Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  “I already got that word from Lieutenant Tucker-not that I needed it. It’s pretty obvious how things stand. Hell, there’re Japs on our side! That’s weirder than… anything else I’ve seen.”

  Ben nodded sincere understanding, even though he still had only a vague idea what Mack and the other survivors of that hellish ship had been through. “Good. Just make sure you spread the word if more of your guys get here. This isn’t the States, with ‘colored’ drinking fountains, or India, China, or even the Philippines. ’Cats generally have a good sense of humor. You can razz ’em for being short, stripey, furry, or having tails, and they’ll throw it right back at you for being freakishly tall, ‘naked,’ ugly… or not having a tail, but it’s all in fun. Always. We’ve been through too much together as real, honest to God friends for any of that other crap to even much occur to anybody, them or us, and that’s the way it stays, clear?”

  “Clear, Colonel.”

  “Good.” Ben shrugged. “Besides, we still have the Grik, and plenty of ‘bad’ Japs to hate.”

  Bernie Sandison and a winded Sergeant Dixon arrived. “I think the sergeant here will be a big help assembling these machines,” Bernie said distractedly. “He’s done it before, and knows a lot of the mistakes they made in the Philippines when the E models showed up.” He shook his head. “What a nightmare. No wonder the Air Corps got plastered! Even if they got on a Jap’s tail, the guns wouldn’t fire! The assembly instructions with the planes tell you how to put them together, but they don’t say squat about really making them work.”

  “Then I’m very glad to see you, Sergeant Dixon,” Ben said, but he noticed Sandison was still bothered by something.

  “Thank you, sir,” Dixon replied. “Glad to be here.”

  Ben cocked his head. “What’s the matter, Bernie?” he asked.

  “Well… it’s that damn Silva! He was supposed to be on the ‘Buzzard’ with these guys. I need him here! He’s the one who came with the idea for the breechloaders we’re working on. He’s just going to waste out there…”

  “What happened to him? Comm said he got on the plane…”

  “Silva?” Mack asked. “Big guy? Eye patch?”

  Ben looked at him. “Yeah.”

  Mack shook his head. “It was the damnedest thing. The guy’s nuts. We talked about it with this Dutch nun, and she just said, ‘He’s always doing stuff like that.’ Say, you know? She acted horrified when he did it. Called him all sorts of things! But later, she seemed to think it was funny!”

  “What did he do?” Ben asked, rolling his eyes.

  Mack started to answer, but Bernie interrupted him. Sergeant Dixon had already told him. “He got on the plane through the port hatch, covered in grease, visited for a few minutes, then squirted out the starboard hatch right into the water!”

  “In the water? On purpose?”

  “Yeah,” Mack confirmed. “What’s the deal with the water?”

  “Don’t get in it,” Ben murmured thoughtfully. “Especially in the shallows-like anywhere in the Malay Barrier… Grease? What did he say?”

  “He said a lot of things that didn’t make any sense to us,” Dixon admitted, “mostly to the nun. But he did say the grease was an ‘experiment’ some old, ah, Lemurian named Moe suggested. Said it was time he ‘give it a shot, since he had too many orders to follow at the same time.’ Does that make any sense?”

  “I hope that grease saved Silva’s miserable hide,” Bernie said darkly, “so I can kill that maniac myself!”

  “Now hold on, Bernie,” Ben said. “Maybe he had a reason.” Ben caught himself. He didn’t really know Silva very well. He was an odd duck, that was certain, but why was he defending him? He shook his head. “Hang him when he gets home. In the meantime, don’t worry about it. You’ll bust a seam. Besides, from what I’ve heard, he’s more aggravation than he’s worth.”

  Mack gestured at the hangars. “How many planes are ready to fly?”

  “None,” Ben confessed. “That’s another reason I’m glad you guys are here. We’ve been bolting them together and getting them in the dry, but all the technical stuff has had to wait.” He looked at Dixon. “You know how to hook all that up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Figure out what you need, labor and toolwise, and have at it.” He looked at the man. “But take it easy, wilya?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dixon paused. “What about the guns? Where are they, and do you want them in?”

