B00BPJL400 EBOK (48 page)

“Oh, shit,” he murmured again. Squatting behind the heavy cover, he lifted it up until it balanced on the hinge, then tried to get around, still holding it, and put his leg inside. He groped desperately for the ladder rung with his foot and could hear the shouts of encouragement below, but there was just no possible way he could hold the hatch cover and squeeze through the narrowing gap at the same time!

The first surge of water sloshed down the hole.

With a terrible sense of dread, Danny Porter knew he was finished, but just then, to him, the most important thing in the world became that his shipmates never know how terrified he was. “So long, fellas!” he roared down into the berthing space as cheerfully as he could manage, then he slammed the hatch cover down and dogged it shut.

Immediately, he tried to scurry forward, to get as far up the bow as possible in case it did stay afloat, but the angle was too great and the wet deck too slick. It was no use. He crouched by the hatch, water washing around his waist, watching as the bow rose ever higher.
It’s gonna be hell down there,
he realized,
with all that stuff breaking loose and falling all over the place. People too. There’ll probably be gas.
Maybe they can climb into the torpedo room and get away from it, but the boat may not even stay above water, and they’ll all suffocate anyway
. He looked east. Santy Cat
’s still poundin’ ’em, but the last Grik ships are scooting past now, some of those cruiser things. Huh.
Santy
doesn’t look like she’s goin’ after ’em. I hope she’s not too chewed!
In the distance, the attack was definitely tapering off. Several ships were burning, but no more glide bombs were hitting anymore. He hated not knowing how it would all turn out, but his certainty was growing that, of all S-19’s surviving crew, he was going to get off the easiest. At least that’s what he thought until the first flasher fish tore a baseball-size hunk out of his side. Another hit his left leg. Even as he flailed, screaming in the water, the hits became continuous and the water frothed around him. Oddly, he never really felt any pain; the attack was too fast, too traumatic. Flasher fish are greedy things, and very good at what they do.

36

//////
US
S
Walker

“S
kipper!” Ed Palmer cried, scrambling up the stairs aft and dashing into the pilothouse. Spanky glared at him for his breach of propriety, but Ed didn’t notice. Instead, he rushed to where Matt was sitting in his Captain’s chair, bolted to the forward bridge bulkhead on the starboard side. Matt saw that Ed held a message form in his trembling hand, something Matt had learned to dread. He took it calmly enough, but his heart felt like lead. There’d been a lot of message forms that day, and the news was mostly good. He’d been frustrated that
Walker
and
Mahan
, two of the most formidable combatants in the Navy, had been on what turned out to be a wild-goose chase while a major battle was underway, but all early reports indicated First Fleet North had done well enough without them. But Ed’s behavior implied
this
message form contained seriously bad news. Reluctantly, Matt squinted at the dark page.

“What the hell?” demanded Spanky.

Matt looked up. “Yes, please, Mr. Palmer. Just spill it.”

Ed hesitated, but Courtney Bradford stepped forward and put a soothing hand on the communications officer’s arm. “Indeed,” he urged. “I think Captain Reddy believes your distress indicates you bear news we all should hear.”

Palmer gulped and looked at Matt, who nodded gravely. “Skipper,” he said, then glanced around. “Everybody.” He paused. “Commodore Ellis is dead.”

There was only the dimmest lighting in the pilothouse, so no one saw Matt’s green eyes turn that frightening, icy shade, but there was no hiding the telltale stiffening of his spine and hardening of his features that signified a mounting rage. From an earlier report they’d known Jim was wounded, but the extent of his injuries hadn’t been disclosed. Maybe they just assumed however bad it might be, he’d heal eventually. The curative Lemurian polta paste they relied on so had instilled a subconscious conviction that if someone wasn’t killed outright, chances were they’d be okay. After all, nearly every living human destroyerman had been wounded at some point by now, often badly. Jim himself had just recovered from a serious injury. If he’d died from wounds he suffered that day, they must have been terrible indeed.

