“Damn it, Dean . . .” She sighed. “Yeah. I never doubted that. I just never saw any sign you were a good man. Prove me wrong. Keep it together, keep your baby going until we get out of this jam, and maybe we’ll talk about it. How’s that?”
A tentative smile appeared on Laney’s face. “Sure, doll, but why wait?”
Kathy pulled at her short hair in frustration. “See? You’re such a jerk! Don’t you dare ‘doll’ me! And we will wait—to talk, see? Or you can just forget it and go crawl down in the bilge and drown yourself, for all I care.” She bulled past him, up the stairs to the pilothouse, leaving Dean Laney staring at her, mouth hanging open.
Arracca and her remaining screen, USS Kas-Ra-Ar and USS Ramic-Sa-Ar, had begun to shake out into their offshore station. With ’Cats casting lead lines aboard the escorting DDs Naga and Felts, and others preparing to do the same on USS Santa Catalina’s fo’c’sle, the old ship and her two consorts passed the ruins of the shore batteries and steamed upriver, toward the Grik capital at Sofesshk.
CHAPTER 3
////// USS James Ellis
Allied-Occupied Zanzibar
“They’re going in,” Captain Matthew Reddy, High Chief of the Amer-i-caan Clan and Commander in Chief of all Allied Forces (CINCAF), said simply. Absently, he ran his fingers through sweaty dark brown hair, which was starting to gray at the temples. The face looking up from the message form Commander Perry Brister’s XO, Lieutenant Rolando “Ronson” Rodriguez, had brought them would’ve still looked boyish, however, if not for the deep worry lines around the eyes. There were quite a few people, humans and Lemurians, packed in the small pilothouse of USS James Ellis (DD-21), and the aroma was . . . hard to handle. It was raining outside, of course, and the smell of the Lemurian-made “cotton” uniforms was a lot like wet, mildewed wool. Add stale human sweat and the musty, somewhat ironic wet-dog odor of damp, sweaty Lemurians, and it was amazing the funk wasn’t visible.
Ellie was another four-stacker destroyer, almost exactly like USS Walker. That was understandable, since she’d been copied directly from her in the Baalkpan Navy Yard. The workers there had plenty of experience rebuilding Walker, after all, and with all the advancements made in the past few years it had been time to make the jump from wooden warships to modern steel-hulled designs. Using the term “modern” in association with Walker was ironic in itself, however, since she was a very hard quarter-century old, but copying her had been at the very cutting edge of what the ’Cats were capable of at the time.
Ellie had been the first of her kind, with many of the attendant prototype issues beginning to surface. Her slightly younger sister, Geran-Eras, had already been better—but was also already at the bottom of the Western (Indian) Ocean. Still, two more just like them—with further improvements—were finishing up at Baalkpan, and more had been started there as well as in the Filpin Lands. At the moment, Ellie was tied to a shattered dock on the east side of Island Number One in Lizard Ass Bay on the southwest coast of Zanzibar. All her most critical hull damage had been patched in the repair bay of USS Tarakaan Island, a massive SPD (self-propelled dry dock) not much smaller than a Lemurian Home. Ellie still needed further repairs, but they could be accomplished alongside the dock, and she’d been moved that morning to make room for the Allies’ greatest prize: the French superdreadnaught Savoie, captured at the climax of Operation Outhouse Rat. One of Walker’s torpedoes had started a serious leak in her port engine room, but it had been another that damaged a shaft support, flooded the steering engine, and jammed her rudder, which drove the ship aground at the height of the battle. As soon as her hull and steering were patched, she’d be towed to Mahe Island for more repairs. Only then could Walker enter the dry dock for repairs of her own.
Matt glanced almost guiltily at his gallant old destroyer, moored dejectedly alongside Tarakaan Island. She’d only recently undergone a fairly thorough refit, and most of the latest repairs held good, but he’d immediately taken her back into the fire and she’d been hammered. Again. Her most serious wounds were a slap-patched pair of massive holes caused by one of Savoie’s 13.5″ projectiles, which had skipped across the sea and hit her sideways, causing a lot of structural damage to already age- and battle-weakened frames. It was bad enough that Matt’s XO, Commander Brad “Spanky” McFarlane, feared the patches alone wouldn’t prevent the ship’s bow from breaking off if she encountered heavy seas. They’d asked far too much of Walker in this war, her people too. But she’d become more than just a ship to so many now—a kind of “talisman of the Alliance,” a living symbol of victory in the face of impossible odds. They still needed her as a warship, of course, but her mere presence in action was a force multiplier of confidence for those engaged far beyond her actual capabilities. She’d also become an object of dread for her enemies. Particularly the Grik.
