Blood In the Water (40 page)

“I'll do my best, sir. Good huntin'.”

Ben pointed at “Shirley,” the smallest Lemurian pilot in the squadron, and one of the best, even if she had to sit on two parachutes to fly. Then he pointed at the plane next to his as he strode around the wing and clambered up to his cockpit. Hopping in, he waited while the tie-downs were removed and the two 'Cats helped with his straps. When they jumped down, he looked at Shirley's plane to his left and mashed
the Push to Talk button. “Okay, Shir . . . I mean, Flashy Four, I know we've never done this before, but remember what we talked about. I'll go first, then you, then Conrad in Flashy Two, etc. Staggered takeoffs, but we flush as quick as we can. There's only about four hundred feet of flight deck in front of us, but we'll be starting with almost thirty knots of airspeed, with the ship steaming into the wind. Don't forget to use about one-quarter flaps,” he added, pushing his own flap lever down a little and squeezing the button on his stick. They weren't entirely sure that was a good idea, but it had shortened their takeoffs on the rough ground at Flynn Field. “And get your tail up, fast,” he added. “Stand on your brakes and give her full throttle, then let 'er rip. Got it?” Out in front of them the two P-1C Mosquito Hawks were hurled off the end of the ship in a cloud of steam.
The new steam catapults for the latest carriers are swell,
Ben thought.
Too bad we can't use 'em
.

“I got it,” replied Shirley's tiny voice. Ben nodded to himself and took a deep breath. “Here goes,” he muttered. He quickly ensured that the red fuel selector knob was pointed at the fuselage tank. He'd change it to the belly tank once he was in the air. Then he made sure the mixture was set to “Auto Rich” and ran the engine up to 2300 rpms to check his magnetos. Satisfied, he did a practiced, three-second check of all gauges and switches and saw that his cowl flaps were already open. Then, with another glance at Shirley, he stood on his brakes and pushed the throttle full forward with his left hand. The Allison engine roared, and the plane shuddered. He held it there for five full seconds, then relaxed his legs. The P-40 seemed to bolt down the flight deck like a racehorse out of the gate. In just seconds, it seemed, he'd passed the ship's island and was halfway to the end of the deck. He was almost surprised when the tail popped up so soon and he actually lifted off with about forty feet to spare. He breathed a sigh of relief as he raised his flaps and landing gear, and eased back on the throttle. The rest of his squadron should be okay.

Quickly climbing to five hundred feet, his eyes sweeping, searching for threats, he finally shut the canopy, switched his fuel selector knob, and closed the cowl flaps. Then he banked right to have a look and wait for the rest of his planes.
Andamaan
was doomed, he realized with a churning in his chest. The ex–Grik ironclad had fallen behind
Baalkpan Bay
, and her bow was rising in the air beneath a fiery, smoky pall. He did
a double take. Somebody'd dropped a Clipper in the water beside her and was trying to get it in the air, even as several enemy planes dove at it. Fortunately, the new DD,
Geran-Eras
, seemed to be charging in to help. He started to join her—but was stunned to see a . . . different . . . pair of green and gray planes arrowing in toward
Baalkpan Bay
. They looked a lot like the other Jap-Grik aircraft, only bigger, and they had
two
radial engines, one on each wing. He kicked his rudder over and pushed his stick forward, lining up on the low-flying bombers—
They have to be bombers,
he realized.
Or could they be
 . . 
?
It was damn sure possible, after everything else they'd seen that day. He flipped the switches on the right side of his instrument panel, arming his guns.

“All stations, all stations!” he shouted in the clear. “This is Flashy Lead. Watch for low-flying twin-engine planes. I think they're
torpedo
bombers! High fliers might be a diversion!”

“I'm right behind you, Flaashy Lead!” came Shirley's squeaky voice. “I see 'em too.”

“Flashy Lead, this is
Geran-Eras
. We see 'em. They's a bunch of 'em, all comin' in about tree hunnerd feet, from multiple quaaters. That's prob'ly what get
Andamaan
. Cap-i-taan Cablass-Rag-Laan is get us closer to
Baalkpan Bay
! He think she's they main taagit.”