A profound silence lingered on the bridge as Ed’s words sank in, the only sounds from the ship herself; the rumbling blower, and the rush of the beam sea leaning her slightly starboard as she pitched. But the rhythmic, vibrating groan of the steel transmitting the motion of machinery and turning shafts made it seem like USS
Walker
herself was reminding them that Jim Ellis once belonged to her as much as the rest of them, and she wanted her own say in how they’d avenge his loss.

“What else?” Matt asked, his voice as brittle and hard and black as obsidian. He held up the message form in the gloom. “There’s more here.”

“Yessir,” Ed acknowledged. “Apparently, the fighting’s mostly done ashore, but those last three Grik wagons, the ones everybody thought were knocked out or broke, steamed out of Madras in the dark with a covey of cruisers.” He shook his head. “Swarms of zeps attacked at the same time, so maybe that’s why nobody noticed.
Baalkpan Bay
’s pursuit planes slaughtered ’em, but the fleet got hurt. Two DDs, a transport, and an oiler are just gone. No survivors.” He let that sink in, then continued. “
Arracca
and
Baalkpan Bay
both took hits from suiciders, but they came out okay. Neither had planes on deck, and the new damage-control procedures worked pretty well.
Baalkpan Bay
should be back fully operational by morning.
Arracca
’ll take a little longer, but all her damage was aft. She can launch and recover Nancys already.”

“What’s the worst?” Spanky demanded, knowing the comm officer was holding back.

“Well.” Ed gestured outside the pilothouse windows. “It’s really dark, overcast, and there won’t be a moon for another hour or so. Add in all the smoke . . .”

“What happened?” Matt insisted.

Ed looked at him. “The Grik came out in line, pretty much invisible, and steamed straight through where
Santa Catalina
and S-19 were anchored.
Santy Cat
got hammered pretty bad by successive broadsides at close range. A round punched through and knocked out her main steam line. Her forward fireroom’s flooded and she’s got no power, even for her pumps. She’s dead in the water. DDs from the fleet rushed over when they saw the fight flare up and they’re standing by to do whatever they can to keep her afloat or take her people off.”

“Shit!” Spanky breathed.

“Yessir,” Ed agreed.

“What about S-Nineteen?” Matt asked.

Ed winced. “Nobody’s real sure yet, but there’s no sign of her except an oil slick and floating junk. Some ’Cats on
Santy
hollered across to the DDs that they think the lead Grik wagon rammed her amidships.”

“Good God!” Courtney exclaimed.

Matt sat silent for several moments, staring forward, then he looked at Ed. “Signal to Commander Brister on
Mahan
: ‘Maintain course three six zero.’ Ask him what’s the highest speed he can sustain.” He turned to Spanky. “Post extra lookouts when the watch changes, and have Bernie prep his torpedoes however he needs to. Sprinkle holy water on ’em, if that’s what it takes.” He stood and glared out at the darkness, his hands holding his cane behind his back. “Those ships—that’s
got
to be Kurokawa coming at us, trying to bail out of Madras and save his crazy, evil ass.” He shook his head. “Not this time, by God.” He stepped slowly out on the bridgewing and savagely flung the cane into
Walker
’s churning wake. When he returned to face the bridge watch, the meager light in the pilothouse finally glittered off the ice in his eyes. “
This
time we kill him.”

Through the remainder of the first dog watch, the last dog watch, and into the first watch,
Walker
and
Mahan
steamed north-northwest, making turns for twenty-five knots. How
Mahan
did it, slowing
Walker
only slightly, Matt had no idea. But he accepted that if Perry Brister thought his ship was about to come unwrapped, he’d let him know.
Or maybe he wouldn’t?
Perry had to be equally convinced that Kurokawa was, if not Jim’s, then certainly S-19’s murderer. He’d cost them—and the whole Alliance—an awful lot of lives ever since they first met the bastard, and he’d prolonged and immeasurably raised the price of the ongoing war by
aiding
the Grik. Kurokawa was a legitimate military target, but killing him would fetch the Alliance in general, and Matt’s old destroyermen in particular, a tremendous measure of satisfaction. Matt was determined that that night would see the end of their chief collective nemesis, embodied by Hisashi Kurokawa, once and for all.

