I feel so . . . frustratingly useless!” High Admiral Jenks exclaimed. “I know little of this sort of war, and my common sense informs me we simply can’t prevail. Yet my confidence in Captain Reddy assures me we have a chance, at least, or he wouldn’t have invited this engagement!” The two battle lines had been trading salvos for almost twenty minutes, the islands ahead growing ever closer. So was the enemy. Despite the hurricane of shells falling around Savoie and La-Laanti, however, both had only been hit once, neither suffering serious damage. Amazingly, spotting planes informed them that Savoie had hit one battleship twice, and a cruiser once. Fred and Kari were speaking directly to Gunny Horn, helping correct his fire. And the cruisers were in it now, lofting their lighter shells from within a random forest of slightly smaller splashes. But the destroyers were making smoke, spewing a dense black cloud and hiding the cruisers from enemy sights. They couldn’t see their targets either, but the spotting planes could.
Savoie’s great guns, trained out to port and elevated at a high angle, salvoed again, first forward, then aft, and the great ship jolted alarmingly. Gigantic splashes geysered around her, and the ’Cat at the helm subtly turned the wheel as the Impie Lieutenant Stanly Raj (who had the deck and conn) directed, steering toward the splashes to foil the enemy’s efforts to adjust their fire.
“You’re wondering whether to trust reason or faith,” Russ stated, matter-of-factly.
“I suppose,” Jenks confessed.
“Me too,” Russ admitted, “I always do. But the skipper usually comes through.” He grinned. “I wasn’t there, but everybody knows the story about when you and him had to fight a duel against professional assassins. Captain Reddy didn’t know squat about sword fighting, except what little you taught him. How did he win?”
Jenks blinked and puffed his pipe, flinching when more green splashes collapsed on the fo’c’sle. The light was failing and it was harder to distinguish the colors. “Honestly? He didn’t know the rules, so he didn’t follow them. His technique was so unorthodox—there was no technique, in point of fact—that it utterly confounded his expert opponent.”
Doocy Meek laughed out loud. “Sounds just like the man!”
Russ shrugged. “People forget Walker was his very first command, and he was just a lieutenant commander when all this started. Not only did he never go to any fancy navy college for admirals and such, he didn’t spend enough time around big brass to learn much from ’em, good or bad. He’s been wingin’ it all along.” He waved at the epic, violent panorama as Savoie’s angular shape battered through more shell-tossed swells. “He wasn’t any readier for this than I was. Than you are. But he’s been getting ready ever since we came to this world, so my reason tells me to have a little faith.” Savoie shuddered violently under a pair of heavy hits, followed by a cluster of lighter ones. Her main guns replied almost immediately, proving nothing critical had been damaged.
“Guess they’re getting the range,” Russ quipped, listening to preliminary reports from damage control parties.
Jenks—who’d stood on wooden decks with deadly splinters and massive roundshot flying all around him—looked a little shaken. “I’m . . . impressed by your calm, under the circumstances.”
Russ barked a nervous laugh. “Really?” He lowered his voice. “I’m scared shitless. But one thing about this old tub, she was built to take whatever she could dish out, and that’s a lot.”
An alarmed report interrupted him, reminding them all that, receiving just as much attention as they were, La-Laanti couldn’t take it.
“She’s lost her forward fireroom and is dropping baack,” the talker finished.
“Damn!” Russ exclaimed, even as he knew it had been inevitable. As La-Laanti’s crew had known. “They’ll really hammer her now, and we can’t slow down.”
USS Walker
“La-Laanti’s haad it,” Minnie told Matt in her high-pitched voice. “She took another hit thaat jaammed her rudder while she was maaneuverin’ an’ she’s circling towaard the enemy. They’re throwin’ ever’thing they haave at her.”
