Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “C’mon, fellas,” Silva called to his number one gun’s crew, gesturing back at the weapon. “Let’s put that ol’ hag through her paces once more. I know you can do it in yer sleep, with yer toes, but we’ll be heatin’ her up pretty soon.”

  “Eat?” Petey shrieked hopefully.

  “Heat, dumb-ass,” Silva told him, then rounded back on his gun’s crew. “C’mon, chop, chop!”

  The League fleet was hazy, barely visible on the northeast horizon, a little to the left of a large, equally hazy purple island. A wispy gray volcanic plume stood over it. More islands, smaller in comparison, littered the sea to the east. Silva had seen too many ’Cats just standing, staring at the enemy. Thinking. Not good. They needed something to do with their hands and minds. Jerked out of their pensive reverie by his order, they scampered to their places on the pointer’s and trainer’s “bicycle” seats while others prepared to handle ammunition.

  Silva sensed the approach of Lieutenant “Sonny” Campeti behind him and abruptly announced, “I’m dead. Who takes over? Jump!” A ’Cat immediately took the gun captain’s place by the breech and started running the rest through their drill. Turning, Silva arched the brow over his good eye. “What?”

  “Skipper’s not goin’ over to Savoie to run this fight, is he?” Campeti asked without preamble.

  “How should I know? He don’t tell me everything. You’re the gunnery officer.”

  “Yeah.” Campeti shrugged. “Don’t really need to ask, do I?” He started ticking points off on his fingers. “First, as soon as Mahan topped off an’ we moved in, he sent three folks off on Mangoro; Larry, Pam, an’ Mr. Bates.”

  “Sir Sean,” Silva corrected imperiously.

  “Whatever.” Sonny held up another finger. “Him an’ Larry probably went because Mangoro’s headin’ back for the carriers and the troopship, Sular. They’ll join up with Chack—to do whatever he’s gonna do—while you stay here an’ fight the ship for a change. Fine with me, so long as you stick to your job an’ keep outa my hair.” He held up finger number three. “Pam’ll prob’ly sneak off with ’em. ‘For the wounded,’ o’ course, but mainly to piss you off,” he added sarcastically. Fourth finger. “Which brings me back to the start. Pam’s gone, so Lady Sandra’s our doc—and since she stayed, the Skipper’s stayin’.”

  Silva looked at Campeti with mock admiration. “Figured that out all by yerself, huh? You’ll get a medal for it, someday. Whenever somebody makes medals.”

  “It ain’t funny, you big freak,” Campeti snapped angrily. “Cap’n Reddy don’t belong here right now.”

  Silva gaped. “You shittin’ me? You want the skipper off Walker?”

  “Of course I do, for now,” Campeti grated through gritted teeth. “This is gonna be a shitstorm, like the Java Sea, an’ we all need him somewhere safer than this tired ol’ bucket. Who’s gonna tell us what to do if he gets it, Admiral Jenks? He might be a swell guy, but he don’t know shit about this.”

  Silva was shaking his head. “You are a idiot.” He pointed at Savoie as they arrowed past her, shouldering aside rainbow sheets of spray colored by the dropping sun as they bounced across her long, rolling wake. “Scout planes say we’re goin’ up against three battlewagons, four cruisers, an’ God knows how many tin cans. Savoie an’ that poor ol’ La-Laanti’ll be gettin’ shot at by every damn one of ’em! So unless Captain Reddy goes all the way back to the carriers where he can’t see shit ‘to tell us what to do,’ you tell me, is he safer on this ‘ol’ bucket,’ or the biggest target we have?”

  * * *

  * * *

  “Here we go, chargin’ straight down the goddamn throat o’ doom. Again!” Chief Isak Reuben groused at Gilbert and Tabby. They were near the throttle station in the forward engine room and he had to shout over the thundering turbines, reduction gears, steam generators, pumps, even the sea pounding against the thin hull plates. Tabby looked fondly at both odd men, the “original” Mice, who’d adopted her as one of their own and taught her much of what she knew. Neither resented her jumping past them in authority. If anything, they seemed most annoyed by the responsibility they’d been given . . . until they had to figure out which of them was senior to the other. Tabby settled it, she thought, by putting Isak over the firerooms and Gilbert over the engines. Both were firemen at heart, but Isak still basically considered engines useless leeches his precious boilers had to feed. Gilbert had been acting engineering officer in Maaka-Kakja long enough to expand his horizons. At least belowdecks. Ironically, Isak had seen more of the “outside world” since they parted. In some respects, they were vastly different from the achingly insular men they’d been, but their fundamental personalities hadn’t changed. Tabby was glad, and she dearly loved them both.

