Winds of Wrath

by Taylor Anderson

  “Fires?” Matt asked.

  “Under control. I helped fight ’em all the way up here.”

  “What about the League DD you were firing on?”

  Spanky took off his helmet and ran his fingers through sweaty hair. “She quit. Turned on her searchlight an’ pointed it up. Damnedest thing.”

  “What’s left?”

  Spanky nodded out toward the League battleship, still firing at Savoie. “Just her, far as I can tell. Looked like Gray was shooting at something a minute ago, northeast, but I don’t know what it was.”

  They all turned to look at the last enemy combatant they could see. The cruiser was still out there, astern of the battleship now, but she wasn’t shooting at anything. And just in the few seconds they’d been distracted, the situation on the battleship itself had badly deteriorated. It was barely moving, entirely aflame forward of the superstructure, with fires amidships as well. Ammunition for her secondaries was cooking off. Only her number four turret was still firing, very slowly, one gun at a time, and none of the splashes her shells raised came very close to Savoie anymore. Even as they watched, a 13.5″ shell punched through the armor of the number three gun house and flames spewed out of the face shield around the giant rifles.

  “I have a solution on the target. . . .” Bernie prompted. “Range, five thousand yards. Ready to fire tubes one and three.”

  Matt took a deep breath, beginning to wonder, beginning to hope . . . could it be? He glanced at the chronometer and realized it was already? Only? 1920 hours. Barely two and a half hours since the first salvoes flew. That was hard to reconcile, since it seemed like only a few moments had passed, but each had been an eternity. He looked at Bernie and said, “Stand by. Minnie, instruct Savoie to cease firing, then have Mr. Palmer attempt to contact the enemy ship in the clear. You’ll do the same on the Morse lamp,” he told Corporal Neely, his voice hardening. “She has thirty seconds to stop shooting and respond or we’ll put her down like a rabid dog.”

  Leopardo

  “Cowardice!” Capitano Ciano seethed aloud in Leopardo’s otherwise silent bridge. She was sprinting south in company with the orphaned Alsedo Class destroyer Canet, which had warned of the gathering bomber strike on Gherzi’s force. With the battle still flaring among the islands and gun-flashes silhouetting strange shapes in the gloom, the two ships actually exchanged hurried shots when they blundered into each other. They discovered their error before any damage was done when they flashed nervous messages. Now the battle was apparently over, the night sky lit only by burning ships, and having heard Captain Reddy’s ultimatum to Gherzi, there could be little doubt who won.

  Gravois regarded Ciano coolly. “Cowardice? As soon as the enemy planes were spotted I knew that we were doomed—and we’d never seen a tithe of what the enemy could bring against us. At least one more carrier, and another pair of battleships copied from Savoie—if she wasn’t one of them herself.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine how they did it, but the Allies, Imperials, the NUS . . . all have shown resources and capabilities beyond what we thought they could possibly possess.” He frowned. “After you and I were effectively marooned, it was Oriani’s responsibility to gather this intelligence. He clearly failed, and we inherited the disaster he set in motion.”

  Ciano was stunned by how quickly and easily Gravois began to marshal arguments to deflect blame from himself. And he’d help, of course. At this point, if Gravois went down, so would he. But that didn’t make it easier to stomach.

  Gravois continued, his voice lower. “My ultimate plan for the two of us to control this hemisphere within—or apart from—the League has suffered a . . . minor setback,” he confessed—Ciano snorted—“but now we know our enemy better, the League’s enemy,” he added firmly, “and can begin more deliberate preparations to face him.” He touched his chin and searchingly regarded Ciano. “But there was no ‘cowardice’ displayed, except by the Captain of Francesco Caracciolo. I take it there’s still been no word from her? Joining that mindless melee in Leopardo couldn’t have made any difference and would’ve only resulted in another wasteful loss. Not only of your fine ship and crew, Ciano, but you and I! Who else could bear the news and the proper account of this fiasco to the Triumvirate? Who else would have the courage to face them, tell them what they must do to prevail? We need new ships, new planes, and there must be a final end to the complacent lethargy that’s infected the League too long. And it’s even more critical than ever that we strengthen our ties to the Dominion.” He made a moue. “Distasteful as Don Hernan certainly is, he must not be allowed to fall.”

