KMS Hessen
The lookouts on the starboard side of the big German cruiser KMS Hessen were bored out of their minds. The ship was anchored in one of the deepest parts of the bay, but there was nothing beyond her to the south but three tankers and four ammunition ships clustered where nothing could get at them without going through Hessen first. A fourth tanker had been moved alongside Impero to top her off, and stand ready to replenish the bombardment force when it returned. Past the isolated ships to the south, however, coral heads came up abruptly and there was nothing but the snake-infested jungle to look upon. It was inevitable the lookouts’ attention would wander.
That’s when there was a sudden disturbance in the water directly alongside and the bridge lookout gaped. Instead of the sea monster he was certain he’d see, the even more unexpected shape of a submarine conning tower rose, dripping, almost silently into the night. Water sluiced from around the hatch, which clanged open even as the boat’s big deck guns rose into view. That was about as high as she came, her main deck awash, and the lookout redirected his gaze at a man climbing out of the hatch, followed immediately by other people . . . creatures . . . that even Leaguers called “Lemurians” now. The lookout fumbled at the holster on his belt and gathered his voice to shout the alarm.
“Don’t!” the man called, already pointing a pistol of his own. The Lemurians were armed as well. “We mean you no harm and I’m only here to have a quick word with my old friend Willie. Kapitan Dietrich, I mean,” he added with an encouraging smile. “Tell him Kurt Hoffman has come to call. Quietly, if you please.”
The lookout above seemed even more shaken, but nodded and disappeared.
“This is stupid,” growled Andy Espinoza. The former S-19 sailor was U-112’s chief of the boat.
“Perhaaps,” said Hoffman’s ’Cat XO, Lieutenant Eno-Sab-Raan. He’d been Fitzhugh Gray’s torpedo officer, detached for this assignment. “But I believe Cap-i-taan Hoff-maan. So did Chair-maan Letts, who gave him permission to try this if the opportunity presented. And this is a chaance worth taking. On the other haand . . .” he began.
Andy nodded. “The charges are ready to go.”
Moments later, a half-asleep face peered down at them, blinking incredulously. “Kurt?” he called. “Is that you? What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Supposed to be, yes,” Hoffman agreed. “But as you can see . . .” He held his hands out to his sides, glancing toward the entrance to the bay. “As to how, I must say it wasn’t easy. I’m afraid I scratched my bottom paint. Why?” His voice turned hard. “That’s simple enough. After Gravois abandoned my people and I in the Indian Ocean, we chose to change our allegiance.”
Dietrich was looking at Eno and the other ’Cats who’d followed the first ones out. “Those aren’t your people,” he stated flatly.
“They are now, Willie. As much as you.” He shook his head. “There’s a lot wrong with this world, from our perspective, but there’s more wrong with the League because of its perspective. You know this,” he urged. One of the things, besides being German, that had made the skipper of KMS Hessen “socially unacceptable and politically unreliable” was that he’d applied to marry an “indigenous” woman on the Italian peninsula. Liaisons were encouraged, for procreation, but actual marriage to the “degraded” humans of this world, for this generation at least, was barely tolerated and required permission that was rarely granted. Dietrich ran his fingers through his hair but didn’t comment. He did notice a growing number of sailors lining the rails to stare. “Then what are you doing here, Kurt?”
“I came to warn you as a friend and countryman that there will soon be . . . a great deal of noise and activity here.” Kurt frowned. “There’s nothing I can do about that, but Kapitan Reddy understands the . . . awkward status of the German contingent and every effort will be made to spare you.” He frowned more deeply. “Unless you join the rest of the fleet in active operations, of course. If you do, I’ll sink you myself.”
Dietrich was still looking disbelievingly at the sub, Kurt, and the gathered Lemurians. “You want me to change sides?” he demanded. “Join them?”
Hoffman sighed. “Why not? They’re on our side, you fool! The side that opposes the Dominion, the League, and the Triumvirate.” He’d raised his voice so others could hear. “This is, literally, the chance of a lifetime. There won’t be another if we fail, and the League will always be what it is—only worse, with the dark influence of the Dominion.”
