Firestorm d-6

by Taylor Anderson

  CHAPTER 12

  USS Walker December 30, 1943

  T he sky was almost black in the west, and the clouds above were dark, high, and huge. In the east, the horizon around the rising sun was clear and golden. Long, choppy swells rolled in from the northwest, hitting the old destroyer on the port bow. The downdraft of the storm’s leading edge sent cold, shattered spray against the windows of the pilothouse and the port side of the chart house. Walker was pitching and rolling in a corkscrew motion guaranteed to achieve vomit from all but her most seasoned crew. The cold, damp wind added to the misery. Few Lemurians other than “far rangers” or those from the Great South Island had ever experienced temperatures much below the seventies at night, and now, with the wind and humidity, along with a weak but genuine cold front, it felt like the fifties. ’Cats all over the ship were wearing Lemurian-made copies of “peacoats” that few had ever expected to need, and even the humans, so accustomed to the constant heat, were wearing peacoats and jackets off-loaded before the Battle of Baalkpan. The old wool smelled musty, and even Matt’s leather jacket had him sneezing occasionally at the mildew.

  Courtney was happy as a clam, standing on the starboard bridgewing with Jenks, bouncing up and down to keep his binoculars steady as he cheerfully described a flight of perhaps a dozen giant lizard birds, or “dragons” stooping and whirling on something far to the east. Jenks was fascinated too, but mainly because the beasts had never been seen this far north, and so far out at sea. Obviously, they were dogging something in or on the water; perhaps some wandering school of fish?

  “They must be out of Guadalupe Island,” Harvey Jenks speculated. “Dragons are somewhat migratory and often cooperate with one another, as you see,” he said.

  “Maybe,” said Matt. Guadalupe was their “waypoint.” They meant to turn north after sighting it on the chance the suspected Dom fleet would use it for the same purpose as it worked north along the coast. Jenks said the island might provide a decent anchorage, depending on the wind, and if the Doms were waiting anywhere for things to “automatically happen,” it was as good a place as any. Putting a dogleg in their trip with their fuel so limited had been a difficult decision, but they needed to know what they were facing. They had six days until the cryptic date of January 5, plenty of time to reach their destination, with a few days to spare, but it was imperative they have something concrete to present to the authorities at the colonial port of Saint Francis-better remembered by the human destroyermen as San Francisco.

  That’s going to be a… weird landfall, Matt reflected. Jenks’s description of the place didn’t sound very familiar, and that made sense with the lower sea level. They certainly wouldn’t pass under the Golden Gate Bridge. Still, it would be their first contact with what should have been their continental home, their own country. It would probably be even more painful than their arrival in the “New Britain Isles.” Besides, it was cold. Sure, it was winter here, but the weather was more like Seattle. Jenks said the “North Coast” was under ice for much of the year, and pack ice could be a problem as far south as where Matt showed him Astoria to be on their own charts. A genuine ice sheet wasn’t possible because of the tumultuous sea, but it wasn’t right at all.

  “I wish we could throw Reynolds and his plane over the side to fly over there and have a look; see if that’s Guadalupe and if there’re any Dom ships there,” Matt said, looking at the sea. “Tangerous. The trouble is, if we get too close and the enemy is there, they might see us before we see them, with their higher masts and lookouts.”

  “Not necessarily, Skipper,” said the Bosun, who’d been watching the darkness in the west. He gestured toward it. “We’ll have that as a backdrop, liable to blend right in. And we have better lookouts than they do.”

  “Hmm.” Matt strode aft, starboard of the chart house, and stared up at the funnels. “Minnie,” he said, addressing the diminutive talker, “get Tabby on the horn and tell her number three is making too much smoke.” He looked around the pilothouse. “Might as well have a look.”

  Very shortly afterward, the lookout sighted land to the east, what looked like a peak rising from the sea. The threatening storm had dissipated somewhat, becoming more benign as one front surrendered to another, but the entire sky was gray. Walker approached the landfall at fifteen knots, and soon the peak of what had to be Mount Augusta, maybe five thousand feet high, sprawled out on the horizon into a rugged island about fifteen miles long, north to south. Careful scrutiny revealed no Dominion ships along its western coast, and Jenks suggested they pass to the north and see what might lie in what he called the “northeast anchorage.”

