Blood In the Water (19 page)

Some of
Savoie
's guns actually missed. They were panic firing in local control, and
Amerika
became a smaller target as she turned bows on, water creaming before her as she gathered speed. Most hit. Explosions racked the big ship as she came, hurling hull plates, deck splinters, and bodies high in the air. The blows came so quick that it grew hard to distinguish them. The foremast buckled and fell, then the aft funnel, likely struck by shells exiting the forward one, leaned and twisted until it toppled off the ship to port, crushing lifeboats and wounded troops as it slid over the boat deck. Smoke gushed and streamed away. Miraculously, the forward gun was still firing, as were a number of Maxims, peppering defiantly at the dreadnaught, but
Amerika
's bridge took a catastrophic hit and the entire structure was gouged away in a blizzard of shattered debris. Von Melhausen and all the blindly loyal men and 'Cats who'd opened this mad act had to have died then, torn apart like the ship they so revered, but the ship itself, as if intent on heeding their final commands regardless of the tragic cost, churned on, unerringly, directly for
Savoie
.

Diania and Horn were both holding Sandra now, as she wept in desolation at the carnage. Men and 'Cats she—and her dozens of medical friends, also dying—had toiled to save,
had
saved, in so many cases, were being senselessly slaughtered, and there was nothing she could do but watch. Adar was weeping too, the gray fur around his wide silvery eyes glistening and damp. Lange and his boat crew felt the same emotions, and others. Their home was dying. Their father was dead. Strangely, though, even as the bloodbath continued, the harm irreversibly done, another yearning built within every soul aboard the racing launch; a longing that, insane as it was,
Amerika
's sacrifice not be in vain and that she somehow complete her final sprint to smash deep into the side of her murderer. Yet even that meager consolation was not to be.

The water aft of the fire- and smoke-spitting dreadnaught spalled to life as her own screws started to bite, and her four massive turrets finally finished their stately traverse. With a stuttering, ear-shattering blast, all eight 13.5-inch rifles hurled half-ton shells at the ruined, smoke-streaming hulk from a range of less than three hundred yards. Also fired in local control, and with the target so close, half of them missed. If
Amerika
had been a little smaller, a little faster, or even just a little closer, all would've probably gone over. As it was, four of the massive shells slammed her in quick succession, gutting her like she'd been rammed in the nose by a freight train. Two exploded in her fo'c'sle, bulging her bow and blowing it out like a debris-spraying orchid opening to the sky. The entire foredeck, including the gun mounted there, simply vanished. At least one shell plowed deep, exploding in the forward boiler room. The detonation split the ship's side and the next bulkhead aft, rupturing more boilers that spewed a fog of scalding steam.

Amerika
staggered, losing the near ten knots she'd achieved in the space of a breath. To the stunned eyes of those in the launch, she no longer even resembled a ship. The flash comparison that came to Gunny Horn was that she looked more like somebody had set fire to the Woolworth Building, then picked it up and dropped it on its side in the Hudson River. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured. Immediately, the smoldering wreckage began to settle under a massive, dark, steamy shroud.

“Turn us around!” Sandra commanded, her voice harsh and rough. “We have to save as many as we can!” As if shaken from a trance, Becher Lange barked at the 'Cat at the tiller to bring them about. Aboard
Amerika
, lifeboats were quickly dropping toward the water. Sandra was sure many of those aboard had begun to prepare for this just as soon as they realized what was happening. Some boats were full of wounded, further proof that someone had been thinking fast, but many went down empty, the more ambulatory sliding down the falls to fill them when they reached the sea.
Savoie
was still gathering way, but at least she'd stopped firing. Instead, she commenced a wide turn to starboard that would bring her back toward the destruction she'd wrought.
Amerika
was going down on a relatively even keel. Ironically, the extent of the destruction to her hull that would quickly sink her also momentarily prevented her from listing too far on her side, or assuming a downward angle too extreme to lower any boats at all.

