Firestorm : Destroyermen (9781101544556)

by Anderson, Taylor

  “Yeah . . . he’s not going to eat that, is he?”

  Matt shrugged.

  “Aggh! Damn thing looked like an inside-out squid stickin’ out of a boot . . . with pinchers!” He yawned. “What’s the dope on Achilles and Tindal?”

  “They’re coming back out. They got eleven transports. Eight chose to beach. Not as many as Reynolds reported seeing before . . . we lost contact. A good haul, but I wonder where the others went?”

  “Home? Maybe to get more troops?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Lookout reports ‘spaarks’ off staar-board bow, Cap-i-taan!” Minnie suddenly cried. “Bearing two four seero, relaative, may-be five t’ousand yaards!”

  Matt glanced at his watch. He’d been allowing Walker’s crew just a few more minutes of precious sleep before what promised to be a busy day. “Very well. Sound general quarters. Signal to all ships, ‘enemy in sight,’ and give the position.”

  All the Imperial ships had closed Walker before the sun went down since, except for Achilles, they had to rely on visual signals. Those were flashed now, by lights to port, and ’Cat liaison signalmen would interpret the Morse. Walker’s unnerving general alarm gurgle-screeched into the night, and Spanky stepped to the shipwide comm.

  “All hands, draw small arms and man your battle stations! Man your battle stations!” he said with infinite calm. “I repeat, draw small arms and man your battle stations. This is no drill.”

  “Mertz has ‘enemy in sight’ now,” Minnie reported. Mertz still screened to seaward. “Her cap-i-taan says enemy fleet, many ships, on course, seero, one, seero! Range to him, two t’ousand yaards. He asks turn about and open range until ‘daylight make gunnery . . . praac-tic-aable’!”

  Matt chuckled again. “I’ll bet he does! Vey well. Tell Mertz to beat feet, but maintain contact. Remind her of the dragons! Be prepared to clear the deck if necessary. Have our lookouts skin their eyes for anything moving toward us, and tell Achilles and Tindal to hurry!”

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan!”

  Matt looked at Spanky. “We’re liable to have company too. My guess is, they expect some of the transports to join them, so they won’t think much of sighting us if they do, but if any sniff too close, the jig’ll be up. You’d better run along to the auxiliary conn. Stop by engineering and tell them to expect some frisky maneuvering today. I do not want my ship shot to pieces halfway around the planet from a dry dock!”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper!” Spanky said, grateful he’d been ordered to see Tabby before the fight. “I’ll . . . see you later, sir.”

  “Spanky!” Tabby said, surprised to see the diminutive officer enter the forward engine room under the circumstances. “I mean, Commaander McFaarlane! How . . . good of you to drop by. Good mornin’, sur!”

  “Tabby,” he said, and nodded at the others in the compartment. “Fellas,” he added. He looked back at Tabby. “Everything okay in your division, Chief?”

  “Condensers are staartin’ to choke up again. We’ll be sayin’ so long to freshwater showers.” Spanky cringed. It would be fire hoses and naked bodies on deck, then. That had never been a problem in the “old” Navy, but with nearly half the ’Cats aboard being female, and very “human” in the pertinent parts . . . He cleared his throat. “Listen, this might be another ‘Scapa Flow’ today, so keep your eyes on the ball.”

  “Won’t be no ‘Scaapa Flow’ with you an’ the Skipper in charge,” Tabby said confidently.

  “Hey now, that wasn’t Frankie’s fault . . . and don’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “Ain’t speakin’ ill. He was a swell guy, just not good Skipper.”

  “Well . . . anyway, the Skipper says to be ready for some fancy moves . . . and be careful down here! Seems like every time there’s a fight, my poor boilers and engines get the worst of it. Not to mention my snipes.” He looked at Tabby. Her burn scars remained but were fading well, and her fur—though short and thin like all Lemurian snipes—was filling out. He did love her, in his way. He smiled and gently squeezed her arm, watching her eyes begin to glisten. “I’d better scram,” he said brusquely, taking his pouch from his pocket and stuffing a chew in his mouth. He offered it around and was surprised when a ’Cat water tender tentatively took a few leaves. “Well . . . fine. Just don’t be spittin’ on the deck plates!” he warned. Every snipe in the space had seen him do it a hundred times.

