B00BPJL400 EBOK (49 page)

“‘Limited’ don’t mean ‘pro-hibited’ from doin’ anything harder than smolderin’, stuffin’ yer face, an’ wallowin’ in yer rack,” Silva insisted. “It means ‘no jumpin’ overboard an’ tryin’ to outswim the ship—while whuppin’ flashies with a stick.’” There were laughs, and Silva continued. “It means ‘no climbin’ the foremast by a backstay an’ standin’ on yer stupid head on top of the crow’s nest!’” More laughter exploded, and the ’Cats stamped the deck.

“Knock off that shit!” roared Earl Lanier, waddling out from the galley beneath them. “I been building a mountain o’ sammiches, an’ you nearly tumped it over!”

“You’re just makin’ excuses for havin’ ate half of ’em!” Silva roared down, and Lanier shook his pudgy fist, eliciting more hilarity.

“Being on limited duty only means you don’t have to carry Lanier’s fat ass to his battle station in the aft crew’s head when they sound GQ,” Chief Gray said dryly. The Super Bosun had suddenly appeared among them. Silva guffawed, but most of the ’Cats only chuckled politely. Enjoying themselves somehow felt too much like shirking when the Bosun was looking. Gray slapped the nearest ’Cat on the back. “C’mon,” he said, “that was funny!” A few more Lemurians dutifully laughed and Gray shook his head. He hadn’t meant to be a wet blanket, and he’d known exactly what Silva was trying to do. He even thought he could help. But his status as the terrible Chief Bosun of the Navy prevented him from enjoying the same familiarity with the crew that Silva had grown into. Silva’s ability to do that actually perplexed him. Before they came to this world, the maniac always had his clique—other troublemakers, mostly—but he’d finally harnessed and directed his destructive powers; learned to focus them on the enemy instead of everyone around him. He liked people now, at least those on his side, and his exploits had achieved an almost mythical status. Ultimately, even if he was still alarming in a “don’t play with the rattlesnake” sort of way, his shipmates weren’t actively
afraid
of him anymore. Gray thought that was a good thing, particularly since Silva seemed to like it that way too.

Gray glared at Horn. “You’ve had field artillery training. Didn’t you guys use those old French seventy-fives in the Philippines?”

“Some guys called ’em that,” Horn grumbled.

Gray shrugged. “So what? Same gun.” He pointed at the portside 4"-50. “The Welin breech on these is different, but you still gotta slam a shell in it, and you can do that.” He gestured around. “That’ll free up one of these guys to do something that takes more experience.”

Horn hesitated.

“Hey,” said Silva, grinning. “He’s doin’ you a favor. I was gonna have you humpin’ ammo up from the magazine. As first shellman, you’ll get to be up here with
me
, watchin’ the show!”

“Sea action at night is . . . ‘rettier than running through the jungle, shooting at Jaaphs!” Lawrence confirmed. He looked at the breech of the number two gun. “Just look out. She kicks to the rear around thirty inches!” He beamed at Silva, who’d taught him, but snarled when Dennis ruffled his crest.

The general-quarters alarm sounded. The thing had been so abused by age, use, and even submergence, it was commonly called the dying-duck call, even by ’Cats who’d never heard a duck. They’d learned what ducks were, and there were plenty of creatures that made similar sounds on this world. The alarm was joined by Minnie’s childlike voice on the new loudspeakers: “All haands—maan you baattle stations!”

Chief Gray moved to the middle of the platform and blew “Clear ship for action” on his bosun’s pipe, and when he heard the call repeated, he looked back at Silva and waved. “So long, fellas. Good huntin’!”

Silva punched Horn on a particularly sore shoulder muscle. “Here we go, ol’ buddy. Put your tin hat on!”

37

“L
ookout confirms three Grik baattleships, bearing two seero five!” Minnie informed the bridge over the tumult of thundering feet and clattering gear. ’Cats and men raced up the ladder to the fire-control platform above, some carrying extra boxes of ammunition for the Browning.30s already mounted there. “Range is maybe six t’ousand tails—I mean, yaards!” Minnie still got those mixed up, but the measurements were virtually identical and it made little difference. Commander Simon Herring chose that moment to arrive on the bridge, ushered up the stairs by the clanging peg in place of Juan Marcos’s left leg. Matt noted that Herring was dressed in whites, something he and the rest of his officers never did in action anymore.