Matt ground his teeth and nodded. “La-Laanti did her job. She’s still doing it, by drawing fire. Those ’Cats had plenty of guts going into battle aboard what they knew was just a target. Hopefully, some’ll get off.” The fight was turning vicious now, with only the destroyers unable to reach the enemy with their guns. Gray, Maa-ni-la, and the Impie cruisers were firing furiously, aided by airborne spotters, but the League cruisers and battleship secondaries were saturating the sea behind the smokescreen with a blizzard of shells. Mars and Centurion had suffered serious damage, but were keeping up. Gray had taken a hit on her aft deckhouse that wiped out her number three 5.5″ mount. Mahan was getting a lot of attention too, since she was fully visible leading the line of smoke-belching destroyers. So far, she’d only been slashed by near-miss splinters, but that couldn’t last. Matt desperately wanted to make a torpedo attack, but wouldn’t risk disrupting the enemy battle line. Not yet.
“I’m not sure we aabsolutely must wait till daark to spring our surprise,” Keje offered, as if reading his mind. Matt frowned. He’d just gotten word the “surprise” wouldn’t be as big as planned. One of Jumbo’s bombers must’ve taken undetected damage over Martinique and its landing gear collapsed when it set down on Madraas. The hook caught the arresting gear, but only tore the tail off. The front half of the plane careened forward, smashing into the other bombers gathered for the attack. Explosions wracked the carrier and most of the precious new planes went up in flames or had to be pushed over the side before they added to the conflagration. Probably only Tassanna’s innate caution saved her ship, since (despite Jumbo’s badgering) she’d refused to fuel or load torpedoes on the planes until the last one was down. The damage to the ship was amazingly light, and powerful hoses actually washed the flaming fuel and wreckage off the flight deck into the sea, but Madraas had no more bombers. She couldn’t launch or recover aircraft at all until hasty repairs were made. That left just the fourteen SBD-2s from Admiral Lelaa’s New Dublin, as well as three more that Captain Jis-Tikkar brought her. Not exactly the overwhelming strike force Matt had hoped for.
“Probably not,” he agreed, as purple spume rocketed up off the port bow and shards of iron crackled against the hull. The League cruisers and battleship secondaries were groping for the screening DDs with a vengeance as well, but the color of the spray came from gathering darkness, not dye. “We do seem to have their undivided attention,” he added wryly. “Very well. Captain Tikker’s already airborne, correct?”
“Ay, Cap-i-taan. His orders were to hold northwest until caalled. You waant me to do thaat now?”
“Yes.” Matt looked at the looming shapes of the islands ahead, praying again that the charted depths were correct. They’d be among them soon. “He’ll attack from due north, and target only the enemy battleships and cruisers.” He turned to Keje. “As soon as he hits ’em, we’ll finally get busy ourselves.”
* * *
* * *
Captain Jis-Tikkar learned to fly from Ben Mallory—sort of—in a battered old PBY Catalina they literally flew to death. After that, he’d become the first Lemurian aviator on the planet to “solo” in one of their early Nancys. He’d gone on to fly a P-40E and been awed by its power and capability, but the time came for him to shoulder the responsibility his status as “first” demanded, and he became Salissa’s COFO, training and commanding a seemingly endless succession of flight crews. Far too many of those were dead, lost in desperate actions across the Western Ocean, over Indiaa, and finally during the long nightmare over Zanzibar, Mada-gaas-gar, and Grik Africa itself. Most of the latter fell to ground fire, supporting Allied troops, so even if they survived their crash, they were probably eaten by Grik. He’d lost so many people, so many friends, he thought for a time that his soul had been eaten as well.
Then the war in the west turned, and Salissa not only went home, bu
t they finally got new planes. And what a plane the SBD-2 was! It wasn’t a P-40, but it was leaps beyond anything else they’d ever had. It was big and burly and fast, and could carry real weapons. It was, in fact, the very first plane they ever designed from the ground up to carry heavy bombs or a torpedo specifically for attack. It had beaten the League at Martinique almost by itself and he absolutely loved it. It wasn’t perfect, and they’d lost a lot to enemy fighters and now to accidents, but it was probably nearly as good as those ugly League bombers—and could definitely outfight them! Without a bomb load, SBD-2s were faster and more maneuverable than League bombers, and the two .50-caliber machine guns in the nose (and two .30s aft for the navigator/comm-’Cat) could tear the hell out of them. It seemed like his joy of flying, of life itself, had been rejuvenated.