“What about our families?” came a cry from nearby. Dietrich wasn’t the only one who had one, or considered himself “married,” for that matter.
“There’s always risk when great things are at stake, but if we win, our friends won’t be forgotten. Their families either.” Kurt looked at his watch. “I have to go now and there’s little time. Either say goodbye or shoot me, Willie. You won’t have another chance.”
Kapitan Dietrich seemed to be trying to speak, but ultimately said nothing at all as Kurt, Andy, Eno, and three other ’Cats dropped down through the conning tower hatch. But he didn’t shoot at them as the sub flooded down and crept slowly away.
CHAPTER 43
////// USNRS Salissa
East of Antigua (N-NE of Martinique)
Matt and Sandra Reddy stood with Keje, Sir Sean Bates, Captain Atlaan-Fas, and his XO, Commander Sandy Newman, on USNRS Salissa’s bridge as Captain Jis-Tikkar’s 1st Naval Air Wing thundered off the big carrier’s deck into the damp, drizzly dark. The sea was getting up, which went hardly noticed by Salissa or Maaka-Kakja, even the Repub seaplane tender/oiler, but the converted Grik BB, Saa-Leebs, was rolling heavily. Her kind had always been prone to that, and even with all her older heavy guns removed, the new additions—particularly the high top hamper to make her resemble Savoie—had made her more unstable. Matt pitied her small, intrepid crew, but pitied himself a little as well when he saw Walker and Mahan bounding exuberantly through the sea, seeming to spend as much time under the waves as over them. He remembered the old destroyermen joke about how they deserved flight and submarine pay too. But the Walkers and Mahans were used to it and few probably even noticed it anymore.
Matt desperately missed his old ship, and even if he’d left her in the best possible hands—Spanky’s—he felt like a traitor for not remaining where he felt he most belonged. But Alan Letts and Henry Stokes had been right. If he was going to be in charge of an operation this complex and far-flung, he had to stay back from the fight with people who could help him coordinate it.
“Jumbo and Ben have lifted off from Seepy Field with the planes they have left,” Newman told them. Matt felt a fresh spike of sadness for Orrin’s loss, particularly regretting he hadn’t made him hold still long enough for them to have a real visit before they came through the Pass of Fire. But Orrin hated the very idea that Matt might be seen to show him favoritism, and probably dreaded being put on the spot even more. Still, Matt had always thought his kid cousin was indestructible. Pete Alden too. The first jubilant news of victory over the Grik was increasingly leavened by sadness. So many had been lost! And they might never know what happened to many, like Pete and General Kim. . . . But Rolak seemed to be getting along with the “allied” Grik around Lake Galk, and it looked like the fighting might really, finally, be finished. I’joorka’s reports from Sofesshk were equally promising. The death toll there had been much lower than initially feared, and the Celestial Mother not only survived, she was now seen as the true “mother” of her people.
“Tikker’s First and Second Bomb Squadrons’re up,” Newman continued, “and the Third’s taking off now. Captain Sheider’s Seventh and Tenth Pursuit Squadrons are about to lift off Maaka-Kakja.”
It dawned on Matt that they were about to have more than half their new planes in the air at once. The smaller New Dublin, attached to Jenks, had bombers but few new pursuit planes. Tassanna’s Madraas had pursuiters but no new bomb
ers—and he didn’t know if TF-Tassanna had joined Jenks yet or not. “What about Nat and MTB-Ron-5?” he asked.
“Closing in on Martinique, easy as can be. They’re being careful,” he assured, “but U-112 reports no pickets outside, and just one DD stirring in the bay. Seems they’re not much worried about a surface attack.” He hesitated. “Hoffman also said he made contact with his ‘friend’ inside, but isn’t sure how that turned out.”
Matt sighed. “Very well. Radio silence—for us—is about to go in the crapper anyway, so pass the code word to Tikker and Nat not to shoot at Hessen unless she shoots at them.” He frowned. “She’ll be lucky to get out alive, anyway.”
“A big risk ye’re takin,” Bates observed.
“I know. This whole operation’s chancy. I wish I could’ve thought of something better. . . .” He sighed. “I never was ‘high command’ material. I’m just a destroyer skipper and my only training at grand strategy came out of history books about battles fought in another age.” He shook his head apologetically. “Not complaining, just reminding you who you signed on with.”
