Blood In the Water (39 page)

Finally reaching the flight deck, he stepped up the two-rung ladder
and settled into the left wicker seat. Reese was in the right seat already, feverishly completing the preflight check, even as he flipped the ignition switches on the overhead. Walt glanced at him, then nodded. His usual copilot was in the circling Clipper.

“Contact,” Reese reported.

“Wind 'em up!” Walt yelled through the open hatch above and behind the cockpit. The detail still on the wings spun the geared cranks protruding from the rear of each superbly maintained engine, and all four quickly roared to life. “Hang on!” he bellowed up at the detail as he fiddled with the throttles. The ten cylinder radials always missed for a while until they settled down and the noise was deafening. Whether they heard him or not, the detail stayed put. They'd have to be ready to unhook as soon as they settled on the water. The plane bounced and swayed as the crane lifted them, and much more quickly than he would've imagined possible, they rose above the fo'c'sle and started swinging out to starboard. He couldn't see them, but he imagined Moose's detail must've been doubled or tripled up on the winches, spinning the handles as if their lives depended on it—which, of course, they did. Reese, twisted around to see, was watching them, and the expression he wore when he looked back at Walt told the big man all he needed to know. Just then, the right wingtip banged into the tilted crane, sending a grating shiver through the Clipper's rigid bamboo bones. The plane performed a drunken pirouette, rotating slowly clockwise, as taglines snaked loose behind it in a tangle. Walt hoped nobody had been jerked over the side. Things went even faster then, as Moose must've realized that the best thing to do was to get the spinning plane in the water as quickly as possible. He apparently timed it exactly right too, because it boomed onto the waves and squatted down with the left wing nearest the stricken ship.

“Thank God the sea's calm,” Walt growled, staring at the 'Cats by the crane. “Unhook and get in!” he yelled at the topside detail and felt them pounding down through the aft top gunner's opening between the trailing edges of the wings. Then he advanced the throttles slightly and eased closer to the ship. “Thank God for 'Cat agility too!” he barked with genuine humor when, not even waiting, Lemurians started hopping lightly from the ship to the wing and racing toward the same opening the cable detail used. In moments, Walt saw Moose bringing up the rear, but he
was pointing up behind them and waving at him to go. Walt got the message. “Somebody get on the guns!” he bellowed over his shoulder, and pushed the throttles to their stops. In addition to their other advancements, PB-5Ds had five .30-caliber machine guns. There were two on top, mounted on pivots in the openings they'd just used. Two more were on either side in the waist, and one in the nose, fixed, so even the pilot or copilot could fire at targets in front of them. The two top guns started chattering as the engines roared and the big plane churned forward.

“Look out!” Midshipman Reese cried urgently. USS
Geran-Eras
was charging past in front of them, from right to left, with a huge bone in her teeth. Dark smoke streamed from all four funnels, and her guns—all at high elevation—twisted and bobbed as their pointers and trainers madly spun their wheels. Some of her machine guns were pouring tracers up and over the Clipper. The plane heaved when something struck the water close alongside, and the hull rumbled with the impacts of pieces of whatever it had been. There was a sharp cry from aft.

“We get one!” Moose roared exultantly. He'd taken the gun behind the cockpit as he jumped down.

“Or they did,” Walt shouted back, nodding at
Geran-Eras
. The plane was still accelerating despite Reese's concern. Walt was confident they'd miss the fast-moving destroyer. “And it nearly got us,” he added beneath his breath. “Keep your eyes peeled!” he warned loudly again.

They must've been a tempting target for their attackers, and the guns hammered frantically twice more before the big plane finally bounced and clawed its way into the air. But both times, the attacks broke off as the swooping enemies overran them, almost hitting the water. Walt suspected either his gunners hit them or they just gave up, not confident enough to aggressively strafe something so low and slow. He stayed low for that reason, also counting on the fact that the top side of the Clipper was painted nearly the exact same color as the deep water and they'd be hard to see from the air. Carefully, he circled around toward
Baalkpan Bay
, hoping he was right. He'd been right about what the Clipper could carry, loaded with nothing but fuel and a little ammunition. There must've been more than thirty people crammed inside. Granted, most were 'Cats who weighed barely two-thirds as much as a grown man, but that had to be some kind of record on this world.