  “They’re in that big warehouse, and hell yes, I want them in. Just two per plane for starters, though. We’ve got more guns than we can use, but ‘they’re’ thinking about sticking a gun in the nose of some of the ‘Nancys’-our single engine jobs-so we need to save back as many as we can. There might be a Jap plane out there somewhere, and right now all we’ve got to throw at it are spitballs. That’s another chore for you; familiarize yourself with the ‘Nancys.’ Figure out if they can handle a gun without shaking themselves apart, and if they can, cook up a way to mount one.”

  “Yes, sir. Uh, Colonel Mallory? How come you call them ‘Nancys’?”

  Bencs expression became pained. “ I don’t usually call them that, but I guess it’s stuck. Don’t worry about it; it’s a long story.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Mid Pacific

  I say,” said Courtney Bradford, stunned, as if he’d just made some momentous discovery. “It’s Christmas Day!” He glared around the darkened bridge of USS Walker, casting a suddenly scandalized look at the new first lieutenant, Norman Kutas. Norm had been chief quartermaster’s mate, and still kept the log. Norm looked back, his scarred face crumpled in a frown, made even more gruesome by the poor light. He had the morning watch, 0400 to 0800, and was the only other human on the bridge.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bradford, I know,” he said, “but it ain’t like there’s a Christmas tree, presents, and kiddos chompin’ at the bit.”

  “There should be,” Courtney said with conviction. “We’ve let too many of our traditional observances fall by the wayside. It’s scandalous, sir! Scandalous! And here I was, left alone to discover it… It shall not stand!”

  “I was going to mention it to the Skipper when the watch changes,” Kutas defended.

  “But you didn’t ‘mention’ it to me! No ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Bradford’ did I hear!”

  “Well, with the rest of the bridge watch being ’Cats, who wouldn’t know Christmas from Armistice Day, I guess it slipped my mind. You’ve never been up this early, that I recall, and besides… I sort of figured with your ‘Darwin this,’ and ‘evolution that,’ you weren’t such a Holy Joe.”

  “That’s the second time someone has questioned my faith on such an assumption!” Courtney declared. “And what would the captain do?” he demanded, righteous indignation beginning to swell. “Last Christmas came and went without so much as a notice…” He paused, reflecting. “Perhaps understandable, under the circumstances, but not twice in a row! I recall Captain Reddy took note of the unremarkable date of your misguided separation from the British Empire, but again Christmas is upon us without fanfare!”

  “The Imperials had a few decorations up,” Kutas offered, a little lamely, “for their ‘Christmas Feast.’ ”

  “Unacceptable! And of no use to you as an excuse. What’s the time?”

  Kutas was increasingly flustered. Bradford’s stream of consciousness mode of communication was well-known, but it always caught his victims off guard. The Lemurians on the bridge were amused by the discussion, but, as Kutas had predicted, had little idea what it was about. The chronometer on the forward bulkhead was long deceased, and Kutas looked at his watch. “Uh, oh four forty-three,” he said.

  “Close enough,” Bradford proclaimed, and passing a suddenly horrified Min-Saakir, or “Minnie” the female bridge talker, Courtney Bradford sounded the general alarm. Amid the raucous cries of a duck being burnt alive, he twisted the switch for the shipwide comm and spoke into the bulkhead microphone. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” h
e said in a kindly tone, reproduced as a snarling shout. “Yes indeed, it’s Christmas Day! Joy to you all!” He released the switch with a satisfied expression.

  “God… dern it!” Kutas moaned. “Seventeen minutes early for morning GQ! The Skipper’s going to s me for your stunt!”

  “Piffle!” Bradford said, suddenly a little hesitant. “What is seventeen minutes?”

  “It’s a quarter hour for tired destroyermen, Mr. Bradford!”

  The ship quickly came to life on the black sea, under the purple-smeared sky. Fire controlmen scampered up the steel rungs to the platform above, and drowsy lookouts joined those on the bridgewings, who’d remain at their posts until the sun was fully up. They were no longer cramped by the torpedo directors that hadn’t pointlessly made the trip. Dark shapes shuffled quickly to their posts on the fo’c’sle below, on the number one gun, and Earl Lanier’s distinctive bellow came from the galley just aft, demanding that the men and ’Cats “line up, straight and smart, and wait your goddamn turn! No, it ain’t ready yet; you got a date?” A few minutes later, taking longer than usual, Captain Reddy trotted up the metal stairs behind them, looking at his watch.