Salissa’s signal officer dashed onto the bridge from the comm-shack aft. “Cap-i-taan Tikker sends thaat he spotted wakes of three ships approaching from seero, six, seero, relaa-tive our position, twelve miles! He aalso blew paast enemy planes, lower thaan him. At least a dozen. Maaybe twenty!”
“Sound gener-aal quaarters!” Keje bellowed. “Staand by for air and surfaace aaction!” He looked at Matt and blinked dark amusement. “Planes. We expected to be seen, aapproaching close enough thaat our planes would have the fuel to carry on to Seepy Field, but I’d hoped the enemy wouldn’t haave maany left. It seems they do. And better scouts as well.” The latter was certainly true since, except for a meager pair of overworked Clippers that were too vulnerable to allow near known enemy concentrations, they’d necessarily relied on Nancys and Seevogels for reconnaissance. Not only did their open cockpits make observations difficult in drizzly conditions, the sea was running too high to operate them safely.
“Have Makky-Kat expedite getting her fighters in the air. Their new target is the incoming planes,” Matt ordered. “The Third Bomb Squadron’s loaded with torpedoes, right? They’ll go for the enemy warships”—he hesitated—“joined by Saa-Leebs, Mahan . . . and Walker.”
The action that ensued was a nightmare of confusion. League bombers arrived before half the fighters were in the air, though two were turned into flaming meteors by the desperately climbing defenders. Two more, almost miraculously, were illuminated by their falling comrades and were shattered as they dived. Salissa had a relatively impressive antiair armament, consisting of six DP 4″-50s and four twin-mounted 25mm guns. All sent tracers slashing at the attackers and several veered away, their bombs throwing up geysers of spray beside the massive ship.
Maaka-Kakja was still heavily armed against primitive surface threats, with fifty 50pdr muzzle-loaders, but had only two of Amagi’s old 4.7″ DP guns to defend against aerial threats. Compounding the problem, though their boilers and engines had been improved to the point they could make sixteen knots in an emergency, both giant carriers were just too big and ungainly to maneuver radically enough to spoil the enemy’s aim. Still, Maaka-Kakja had the fewest teeth and suffered for it first when a string of bombs marched across her flight deck, blasting gaping craters in the heavy timbers and exploding the half dozen planes still waiting to launch. Burning fuel poured down onto her hangar deck and ignited flammables there. More bombs quickly found her, but fortunately didn’t fall through any of the previous holes and only blasted her flight deck into further ruin.
Keen-eyed Lemurian pilots in their new fighters took a vengeful toll on the bombers then, as they tried to reform for another pass. Regardless how modern their aircraft were, League pilots simply couldn’t match their tormentors’ vision and most never knew what hit them before they were plummeting into the sea. Only five planes survived to complete their final run on Salissa. Two missed her entirely, and one of those was shot down by a stream of 25mm as it thundered low over the flight deck. The others, bombs tumbling in erratic strings, managed three hits each.
Everyone on Salissa’s bridge was thrown to the deck by a nearby concussion and sprayed by flying glass. Matt looked to Sandra first but saw Sir Sean had shielded her with his powerful frame. His back was a mass of cuts but he seemed not to notice as he helped Sandra to her feet. She immediately crouched over the helmsman, who was spewing blood from an artery in his arm. Corps-’Cats arrived and took the casualty in hand before she could do much but get blood all over her. “You next,” she shouted at Matt, ears likely ringing from the blasts, but Matt was staring down at Sandy Newman, Big Sal’s XO. He was covered with cuts, like they all were, but didn’t look that bad. Nevertheless, when Captain Atlaan stood from beside him, his mournful blinking confirmed that the former gunner’s mate 3rd from USS Walker was dead.
“Oh no,” Sandra murmured, then shook her head and resumed her inspection of her husband, who couldn’t say anything at all.