Still banking left, he saw burning ships all over the place, and his
heart felt sick.
Sular
was finally coming up, apparently unharmed so far, with
James Ellis
and a steam frigate close alongside. But a new attack was falling on them, and black puffs blotted at the smoke-smeared sky. And then there was
Andamaan
at last. Her stern was underwater all the way up to her aft funnel now, her bow jutting high in the air. The fire aft had dissolved into an enormous gout of steam, but flames now gushed out the forward part of the casemate they'd just escaped. All around the sinking ship were motor dories filled with people, bobbing on the dark blue sea. “My God,” he murmured.

“Commodore Kek-Taal says us get outa here! Head for Maa-he, in Saay-chelles,” called a comm.-'Cat who'd fired up the wireless and TBS gear. “We gonna get hit by
somebody
—theirs, or ours in mistake—we keep flutterin' aroun'.”

“Where's
our
other plane?” Walt demanded. “The scout that was coming in when all this started? I doubt it has the fuel to make Mahe Island.”

“It go too . . . but us better keep eyes for it, on water.”

Walt frowned grimly. “Okay. God, I hate running from the fight, but that's what we'll do. Nothing else we
can
do.” He raised his voice again. “Call out any fighters you see back there,” he warned, then snorted. “Goddamn Jap-Grik
fighters
,” he swore. “I can't believe I just said that. Can't believe I had to.”

*   *   *

USS
Baalkpan Bay

“Get the lead out, Sergeant!” Colonel Ben Mallory shouted at his ground crew chief as he trotted up, pulling on a leather helmet and adjusting the goggles on his forehead. He caught a glimpse of
Andamaan
burning off the starboard side and losing speed. “Damn! Bombs. Now!”

“Commodore Kek-Taal wants your aar-craaft off this ship at once!” cried a Lemurian lieutenant commander, practically running to keep up. “There is
no time
for bombs!” he added nervously, straightening his white tunic, when Ben reached the plane Dixon was helping to arm. His head swiveled constantly and his large, brown eyes flicked back and forth at swarming specks in the sky.

“We're hurryin', Colonel,” Cecil Dixon replied to Ben, his voice
strained as he stood out from under the P-40's wing, shaking his hand in the air, with a pained expression on his face. 'Cats immediately scampered away with the bomb cart. Others were already positioned under the rest of the planes. Two 'Cats climbed up to the cockpit to start the fighter's powerful engine. “We're done with yours.”

“Fuel? Ammo?” Ben demanded. They'd kept the planes armed and fueled since they left Madras—just in case—and their engines were run up every day.

“I checked the guns myself, and all the tanks are topped off.”

“Colonel! I must insist!” the Lemurian snapped, his voice rising to be heard over the 4
″
-50s mounted on the carrier's island that had just opened up. The source of the noise apparently just occurred to him and he jerked his face to the sky. Clouds of black smoke appeared very high and aft, exploding among several clustered planes. One inexplicably pitched up and stalled, before beginning a long, tumbling fall to the sea. The others quickly dropped their bombs and scattered. Ben could tell immediately that all the bombs would miss and looked down at the 'Cat, still staring up and blinking . . . fear. He didn't have time for this, and the officious Lemurian naval officer was slowing them down.

“There is a great deal of shooting—and missing—by both sides, it seems.” Lieutenant Conrad Diebel observed over the rough whine accompanying the suddenly spinning prop on Ben's “M” plane. The blond Dutchman had joined them when they weren't looking. Diebel had fought the Japanese with the ML-KNIL, essentially the Air Corps of the Royal Netherlands East Indies Army, and found his way to this world aboard the Japanese prison ship
Mizuki Maru
—along with Gunny Horn, Ian Miles, Captain Reddy's cousin Orrin, and even Cecil Dixon, to name a few. He was a strange, stoic man, but a damn good pilot.

“Having tasted the fire from the first ships they encountered, the enemy seems to have gained a rather unfounded respect for our antiaircraft efforts,” he added dryly.