“Here, Cap-tan,” Juan said, snatching Matt’s hat and reaching up to drop a helmet on his head. Matt tried to stare through his binoculars while Juan struggled to fasten a pistol belt around his waist, complete with his battered academy sword. There was no point complaining, and Juan would sulk. He concentrated on the view while the rest of those on the bridge exchanged hats for helmets, even Courtney.
Walker
had Pam Cross and a good ’Cat surgeon now, so Courtney was free to do whatever he wanted unless really needed in the wardroom. It had brightened considerably with the moon creeping higher, and Matt distinguished the black coast of India against the scattered stars, but that was it. “I can’t see them yet,” he said. “Any word on the cruisers?”

“Lookout sees only waagons. They is hugging the coast,” Minnie reported. “Prob’ly tryin’ to hide against it.” She snorted. “Maybe they all run aground!”

“That’s a pleasant thought,” Courtney Bradford agreed, “but, sadly, they doubtless know the depths here far better than we. The charts captured on Ceylon and during Keje’s previous, brief stay at Madras are strikingly precise.”

“I see exhaust sparks!” confirmed Bernie Sandison on the port bridgewing. He’d joined the lookouts there with his binoculars while his torpedo ’Cats readied the director. “Definitely coal burners ahead!”

“Have the crow’s nest watch for the cruisers,” Matt cautioned. “They might be up to something. Maybe screening more to seaward.”

“Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!” Minnie said. After a short pause, she reported: “All stations maaned an’ ready. Mister Palmer says
Mahaan
aack—
hears
our warning an’ also maanning baattle stations!”

“Very well. Have Mr. Palmer ask her to watch for the cruisers as well.” He looked at Spanky. “Better take your station aft,” he said. “Let’s hope you don’t have anything to do this time,” he added wryly.

“You said it, Skipper! I’d just as soon sit in a rockin’ chair and watch the show if it’s all the same to you! See you when we’re done.” With that, Spanky nodded at Courtney and the others, stepped quickly to the ladder aft, and clattered down to the weather deck on his way to the auxiliary conn.

“Do you really think those . . . cruisers could be a threat, Captain Reddy?” Herring asked. “They’ve contributed little to the fighting so far.”

“They’re fairly helpless against air attack,” Matt allowed, “but Jim . . .” He frowned and cleared his throat. “Jim said they’re good ships and might be trouble in a slugging match.” He sighed. “I don’t ever want to take anything for granted on this goofed-up world again, so, yeah, if they’re out there, armed, and full of Grik, they’re a threat. I believe we can handle them: they’ve got nowhere near the armor of those BBs, but we have to
see
them to kill them. Much as I hate Kurokawa, he’s a real naval officer and he’s not stupid. He’s crazy as hell, but I can’t put anything past him. I don’t like surprises unless they’re ours.”

“Lookout sees cruisers!” Minnie cried triumphantly. “They
is
to seaward, in line, bearing seero two seero!”

“All of them?” Matt asked doubtfully.

“He thinks four.”

“That may be all, Captain Reddy,” suggested Herring. “No one knows how many sortied.”

Matt grunted. “No, but something you may not’ve picked up is that Grik naval—and air formations, I guess—generally come in multiples of three, and that’s something Kurokawa seems to have embraced. He hasn’t discouraged it, anyway.”

“Maybe the other two, if they exist, broke down between Madras and here,” Courtney suggested. He looked at Herring. “It
has
been reported that their engines appear somewhat unreliable.”

“That’s possible,” Matt nodded, “but we still need to keep our eyes peeled for at least two more.” He looked at Minnie. “Have Mr. Palmer signal
Mahan
to take station aft. We’ll proceed between the two forces in line of battle. Stand by for surface action, port and starboard, but we’ll reserve the starboard torpedoes and use the port tubes on the BBs.” He considered. “Have Mr. Campeti concentrate his fire control on the cruisers to starboard. We don’t have any of the new AP shells yet and, by all reports, our common shells won’t have much effect on the BBs. We’ll have a better chance against the cruisers with the main battery. Silva can direct the number two gun against the wagons in local control if he likes.”