“Quickly!” Lange urged the Lemurian at the throttle, but the 'Cat only blinked helplessly. The throttle was wide-open. And it became increasingly clear that
Savoie
would return long before the launch could reach the sinking ship—and that
Amerika
would be gone before they got there, in any event. Greedy water closed over the twisted wreckage of the fo'c'sle, and the angle finally increased with a booming cacophony of shifting machinery and sliding rubble. When the sea reached for the blown-out portholes beneath the promenade deck, only seconds remained. Surging upward amid a growing, moaning spume of venting air and screaming steam, the sea seemed to literally
gulp
the proud old liner into its depths. A few more lifeboats may have floated clear at the end, but it was difficult to tell amid the rushing white maelstrom of escaping air and swirling debris. The last they saw of SMS
Amerika
was her mainmast, aft, sliding swiftly down. For the first time, as it took its last hurried breath, Horn was struck by the coincidental similarity between the golden eagle-like creature on a white field flag of the Republic, and the flag of the Imperial German Navy. With a strange lump in his throat, he caught sight of
Savoie
, rushing to cut them off from the bobbing, spinning lifeboats and the countless wounded suddenly in the water. They didn't have much time at all. The voracious predators of this terrible sea would find them very quickly.

“No!” Sandra roared at the League battleship as it neared, its engines now churning the sea to slow it. “You can't leave them in the water!” Her voice cracked.

“He lived as long as his ship,” Lange said woodenly, staring at the spot where
Amerika
disappeared. “Just as he said.”

“He lived
too
long!” Sandra snarled, rounding on him, and Lange recoiled. “Long enough to kill God knows how many in his care!” She pointed at
Savoie
. “And for what?” The battleship showed little evidence that it had just been in a fight, and it soon loomed over them, rails once more lined with men. One had a speaking trumpet, and he called down in accented English.

“You will now please come aboard,” he said. It wasn't a question, but his tone sounded almost . . . apologetic.

“Help those people in the water!” Sandra yelled back.

The man hesitated, but another leaned near and said something to him. “We will help them by leaving their comrades in the boats to save them—and not shooting the boats.
If
you come aboard at once,” he called back. “Please,” he added, almost pleading, “we cannot linger here, and will do what we must to leave as quickly as we can.”

*   *   *

Sandra and Diania were the first to set foot on
Savoie
, followed by Horn, Adar, Lange, and the three Lemurian sailors who accompanied them. Sailors briskly and efficiently searched the men and 'Cats. Sandra and Diania weren't touched. Their first impression was that the ship was absolutely huge. In reality, it wasn't even as long as
Amerika
had been, but the contrast of open deck spaces with enormous guns, machinery, and fittings placed upon them was jarring. The robust-looking superstructure reared high in the sky and the great, gun-bristling turrets utterly dwarfed the men around them. Rust peeked from the occasional crack or blister in the paint—and there were a few places where
Amerika
's guns had left their mark—but otherwise, the ship looked amazingly well maintained and practically new, despite its age. Another thing that jarred them was that the entire visible crew, and a fair percentage must've gathered to stare at them, were human males. Many were shirtless, dressed only in light gray trousers, but others wore white trousers and jumpers. The apparent officers were dressed all in white, with pith helmets on their heads. At Sandra's first glimpse of a man with a thin mustache and rank she knew equated to a rear admiral, she knew who was responsible for the atrocity she'd just witnessed. He flinched when he saw her expression and took half a step back. She raised a fist and started to advance, but Horn grabbed her arm. “Ma'am,” he hissed urgently,
drawing her attention back to the squad of men with rifles. Adar stepped in front of her, glaring at their captors.

“You have us,” he said bitterly, “now put your boats in the water. Innocent lives are being lost with each instant you delay.”

“Search them as well,” instructed a wiry blond-haired officer beside the admiral. He spoke French, ignoring Adar and gestured at the two women.

“That will not be necessary,” the admiral with the thin mustache said in English, avoiding eye contact with Sandra. “We have no women aboard to properly perform so . . . delicate a task. But if they bear weapons of any kind, they have this one opportunity to surrender them without consequences. If it is later discovered that they are armed . . . the conditions of their stay aboard
Savoie
will become less pleasant.” He returned his full gaze to the relatively tall Lemurian in the star-flecked robe. “You are Chairman Adar?” he asked. Adar nodded. “And you must be
Amerika
's commander,” he said to Lange. “I am Contre Amiral Laborde. Welcome aboard
Savoie
. As long as you are my guests, you will be allowed every courtesy. But you are in no position to make demands, particularly after your attempt to damage my vessel.”