He realized as he led his flight of seventeen SBD-2s northeast, then south, low over the purple-black water, that he would’ve been almost blissfully happy if Jumbo and his planes were along—and his targets weren’t killing people he cared about right then, making the success of his mission disproportionately critical once more. He also really missed Ben Mallory. He knew why his human mentor had to stay where he was—somebody had to—and Ben had never trained in SBD-2s. He still wished he were here, even as a passenger, to see the result of the confidence and patience he’d lavished on his first student on this world.
“Cap-i-taan!” came the voice of the ’Cat behind him. “Bombfish Eight sees a surfaace taarget, bearing seero, six, seero. Looks like a League destroyer. Maay be the one thaat got awaay from Waalker an’ Mahaan laast night, up north.”
“I don’t care which one it is. It’s not in the fight, or liable to be. My question is, did it see us?”
There was a short pause. “Bombfish Eight thinks yes. You waant him to attaack?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Staring straight ahead and down, enemy silhouettes were clear even against the darkening water, betrayed by their long, phosphorescent wakes and lit by continuous gun-flashes and tracers. The shell tracers looked particularly odd, like bright, deceptively slow-moving flares, rising and falling, ending in distant flashes. He presumed the duller flashes were misses, the brighter ones hits. The latter were increasing in number as he watched. “Inform Cap-i-taan Reddy we may haave been seen, but are attaacking. I hope he’ll be able to tell.”
Tourville
“Now,” Ammiraglio Gherzi ordered, tone still placid and collected despite the growing ferocity of the action. Capitaine Sartre relayed the command and seven destroyers immediately veered right to pass between the capital ships and charge south toward the enemy trailing their own growing plumes of smoke. He’d hammered the enemy dreadnaughts hard enough that one was a circling wreck and the other was firing more slowly. He then ordered his Italian battleship Francesco Caracciolo to focus on the enemy cruisers. He thought she’d destroyed several, though it was hard to tell past the enemy smokescreen. On the other hand, this had already taken longer than Gravois led him to expect was possible, and the enemy was far more capable.
He’d been incredulous when confronted by two “Savoies,” and grew increasingly skeptical both could be what they seemed—especially when the incoming fire wasn’t radically reduced when one was disabled—but sparse as it was compared to his own, the “real” Savoie’s salvos had scored serious hits. He was sure the loitering scout planes were most responsible for that and cursed the fact he had no reply. Planes were obviously correcting the lighter fire from enemy cruisers as well. It was surprisingly dense, increasingly accurate, and doing a lot of damage to his own cruisers and even the superstructures of his battleships. All were wreathed in numerous fires of varying concern—and the enemy was deliberately leading him into the dangerous waters around the islands ahead. He needed to end this quickly.
“In response to your earlier point, Commandant Sartre, I’ve been hesitant to risk our destroyers because they’re so vulnerable, yet so useful, and we’ve already lost too many on this . . . bizarre operation. Their general utility to the League is actually greater than our mighty battleships.” He frowned. “But our battleships are precious as well, and far more difficult to replace. Therefore, you’ll instruct our destroyers to press their torpedo attacks aggressively. When their primary weapons are expended, they’ll closely engage their enemy counterparts. Even if we lose all our destroyers, at this point, it’ll be worth the sacrifice if we strip the enemy’s away. Their heavier ships can’t survive long without that damnable smokescreen!”
Perhaps startled by the intensity of Gherzi’s purpose, in contrast to his tone, Sartre passed the order. Then, obviously just as concerned about the direction the battle was heading, he admonished the navigator at the chart table, “I know it’s difficult under the circumstances, but you must keenly monitor our precise position. There are treacherous shoals ahead, according to the Dominion charts Gravois furnished.” His lip curled. “I hope they’re more exact than his estimation of the enemy!”
Shell splashes inundated the bridge and Tourville shuddered from a heavy strike near the waterline, followed by a gonging boom that shook the deck.
“Commandant!” cried a messenger from the radio room. “One of our destroyers rushing to rejoin from the north detected a formation of twin-engine planes approaching from that direction!”