“Ay, ay, sur.”

“Won’t that alert them and cause them to maneuver?” Herring asked. “They may prove more difficult targets for the torpedoes.”

Matt looked at him, reminding himself that for all his occasional bluster, Herring wasn’t an experienced line officer. This would be the man’s first naval action and he had to be nervous. Matt still didn’t know what he thought of Herring, but he was obviously trying to learn. He chose to be tactful. “Against the Jap Navy, I’d agree. But the Grik don’t—
didn’t
—have integrated fire control yet, and had to aim each gun individually. I hope that’s still the case. If so, they’ll have to steam straight and steady to hit us, and if that
is
Kurokawa over there, he’ll
damn
sure want to hit us. That said, I know Silva can whack the big bastards, even in local control. I doubt he’ll do much but ring their bell, but that’s liable to encourage the enemy to maintain their line of battle—especially when we start clobbering their cruisers.” He nodded out at the bridgewing. “That’s when Mr. Sandison’s new toys’ll have their best chance.”

“I see,” Herring murmured. “But surely surprise would still benefit us?”

Matt nodded. “Of course, and we’ll sure take it if we get it. Squeezing right between the BBs and cruisers undetected before we launch torpedoes would be ideal. We might sink all the big boys, then stand off and hammer the cruisers at our leisure. We can’t count on that, however. Grik don’t see as well as ’Cats in the dark, and they might just miss us, but you can bet they’re on the lookout, and we’re going to pass awful close.” He waved aft. “We’re kicking up a mighty bright wake, and the one thing we don’t dare do is slow down. They’ve got a lot of big guns!”

Herring was silent a moment. “I confess,” he finally said, “I’m unaccustomed to making such elaborate plans—considering so many contingencies—on the fly. There
should
be a way, through careful planning and preparation, to eliminate more of the variables you described. Perhaps . . . Perhaps we shouldn’t attack tonight. We’ve found the enemy and should be able to shadow him until daylight and make a more considered attack, in conjunction with our air power.”

Matt frowned. “We don’t have any more ship-killing bombs, Mr. Herring, so our air is limited. Since we have to get close for Bernie’s fish to have a good chance, a night action is to our advantage.” He snorted angrily. “Besides, we’re here, the enemy’s there, and we’re going to fight him. You can analyze everything later and point out all the ways I screw this up, but one thing you need to learn is that long, careful plans are great—until the first gun goes off. The whole point of command is the ability to make, revise, and reject a dozen plans all at once, on the fly, as you said, because if your enemy isn’t a complete idiot, that’s what he’s doing!”

“Range is twenty-eight hundreds to wagons, thirty-five hundreds to cruisers,” Minnie reported.

“Very well,” Matt said. Staring hard through his binoculars, he could see the Grik dreadnaughts now. He’d read the descriptions and talked to others who’d seen them, but this was his first personal glimpse. “They
are
pretty big,” he said grudgingly. Sweeping his glasses right, he barely saw the dark shapes of the cruisers as well. On a calmer sea, they’d have been clearer, but all he noted was their bare-poled masts moving against the moon-hazed night. A bright flash lit the left lens of his Bausch & Lombs and he quickly redirected them. “So much for surprise,” he muttered.

“Lookout says first Grik waagon opens fire!” Minnie cried. A big, phosphorescent geyser erupted three hundred yards short. “Caam-peeti asks to commence firing!”

“Wait,” Matt said. “The cruisers may not see us yet, but once we shoot, everybody’ll know where we are. I don’t want the cruisers cutting in front of us. Tell Campeti to stand by.” He didn’t need to send word to
Mahan
. Perry Brister wouldn’t shoot until
Walker
did. He looked at Bernie still fussing with the torpedo director. “You ready for this?” he called.

“I sure hope so, Skipper,” Bernie replied nervously. A lot was riding on his torpedoes, and though S-19 had proved they actually worked in combat, he was still anxious.

At a closing speed of more than thirty knots, the range was winding down fast. Two flashes lit the forward casemate of the Grik dreadnaught at fifteen hundred yards as the angle on the bow neared forty-five degrees. Both shots went long, but they were well in range now. The cruisers hadn’t closed the gap, but the first two opened fire with their forward guns.