Of course she is,
Ben realized furiously, wondering bitterly which other advantages the Allies had thought they held over their enemies would suddenly evaporate that day. He fired. Six streams of tracers arced away from his plane with a juddering thunder. The plane closest to the carrier literally fell to pieces as his bullets tore it apart and kicked up spray in the sea beyond. He released the trigger and lined up on the second attacker, already straddled by bullet geysers sent from the carrier's defenses only a few hundred yards away, just as something long and heavy dropped from the plane and splashed in the water.

“Torpedo inbound,
Baalkpan Bay
!” he yelled, sending tracers down to eat the second bomber. Its left engine flipped over the top of the wing, the spinning prop shredding the fabric, and it winged over and slammed into the waves.

“There's more!” Shirley cried as Ben pulled up and over the carrier. He glanced down in time to see Diebel's ship taking off—and a towering spume of white water, much taller than the splashing bombs, rocket into the air alongside
Baalkpan Bay
. His plane jolted from an accidental
near miss from a 4
″
-50, but he didn't even notice. What he did see was how many columns of smoke were rising over the task force, and how many wispy, lingering tendrils marked where a plane—who knew whose—had fallen from the sky. He also saw that what remained of the task force was beginning to both clump together—and split apart.
Sular
and
Tarakaan Island
were turning east, steaming at full speed and making smoke. The deliberate, billowing black clouds probably added a great deal to his impression of disaster, and he hoped they had the same effect on the enemy. A gaggle of other ships were racing to join the fleeing heavies.
James Ellis
was already close in, and her intentional smoke screen was augmented by more smoke streaming from an apparent bomb hit aft of her funnels, but it hadn't slowed her down. Other ships were closing on
Baalkpan Bay
as well, for mutual support, but the carrier—and
Geran-Eras
—was turning west.

It made sense. Such a move might invite defeat in detail, but just as First Fleet hadn't (hell, nobody had!) developed effective anti-air tactics, its attackers obviously weren't very good at this either—yet. They'd had some success against slow-moving targets with insufficient and inept protection, but even then it was costing them. Commodore Kek-Taal, or more likely General Alden, had apparently ordered the task force to separate, to split the enemy's attention and lure it from the ships carrying the most troops and equipment so essential to Captain Reddy's strategy and his force's very survival. And they were using the very best bait they had. Just as Ben was wild to get after the enemy carriers, there was no doubt in his mind that
Baalkpan Bay
, the only Allied carrier in sight, would now draw the enemy's greatest concentration.

“I'm up!” cried Lieutenant (jg) Suaak-Pas-Ra, better known as “Soupy,” over the radio. “I mean, Flaashy Two's up,” he added hastily. “Daamn! That was hairy! An'
Baalkpan Bay
's startin' ta' list. She's not slowin' down, though!” Soupy was probably the best of all of them, a better natural pilot even than Ben. He still didn't have the air-to-air training Ben had received and had never really expected to need again. And only Conrad Diebel and Captain Reddy's cousin Orrin, attached to Second Fleet, had real combat experience against frontline Japanese fighters. Diebel got his in Brewster “Buffaloes” over the Dutch East Indies and Orrin's was in P-40s over the Philippines. Orrin still used his training and experience to some degree, fighting Dom Grikbirds in the East. Diebel was about to get a
refresher course. The only air battle Ben ever fought, besides shooting at Grik zeps, was when he'd dueled a nimble Japanese spotting plane in a battered PBY Catalina. . . .

“Okay, Flashies, we'll circle the carrier until our last plane is in the air, see? Keep your eyes peeled for more torpedo planes.”

“There's three!” Soupy called immediately, startling Ben. “They's comin' in on
Bee-Bee
's staar-board side again!”

“Get 'em, Soupy! Shirley, follow him down.”

“I have it, Colonel,” Conrad Diebel sent. “Ah, Flashy Five is airborne, and I see the targets.”

“Okay, Five. Four, you stay up here with me.” He paused, his stomach churning. “Check that,” he said. “Two more are coming in from aft of the ship, curving around. Follow me, Four—but don't get between the planes and the ship! We're liable to get shot up by our own people.”

*   *   *

General Pete Alden was back on
Baalkpan Bay
's bridge, watching the developing air-and-sea free-for-all with his III Corps commander, General Faan-Ma-Mar. The stalwart, middle-aged Lemurian had been in every action in Indiaa since making the crossing from Saay-lon. And if he and his Corps' contributions had rarely garnered spectacular attention, they'd been extremely critical to keeping Rolak's I Corps from being eaten alive on more than one occasion. III Corps had always been the reserve, the diversion, the anvil for Rolak's hammer, and General Faan had always quietly, competently, managed to be right where he was supposed to be when he was needed most. Now, like Pete, and with a fair-size chunk of his beloved Corps aboard the ship he'd agreed might have to sacrifice itself, all he could do was watch.