  The day dawned gray and cloudy, and brisk enough that deck apes—’Cat and human—gladly wore shirts for a change. A few lookouts and fire controlmen even donned peacoats. The whole Dom fleet loomed to seaward, their numbers impossible to gauge due to their relative congestion, sailing in multiple columns. The Allied force, minus Mertz, was shadowing them inshore, and apparently hadn’t raised any alarm so far. Walker’s profile was shielded from view by Tindal and Achilles as soon as they rejoined, and the sky began to lighten. Now, Captain Reddy stood beside his chair, staring out at the Doms through his binoculars and trying to determine the number of warships. He was almost sure there were twenty or more, ranging in size from ships of the line, or “battleships” as his crew increasingly called them, to the heavy frigates or “cruisers” Doms preferred. There were at least that many transports, maybe more. Few of those were steamers this time, and that made it hard to tell.

  On its face, the impending battle seemed a terribly lopsided affair, as bad as when the old Asiatic Fleet faced the Japanese. Essentially, each enemy warship mounted forty to eighty guns, and each “class” was larger than its Imperial counterparts, but Matt’s little fleet had some advantages. His “American” frigates, or “DDs,” were screw steamers and much faster than the enemy, particularly with the Doms beating to windward. They mounted fewer guns, but they were larger, with a significant range advantage. If they could avoid crippling damage, they could stand off and pound the Doms largely at will. Achilles didn’t have much range on the enemy; neither did her Imperial sisters. Matt planned to use them as a rear guard, to snap at the enemy’s heels and destroy any transports that broke from the line and tried to run south with the wind. The allies also retained the element of surprise, since none of the enemy had come snooping after all, obviously thinking them to be the transports they expected.

  Even as Matt watched, however, flocks of dragons lifted from some of the transports within the Dom formation, headed for Mertz—still all alone up ahead. So they do let the damn things aboard their ships, Matt realized with surprise. Well, at least we know where they come from—and where they are. That would help. Soon, he’d release Tindal and Simms to charge up the enemy flank, and Achilles and the other Imperials to steam for its rear. The Dom warships couldn’t turn toward Tindal and Simms without charging straight for shore; a very bad move for dedicated sailors. He kind of hoped they’d turn away, though he didn’t expect them to. A lot could be gained in the confusion following such a maneuver. As currently disposed, all they could really do was maintain their course and slug it out, and lonely Tindal and Simms would actually control the terms of the engagement. Given enough time, ammunition, and luck, there wasn’t a hell of a lot the Doms could do about it—without their damn dragons. That left the final Allied advantage: USS Walker. She’d be in the fight from the start, and exposed to considerable risk, but the dragons were her priority opponent.

  “Warn Mertz to prepare for air attack,” Matt instructed. “Looks like fifty or sixty of the devils are inbound for her position, if she hasn’t seen them yet. We’ll need to let them get right on her before we make our move, but holler if they manage to do worse than chew ropes or dent the deck!” For this part of the action, Mertz’s crew would have to abandon their exposed guns and take what the dragons dished out for a while.

  “Ay, ay!”

  For some time, nothing changed except the weather, which continued to worsen. The sea developed a genuine chop, and the wind rose, shifting several degrees back and forth. Matt was afraid the enemy would be forced to tack and that would change his initial deployment plan, but it sh
ouldn’t make that much difference.

  “Mertz says draa-gons are attacking now, much as before with round- shot, but the wind makes them drop too low to do bad damage,” Minnie reported.

  “Very well,” Matt replied, almost distractedly. “All units will increase speed, Mertz too. Make the damn things work to keep up with her!” Mertz’s top speed under steam in seas like this was probably only ten knots, but every little bit helped, and the dragons were flying into a twenty-knot headwind. That ought to wear them out. “Achilles will join the Imperial squadron and lead it up on the enemy rear. Simms will take her place as our screen. As soon as the Doms get wise, Simms and Tindal are on the loose—weapons free—and we’ll pull our little stunt!”