“They all see us
now
,” quipped Chief Quartermaster Paddy Rosen at the helm.

“I don’t want to seem a worrywart,” Courtney said, watching the flashes, “but might we close the metal lids over these windows and perhaps begin shooting back?” Everyone in the pilothouse, even Herring, laughed.

“I suppose we might as well,” Matt said wryly. “Close and latch the splinter shutters,” he ordered. “The main battery may commence firing.”

* * *

Guns one, three, and four flared, and the odd-colored tracers arced away, converging toward the closest cruiser. All three were short, throwing up a wall of bright water that doubtless drenched the ship.

“Goddamn!” Silva roared, picking at his ear. “They might warn a fella!”

“You no hear saalvo bell?” cried Gunner’s Mate Pak-Ras-Ar, or “Pack Rat.” He was sitting on the trainer’s seat, staring at the lead Grik dreadnaught through his telescopic sight and slowly turning the wheel that traversed the big gun. The bell he was referring to had been salvaged from
Amagi
to replace
Walker
’s old salvo buzzer.

Lawrence was the gun’s pointer, and was moving his wheel back and forth to keep the proper elevation. He wasn’t built for the seat and had to stand awkwardly, peering through his own sight. “I heard it!” he said.

“What bell?”

“You’re already half-blind,” Horn accused. “Now you’ve gone deaf too. What the hell good are you?”

“Shut up, you.” Silva spun to his own talker. “Campeti said we can shoot if we want, right?”

“Right,” the ’Cat confirmed.

“Then let’s shoot! I’ve sunk bigger than those stupid Grik tubs with just one gun before.” He yanked open the breech. “Load!”

Three more muffled booms came from aft, and
Mahan
’s tracers lashed past.
Walker
’s own guns spat another salvo, and Silva cursed again. “Hey, one o’ you apes warn me next time, wilya? Somebody gimme somethin’ to stick in my ears!”

A ’Cat passed a shell to Horn, and the China Marine slammed it in the breech creditably enough. Dennis closed the breech and yelled, “Ready!”

“Ready,” echoed Pack Rat, still turning his wheel.

“Ready!” cried Lawrence, still making the muzzle bob slightly up and down.

“Fire!” Silva roared.

* * *

Matt saw an explosion light the lead Grik battleship, but couldn’t tell if any damage was done. The salvos were flying furiously to starboard, and the cruiser line was starting to straggle. One of the ships was afire, and it looked like there’d been good hits on another. Matt was focused to port, however. To prevent confusion and maximize the possibility of hits, he’d ordered that
Walker
and
Mahan
each fire one torpedo at each battleship. It was unorthodox, but since both ships had a triple mount rigged out, that gave their torpedomen—and torpedoes—six separate tries to get it right. As soon as the fish were in the water, the two destroyers would come about and fire six
more
torpedoes from the starboard side.

Ragged broadsides roared from the first and second battleships, kicking up massive, silver-gray waterspouts in a broad pattern around them, but Matt felt no slamming impact. “They’re all yours, Bernie,” he almost whispered to the intently concentrating torpedo officer, personally standing behind the director, constantly calling corrections.

“Stand by!” Bernie cried, his voice rising. “Fire two!”

“Fire!” Minnie repeated in her microphone, not to the torpedo mount but to Ed Palmer, who’d relay the command to
Mahan
by TBS so she could launch just a few seconds later.

There was a flash aft as the impulse charge flung a long, glistening cylinder from the number two tube. With a smoky trail of hot air, it vanished in the swells dashing by. Immediately, Bernie swung the director toward the second target. The third battleship fired and there were more splashes, but a terrible crash also jarred the ship forward. Bernie ignored it and suddenly cried, “Stand by. Fire four!”

“Fire!” Minnie said loudly, then immediately demanded a damage report. Matt looked out the window just in front of Rosen; it was the only one not covered. The crew of the number one gun had been thrown off their stride and missed the last salvo at the cruisers, but quickly recovered themselves. Matt didn’t see any damage.

“We got a big damn hole forward in the chain locker, Skipper!” Minnie reported. “The chain stop the ball from punchin’ out the other side, though, an’ we only takin’ a little water.”