Deadly Shores (33 page)

“Very well. Right full rudder. Come about to course two six zero.”

“Right full rudder, aye. Making my course two six zero!” Rosen acknowledged without inflection.

“Captain Reddy!” Herring persisted. “That course will take us even closer to the enemy!”

Matt took his eyes from the binoculars. “One more gun pass, then we're out of here. Those cruisers are getting underway. If the planes don't get 'em, they'll cream the PTs that are out of torps. Signal Mr. Laumer to break off,” he called to Minnie. “We'll cover his withdrawal.”

Herring gestured out to sea. “Let the sailing DDs handle the cruisers!” he suggested.

“They probably can,” Matt agreed, “but they're not as well armored—and it's already too tight in the channel to let them in here. They'd have to wait outside, and if just one or two of those cruisers get past them, they can clobber the transports off the beach!”

“Order
Amerika
to join them.”

Matt shook his head. “
Amerika
stays with
Big Sal
. If everything does go to pot, we'll need her to pull our people out of here.”

“My course is two six zero,” Rosen reported.

“Very well.”

With the electricity out,
Walker
's guns were firing in local control, which eliminated their ability to concentrate on a single target, but at the speed and range they were engaging the enemy, it didn't much affect their accuracy. The ship was growing logy, though, as more water gushed into her aft spaces despite Tabby's, and now even the Bosun's best efforts at shoring. One of Irvin's PTs had been destroyed, speeding too close to a fire-vomiting dreadnaught, but other than that, and
Walker
's wounds, the battle that began so chaotically seemed to be getting under control. The Nancys and Mosquito Hawks of
Salissa
's 1st Naval Air Wing were fully engaged, now that it was light enough for them to tell friend from foe. No enemy zeppelins, or other unsuspected aircraft had been encountered, and they were free to punish the Grik ships in the harbor, or the warriors still massing to face II Corps. Under the command of the recently promoted General Mersaak, 3rd Division had gone in as a reserve for 6th Division on Lizard Beach One, instead of where originally planned, when Safir Maraan charged the enemy formation in front of her. That charge had been initially successful, and Grisa's division had managed to push the Grik out of their forward positions and capture a number of guns. It had required bitter fighting, though, of a sort somewhat like what they'd seen on the Madras Road in India. Never had the Grik shown such stubborn resistance to a charge! Now 6th Division was largely spent, for the time being, and had to wait for the 3rd to move forward. Interestingly, once they were on its flank, the Grik in front of 5th Division pulled back as well, and Safir Maraan wasn't at all happy about what that implied.

All this information came to Matt via TBS as his ship steamed west, across the mouth of Grik City Bay, booming away at the Grik cruisers trying to sortie against her. There was little incoming fire at present since most of the cruisers' guns were mounted in their sides and they were coming straight for her. Matt thought there were only three left, and they were all damaged to varying degrees. He grunted. Laumer's surviving boats had just sped past at last, and now it was time to take
Walker
out as well. He looked ahead at the shoaling water and frowned. The lookout in the crow's nest high on the foremast behind the bridge hadn't passed a warning, but they were cutting it much closer than he'd have liked.

“Right full rudder, Mr. Rosen,” he commanded. “Make your course zero four zero. Minnie, what's Tabby's status? We'll make for
Big Sal
and add her pumps to ours if we need to.”

“My course is zero four zero, Captain,” Rosen announced several moments later while Minnie consulted with Tabby.

“Very well,” Matt said, staring aft now. He felt a little better. He knew there was desperate fighting on land even then, and it was likely to get worse, but regardless of how that turned out, his “little raid” had been amazingly successful already. Vast towers of smoke piled high in the morning sky, and with just his ship, a few small PT boats, and a little help from Keje's and Jis-Tikkar's naval air, they'd laid a whole fleet to waste! It was a heady moment. Now, if things went well ashore, there was no telling what they might accomplish—or what they'd do next, he suddenly brooded.

“Tabby say she's gettin' ahead of the floodin' at last, an' we have 'lectricity back shortly,” Minnie proclaimed. “She not bitch—'scuse me, Cap-i-taan! She not
complain
if
Big Sal
help pump us out, though.”