“I do not think the commodore was much pleased by your order to separate our force,” he said dryly, glancing over his shoulder where Kek-Taal stood, broodingly silent, staring forward.

“Nope,” Pete agreed, as a fifth P-40 flew off
Baalkpan Bay
's tilting deck. The torpedo that hit the ship's starboard side hadn't been particularly big or powerful as such things were reckoned on the “old world.” The real stunner had been that the enemy had them at all. It had been inevitable, Pete supposed. The Japanese helping the Grik had the technology to make better torpedoes than the Allies could. It had just been a
matter of time. That didn't make it any easier to swallow. Still, the light weapon might not have done much damage at all to a heavier-hulled ship like
Big Sal
.
Baalkpan Bay
was a purpose-built carrier, however. More capable in some ways, including watertight integrity, but smaller and lighter built. The torpedo had split a fuel bunker and flooded the starboard shaft alley all the way from the aft engine room to the steering gear. The engine room itself was taking water as well, but the pumps were keeping up, and the hit hadn't slowed them. But Ben Mallory and
Geran-Eras
had reported at least a dozen more torpedo planes, all headed for
Baalkpan Bay
. “Sulky bastard, ain't he?” Pete continued, then shrugged. “Well, as my grandmother always used to say, ‘He's got the whole rest of the day to get glad.'”

“Perhaps not,” Faan said, pointing. Three of the twin-engine planes were boring in, past the sprinting
Geran-Eras
, heading right for them. Tracers filled the sky, and water geysered around them. Two P-40s stooped and chopped at them from above. One suddenly blew itself out of existence, its torpedo probably going off. The other two dropped their “fish” and thundered over the flight deck, still drawing fire. Pete grabbed the rail and looked down at the water. One wake had gone squirrelly, beginning to circle away. Another was clearly going to hit.

“Hang on!” Pete growled, but nothing happened, and he relaxed slightly. “A dud!”

But
Geran-Eras
was still blasting frantically to port as she raced down alongside
Baalkpan Bay
, fore to aft, and several things suddenly happened at once. The new destroyer's stern lurched up amid a roiling cascade of foam, rising high enough that they saw her churning screws for an instant before she squatted back, abruptly logy and losing way. Pete wondered if she'd been hit by the errant torpedo. Then two more planes roared right over the stricken ship, charging in, impossibly close. One struck the destroyer's foremast in a welter of whipping stays and shredding fabric, losing a piece of its wing. The other dropped a torpedo and banked away unmolested, barely clearing
Baalkpan Bay
's flight deck. The crippled plane was out of control, starting to spin. But instead of plowing harmlessly into the sea, it—and its torpedo—struck the carrier right at the waterline, directly beneath the island.

Pete and Fann, and everyone in view, were thrown to the deck by the close, heavy explosion. Smoke, fire, and burning debris spewed up from
below, shattering the windows and spraying broken glass. And even as they shook their heads, trying to rise, the other plane's torpedo must have hit, because the ship shuddered yet again and a heavy gust of water drenched them where they crouched.

“Daam-aage report!” Kek-Taal roared.

“I think you're right, Fanny. I don't think he's going to get ‘glad' after all,” Pete quipped, helping his Lemurian friend to his feet. Faan was bleeding from several cuts, and Pete figured he was too. The ship was clearly slowing now, and steam gushed upward in hot, swirling gasps from the wound in her side. “That's done it,” Pete grunted.

“There's fire!” a 'Cat talker practically screeched. “Fire an' floodin' in the aa-mid-ships fireroom! Boilers are out!”

“Calm yourself!” Kek-Taal said softly.

“Ah, ay, ay, Commodore,” came the chastened voice. “Boilers are out, busted wide-open.” He listened to the bulky headset beneath his helmet for a moment. “Lots'a caas-ul-tees. The plane blow right thoo, an' then the torpedo hit near right under. There's no way to paatch, an' nothin' to shore up. The space is
gone
. For-ard fireroom's floodin' too,” he added. “Worst thing's the fire on the flight deck!”