja. “The great plane approaches. You instructed me to inform you.”
    Saan-Kakja looked at Sandra. “Our guest has arrived!”

CHAPTER
    2
    T he mighty PB-5 Maa-ni-la “Clipper” circled above its new primary support facility half a mile down the long dock and began its lumbering descent. The aircraft looked a little bizarre. The hull lines of a PBY were still apparent, as was the wing shape, but the hull was deeper and the wing was attached directly to the top of the fuselage. Four Wright Gipsy–type motors were positioned in an even row on top of the wing, elevated by fragile-looking mounts. Five and even six engines had been attempted, but the increased thrust didn’t justify the greater weight and fuel consumption. Air-cooled radials powered the new, dedicated pursuit ships, or P-1 Mosquito Hawks everybody was calling “Fleashooters,” and were already being tried as well. It was hoped their greater power-to-weight ratio would make a good match for the larger planes. The color scheme was the same as the Nancys—blue and white—but this Clipper wasn’t a Navy plane, so there were no “Amer-i-caan” roundels on the wings.
    Matt, Sandra, Gray, Busaa, Meksnaak, and Saan-Kakja made the short trip in the carriage and joined the crowd that always gathered to watch the plane touch down on the water. It was a remarkably graceful maneuver for such a large, ungainly aircraft, particularly one whose pilots were doubtless very tired after their long flight. The plane looked tired too, and its wood and fabric wings seemed to sag with exhaustion as it rumbled to a stop on the calm inlet. Ponderously, it turned for the dock and motored toward a jutting pier where line handlers waited. Quickly and professionally, they secured the plane, and the engines muttered to a stop. A hatch opened on the side of the hull, and the passengers began disembarking.
    “There he is!” Saan-Kakja said with undisguised glee as the Australian engineer and self-proclaimed “naturalist” Courtney Bradford stepped awkwardly on the dock. He looked unsteady, but quickly covered his balding red pate with a wide sombrero. It hadn’t been long since Matt and Sandra saw him, but Saan-Kakja hadn’t seen him in many months. Courtney was an . . . interesting man; a little odd and absentminded, but still the closest thing they had to a real scientist. His insatiable curiosity, wealth of knowledge, and unconventional approach to discovery had been the driving force behind many of their advances. He had a knack for looking at various sides of any issue, and though thoughtless at times, he was never deliberately