Matt straightened and looked out to starboard. Most of the wreckage of Hisashi Kurokawa’s dreams of empire were invisible from Ellie, the slashing squall ruining the view across the bay, where the bulk of his sovereign nest had been. Hundreds of Allied soldiers, sailors, Marines, and aviators had died taking the place, including Adar, who’d been the former Chairman of the Grand Alliance. Thousands of Kurokawa’s Grik allies died as his army collapsed and his fleet was destroyed. Some surrendered, including more than a hundred of Kurokawa’s surviving Japanese crew, accepting transport to the Shogunate of Yokohama in this world’s Japan. A few even volunteered to serve, their old war with Matt’s original destroyermen as dead as Kurokawa. And the Shogunate—mostly peopled by Lemurians—was an ally, after all. The wounds remained too fresh to use the experienced Japanese sailors as he’d like just yet, but Matt hoped that would change. Amazingly, persuaded by the Grik-like Sa’aaran Lawrence and a strange little Grik named Pokey who’d been fighting with the First North Borno Regiment, the Grik crews of Kurokawa’s last four ironclad wooden cruisers even surrendered—something almost unknown in this war.
The rest of the defenders, along with perhaps a hundred more Japanese, fled into the wilds of Zanzibar. Matt doubted they’d survive, cut off from supplies from the mainland, and the Grik wouldn’t have to go very hungry before they started eating each other. He suspected the Japanese, their former masters, would be the first in the cookpots.
“Stupid,” Sandra snorted bitterly, refocusing Matt’s attention. Her sun-bleached sandy-brown ponytail swayed as she shook her head. “Taking Santy Cat up that river now, with so little, will only get them all killed.” Matt’s wife was very small, very opinionated, and very pregnant. Shortly before, she’d been Kurokawa’s hostage, and hadn’t fully recovered from her long ordeal. Her face and limbs were still tight and skinny, her skin darkened by exposure, her features sharper, with a more ruthless edge. To Matt, she was still the most beautiful thing in the world, and having her back, safe by his side, made him feel whole again. He knew it might be a long time before she felt that way. Then again . . . She looked at her husband, and the harsh expression faded and she continued in a softer tone. “Of course, all of you coming here against Kurokawa, with everything he had, was pretty stupid too—and I’ll always be grateful.”
“Had to be done,” Matt returned, avoiding her gaze. “Whether you were here or not.” Sandra stepped closer to him and put her hand on his elbow.
“I think Russ’s stunt is brilliant,” Perry Brister croaked, disagreeing with Sandra. Despite his youth, Ellie’s skipper sounded like an octogenarian chain-smoker. He’d wrecked his voice commanding Fort Atkinson during the frantic maelstrom of the Battle of Baalkpan almost three years before, and a few of the old hands affectionately called him Froggy behind his back. The reference was only partially lost on their Lemurian friends, since there were frogs on this world. “If it works,” Perry qualified. “I never thought he had it in him,” he continued grudgingly, remembering when he’d been engineering officer on Mahan and Russ Chappelle was, apparently, just a somewhat lazy torpedoman.
“
If it works and if we can take aad-vantage of it,” agreed “Ahd-mi-raal” Keje-Fris-Ar, Matt’s oldest Lemurian friend and commander of the great Home-turned-carrier USNRS Salissa (CV-1). In spite of his support, white-furred eyelids blinked worry against his dark rust-colored face. He and Tassanna, high chief of Arracca, had joined their Homes politically and were practically betrothed besides. But even though Matt had ordered Tassanna not to follow Santy Cat up the river, everyone knew she’d do it anyway if she saw no other choice.
The hard rain abruptly stopped as the squall swept onward, over the main island to the east, leaving a steaming fog rising from the ship as the blurry sun appeared. Matt stepped out on the bridgewing, under the final drops, with his wife, taking a deep breath of wet, clean air. Keje, Perry, Rolando, and Colonel Chack-Sab-At of the 1st Raider Brigade followed, looking around for a moment. The rain-stilled waters of the bay lapped gently at the charred, skeletal wreckage of Kurokawa’s last carrier, just ahead, and beyond was Tarakaan Island, with her massive burden, high and, if not exactly dry under the circumstances, already lifted from the sea and resting in the repair bay. Savoie was an awesome sight, apparently massing as much below the waterline as above. Tiny rain-soaked figures stood in ankle-deep water, dragging hoses and torching away curled and jagged steel amid bright yellow arcs of molten metal from the underwater hurts Matt’s old destroyer had inflicted. Real steam rose around the hot slag hitting the water.
Lucky, Matt thought. Even improved as they are, just two of our new fish never would’ve taken that damn thing down if her armor or torpedo blisters stood in the way. Just one lucky hit made the difference between defeat here, the loss of everything I love, and probably the whole war—and victory. Not to mention capturing that ship—which happens to outgun everything else the Alliance has, combined—relatively intact. Considering her age [laid down in 1914, she was five years older than Walker], she’s in top shape. She’s clearly had some upgrades over the years and her engines’re fine, including the one that got a little wet. Isak and Tabby are happy with her boilers. She has been a bit neglected over the past few months, but only superficially. He frowned. The only things that’ll affect her combat power, once she’s patched up, are that her League crew apparently gutted her central fire-control suite before they gave her to Kurokawa, and the portside gun in her number-one turret is missing about nine feet. Campeti thinks we can still use the gun if we cut it off a bit more, but it’ll change its velocity and trajectory. That still leaves us with a heavily armored BB of our very own, with seven and a half 13.5″ guns, eight 5.5″s, eight DP three-inchers, twenty-four 8-mm Hotchkiss MGs, and five quad-mount 13.2 mms. The only problem will be feeding them—though she’s got enough ammo for a couple of stiff fights. Almost a full load of a hundred rounds for each main gun, and near-full magazines for her secondaries as well. The small-bore stuff is a little more depleted. . . . We can handle the 5.5″s, and probably 3″s with help from the Republic, but it might be easier to just replace her machine guns with our own .30s and .50s. And the 13.5″s . . . He rubbed his forehead. They’re going to miss a lot if we can’t build a replacement for her fire-control computer. We can install a new level-crosslevel as soon as it gets here from Baalkpan. And the Japs were already working on a new computer from manuals. We’ll just have to see.