  “Thaat’s right,” she said loud enough for the other sweaty snipes to hear. It was still relatively pleasant on deck, especially with the breeze and the sun beginning to set. Down here, it was topping 120 degrees and she’d given permission for her snipes to strip their shirts. How could she not, when she used to do it herself all the time? Curiously, she noted that Sureen still wore her sweat-soaked T-shirt. It didn’t hide anything, but she wondered about the sudden modesty—until she saw Isak looking everywhere except at her. So, Tabby thought, he’s still sweet on her. Better find out how she feels, and if she’s waitin’ for him to make his move. If thaat’s the case, she’ll wait forever. “Things’re gonna get frisky for a while,” she continued, “but this is the best daamn engineerin’ division in the fleet, on the best daamn ship. An’ Caap’n Reddy’s stayin’ aboard. We already blew paast thaat faat slug, Saavoie.”

  There were cheers at that. After Matt went to Big Sal for a while, everyone just assumed he’d leave them now. Most were glad he hadn’t. “We’re gonna be okaay,” Tabby assured, “an’ we’re gonna kick hell outa them daamn Leaguers once an’ for all!” Suddenly, impulsively, she hugged Sureen, and all the other snipes in sight. She even embraced Isak and Gilbert, despite their squirming. She was stronger than they were, and held them tight. “You stink,” Gilbert complained. Tabby burst out laughing. If Gilbert had bathed since he rejoined the ship, no one knew about it.

  * * *

  * * *

  “This is gonna be a tough one,” grumbled Earl Lanier, Walker’s bloated cook, heaping ladlefuls of scrambled akka eggs on slices of dark brown, pumpkin-flavored bread. Despite Juan Marco’s general disdain of the irascible Earl, he was in the galley under the amidships gun platform helping him and his cooks and stewards build several mountains of sandwiches. The galley fires were out and there’d be no “proper” evening meal. Battle could be hungry business, though, and to Earl’s credit, he’d always made sure the crew was fed. Whether they liked it or not.

  “Gimme one o’ them egg saammitches,” called Chief Bosun Jeek through the open serving window over the stainless steel counter. His large eyes seemed to glow as bright as the cherry on the PIG cig dangling from his lips in the relative darkness of the semi-enclosed space.

  “You don’t want one of those,” Juan urged, offering a rhino-pig sandwich he’d just made, pointing at two ’Cats cutting thick slices off a pair of massive hams. “This is fresher, better.” He cast a disgusted look at Earl. “And I didn’t drip my rotten, acid sweat all over it.”

  Jeek shrugged, scooping up the sandwich with dark dots on the bread. “I don’t care. I like the eggs.” He blinked regret. “I sure miss caatch-up, though.”

  “That takes tomaters an’ proper sugar,” Earl griped. “I could make some, with them things.”

  Jeek waved around as if to encompass the hemisphere they were in. “Scuttlebutt is the Nussies got . . . to-maaters.” He looked questioningly at Juan, who rolled his eyes.

  “Tomatoes,” Juan corrected, then nodded at the vile-smelling cigarette. “They have good tobacco too.” He grimaced when Jeek removed the offending tube, blew nasty smoke, and took a bite of the s
weat-soaked sandwich.

  “Enough reasons right there to make this goddamn fight,” Earl proclaimed, slapping another egg sandwich together. “Good smokes now and then, good booze too, I hear, and the right ingredients to make proper chow. Maybe go fishin’ whenever I want.” He actually smiled, apparently imagining what that might be like.

  “I’m glad you’ve finally settled on suitably lofty war aims, Earl,” Juan told him sarcastically.

  Earl’s face reddened. “I don’t need no lip from you! Shove off. I can finish here myself.”