  The dragons Courtney watched earlier had disappeared, but similar shapes fluttered around the highest volcanic peak. Another peak brooded to the south, not quite as high, but shrouded by steamy clouds. It was probably active, Matt surmised. By early afternoon, they’d passed the sharp, northeast point and had an unobstructed view of the anchorage beyond. Almost at the same instant the lookout reported-his view as obscured by the point as theirs until now-those on the bridge caught their first sight of a forest of masts.

  “My God, there they are!” Matt muttered. So much for sneaking in for a look. The first Dom ship, clearly distinguished by the red flag with the gold cross whipping at her stern, was only five thousand yards away. Beyond it lay more ships than they’d seen gathered since the Battle of Baalkpan; maybe a hundred. Most, particularly those anchored closest to the scant shoreline at the base of the high cliffs, were probably transports. Through his Bausch amp; Lomb’s, thousands of white dots-tents-were scattered in orderly clumps across the exposed slopes of the mountain. Apparently, they’d been here a while. The vessels encompassing the inner transports had to be warships, however, and all those would have guns. “Sound general quarters! Stand by for surface action, starboard!” he said loudly. The laryngitic duck of the general alarm squalled, and there was a short bustle in the pilothouse as men and ’Cats exchanged their hats for helmets.

  “What will we do?” Courtney asked.

  “You’re going to assume your battle station in the wardroom,” Matt said. “Without Selass here, all we have is a pharmacist’s mate. You’re our surgeon now, remember?”

  “W-why, yes,” Bradford stammered unenthusiastically, “and I shall do my duty… but what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to stay out of range and hit ’em as hard as we can. They’re at anchor, and we’ll never have a better opportunity. See all those tents ashore? Those represent who knows how many troops. We sink their transports, and the invasion of the colonies is off.”

  “Attack… without warning?” Courtney gasped.

  “Damn straight,” the Bosun growled. “What do you think they’re here to do? re h

  “Still…”

  “Go below, Courtney,” Matt said with an edge. Bradford vanished in a huff, but when he was gone, Jenks leaned toward Matt and whispered, “Actually, though I hate to say it, he has a point.”

  Matt goggled at him. “What?”

  “We’re at war with the Dominion, no question, but those people over there, aboard those ships, don’t know it yet.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Gray demanded, equally shocked. “You want to run up a white flag, steam over there and tell ’em we’re at war? They’ll thrash us! Our only advantage is speed and range. We’ve got ’em served up on a platter, and you want to give that up? Did you forget how they started this war? They murdered women and children! Civilians!”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Jenks said bitterly, “but are we to start a war with them the same way?”

  “It’s already started!” Matt almost shouted in frustration.

  Jenks pointed at the ships, still serene at anchor in the island’s lee. Surely they’d seen them by now, but as yet, there was no visible reaction. “Not for them!”

  Matt removed his hat and raked his hair back. “Talker,” he snapped. “What does the lookout see?”

  “Ahh,
confusion aboard enemy ships,” Minnie reported, and Matt slapped his leg with his hat.

  “Mr. Kutas, come right thirty degrees. Slow to one-third. Stand by for flank. Pack Rat? Hoist the battle flag, if you please.”

  “Right thirty, aye,” Kutas replied, and repeated the order to the helmsman. Staas-Fin (Finny) confirmed he’d rung the engine room and was ready to signal the increase. “Tabasco” scrambled up the ladder aft with Matt’s pistol and sword belt. He snatched the battered hat from his captain and handed over a helmet. Matt put it on but gestured for his steward to keep the belt for now.

  “Cap-i-taan,” said Minnie, “all stations manned an’ ready. Mr. Spaanky has auxiliary conn an’ asks what the hell we doing.”

  “Tell him that, to suit the sensibilities of our allies, we’re going to give the enemy a chance to shoot first. Tell Campeti not to return fire immediately but to wait for the command!”

  “Ay, ay, Cap-i-taan,” Minnie replied nervously.

  “This is nuts,” Gray said, glaring at Jenks.

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie cried, “lookout say rockets-flares-burst over enemy ships!”