“Very well,” Matt agreed, gazing out over the fo'c'sle. They'd pass fairly close to the western headland as they exited the bay, but the channel markers—great tree pilings driven into the sea bottom with faded red pennants fluttering in the freshening breeze—were clear.

“Look at that, Skipper!” Bernie said, pointing out to port. Hundreds,
thousands
of Grik were beginning to line the shore, waving weapons and clashing them together. They'd probably started coming out of their defenses west of the city at the sounds of battle behind them. Most of
Walker
's crew had seen similar sights many times now, and even from their perspective of relative safety, the ravening mob just a few hundred yards away stirred anxious feelings. The Grik cries were muted by the wind, sea, and the blower, but the familiar hissing roar raised goose bumps and hackles. Impulsively, Bernie made an energetically rude gesture at them, then glanced apologetically at Matt. “Sorry, sir.”

“That's okay. I was tempted myself. Maybe we can throw something more harmful at them, though.” He stepped back into the pilothouse and addressed the talker. “The number four gun will continue firing on the cruisers aft, but have numbers one and two commence firing on that enemy concentration.”

“What about the secondary baattery?” Minnie asked. The frustrated Grik were in easy range of the ship's 25 mm, .50 cals, and even .30s.

“The twenty-five and thirty cals can play, but not the fifties.” Matt gave Bernie an encouraging smile as the torpedo officer joined him by the captain's chair. “Despite Mr. Sandison's other miracles, we only recently got the brass drawing process for the fifties sorted out. There's still a shortage.” He looked at Rosen as Minnie passed the word and the salvo bell rang to warn all hands that the main guns would fire and they should cover their ears. “All ahead two-thirds,” Matt ordered. “Let's join
Big Sal
as quick as we can. Tell Tabby to holler if she needs us to slow down.”

“Ay, ay.”

Even with the sporadic jolts caused by her 4"-50s, the crackle of the .30 cals, and deeper booming of the 25s,
Walker
still felt sluggish beneath Matt's feet, but he sensed her speed begin to build as her shafts dutifully wound up. Still, the old destroyer hadn't quite reached seventeen knots when she slammed hard aground on a shifting sandbar that even the Grik probably hadn't known was there.

Matt and Rosen were the only ones on the bridge who managed to keep their feet during the abrupt deceleration. It was a somewhat mushy impact, thank God, due to the nature of the bottom she struck, but it was intense enough that nobody with nothing to hold on to could possibly remain standing. Matt had his chair, Rosen had the wheel, but nobody else in the pilothouse had anything at all. Minnie slid across the deck strakes, her headset ripping free, and tumbled into the forward-bridge plating near Matt's legs. Bernie practically somersaulted over the back of the chair and smacked his head on the footrest. Herring and a couple of the 'Cats went down and slid forward as well, grabbing for anything they could. 'Cats on the bridgewings managed to hold on, but their feet went out from under them.

It was worse on the fo'c'sle. To Matt's horror, a couple of 'Cats were actually pitched, headlong, over the side, and those not sitting on the “bicycle seats” on either side of the number one gun cartwheeled into the splinter shield or the low spray shield just in front of it. All firing had stopped. Matt lurched to the lee helm and slammed the lever to “all stop” before anyone else had a chance to rise. He didn't feel the telltale vibration of the screws churning the bottom, but they had to stop the engines before they did. He also knew that, as bad as things had been among those he could see, the surprise stop would be most painful to those in the hot, machinery-filled, engineering spaces.

“Up! Up! On your feet!” came the bellow of a Lemurian bosun's mate in a creditable imitation of Chief Gray's manner, if not tone. “Get back to your stations!” the 'Cat continued. “This ain't no time to loll around on deck!” Minnie scrambled for her headset, but Gray's distinctive voice was already blaring out of the speaking tube.

“What the hell?” he demanded. “Tabby's shutting down the engines, but all hell's broke loose down here! Hell, an' everything else! Everybody's hurt, and we got at least two dead!” The repeater on the lee helm clanged to “all stop” even as the rumble of the shafts started to fade.

Matt limped slightly to the voice tubes. He must have strained his old thigh wound somehow. “You okay, Boats?” he demanded.