He was right, Ben reflected, as his engine roared to life amid a cloud of blue smoke. He remembered the transmission he'd just heard from Perry Brister on
James Ellis
. A few enemies still bored in, alone or in pairs, but most dropped their bombs from as high as they could.

“It is very strange,” Diebel continued, louder. “Fearful Grik, flying airplanes. Both unprecedented—and apparently mutually exclusive. Or
do they follow the example of likely Japanese flight leaders? What could
they
still fight for? The mad Kurokawa? I find that difficult to believe—unless their cause is fear of him.” He grinned at Ben. “Or they all just follow orders to be careful with valuable aircraft.”

“Several good points, Lieutenant,” Ben allowed. “And aside from the hit on
Andamaan
and a number of auxiliaries, the attack's been almost as amateurish as the defense—so far,” he added cynically, with a glance at the Lemurian commander.

“We cannot launch our planes fast enough to defend the task force with
your
planes blocking the aft elevator!” the 'Cat repeated as a squad of very uncomfortable-looking Lemurian Marines jogged up to stand behind him.

Ben stared at them, then shook his head in frustration. “Keep loading the bombs, Sergeant Dixon,” he ground out. “On the double.”

“Three're up, Colonel,” Dixon said, taking a chew and folding his arms. Holding his ground. He stared hard at the 'Cats. “The kids're doin' fine without me now. I'd just get in the way.”

“If you do not fly off this ship this instant, I will . . . I will be forced to arrest you,” the Lemurian officer said almost shrilly, but emboldened by his reinforcements.

Ben laughed. “That'll sure speed things up! You'll never get them off then.” One of the braver enemy pilots swooped to strafe them, his bullets flinging splinters from the flight deck near the confrontation. Machine gun tracers from the ship's island and various emplacements around the flight deck chased the enemy plane, but it flew away unscathed. Its bombs fell late, however, hitting the water between
Baalkpan Bay
and the slowing
Andamaan
. Ben ignored it all and pointed at the forward elevator, rising with two P-1Cs. “You've already got six more than the ready squadron in the air. There are two more—and how much faster can you recycle the catapults? Not much. Listen, Commander, those Jap-Griks came from
somewhere
. Not from Africa, and not from any island. We're too far from anywhere like that where they might be. That means they have carriers.” He pointed at the sky. “More than one, to carry so many planes.
Carriers
,” he stressed again. “Just like this. We've got to find them and hammer them!” He waved at his planes as the rest of his pilots quickly gathered round and more engines coughed to life. The humans wore aggressive frowns, and the 'Cats were blinking furiously. “We're
talking
minutes
here, Commander! We're practically done! I started my guys loading bombs as soon as the Clipper sent its first warning. Kek-Taal refused to have any of
Baalkpan Bay
's planes armed with bombs”—he shrugged, looking at his fliers—“so we're it.”

“That is a fine argument for later,” the Lemurian said with false patience. “Right now you must obey Commodore Kek-Taal's command.” Ben rolled his eyes and started to respond, but a gruff voice cut him off.

“No, Commander—obeying
my
command,” General Pete Alden said, striding up behind the Marines. “As will you and Commodore Kek-Taal. This may be his ship, but it's my goddamn task force!”

“Gener-aal!”

“Shut up, you, and get the hell out of my sight. You're holdin' up the war!”

“That was fun to see,” Ben said, watching the Lemurian naval officer scurry away, followed by much more satisfied-looking Marines.

“Yeah, well, we've wasted enough time.” He waved at the sky as the air defenses opened up again and more bombs exploded alongside, heaving spray down on them. The two P-1s had been hooked to their catapults, and their engines were running up. “Those bastards might get lucky any minute,” he yelled over the noise. “How many planes are ready now?”

Dixon glanced aft. “Five, General. Six in a second.”

Pete looked at Ben. “Go now. The rest'll follow as they're ready. The elevator's locked, and we're turning more into the wind and speeding up to give you as much help as we can, getting those heavy bastards off.” He stuck out his hand. “Good luck, Colonel, and go get 'em! I'll see you on Mahe.”

Ben shook Pete's hand and saluted, then turned to his plane. “Keep an eye on that man,” he said in Dixon's ear. “If this ship gets hit . . . well, we can't afford to lose him.”