The wind was rising and so was the sea, still hitting
Walker
on the port beam, but now sending sheets of water over the fo’c’sle. The sky had cleared to reveal a rising crescent moon, however. There seemed no way Kurokawa’s squadron could escape the keen-eyed Lemurian lookouts who changed every hour, but anxiously hoped they’d be the ones to spot the dark silhouettes of massive ships and telltale sparks of coal-fired boilers. There was little talk on the bridge throughout the grim sprint and Matt remained in his chair or paced the bridgewings the entire time, drinking cup after cup of Juan’s monkey joe. Occasionally he peered at the chart spread on the table, beneath the scuffed sheet of Plexiglas, and consulted his watch.

He’d calculated their quarry had two choices: a straight shot, hugging the coastline and making all possible speed, or a southeasterly course that would give them a bigger ocean to hide in. The first would take them the farthest, but leave them vulnerable to air attack from Trin-con-lee with the morning. It would also, incidentally, land them in
Walker
’s and
Mahan
’s laps before much longer. The second might seem more attractive, but wouldn’t do them any good because
Big Sal
was still plodding up from astern. Her planes would find the big Grik ships quickly enough, and would call Matt’s little squadron to the fight.

Personally, Matt figured he was on the right trail, and Kurokawa would try to bull straight through.
Those Grik BB’s will eat a lot of coal,
he thought,
and Kurokawa can’t have enough to throw too wide a loop in his course
.
He’ll have figured out what we used to sink his wagons at Madras, and knows we don’t have many more, if any
.
He’ll come straight on
. Matt was sure.
He’ll expect to lose his cruisers to our air, but there’s not much air, particularly our planes at Trin-con-lee, can do against underway battleships. Ben’s P-40s’ll shoot their fifty cal dry, and the Nancys and Fleashooters’ll rain fifty-pound bombs all over him—but they had a hard enough time hitting the few vulnerable spots on stationary targets at Madras. Otherwise, all they have is incendiaries—which don’t do squat—and he knows it
. Matt nodded, satisfied.
Kurokawa will come straight on, thinking he’s got all the aces—but he doesn’t—can’t—know
Walker
and
Mahan
will be waiting for him!
He glanced at his watch again, considering the closure rate based on his ships’ speed and what he thought the Grik dreadnaughts could make. “Soon,” he whispered.

* * *

“Scuttlebutt says we’re goin’ for Kuri-kawi hisself,” Chief Isak Rueben announced flatly to the aft fireroom at large in what, for him, was an almost giddy tone. There were hoots of tired appreciation in the dank, sweltering space. It had probably achieved 130 degrees in the firerooms that day, and though the heat had moderated with the night, it was still over 90. Lieutenant Tab-At slid down the ladder from the escape trunk above, her bare feet splatting in the grimy muck on the deckplates. She glared at Isak. “You happy now it’s nasty down here again?”

“We’re goin’ after Kuri-kawi!” Isak told her, ignoring her jab.

“You don’t say,” Tabby replied with a trace of sarcasm. She didn’t point out that she’d just spoken with Spanky and probably knew a lot more than Isak. That would be mean. She thought Isak had finally gotten over her being his superior and they got along about as well as ever, but she didn’t like to remind him of the official gulf between them. As far as she was concerned, Isak was more like a partner, a backup engineering officer, and they both did essentially the same job. She was better at organization and paperwork, even considering her limited letters, and was infinitely better at translating Isak’s admitted genius concerning the powerplant to the rest of the snipes—not to mention other officers and divisions.