“I'll live,” came the somewhat aggrieved reply. “And Tabby looks okay, but some ain't.”

“We must've hit a sandbar,” Matt explained. “Too much glare on the water. The lookouts couldn't see the bottom coming up, and we were moving too fast for soundings.” He paused. “My fault.”

“Don't even think about that silly crap right now,” Gray scolded. “What've we gotta do to get off? We had the low hole in the aft engine room just about stopped up, . . .” He paused. “But we've ridden up a little forward. That'll press the stern lower, put more pressure on the leak. We might've sprung some bottom plates too. What're the tides like around here?”

Matt looked at Herring, who was dabbing at a cut on his chin. Herring caught his gaze and shrugged. “I'm not sure, Captain. Perhaps half a fathom? Maybe more.”

“Not good, Boats,” Matt relayed, “and it's ebbing. We have to back her off now, or we're stuck until the next high tide, at least. Bring the engines up slow,” he said to Gray, and the bridge in general.

“Skipper!” Bernie called, back out on the bridgewing. “Those Grik cruisers are getting closer!”

Matt nodded. “We need to get some air down on those things,” he told Minnie, who was trying to arrange her helmet back over the headset.

“I already tell Ed to call
Big Sal
,” she replied.

“
Big Sal
could pull us off,” Herring suggested, then pointed east toward where the new day had revealed the DDs of Des-Ron 6. “Or they could.”

“None of 'em can get here before those Grik cruisers do—and I don't want 'em tangling with them in any case. Hopefully, our air or our guns can sort them out before they become a bigger problem. What's Campeti got to say about the main battery?”

“He just report that all guns is manned an' ready again, but we got problems with the gun director.” Minnie blinked confusion. “It ‘jump its track,' er somethin.”

“Tell him to have all guns resume firing at will, in local control,” Matt ordered.

Two of
Walker
's four guns reopened against the closing cruisers while numbers one and two resumed a more leisurely fire on the growing Grik horde packing the beach. Muddy water churned up along the destroyer's flanks as her screws strained to pull her off the sand. “All astern, full!” Matt said calmly, even as it became increasingly clear that his ship was badly stuck. He contemplated having the crew rock the ship, but doubted it would do any good. Smoke piled high in the air, slanting downwind of three tall funnels, joining the brown-gray puffs from the guns. The deck throbbed in time with the groaning shafts, and the windows rattled in their panes, even as the main blower impotently roared behind them.

“Spanky—I mean, the exec, Mr. McFaarlane, say the number four gun has did for another cruiser, but they all gonna drown, aft, as much water as the screws is throwin' up!” Minnie alerted them after what seemed a very long time, but was probably just minutes. “He say we might as well save the fuel an' the strain on the old gal.”

Matt nodded reluctantly.

“Captain,” Herring called quietly, but urgently, from the port bridgewing.

“Signal ‘all stop,'” Matt ordered. “Tell Mr. McFarlane and Mr. Gray that we'll have to think of something else. Where are those planes? We've still got another cruiser out there!” he added when a series of splashes caused by a skipping shot rose alongside. “What is it, Mr. Herring?”

“Sir, you need to see this. I think we have another problem!”

“Surely not,” Matt replied, unable to mask the sarcasm as he joined Commander Herring.

“Yes, sir.” Herring lowered his binoculars and pointed. “You may have noticed that the Grik on shore are closer now.”

Matt shook his head, but then realized it was true. “My God. With the tide going out, the sandbar's rising above the sea!”

“Yes, sir!” Herring hesitated. “Ah, surely the sandbar won't allow them to actually reach the ship, will it? I mean, there's bound to be some distance of water left between us and the shore . . . at low tide . . . isn't there?”

“I'd hope so, Mr. Herring,” Matt answered grimly, “but even if there is, it might not matter much. The shallows'll be full of flashies for a while yet, but they'll go deeper as the day progresses. Even then, if these Grik here are the ‘old style,' they won't much care about losses if they think they can get at us. Our most pressing concern remains that last Grik cruiser, but we might start thinking about preparing to repel a helluva lot of boarders, shortly.”