  Ciano stared sullenly ahead. “You may be right,” he conceded, “but how can fleeing from battle not feel like cowardice? How can it not be seen as such? How are we different from Francesco Caracciolo? And we might’ve destroyed Walker and Capitano Reddy,” he added bitterly. “That alone would’ve been enough for me.”

  Gravois chuckled. “It’s different because I say so, and for all the reasons I plainly stated. And don’t be ridiculous. Capitaine Reddy is clearly more devious than I ever gave him credit for. He misled me—I mean Oriani—amazingly well, in point of fact. But he never would’ve fought that battle in his worn-out old ship, so don’t be troubled by might-have-beens. You’ll meet him again someday, I’m sure.”

  CHAPTER 50

  ////// USS Walker

  South of St. Vincent Island

  August 6, 1945

  I still can’t hardly believe it,” Matt confessed softly to Sandra, as they drank coffee with Keje and Spanky on Walker’s starboard quarterdeck beside the number one funnel. Keje blinked dismay at the taste since it was double-strong fireroom coffee. With the big refrigerator smashed, there wasn’t any ice for the tea he preferred. Together they watched the cloudy, dreary dawn reveal the scattered, smoldering flotsam of battle south of St. Vincent and Spanky wearily murmured, “Honestly? Neither can I.”

  They’d gone into the fight expecting a mutually destructive brawl, but doubted they had the power and numbers to accomplish more than that. They’d never dreamed for a decisive victory, yet that’s what they’d achieved—in a “last man standing” sense—because they still had a very few ships both willing and able to keep on shooting and their opponent didn’t. To emphasize the point, coal smoke on the eastern horizon heralded the arrival of Courtney Bradford’s powerful Repub squadron. It might be a day later than would’ve been ideal, but the Repubs had collected the fleeing Francesco Caracciolo, floundering among them in the dark. She quickly surrendered to surrounding gun-flashes after a few panicked salvoes. The victory seemed complete, but at what cost!

  Matt couldn’t help a hesitant glance at the closest, least example: the fire-blackened amidships deckhouse and the shredded galley beneath. Earl Lanier, Chief Bosun Jeek, and twenty other ’Cats had died in or on top of the structure, and their bodies had already been sewn into mattress covers and laid out on deck with the eight other fatalities the action cost them. One body was bigger, much rounder than the rest, and a miraculously undamaged Coca-Cola machine had been carefully placed at its feet, securely fastened to the cover.

  Matt looked away and focused on Walker’s own motor whaleboat, bearing the enemy commander from Tourville’s wreck, just as another boat arrived from Savoie. High Admiral Jenks, Russ Chappelle, Doocy Meek, and surprisingly, a heavily bandaged Gunny Horn scaled the accommodation ladder. All saluted Walker’s big, ragged battle flag, then the officer of the deck, as they requested permission to come aboard amid the squeal of whistles. Seeing Horn, Matt asked aside, “How’s Silva, anyway? Are you sure he was fit for duty?”

  Sandra shrugged. “Slight concussion, maybe, and a bad surface cut on his thigh took some stitches. You know as well as anyone it would take more than that to keep him in his rack. If you don’t keep him busy, you’ll probably wish you had,” she added philosophically, then turned to face her husband. “And what did you mean, you ‘can’t bel
ieve it’?” she gently mocked, trying to lighten the mood. “Didn’t the whole thing go like you planned?”

  Keje barked a laugh and Matt shook his head ruefully as they returned the salutes of their visitors. They’d heard the question and his wife had put him on the spot so he had to answer to them all. “No. I wanted to tear ’em up, run ’em out of fuel, and keep ’em away from Puerto del Cielo. I figured it might cost us every ship we had, but we’d lay ’em on a platter for Courtney. I never thought we’d really just . . . beat them like we did.”