“We had nothing to do with that!” Sandra snarled. “No one did, except the ship's former commander, Kapitan Von Melhausen! He was an old man, and your attack on us probably sent him over the edge! Now hundreds of wounded soldiers are dying as we speak!”

Laborde finally looked back at her. “Then Kapitan Von Melhausen was a very foolish old man. You must be ‘Lady' Sandra Reddy, Minister of Medicine for your alliance, and wife of its chief military leader, Captain Reddy!” He allowed a slight, triumphant smile. “My apologies, madam, but that warship . . .”

“Warship?” Sandra interrupted incredulously.

“
Armed
warship,” Laborde stressed, “fired at us, unprovoked, and without warning.” Sandra struggled against Horn's grip.

“After you fired at us!” Lange insisted.

Laborde waved that away. “You had no communications. We merely fired to get your attention so we might avoid a collision in these persistent squalls, and peacefully converse. It is a time-honored tradition of the sea.”

“So that's how it is?” Horn muttered, and Laborde's eyes bored into
his. “That is how it is,” he agreed stonily. “And you are?” He glanced back at Lange. “You were instructed to bring only yourself, Chairman Adar, Minister Reddy, and crew sufficient to operate your boat.” He turned to Horn expectantly.

“Gunnery Sergeant Arnold Horn, USMC. That and my serial number is all you'll get from me.”

“He is my personal advisor and bodyguard,” Adar quickly interjected. “He will cause no trouble if you truly mean us no harm.”

“And that one?” Laborde asked, looking at Diania.

“Lady Sandra's . . . servant,” Adar said.

“Very well,” Laborde agreed, apparently accepting Adar's explanation for the additions. “But the warship you were embarked upon fired on us, actually striking my ship not once but several times. I was forced to order defensive measures. Sadly, those measures caused some slight damage in return. I cannot be responsible if, in addition to her general, overall dilapidation, our measured response might have hastened her demise.”

Through her fury, Sandra was sure the bastard was actually enjoying this.

“Regardless,” he said, ostentatiously peering beyond them at the empty ocean to port, “and also in the tradition of all civilized seafaring nations, I have lingered in the vicinity long enough to rescue the occupants of the only lifeboat that I see. Sadly,
Savoie
can stay here no longer. Not only have we a rendezvous to make, but we are exposed to discovery by other, possibly hostile forces allied to the one we were so reluctantly forced to engage.” He turned to an officer beside him. “Cast the barge adrift. Get the ship underway at once.”

“Bastard,” Sandra muttered. Laborde clearly knew all the other boats and dying swimmers were on
Savoie
's starboard beam, and he was just toying with them now, perhaps rehearsing his excuses. Nothing she could say would sway him. Or would it?

“Von Melhausen wasn't stupid; he was old and sick. What's your excuse? You're a murderer and a coward. We know what this is all about. You think, with us in your hands, your stupid League can manipulate the Alliance and influence my husband's actions.” She shrugged and managed a feral grin despite her inner turmoil. “You may even be right, but not the way you hope. The Alliance is devoted to Adar, but it'll
survive without him in charge. It already has for quite a while. And you'll ‘influence' Captain Reddy, the same way the ‘Honorable' New Britain Company did when it abducted people he cared about. It no longer exists. Yeah,” she snapped, grinning more broadly, “you obviously don't have
any
idea what you've done. You'll ‘influence' Matt the way your damn submarine that attacked us did, the sub he
sank
without pity, remorse, or even much effort.” She took a long breath. “And sure, you'll ‘influence' him to rescue us, but he'll damn sure destroy you, this ship”—she looked around at the silent faces—“and everybody on her, even if it costs our lives.” She actually laughed at the expressions she saw. “You
still
don't get it, do you? You think, ‘Oh, Captain Reddy came to this world with one little ship. It's old and worn-out. What can he do?'” She looked hard back at Laborde. “He built an alliance, an army and navy that's hammered all comers back on their heels. He made you
afraid enough
of him to pull a stunt like this!”