  “Caap’n on the bridge!” Staas-Fin (Finny) cried loudly.

  “As you were,” Matt said. “Report, Mr. Kutas.”

  “Fire control, engineering, an’ lookout stations manned an’ ready, Mr. Kutaas,” shouted Minnie, her voice high-pitched and soft as usual, but touched with a note of anxiety.

  “Uh, calm seas, northwesterly winds, no casualties or contacts, Captain,” Kutas said.

  “All guns manned and ready,” Minnie squeaked.

  Matt looked around, nodding at Courtney where he stood somewhat defiantly near the captain’s chair. “Merry Christmas, all,” he said amiably, then glanced at his watch again. “Thing seems a little off today.”

  “I ah, doubt it, Skipper,” Norm said with another gruesome grimace. Chief Gray and Commodore Harvey Jenks appeared on the bridge together, followed quickly by Carl Bashear and Sonny Campeti, both comparing watches.

  “All stations report ‘manned and ready,’” Minnie said, looking at the captain. He’d obviously figured out what happened and turned his gaze to Courtney.

  “Mr. Bradford, you’ve been with us long enough to know I’ll tolerate no interference in the normal operation of this ship. If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you’ll lose all bridge privileges indefinitely. Is that understood?”

  “I only wanted-”

  “Is that understood?” Matt demanded. Courtney finally nodded, and Matt strode to his chair. “Very well. Pass the word for Juan…” He paused, remembering his indomitable Filipino “steward” was still recovering on New Scotland. “For ‘Tabasco,’” he amended. “Coffee.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper,” Norm said, clearly relieved.

  “What is ‘Kis-mus’?” Lieutenant Tab-At, or “Tabby,” asked Spanky McFarlane when the skinny exec cycled through the air lock into the forward fireroom. Just as Spanky had been elevated from his beloved engineering spaces, the gray-furred ’Cat-a full member of the “elite” and bizarre fraternity of “Mice” created by the “originals,” Isak Rueben and Gilbert Yeager-had been raised to take his place as engineering officer. The terrible steam burns she’d once suffered were healing nicely, and fur was even creeping back across the ugly, gray-pink scars.

  Spanky handed her an akka egg sandwich, and perched on a battered metal stool, nodding benignly at the other ’Cats in the fireroom. There was only one boiler in there now, number two, the rest of the space devoted to a massive fuel bunker. Number two was their current “problem child,” though, and his arrival with an egg sandwich-Tabby’s favorite-had become a morning ritual wherever he suspected she’d be applying her greatest attention. It was his way of “keeping in touch” with engineering in general, something he considered necessary despite Tabby’s professionalism, while at the same time proving to her and himself that they could still be “friends.” Spanky loved Tabby like a daughter, niece, or something, but it was no secret the onetime ’Cat version of a pinup in a fur suit was crazy about him in a more… uncomplicated way.

  “It’s a religious day where I come from, ’mongst lots of folks,” he said, munching his own sandwich. “Celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ. Folks would give each other presents and try to be nice for a day.”

  Tabby looked at her sandwich. “I heard of that ‘Jeezus’ fella, from Sister Audry. She said he washed away all the bad stuff people do with blood.” She brightened. “Kinda like we been doin’ ’gainst these damn ‘Doms’ lately!”

  Spanky shifted on his stool. “It ain’t exactly the same…” Spanky was a nominal Catholic, and no matter how “backslid” he considered himself, the utterly twisted and perverted version of Catholicism the Dominion was trying to cram down everyone’s throat in a “convert or die” manner hit him very personally. He knew the new “Bosun of the Navy,” Chief Gray, felt the same. “Jesus died for our sins, washed ’em away with his own blood,” he said.

  Tabby was silent a while, as were the other ’Cats. The only sounds in the fireroom emanating from the blower, the rush of water past creaking plates, and the trembling roar of hellfire in the boiler. “Well… we ain’t gonna do that,” she said decisively. “We gonna drown their sins in their blood… or the goddamn sea!” She finished her sandwich and looked at Spanky with suddenly liquid eyes, her ears to the side in a submissive… seductive way. “Thanks for the ‘Kis-mus’ saammich, Spanky,” she said softly. “You gave me a present. I be nice to you all day!”