The blaze outside was already dying. There’d been no planes on Salissa’s deck and the bombs hadn’t penetrated like they might have if dropped from a higher altitude. Hoses and Salissa’s constantly upgraded sprinkler system were quickly extinguishing the flames. The flight deck had been fearfully blasted, however, and splintered holes gaped wide—over the armor they’d installed after the loss of Humfra-Dar. Repairs would be fairly simple for a yard, probably complete in a month, but Salissa wouldn’t be operating any planes till then.
Maaka-Kakja looked much worse. Her flight deck was an inferno and flames were gushing out her sides from the hangar deck below. Occasional explosions shook her as fuel or ordnance went up.
“Cap-i-taan Sheider says his fires are out of control,” reported a messenger from the comm shack.
“Very well,” Keje said, stricken, wondering if he could make such a confession if it was his ship. His Home. Maaka-Kakja might not officially “count” as a Home as such things were reckoned; unlike Salissa, she’d been built for war. But did that make her any less a home to her people? He didn’t think so. Walker was as much Matt Reddy’s home as Salissa was his. “We’ll maaneuver upwind and begin taking her people off,” he said.
“Wait,” Matt ordered. He’d crunched across the broken glass to Salissa’s far bridgewing, looking to the south. There were bright flashes there, and it wasn’t lightning. Walker and Mahan, even Saa-Leebs, in her way, were fighting a cruiser and two destroyers by themselves. He literally ached to be with them. “What’s going on over there?” he asked. “If they’re taking a beating, we’ll have to go.”
“Matt! You can’t!” Sandra exclaimed, horrified.
He turned to her and replied, voice rough, eyes red. “Of course I can. I have to. Our first responsibility is to Salissa and the Repub ship with us. We have to get them out of harm’s way—and can’t wait long to do it.”
USS Walker
Commander Brad “Spanky” MacFarlane heard from Ed Palmer and the lookouts aft what happened to Salissa and Maaka-Kakja, and knew exactly what Matt was thinking. He had to make this quick. They’d started trading salvos with the enemy at ten thousand yards, primarily targeting the cruiser, and even Saa-Leebs was firing her Impie-made 8″ guns. In this sea, both sides would be lucky to hit at half that range, and Saa-Leebs had no chance at all. She was just putting on a show, her bigger guns in local control only, but blooming much brighter than the destroyers’. The Leaguers wouldn’t know that, though, and if they recognized her silhouette, it had to make them edgy. Regardless, until now, Spanky had just been trying to make the enemy cautious and slow their approach. That wouldn’t work anymore.
“All ahead full, make your course one, eight, five. Tell Mr. Palmer to get on the TBS and signal Saa-Leebs and Mahan to do the same. We and Mahan’ll start zigzagging to avoid enemy fire and so Saa-Leebs can keep up.” He paused. “Tell Mr. Campet
i to continue targeting the cruiser, but keep his eyes on the DDs and watch for torpedoes. Mr. Sandison?” he shouted across the bridge. “Prepare our own torpedo batteries.” Saa-Leebs couldn’t zigzag and Spanky figured the enemy would focus all their fire on her, at least until they got closer to the wounded carriers, but that couldn’t be helped. “And find out what’s the status on our planes. Are they gonna give us a hand or not!”
“Ay, ay, Commaander Spaanky!” Minnie replied. She’d been following him as he paced, relaying his orders, the wire to her headset trailing behind her. Now she spoke urgently into the microphone, her squeaky little voice lost in the roar of the blower and bark of Walker’s 4″-50 guns.
As the range rapidly shortened, salvoes fell closer, churning phosphorescent plumes high in the air, collapsing in a glowing froth on Walker’s fo’c’sle. A cluster of six- or eight-inch shells straddled Saa-Leebs and one struck a glancing blow, throwing bright sparks off the side of her armored casemate. Those old Grik BBs are tough, Spanky thought uneasily, but wouldn’t even stop a square hit from our four-inch armor-piercing stuff. Campeti reported that the League DDs were racing ahead and Spanky told him to target them, but instructed Bernie to keep tracking the cruiser. Three of Walker’s 4″-50s started hammering even faster, tracers arcing out, converging on flatter trajectories. Splashes straddled a distant, flashing shape, and a red flower of flame blossomed in its superstructure.
“We hit her!” exulted a ’Cat lookout on the port bridgewing.
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