Shinya chuckled. “If I had not spent so much time around you, and Americans in general, I might think you were serious.” It was Shinya’s turn to shake his head. “You will never retire-and you will never die
… my friend. The day may come when you no longer breathe or live among us, but you will never die.”
For a moment, Dennis said nothing. Suddenly, he stuck out a grimy paw. “Say, did you just call me ‘my friend’?”
“I did.”
“Didja mean it?”
Shinya took the offered hand. “Yes. Yes I did, if you’ve no objection.”
CHAPTER 21
Off “Monterey” Bay
USS Walker and her “squadron” of three paddle frigates and a sloop exchanged signals and rendezvoused with Mertz, Tindal, Simms, Achilles, and the two practically “clipper” rigged oilers sixty miles offshore beneath a warm, benevolent sky, upon a placid sea. Commander Grimsley of Achilles had been acclaimed commodore of the “detached” Second Fleet squadron by the ’Cat captains on the other ships due to his knowledge of the waters. Besides, Jenks’s former exec was well liked and respected-and he’d definitely seen more action. He was also smart enough to grasp the qualitative differences between his ship and those of the “Amer-i-caan” ’Cats, and they’d discussed tactics based on those strengths and weaknesses many times during the long voyage.
Walker made a beeline for the oilers like a hungry wolf pup to a teat, and hoses were rigged across and pumps engaged to fill her grumbling bunkers. At Matt’s orders, the frigates took their turns at the other oiler. They probably had sufficient fuel, having topped off a few days earlier, but like any destroyer skipper, Matt remained obsessive about fuel-particularly when they were this far from home. Achilles could replenish her coal bunkers locally, and the oilers retained a sufficient reserve to see the rest of them all back to the Isles, but what if something happened to the oilers?
While fueling was underway, the air between the gathered ships virtually sizzled with messages, plans, and reports. Matt and Walker learned of the opening stages of the campaigns for Ceylon and New Ireland, at least to the extent they’d progressed before distance interfered with communications. They also received the love and best wishes of certain persons attached to TF Maaka-Kakja, via Respite to Scapa Flow.
Matt sat in his chair in Walker ’s pilothouse, gazing sightlessly out the windows at the fo’c’sle. Sandra never strayed far from his mind, and he yearned to speak to her, see her, hold her in his arms. Absence doesn’t always really make the heart grow fonder, but in his case, it certainly did… But at the same time, he knew a crossroads had been reached. The “Dame Famine” was slowly fading, and the primary obstacle to their “relationship” had finally, essentially passed. But that very relationship had left a kind of scar, a fundamental wound that was difficult to understand or explain. They’d suppressed their love, hidden it, then downplayed it so long, it had become a damaged, inconvenient thing, and as much as it had been a source of strength to them both, it had also harmed them in subtle ways. It had been so long, and so much had happened to them both since they’d seen each other, he knew they’d both changed.
A heat flashed across his shoulders and up and down his back. He’d made a fateful decision regarding that relationship; one he might regret for any number of reasons, maybe for the rest of his life. But things simply couldn’t go on as they had-for both their sakes. Sandra might not agree, and she’d undoubtedly suffer either way, maybe even more than he would, but he’d made up his mind. Ultimately, the choice would be hers as well, of course. She’d already suffered, and she’d invested so much of herself into what they had, he would not force his decision on her, but for himself, he knew it had to be. He sighed.
“Signal the fleet,” he said quietly. “All ships will advance at ten knots in line abreast on a course of one, two, five degrees. Ten-thousand-yard intervals. Tindal will screen to landward, Mertz to sealy. “All Double all lookouts, report any and all sightings. When Tindal opens Monterey Bay, she’ll enter in company with Achilles and destroy all enemy shipping. No boarding, just stand off and sink ’em unless they strike their colors. Direct those that choose to surrender to drive their ships hard aground; we don’t have time to fool with them. Tindal and Achilles will then rejoin the fleet, and if contact hasn’t already been made with the enemy, we’ll resume our advance to meet him.” He rubbed the young stubble on his chin, suddenly missing Juan. “Tabasco” was a fine steward, but it had taken Matt a long time to let Juan shave him. Tabasco wasn’t ready yet, and he was back to performing the chore himself. Despite his terrible coffee, Juan had spoiled him badly.
“Make sure all ships confirm receipt.” He looked around at the faces on the bridge, saw their surprised blinking or arched eyebrows, and wondered if his voice had sounded as normal as he’d thought. “All ahead one-third, if you please.”
“Sea’s getting up a little, Skipper,” Spanky observed unnecessarily, coming on the bridge at 0400 with the morning watch. “Even ’Cat’s’ll have a hell of a time seeing anything out there with this overcast.”
“They know what to look for. There are-were-steamers with the Dom fleet. They’ll be throwing sparks.”
Spanky grunted. “Like ‘our’ Imperials? Hell. It looks like the Fourth o’ July out there. Wish they’d go to oil.”
“I’m sure they will over time,” Matt replied absently.
Spanky looked at him with concern. “Did you get any sleep?
Matt grinned. “No, and neither did Tabasco, I’m afraid. He makes better coffee than Juan, at least.”
“Poor devil,” Spanky clucked. “He needs to learn to stand up to that grubby bastard Lanier. Juan knew how to do that! I saw Tabasco down in the galley, building sandwiches for the bridge watch, and Earl was giving him fits. One of these days, one of his ‘little monkey’ mess attendants is gonna beat the hell out of him-and he’ll probably wonder why! If I see it, I won’t say a word unless they’re killing him. Earl’s a turd, but he can cook. I can’t choke down ’Cat food. Too spicy.”
Matt chuckled. “You’d better encourage some of those mess attendants to learn to cook something you can eat, besides sandwiches. One of these days, Earl’s liable to catch something over the side that’ll pull him over and eat him! Did you see what he caught just while we were tied up at Saint Francis?”
Earl Lanier was a fiend for fishing-and fish-and he’d sampled the denizens of nearly every port they’d touched. Just about anyone would’ve eaten many of the things he caught, but sometimes he brought things aboard that nobody even wanted to know were in the water. A couple of times, he had nearly been snatched into the sea.
“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 station
s!” 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, ammunirtz 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 shouldn’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-50and 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.
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