  Matt looked through the window to starboard as Walker steered to run parallel to the anchorage. He saw the dwindling sparkles in the sky. “I guess they’re passing the word,” he said, with a glance of his own at Jenks. Most of the Dominion ships were stern-on to the old destroyer as she steamed south, angling to cross down the line of anchored vessels, at a range of roughly fifteen hundred yards; close enough to entice a shot, but not close enough to make it easy. A few were starting to get their act together, cutting their cables and beginning to move backward, blossoming headsails pulling them around. Finally, one ship, its broadside clear, vanished behind a rolling cloud of smoke.

  “All ahead flank!” Matt yelled. “Left full rudder!”

  The helmsman spun the wheel and with a deep, vibrating groan, Walkerrrrrrrrr’s screws clawed at the sea. A wide cluster of waterspouts erupted in her wake, and one shot struck the ship with a hollow boom.

  “Damage report!” Matt demanded. “Rudder amidships.”

  Minnie shook her head. “Mr. Spaanky say a big ball whacked the stern at starboard propeller guard. It falling when it hit, an’ splash in sea. Maybe just a dent.”

  “My rudder amidships,” announced the ’Cat at the wheel.

  “Very well. Hold your course. Damage control to the steering engine room!”

  Another ship fired an erratic broadside, but Walker was picking up speed. At this range, few balls would skate off the wavetops, and all the geysers erupted aft. They waited a few minutes. Evidently, the enemy believed they’d chased the strange ship away, because there was no more firing. Nearing four thousand yards again, they had no chance of hitting, anyway.

  “Helm, come to course one, six, zero!” Matt said. He looked at Finny. “Slow to two-thirds before we suck the bunkers dry. Minnie, tell Campeti we’re about to settle down and when we do, I want him to punish those bastards!” Finally, he looked at Jenks. “Satisfied, Commodore?” He waited for a nod, then resumed. “Harvey, I consider you a friend, amazingly enough. Particularly considering the foot we started on. But there’s only so much you can ask of this ship and her crew, especially with what’s at stake-here and elsewhere. We all need Walker, and she needs her crew. I’ll risk them both; I have many times, but what we just did was plain stupid. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any rules in this damn war. You can say fighting like the enemy makes us like them, but that’s not true. We didn’t start it, and we can’t hold ourselves to an artificial standard they don’t even recognize.” He straightened and took a breath. “So I went ahead and proved it to you again. But here’s the deal: friends or not, that was the last time. Expecting more stunts like that one, to prove a point, to show we’re better than they are, is pushing too far. We are better than they are, and I don’t feel like proving it again!”

  “Caam-pee-tee has a solution, Skipper,” Minnie said.

  “Very well. Commence firing.”

  The salvo buzzer rang, and the foredeck lit up under the overcast sky as the number one gun bucked and spit flame and white smoke. They had no tracers for the new ammunition yet, but the rhino-pig lard they lubed the projectiles with to keep the fouling soft left a spiraling smoke trail. It didn’t matter. Matt had no doubt that the shells from numbers one, three, and four would converge either short or long of the target. The EMs had replaced all the ships old, corroded, electrical fire control systems and connections, and they’d finally compensated for the different velocity of the 4.7-inch dual-purpose Japanese gun that had replaced number four. They also had sharp eyes to watch for the fall of shot. A moment later came the cry from the fire control platform above to adjust “Down fifty! Match pointers! Fire!” This time the three exploding shells, two with black powder bursting charges and one with high explosive, demolished the first target, a Dom heavy of some sort, the first one that fired at them. Campeti immediately shifted to the next. In moments, perhaps a dozen enemy ships were burning or destroyed, and still the pounding continued. Walker ceased firing at the southern end of the anchorage and reversed course, to continue flailing at the enemy. The dark cliffs of the distant island glowed with the flames of burning ships.

  “Damn,” breathed Kutas with satisfaction. “It’s almost like ‘Makas-sar Strait’ all over again,” he said, referencing their only real success in their “old” war against the Japanese.

  Some of the enemy was making sail at last, trying to escape the growing inferno, but none could succeed as long as Walker had ammunition. Matt knew he couldn’t destroy them all-they simply didn’t have enough shells-but they could break the force destined for Saint Francis and leave it too weak to accomplish its mission. As soon as enough of the warships were dealt with, he meant to move in closer and shatter as many transports as he could. For a while, he watched the slaughter with his jaw grimly set, oblivious to all but the destruction he wrought.