  Someone in the Dominion fleet apparently caught on fairly quickly, most likely when they saw what appeared to be two steamers overhauling their starboard flank considerably faster than any transport should be able. Signal flags raced up halyards on several of the closest ships, and when there was no response, they fired a few guns for emphasis. Matt didn’t see the flags or hear the shots. The screening ships blocked his view and Walker’s blower, pounding hull and rumbling machinery more than absorbed the distant reports, but a signal from Simms’s Morse lamp was sufficient.

  “Execute,” he said simply, and the word was passed to every Allied ship by wireless or signal flag. “All ahead full,” he added a few moments later. “Main battery will stand by for surface action port, explosive shells. Inform Mr. Campeti he may fire when ready. Somebody hoist the battle flag, if you please.”

  The vibration in the deck strakes beneath their feet intensified, and the blower roared. Walker went from plodding through the swells, to a virtual leap forward, and the sea boomed across her fo’c’sle. ’Cats on Simms and Tindal cheered lustily as she left them behind, her twin screws churning the sea behind her fantail. Their cheers redoubled when they saw the oversize ensign rise to the top of the old destroyer’s foremast, standing out straight and taught in the stiff wind, her many battles embroidered on the red and white stripes. Those on Walker cheered their consorts in return when other large flags broke and streamed above them, and Simms and Tindal altered course to close the range to the enemy. The old Japanese alarm bell, turned salvo buzzer, jarred loudly against the bulkhead, and three bright flashes lit the drab day, illuminating the expectant faces of the gun’s crews stationed around a 4-inch-50 on the fo’c’sle, another on the amidships gun platform, and a 4.7-inch dual purpose on the aft deckhouse. Their line of sight was clear now, and Matt moved to port and stared through his binoculars at the enemy still more than two miles away. Campeti had been drilling his crews remorselessly and now that they had the tables of fire adjusted for black powder, the guns were actually more accurate, if shorter-legged, since velocity variations were less extreme. Of course, regardless of the ammunition, Walker still had her single, greatest combat advantage: gyro-stabilized fire control that allowed a pitching, rolling, racing ship to hit an equally lively target.

  Matt grunted in satisfaction when two of the three shells struck a battleship on their first salvo. The explosions of the bursting charges weren’t very big and wouldn’t have caused much damage against a modern warship, but they blew quite satisfactory holes in wooden ships, little matter how stout and thick, because they naturally penetrated while exploding. Of course, the enemy also relied on bringing large quantities of bagged powder from their magazines to the guns. Powder that was immune to the passage of solid shot, splinters, or virtually any hazard they might face in battle—except random and energetic flashes of fire. What began as something resembling fireworks going off within the distant ship, even as her gunports began to rise, rapidly accelerated into a catastrophic detonation that everyone heard over the wind, distance, and sounds of their ship. In an instant, all that remained of a once-mighty vessel—and possibly five or six hundred human beings—was an expanding cloud of smoke and falling debris.

  Those on the bridge stood almost stunned for a moment, but Campeti’s roar of “Next target, next target! Match pointers, goddamn it!” on the fire control platform above snapped them out of it. They’d blown up enemy ships before, but rarely before they were fully immersed in the fight—and never with so many humans aboard.

  Matt turned to the bridge watch, his face hard. “They started this, so they asked for it,” he grated. “I’m not happy about it either, but I’m satisfied, and I’ll stay that way if we blow every one of ’em out of the water!”

  The salvo buzzer rang again, and three more tongues of fire snarled at the enemy and jolted the ship as Walker continued her dash to get around in front of the Dom fleet.

  “Hello the bridge!” came a cry from aft. “May I come up there, please?”

  “Courtney! I thought you stayed in Saint Francis!” Matt said, surprised.

  “Well, I didn’t. I may have made an extra effort to stay out of sight, so you wouldn’t force me to, but I am, indeed, here! I’m the acting surgeon after all, and I have my duty,” he reminded him piously. “May I join you?”

  “Yeah, I suppose. But since you’re here, I expect you to do your duty without whining. If we take a hit, you’re off to the wardroom!”

  “I shall vanish instantly, sir! Vanish!” He peered out at the Doms. Another salvo boomed, and he worked his jaw to pop his ears. “So we’re engaged in yet another unequal fight,” he observed cheerfully. “How exciting! Shall we see more of those dreadful but fascinating flying creatures?”