  “We’ll soon know if that’s the case,” Jenks said, smiling, “but I strongly suspect they were beaten at Santiago, Martinique, and off Antigua—in their minds and hearts—before we ever met them here. They simply never knew what to think of us.” He sighed. “I certainly hope so. I’m no judge, but I doubt Savoie is in condition for an immediate repeat of last night.”

  “Not even if they came at us in a rowboat and whacked us with their oars,” Chappelle stated emphatically.

  “How’s Diania?” Horn whispered at Sandra.

  “Fine.” She snorted. “She’s changing a dressing on Silva’s pet lizard, if you can believe it. Petey and Silva were both hurt, but Petey got the worst of it. A chunk of shrapnel clipped that furry membrane he glides with. I sewed him up myself, after all our other wounded were stabilized.” She cocked her head to the side. “He took it pretty well, as long as he had something to eat. To distract him, I guess. Or maybe he doesn’t have many nerve endings in there?” She shook her head.

  “I believe that ‘Gherzi’ fellow is coming alongside now,” Jenks interrupted significantly.

  Matt glanced at his dead once more and frowned. He was impatient with this whole “surrender ceremony,” with so much to do, and despite Juan’s insistence, no one had even changed for it. They were exhausted, almost numbly so, and filthy with soot and blood. The sky seemed to threaten rain, but the breeze carrying the persistent volcanic plume from the island and smoke from mangled ships downwind was gentle and so was the sea. That was a major blessing.

  Tourville had been sinking when she juddered aground in the coral shallows of a tiny island with no known name. Savoie wasn’t in much better shape, and was leaning hard to port at anchor alongside the League cruiser Adige, which Gray had savaged more thoroughly than they’d realized. She was relatively sound, but virtually every officer on her bridge had been slaughtered by Miyata’s furious fire. Joining them in the impromptu anchorage (most had been towed in during the night) was a collection of floating wreckage that included two League DDs; the Impie cruisers Mithra and Ananke (the only ones afloat); and USS Gerald McDonald, USS Maa-ni-la, and USS Steele. Maa-ni-la and Steele probably couldn’t be saved, nor could Mithra. Their damage was simply too severe. Their crews were racing to stabilize them for a longer tow to Martinique, but Matt suspected he’d have to decide whether to beach them for future salvage or scuttle them in deep water. Gray herself was standing protectively alongside the big troopship, Sular, which was escorted up in the night by James Ellis (her skipper sullen for missing the fight). Sular had launched her landing dories to look for survivors—a search that was increasingly frantic.

  More than a dozen ships had been sunk that night, and there were a lot of boats and rafts adrift, being swept along and scattered by the current. Even more critical, and frankly amazing, there were a lot of men and ’Cats alive in the water. Those coated in thick, black, bunker oil apparently weren’t appetizing to the flashies—and other things—gorging on those who weren’t, but oil would slowly wash away and ’Cats didn’t swim. Nancys were already up, searching diligently overhead, and the dories and most of the relatively seaworthy Allied DDs—Mahan, Sineaa, and Daanis—were racing against time to save them.

  Practically only Walker and Ellie weren’t involved in the search, and that was because Ammiraglio Gherzi had urgently requested this meeting. Matt was annoyed and didn’t care a hoot about the enemy commander. He wanted to be out looking for survivors himself, but High Admiral Jenks and Keje both thought it could be important. At the very least they might learn enough to help them decide what to do with their more helpless cripples. Besides, the carriers and the entire fleet train were coming up now. They’d comb the sea as thoroughly as possible.

  In contrast to the Allies, the two enemy officers had taken pains to make themselves presentable, both wearing whites with medals and gold braid, but the sword belts buckled around their waists had empty scabbards. The shorter, rounder officer also wore bloused black trousers and high black boots and seemed to have difficulty walking without clutching the other’s arm. They weren’t met by whistles and salutes, only stony expressions and the angry blinking of ’Cats with frizzed and arching tails. The long line of shrouded corpses should’ve been sufficient explanation for that reception. On the other hand, Tabby, a slightly limping Silva, and an utterly filthy Gilbert Yeager (with two swords unceremoniously stuck in his own belt) didn’t actually shove them aboard at gunpoint either. Four ’Cats, all armed, completed the escort detachment Matt had sent over.