  “Captain Reddy!” He finally heard his name over the booming guns and diminishing swoosh of shells. It was Jenks.

  “What?”

  “Your ‘talker’!”

  Matt spun. “What is it?”

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie repeated, “the lookout says those giant lizard birds are back. Dozens of ’em, an’ they flying this way!”

  Matt, Jenks, and the Bosun ran out on the starboard bridgewing and focused their binoculars. High above, and ignoring the enemy ships, came a ragged formation of the oversize creatures.

  “My God,” Jenks muttered. “I’ve never seen so many together!”

  “Will they attack?” Matt asked.

  “It appears that’s their intent. Look, some have large stones in their claws!”

  “Why ain’t they dumpin’ ’em on those Doms?” Gray demanded.

  “I’ve no idea.” Jenks paused nervously. “Captain Reddy, those dragons really shouldn’t tolerate the Doms on ‘their’ island while they inhabit it!”

  “Then what the hell?”

  “I can’t answer. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Matt tore his eyes from the binoculars. “Air action starboard!” he roared. “All hands not on gun’s crews will take small arms and prepare to repel boarders, but try to stay undercover!”

  It was incredible. There were forty or fifty of the things winging toward them. In most respects they looked like their smaller cousins the destroyermen had grown accustomed to, pacing the ship and shitting on the decks whenever they ventured near land. These “lizard birds” were bigger than Grik, however, and had a lot in common with the Ancient Enemy except for their wings and the bright colors of their furry plumage. The closer they came, the more terrifying they appeared.

  Behind him, Matt heard the muffled thumping of feet on metal rungs as ’Cats raced up the ladder to the fire control platform, draped with belts of. 30-cal for the machine guns mounted there. Others brought extra ammo to the. 50s on the amidships deckhouse; beyond that, the Japanese
pom-poms where the aft torpedo tubes used to be were made ready as well. Sailors scrambled to the rails with Springfields and muskets, passed out by Lanier, Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites, and Stumpy. The “dragon birds” were getting closer.

  “Cap-i-taan!” Minnie cried. “Mr. Spaanky requests permission for the number four gun to engage the flying lizards!” Matt was surprised. He hadn’t known they had time-fused shells for the dual-purpose gun. He’d never considered asking since the idea of shooting at airborne tarll arms hadn’t occurred to him before. If they had the shells, it was time to use them. “Absolutely,” he said. Almost immediately, the aft gun boomed and an instant later, a black puff appeared in front of the advancing flock. The creatures nearest the detonation veered past it and kept coming. The rounds pumped out, in rapid fire, throwing a blanket of steel in their path. One puff shredded a monster’s wing and killed another outright with slashing fragments. The dead one folded and dropped, and the wounded one spiraled downward, shrieking. There were short-lived cheers, but the creatures were close enough for the machine guns now.

  All the while, numbers one and two continued firing at the enemy ships, but seeing the oncoming creatures, Matt couldn’t leave the gun’s crews out in the open.

  “Cease firing and secure main battery, all but number four!” he ordered. “Helm, come to course zero, two, zero, all ahead full! Secondary battery and small arms will commence firing at targets of opportunity!” He gestured at Tabasco to hand him his belt.

  “No, no, you idiot!” yelled Chief Gunner’s Mate Paul Stites around a wad of yellowish Lemurian tobacco. “You gotta lead ’em! Shoot where they’re gonna be, not where they are! You’re just wastin’ bullets!”

  “How I know where they gonna be?” yelled the ’Cat striker behind the ’fifty, beside the “pom-pom pit.” “I not see future!”

  The “dragon birds” were splitting up, trying to encircle the ship, it seemed. But Walker ’s speed must have come as a big surprise, and they appeared to be having trouble adjusting their approach as the old destroyer sped up. All the machine guns were stuttering now; the wind-muffled, crackling prattle of the. 30s on the fire control platform, the throatier, deafening bursts of the. 50s amidships. Reynolds directed his “Special Air Detail” on the pom-poms protecting his plane, and the numbing bam-bam-bam ming of the things was starting to really hurt. Stites was directing the fifties just aft of the pom-poms, under the overhang of the aft deckhouse where the 4.7-inch dual-purpose was banging away, and the position was… detrimental to normal conversation.