  His face reddening, Spanky stood. “Well,” he said casually, “I guess I’ll check the other spaces before I see the Skipper. I’m OOD for the forenoon watch.” He paused. “Carry on,” he added, before cycling through to the aft fireroom.

  Courtney’s hideous breech of protocol had been largely forgotten by the time the sun gushed over the horizon and bathed the limitless, purple sea with an achingly clear and sharp radiance. Not a single cloud marred the sky, and visibility seemed infinite. A cool breeze circulated through the pilothouse, and the group that gathered there earlier mostly remained. Courtney had eagerly broached the subject of what they might encounter-besides the enemy-as they neared the Americas, a subject that until now, only he had seemed interested in. Now, with that coast less than a week away, everyone seemed curious, and Jenks did his best to answer their questions. As an explorer and something of a naturalist himself, he was able to make some interesting observations.

  “But that still doesn’t explain why they seem so… single-minded,” Matt said, referring to a virtual procession of “mountain fish” they’d spotted-and duly avoided-the day before. The ridiculously huge beasts were notoriously territorial, and none of the “Americans,” human or Lemurian, had ever seen two in close proximity, certainly not the apparent dozens they’d seen, dotting the horizon like a distant ind chain.

  “I can’t explain it,” Jenks replied. “Particularly since it’s not an annual event that might be explained by migratory habits. It seems continuous. All I know is that, year round, occasional groups of the devils are observed, traveling through these comparatively barren seas, always on an easterly course. There are collisions, usually in the dark, but they seem disinclined to attack vessels as they sometimes do in the west.” He shook his head. “As I mentioned before, the shallow bay between what you call the Baja peninsula and the mainland is referred to by the Doms as ‘el Mar de Huesos,’ or the Sea of Bones. That may provide some explanation, given study, but I’ve never ventured there. The Doms claim it, and even in less… hostile times, I’ve never been allowed entry.”

  “You reckon they go there to die? The old ones, maybe?” Gray ventured gruffly. Matt looked at him carefully. At sixty-something, the Bosun was still a pillar of strength, but he’d begun to make comments now and then, as if starting to feel his age.

  Jenks shrugged. “That would seem a sound assumption, but not all the migrants are of the largest size. Perhaps so
me grow bigger than others, but based on size alone, one would infer specimens of all ages make the trip.”

  “Fascinating!” Courtney gushed. “Tell us more about these flying creatures, these ‘dragons’!” he demanded.

  “They can be a menace,” Jenks confessed. “They look much like the ‘lizard birds,’ as you call them, or the small ‘dragon fowl’ we hunt at home, with fowling pieces, but they’re much larger. Bigger even than the ones Mr. Bradford compared in size to an albatross.” He paused, looking at Courtney. “Speaking of those midsize creatures, did you know, though seen throughout the isles of the Empire, and even as far as the continental colonies, they’re known to nest only on a small atoll in the Normandy Isles, far to the west of New Wales?”

  “Oh my,” said Bradford.

  “About these ‘dragons,’” Matt persisted. “You say they’re a menace? I guess they fly, but they don’t… spit fire or anything?”

  “Heavens no.” Jenks chuckled. “But they’re large enough to snatch seamen from ships, and they’re quite clever, I’m afraid. They carry their prey to great heights and dash it against land or sea to kill it or render it senseless before they eat it. They’ve been known to bombard ships with rocks in excess of a hundred pounds.”

  “Shit!” the Bosun exclaimed.

  Bradford eyed him. “Please. It is Christmas!”

  “I was about to beg pardon,” Gray defended himself.

  Spanky clomped up the stairs aft. “Mornin’, Skipper,” he said. “Everybody.”

  “And a Merry Christmas to you!” Courtney said sourly.

  “Yeah. Hey, what’s this about ‘dragon bombers’?” he asked. Matt filled him in. “Wow. Better get busy training the ’Cat gunners to hit flying targets!”

  “Hey, you’re right,” said Campeti. “I’ll get with Stites and see how we can do that without wasting a bunch of ammo. Maybe those Jap pom-poms we mounted where the numbers three and four torpedo mounts used to be’ll come in handy for something.”