  The shorter man straightened unaided, flicking surprised glances at Keje, and particularly Sandra, before crisply saluting. “I am Ammiraglio di Divisione Bruto Gherzi, commanding the League force you so ably defeated, and this is Tourville’s commandant, Capitaine de vaisseau Michel Sartre,” he announced in careful English. The salutes were returned just as crisply by Jenks, less so by the others. “May I ask to whom we have the honor of presenting ourselves?”

  Jenks made the introductions, but Gherzi’s wide, measured gaze now fastened on Matt alone. “As you might imagine, I requested this meeting to discuss terms of surrender.”

  Spanky laughed, drawing a withering glare from the French battleship captain, but Gherzi remained unfazed.

  “Your destroyers and cruiser surrendered unconditionally last night,” Matt countered sharply. “Your other battleship, Francesco . . . something, did the same when it met Republic forces steaming to join us.” Matt gestured in the direction in which the ships themselves were now visible on the horizon. “And we just got word the holdouts on Martinique, Impero and your Spanish infantry, have given up. I’d argue so did you when you agreed to stop shooting before we sank you.”

  “Merely a cease-fire, I assure you, and agreed to under duress,” Gherzi replied quite calmly.

  “Shitfire,” Silva blurted. “I may be a ignorant hick from Alabama—not that we’re all ignorant,” he qualified sternly, “but even I know war is ‘duress’! Are all you Leaguers as slimy an’ squirmy as that goddamn Gravois?”

  For the first time, Gherzi’s round face twisted with genuine anger. “No,” he said flatly. “But though I cannot fight you, I do have something to bargain with.”

  “What?” Sandra demanded.

  Gherzi smiled at her. “Information. I cannot tell you more than that before we come to terms, but I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  “It’s a pig in a poke, Skipper,” Silva objected to Matt.

  “Perhaps,” Gherzi agreed, “if I understand the metaphor, but it’s a very large, succulent pig.”

  Matt shrugged. “What do you want?”

  Gherzi smiled again. “The Triumvirate appointed Victor Gravois ‘Gouverneur Militaire du Protectorat des Antilles.’ With him gone, administration of this region falls to me and I’m willing to negotiate an armistice, including a disengagement and mutual withdrawal of all our forces to their pre-hostility dispositions.”

  There were angry growls and Matt seemed about to explode before Gherzi held up a calming hand. “I had to try. I will certainly be asked if I tried,” he added more darkly. “My realistic expectation is that you’ll allow our seaworthy ships to embark all captured personnel and return them to the League.”

  Matt glanced at Keje, Jenks, then Sandra. “No,” he said. “First, the only even marginally seaworthy ships you have left are warships, a couple cruisers and DDs, a
nd you’re not taking anything with guns on it back home. Period. Second, ‘all personnel’ won’t work either, because they won’t all want to go.” He was speaking for the crew of U-112 and Hessen when he continued. “If the League wants any of its people back, they can send unarmed transports to Martinique to get them. In return, they’ll bring out the families of any who choose to stay.”

  Now Sartre nearly burst with anger, and Gherzi frowned. “I don’t think the Triumvirate will meet that demand,” he murmured. “People mean less to them than our hoard of machines, ships, and weapons. People can be more easily replaced on this world.”

  “That’s where they’re wrong,” Sandra said hotly. “You think we beat you with our machines? We did it with the people who came to this world on this rusty old ship. They taught others what they knew, who taught others and others, until we built enough machines, here, to kick your ass.” She looked at Matt and sighed. “If we were smart, we wouldn’t let the League have any of you back because there’ll never be peace between us until your stupid, fascist Triumvirate falls apart. We’ll be right back at all this someday, and you—and your people who survived it—will have learned too many lessons.” She waved her hands in frustration, but nobody tried to interrupt. All were captivated by her passion and insight. “So let’s sit down and scratch out your damn ‘armistice.’” She continued bitterly. “We’re all too tired and bloody to go at it anymore, right now. Maybe we’ll wise up before the shooting starts again, someday, but if our history’s any guide, I wouldn’t bet on it.”