Gherzi and Sartre exchanged horrified looks. They had no more such aircraft. “All ships!” Sartre shouted. “Prepare for air action, port!” With that, he and Gherzi raced out on the port bridgewing. They were almost too late. Their destroyers were gone, of course, but antiaircraft guns aboard Tourville, Francesco Caracciolo, and two smoldering cruisers were already throwing tracers at more than a dozen dimly lit shapes barreling in low over the water. Gherzi and Sartre had never seen the enemy bombers and were surprised by how modern they appeared. They couldn’t judge their speed because the formation instantly betrayed its intention to launch torpedoes—which also made them easier targets.
One must’ve been struck directly by a large gun because it simply disintegrated. Two more, in quick succession, drew converging tracers that set them afire. Both dipped their wings and cartwheeled on the sea, smearing the water with flames. Another staggered, shedding fragments, and nosed over into the waves. Gherzi was proud of how quickly his crews responded to the unexpected threat, but there was no way they could down every plane so fast. Ten survived to drop torpedoes, though two more were shot to pieces as they roared overhead. Gherzi actually felt the hot exhaust and blossoming flames of one that barely cleared Tourville’s bridge. He was shocked to see a Lemurian face, lit by fire, glaring at him as it passed.
Of the ten torpedoes that hit the water a couple likely went astray, diving too deep or porpoising off target. Three simply missed. One hit Tourville forward, under her number one turret, shaking the ship and enveloping her in spray. Two hit Lille, the other Lyon Class, one amidships and the other aft. Sparks spewed from her aft stack like fireworks in the twilight, quickly quenched by roaring steam, and the great ship veered sharply out of line. It seemed like two more torpedoes hit their most powerful cruiser, a French Algerie. It was impossible to tell for sure because the big ship, a thousand meters in front of Tourville, vanished inside an expanding ball of fire and smoke. Even this far away, Gherzi and Sartre were nearly knocked off their feet, and heavy debris started striking the ship.
“Commandant!” insisted a pained, frightened voice, reaching both men through their wounded hearing. “The destroyers are making a torpedo run!”
Well of course they are, thought Gherzi. Then realization struck.
USS Walker
Matt saw the results of the airstrike as Walker, McDonald, Tassat, Daanis, Steele, Araina, Sineaa, and Mahan, once more in line abreast and zigzagging among the shell splashes, sprinted at flank speed through the choppy waves and storm of iron. Aside from the immolation of one large cruiser, perhaps two, it was hard to tell how successful it was, and Tikker’s curt tran
smission from his damaged plane reported only half his bombers survived it. But the damage and confusion inflicted caused a brief, critical reduction of incoming fire. Matt immediately ordered the cruisers to follow his DDs in under the shifting smokescreen.
The enemy destroyers were making a run of their own, closing at a combined speed of sixty knots or so. Charging head-on presented the smallest possible target and was the best way Matt knew to thread the wakes of the torpedoes sure to come. He hoped to get the cruisers close enough to inflict some serious damage with their 8″ guns, especially as the battle moved in among the islands.
“Range, twelve thousand!” called Bernie Sandison, tracking one of the heavies with his torpedo director as Walker chased incoming splashes slightly to port. The salvo alarm sounded and three of the ship’s 4″-50s barked, sending converging tracers toward a closing destroyer. A ripple of flashes lit its fo’c’sle and forward superstructure and Campeti’s roar of “no change, no change, rapid salvo fire!” drowned the initial cheering. After doing little more than making smoke for the last hour, it was Walker’s first blow against the enemy. Her guns fired as fast as they could be loaded and their crews could match pointers with Campeti’s director.
USS McDonald, running to starboard, was bracketed, then hit, by a cluster of large shells and veered drunkenly toward them, spewing flames and smoke amidships. Losing speed, she quickly fell back. “All destroyers! Stand by to fire torpedoes from whichever side bears!” Matt shouted at Minnie, and she immediately repeated the order over the TBS. As much as the ships were twisting back and forth, there was no way to coordinate fire from port or starboard tubes. A shell blasted some of Walker’s wooden rafts and both her motor launches apart, spraying splinters all over her torpedomen. Several fell, but the rest managed to crank her starboard tubes out. “On target, Skipper!” Bernie said.
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