Blood In the Water by Taylor Anderson Page A

stood in rows in a wooden insert flanked by decorative cleaning tools and screwdrivers. They’d never adopted .44-40, so someone must’ve made
these
cartridges by hand.
    At first, Matt didn’t know what to say. He knew the Baalkpan Arsenal had toyed with copying the SAA for a while, but the 1911 Colt design had proven easier to produce, and it was a far better combat pistol in any event. But it was beautiful, and he loved it on sight.
    â€œI’m told it was the first thing they ever nickel- or silver-plated on this world,” Russ said quietly, “but that can’t be so.” He nodded at Safir Maraan’s breastplate. “Maybe it was the first thing ever
electroplated
. Good practice, though.”
    Matt could only nod until he finally found his voice. “Thanks,” he said. “Thank you all. And I accept the gift,” he added with a wry smile. “Hard not to, with my name on it.” Then, reluctantly, he closed the lid and handed the case back to Russ. “But you’ll continue to take care of itfor me, Captain Chappelle, here aboard
Santa Catalina
, where we found it. That seems only right. God forbid you ever need to
use
it,” he continued lightly, amid chuckles, “but if you do, you have my permission.” He hesitated, then went on more seriously. “And if that’s ever the case, that you’re down to nothing but fifty custom rounds in my fancy, shiny Colt, rest assured that I’ll be coming as fast as I can—before you use up all the bullets.” There were more appreciative chuckles, but everyone also knew that Matt meant exactly what he said.

CHAPTER 4
    Baalkpan
Borno
September 25, 1944
    It was a beautiful, temperate, unusually dry afternoon at the Baalkpan Advanced Training Center (BATC). The haze from the factories surrounding the city was blowing east, away from the bay that separated Baalkpan proper from the installation where Major I’joorka’s 1st North Borno Regiment was undergoing its final evaluation maneuvers before deployment east to join the fight against the Holy Dominion. The green regimental flag with a stylized—and very broken—Japanese destroyer and the words 1 ST REGT NORTH BORNO INF hand-painted on it flapped in the early-afternoon breeze in the center of the Khonashi troops. About half of them were disconcertingly Grik-like in appearance except for what little coloration was visible beneath the tie-dyed frocks they wore. Clearly the same species as Grik, they were an entirelydifferent race: tiger-striped rust and black instead of the typical brown and dun of the enemy. The other half of the new regiment were humans of ancient Malay descent. All were armed with Baalkpan Arsenal rifled muskets and arrayed in an open but precise skirmish order two ranks deep that extended roughly three hundred yards to either side of the flag, facing the dense jungle to the west.
    Commander Alan Letts was there with a small staff to observe these final evolutions—and a little test that had been prepared. He’d come a long way from the admittedly lazy supply officer he’d once been aboard USS
Walker
, and his blooming organizational skills had earned him the duties of Captain Reddy’s chief of staff, then Adar’s, and finally his current extended stint as acting chairman of the Grand Alliance. His fair skin had always been highly sensitive to the sun, but his responsibilities had aged him more than the climate ever could.
    Standing with him was a young lieutenant (jg), little more than a teenager, named Abel Cook. Cook retained the upper-class British accent he’d brought to this world aboard the old S-19, but his blond hair was sun-bleached nearly white, his face tanned, and his blue eyes had seen a lot for his few years. Beside him was his close friend Midshipman Stuart Brassey, on extended loan from the navy of the Empire of the New Britain Isles. His dark hair contrasted with Abel’s, but