“Yah,” Isak said. “We’ll sink those iron-plated Grik-Japs’ asses like . . . somethin’ easy! Like turtle heads in a stock tank!”

“They handled
Saanty Caat
pretty rough,” Tabby reminded, a little confused by Isak’s reference.

“So? She’s a damn log, just wallowin’ there. All she could do was creep along like a slug an’ take it.” He tapped a hot boiler with a wrench affectionately. “We can outrun their shot!”

Tabby blinked annoyance. “No, we can’t,” she said. “We’re fast enough to spoil their aim, maybe, but we got no armor at all. The
rest
of the word is,
Saanty Caat
had to get close to do any damage with her guns, an’ S-Nineteen had to get just as close for torpedoes. Don’t get cocky down here! When we fight, be ready to patch holes an’ shore up plates on the double! If they shoot holes in us, they gonna be damn big ones!”

Isak peered at her. “You sure have turned grumpy in yer old age—an’ since you officered up!”

Tabby blinked surprised irritation. “Well . . . when did you change to such a ‘all’s swell’ kinda guy?”

Isak shrugged. “Never did. You want I should carry on an’ spew woe ever’where—like okra seeds?”

Tabby chuckled. She and Isak—and Gilbert—once spent most of a day discussing okra. In that one respect, the two half brothers deeply disagreed. Isak hated it, Gilbert loved it, and even never having tasted it, Tabby came down on Isak’s side, based solely on his description of the stuff. “No,” she conceded.

“Then lemme be, an’ quit trompin’ on my genu-ine pleasure at goin’ up against that Jap booger in my very own fireroom, aboard my own ship! I been toilin’ away at so many stinky jobs lately, even puttin’ up with that beetle-brain Laney!” He paused. “Say, I don’t s’pose he bought it?” he asked hopefully.

“No word on that.”

“Too bad. It’s a cryin’ shame good fellas like Mr. Ellis always get it, but the Laneys o’ the world thrive like roaches.”

Tabby shook her head, but couldn’t argue. “I’m headin’ to the aft engine room. Screwy noises comin’ from the port shaft. Might just be this beam sea shovin’ us around. Come look when you get a chance. Otherwise, I’ll be at the throttle station.”

* * *

“So what does a sore, beat-up Marine do in a surface action on a destroyer?” Gunny Horn asked Dennis Silva. They were on the amidships gun platform, over the galley, and they weren’t alone. Most of the crews of both 4"-50s, port and starboard, not on watch somewhere else were there already. Everyone had their own opinion about when they’d meet the enemy but they’d all concluded it must be soon. Too anxious to sleep, those without other duties had gravitated to their battle stations as the night wore on.

“You wouldn’t have to ask if you’d come to drill instead o’ lollygaggin’ around, m’lingerin’ an’ hidin’ from honest work,” Silva scolded piously.

“Should’a drilled,” Lawrence agreed emphatically, arms crossed over his chest. It was awkward for him to put his hands on his hips like Spanky often did—he just wasn’t built right—but his stance implied a saltiness that Gunny Horn didn’t have.

Horn goggled at the . . .
lizard
scolding him, but held his tongue. He liked Lawrence and he’d already heard Silva’s fuzzy, reptilian buddy knew his way around
Walker
’s main battery. “I’ve been on limited duty,” he protested, taking a drag off one of the vile cigarettes starting to show up in cartons marked “Pepper, Isak, and Gilbert Smoking Tobacco Co.” at Andaman. The nasty-smelling things weren’t very popular yet and they’d already earned the nickname PIG cigs, but Isak—who owned the process for making them back in Baalkpan, was pushing them as hard as his personality allowed. Many of the humans who’d kicked the habit left them alone or kept chewing the Lemurian tobacco they’d gotten used to, but a few gladly resumed. Even a few ’Cats had tried them. Now the gathered Lemurians cackled at Horn with nervous amusement, or pretended to gag on his smoke.