  Juan shook his head. “I need to know which sandwiches are safe to take to the officers.” His face brightened when he saw Fred Reynolds and Kari-Faask rush up to the counter. He quickly pushed a plate of his sandwiches toward them and smiled with triumph when they each took one. “You’ll be flying?” he asked.

  “Yaah,” Kari replied. “Scoutin’ an’ spottin’, but also just gettin’ our plane the hell off the ship.”

  “Then be very careful, both of you,” Juan urged seriously. “We’ve missed you very much.”

  Fred waved his sandwich. “Thanks, Juan. We missed bein’ home.” He paused, looking down at Earl’s Coke machine. “Hey, they’ll be soundin’ general quarters soon. Better get that thing struck down below.”

  Earl shook his head, expression wooden. “Nope. I’m through with that. Damn thing has to take the same chances as everybody, now.”

  Kari blinked surprise.

  “Well, c’mon, Boats,” Fred told Jeek. “Gotta rig the catapult out. Skipper’ll want us off the ship any minute.” He hesitated, as if wondering if he’d ever see any of them, or the ship, again. “So long, fellas.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Matt lowered his binoculars. “Sound general quarters,” he called back to Corporal Neely, who blew the long-familiar notes on his bugle over the ship-wide system. He couldn’t see it, but he heard the halyards squeal as Walker’s big, shot-torn Stars and Stripes battle flag whipped up the foremast. The sound and what it meant stirred an odd mixture of sensations: pride, fear, excitement, even eagerness . . . more. Most everybody was already at their battle stations, but those who weren’t quickly dashed to their places. With a reluctant handshake all around—no words were necessary—Spanky departed for the auxiliary conn, aft. “What’s the range now?” Matt asked. Walker had quickly passed the plodding cruisers and taken station on the western end of the line of destroyers. Mahan would join on the eastern end of the eight DDs advancing in line abreast, six hundred yards apart. The eight Impie cruisers were swinging into a similar formation behind, with Gray and Maa-ni-la on either end. Bringing up the rear, able to shoot over everyone, came Savoie and La-Laanti. Matt could see the enemy had already formed a battle line, aiming slightly south-southeast.

  “Eighteen thou-saand yaards,” came the reply from the ’Cat at the chart table, tracing a line along a straight edge with a pencil, and listening to Campeti’s ongoing reports from above.

  Chief quartermaster Paddy Rosen relieved the ’Cat at the helm, and Bernie Sandison’s ’Cats pounded up the stairs and started preparing their torpedo directors on either bridgewing. Minnie cried, “All stations report ‘maanned an’ ready’!”

  “Very well. Pass the word to all ships with scout planes to get them in the air.” Each DD had one, and Gray and Maa-ni-la had two apiece. None would be armed with bombs for two reasons: to extend their time aloft and prevent their pilots from making suicidal attacks on ships that could swat their slow-moving planes from the sky with ease. Matt briefly heard Fred and Kari’s Nancy run up before the impulse charge on the catapult hurled it into the sky abeam. That gave him a sense of real relief, and not only because the highly flammable plane was off the ship.

  He raised his binoculars to study the enemy again. “I’m kinda surprised they haven’t already opened up on us,” Matt said aside to Sandra. He hated—and loved—that she was here, but no matter how he cut it, there’d never really been a choice. Almost half Walker’s crew was female, and if it was still technically against regulations for mates to serve in the same ship, everyone knew “Lady” Sandra no longer had a strictly defined place in the chain of command. She simply wouldn’t move quietly to the rear while other females—other mothers—remained in harm’s way. And she’d be leaving Matt’s side soon enough, heading to the wardroom, quickly being transformed into a surgery by pharmacist’s mates and SBAs.

  “They caan truly shoot this faar?” Keje asked, amazed.

  “Yeah,” Matt told him. “I forgot. You never saw Savoie practicing, and we were always at knife-fighting range with Amagi. Believe me, they can. Fiedler and Hoffman said they had two Lyon Class BBs. They never built ’em on our old world, but they’re whoppers. Big as Savoie, with the same caliber guns, but each of their four turrets mount four thirteen and a half inchers instead of two. Together, they can throw four times as much metal as Savoie—and she’s missing a tooth. That Italian wagon over there has eight fifteen inchers.”