  “I think you can count on it,” Matt said, watching another salvo launch water spouts around one of the lead “cruisers.” Only one shell hit the ship and it didn’t explode, but it must have struck somewhere near the wheel, because the ship suddenly fell off, beam on to the wind. It did manage a stuttering broadside in Walker’s direction, but every shot fell randomly short.

  The whole right side of the enemy formation suddenly erupted fire and smoke at Simms and Tindal as they eased ever closer, but that fire had no greater effect. The two Allied DDs held their fire.

  “It must be terribly frustrating for them,” Bradford commiserated. “I mean, I doubt any of those men over there had ever heard of Walker before we waylaid them at Guadalupe, and there they stand, directly into her fire with no hope of a meaningful reply. You can despise what they represent, but you must honor their courage.”

  “Theirs is the courage of the Grik, Courtney,” Matt snapped.

  “It’s not! They’re . . . misguided. Criminally so. They’re doubtless coerced by their faith, and by our standards, even evil. But they must sense fear and understand their danger.” He shook his head. “Their courage is real.”

  “I don’t know. After meeting that weird ‘Blood Cardinal’ bastard, Don Hernan, I wonder if it’s only that they’re less afraid of us than they are of him and his kind.”

  “Perhaps. Pity we never caught him. I suspect he now sits happily at the feet of his ‘pope’ . . . perhaps as a footrest?”

  Matt barked a laugh. “That would be a sight, with all his puffed-up dignity!” He shook his head. “I doubt it, though. He’s probably on New Ireland. Maybe Chack’s already killed him!”

  “A happy thought!”

  The salvo buzzer rang.

  Walker finally passed around in front of the Dom fleet, still keeping her distance on a course of two, eight, zero, mauling its ships practically at will. Roundshot, probably fired by heavy bow chasers, moaned by or plunked into the sea close aboard, shrouded in massive splashes. Courtney was as good as his word and promptly left the bridge when a pair of lucky shots staggered the ship. At this range they didn’t penetrate, but they did open seams and cause leaks. Mertz reported that the dragons had all dropped their loads, causing some damage to her decking and a few gun carriages, but little more. As Matt had predicted, they’d started shredding her rigging. The ship and her swarm of attackers were visible from the crow’s nest now, and the report said the distant struggle looked like a flock of “regular” lizard birds picking at a floatin
g fish.

  “Make your course three, three, zero, Mr. Kutas,” Matt said. “I hope those flying Grik remember what we did to them the other day and still hold a grudge. Let’s see if we can get their attention.” The salvos still flew hot and heavy to port, and the enemy van was losing its cohesion. Two more ships had been utterly destroyed by Walker’s fire, and gouts of smoke billowed southward on the landward side of the fleet as the firing between it and the two Allied DDs grew more furious. Achilles signaled that she and her consorts were finally bringing the Dom rear under fire. Matt began to grow concerned that the enemy might wear and turn on the Imperial squadron. He didn’t think they would, not yet anyway, but if they did, Achilles and the other Imperial frigates wouldn’t last long. He had to be ready to respond quickly if that occurred.

  “Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Commodore Jenks signals on small wireless we left him that the Dom Army is attacking in force! They is a lot of them, maybe five thousands. They not have much artillery, though, and Jenks does. Artillery has kept them at arm’s reach for now, so Bosun an’ his rifle militia can kill them well! He holding. He ask how we do?”

  “Tell him we’re holding too.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s all. For now.”

  More splashes rose around Walker, falling ever shorter as she steamed farther from the Dominion fleet—toward Mertz.

  Bradford clomped back up the stairs aft, waving away questioning faces. “No injuries. Nothing serious, anyway. Just the usual cuts and scrapes, bumps and bruises you always see whenever large numbers of people scamper about on a vessel this small, handling heavy shells and manipulating large objects designed to pinch hell out of anyone coming near.” His bushy eyebrows rose as he stared off the port quarter. Several ships had begun to burn, and a number of warships had turned toward Simms and Tindal, regardless of the risk. The pounding they’d been taking simply couldn’t be borne any longer. “Can’t say the same for those poor buggers, I’m sad to say.”