  As if their speculation summoned the storm, a series of brilliant flashes obscured the largest distant forms, followed by massive billows of brown smoke, tinged with gold by the setting sun. Moments later, enormous red and yellow splashes shattered the sea, jetting two hundred feet in the air about eight hundred yards ahead. A rumbling shriek passed overhead and even taller green splashes erupted between the DDs and cruisers.

  “God save us all,” Paddy Rosen muttered to himself.

  “Jee-zus an’ the Maker!” gulped a ’Cat by the starboard torpedo director, blinking furiously.

  “Why were the splashes so pretty?” Keje asked, amazed as much by the color as the size of the eruptions.

  “Dye in the shells,” Matt told him. “Helps those shooting tell whose shells fall where, so they can correct their fire.” He took a deep breath and noted the time. 1655. “Very well. We’ve got a little more than an hour before dark. Let’s see if they’ll take the bait—and we can last that long. Pass the word to all ships to turn to starboard into lines by divisions on my command. The leading ships in each division will steer zero, nine, five. The rest will follow, increasing speed to twenty-five knots.” That was as fast as their slowest ships could go.

  Something still bothered Keje. “If they’re so low on fuel, so desperaate to make Puerto del Cielo, and chasing us takes their advaantaage, why do it?”

  “Because Matt’s right,” Sandra said, “Gravois will make them. He’s always been contemptuous of us, but terrified too. Especially after the last few days, I’ll bet. Our forces, ‘pathetic’ in his mind, have ruined all his plans. The only way he can salvage them”—she grinned—“he must be on ‘plan C’ or ‘D’ by now—is to finally, completely, get us off his back.”

  Matt nodded. “So that’s it. If they chase us, we’ve set the hook. Our Impie cruisers and Savoie can’t outrun ’em, so none of us can in a straight-up fight. But we get in among those islands, at close range in the dark, with Lemurian eyes spotting targets . . .” He smiled with predatory satisfaction and his green eyes took on that cold, shiny glint that sometimes made his friends uneasy. “I said all along our strategy was simple: poke ’em in the eyes, then rip their guts out. We did the first part at Martinique. With any luck we’ll get the second part wrapped up tonight.”

  “And at worst, we may still haave them by the tail when Courtney Braadford finally aarrives,” Keje said. “He’d be very disappointed to miss it all.” He suddenly blinked anticipation. “And there is still Taask Force Tassanna.”

  Matt smiled at him. “Yeah. We’re counting an awful lot on Admiral Lelaa . . . and your girlfriend on Madraas.”

  Another mighty salvo rumbled in, clustered closer to the cruiser column. Matt glanced at the time again, before gently touching Sandra’s arm. “Time for you to go below, sweetheart,” he told her, then raised his voice. “On my command, execute the turn!”

  The United Fleet had pr
acticed this maneuver often, across the vast Pacific, and every ship quickly turned to the right, reforming from line abreast to line ahead and presenting their own broadsides to the distant enemy. “Savoie may commence firing, but remind Russ his first fire is supposed to look like half-salvos. Ranging fire, from two ships.”

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Minnie replied, then picked up the TBS transceiver. Moments later, Savoie’s forward guns vomited their massive shells. After a pause, her aft guns fired. The half-ton shells screeched overhead like God’s fingernails on the chalkboard of the sky.

  “Green splashes, then red, about five hundred short,” Campeti’s voice bellowed gleefully down from above.

  “Good shooting. Tell Savoie to keep it up. Maybe she’ll get some hits. Poke ’em in the nose, they’ll chase us for sure,” Matt said confidently.

  That wasn’t necessary. On Gravois’s orders, and against his better judgment, Ammiraglio Gherzi was committed to the complete destruction of the Allied fleet. Only death would turn the relatively mild, genuinely rather decent man from his appointed task. Steering southeast, he brought his mighty battle line booming down on a course to parallel and eventually overtake and smash those he’d been told were enemies of the League.

  CHAPTER 49

  BATTLE OF ST. VINCENT

  ////// USS Savoie