Looking at her now, particularly her upper silhouette, Matt was reminded of the old New York–class BBs, including USS Texas, named after his home state. I wonder if we should change her name, he mused distractedly. That’s never been common, even for captured ships. But we’ve always renamed Grik prizes, and after what Savoie did . . . He shook his head. I’ll worry about that later. She should probably keep her name. It’s not her fault she did what she did, and it might rub their noses in it if she ever steams against the goddamn League.
The League of Tripoli, centered in the Mediterranean, was founded by a large force of fascist French, Italian, Spanish, and German assets. There may have been others, but those were the big four. Actually, big three. The League was ruled by a triumvirate, and the German contingent seemed a little less equal than the rest. Matt still didn’t understand it all. But the force that became the League arrived after experiencing a similar . . . transportation to that which brought various other peoples over time, some friends, others . . . not. Up until recently, however, the League had seemed content to merely meddle in the Allies’ war against the Grik, Kurokawa, and the Holy Dominion while consolidating its hegemony over the Med—the main goal of its interference, apparently, being to weaken every party involved.
There’d been some costly scraps, but Savoie’s activities had been the most overtly hostile. Even then, it was clear from the few League prisoners they took with her that her leadership, including the (dead) Contre Amiral Laborde and her (wounded, but in custody) Captaine Dupont, had surpassed their orders when they sank SMS Amerika. Amerika was an old passenger liner converted to a lightly armed commerce raider in the Great War, and had represented the Republic of Real People in the Grand Alliance. The Republic was a very strange mix of humans, Lemurians, and . . . others, from the disagreeably (to the Grik) cooler climes of southern Africa, and was only starting to build a real navy. Amerika had been the only thing it could send east, past the perpetual ship-killing storm that lingered off the cape. Old and fragile, but still relatively swift and comfortable, she’d been serving as a hospital ship when she ran into Savoie.
It was from Amerika that Savoie took Sandra, Adar, and other hostages, before turning them—and herself—over to Kurokawa. That act, and otherwise materially aiding Kurokawa, put the entire League on Matt’s “I will not forget what you did” list, but the Alliance simply couldn’t do anything about it now. They had plenty of war to go around, and according to information Matt received from a disgruntled German pilot named Walbert Fiedler, who—hopefully—remained a friendly source within the League, as well as other leaguers they’d captured here, even Savoie would be woefully outclassed if it ever came to open warfare with the League. Matt had a rough list of League assets that he’d shared with very few people, and it wholly justified his desire to “finish the wars we’ve got, then prepare like mad,” before going toe-to-toe with the League. Unfortunately, the campaigns against the Grik and Doms were presently proving to be more than they could handle.
On the plus side, Republic land forces had finally opened a long-awaited second front against the Grik, though it remained to be seen how effective they’d be. The Australian engineer, Courtney Bradford, was with them as an advisor and representative of the rest of the Alliance. He’d reported that they’d (barely) won a battle, and were beginning to draw a lot of attention to their advance. That would make things harder for them, of course, but their allies desperately needed a distraction to thin the Grik Swarm at Sofesshk. Especially now.
“Savoie should be out of Tarakaan Island in a week,” Matt said, looking at Brister. “She won’t be ready to steam or fight by then—we don’t even have a crew for her! But Big Sal can tow her to Mahe. She’ll be better protected there, and closer to where we’ll need her when she is ready. And besides the dry dock, Mahe has better repair facilities. Ideally, we’d send her back to Madras, where they could really fix her up, but we just can’t spare Big Sal. My question to you is, can Ellie be fit for sea by then? We have a grand total of two seaworthy Scott-class sail/steam DDs left, and they can’t defend such a helpless pair by themselves.”
Keje bristled. “Salissa is not helpless! Her air wing was badly mauled,” he conceded, “but I can keep a strong com-baat air paa-trol overhead!”
“You can’t maneuver, dragging Savoie, and I’m not as worried about threats from the air as the sea,” Matt countered. “There was a Kraut U-boat creeping around out here—we know it for a fact. God knows if it’s still in the area. Where would it replenish? But we have to assume it is. Salissa and Savoie, poking along, would make a tempting target. I want Ellie and her sound gear prowling ahead of you.”
Perry Brister pursed his lips. “Ellie could go to sea now,” he said cautiously, then shrugged. “Today, anyway. We’ve got things taken apart that I’d like to secure first. She wouldn’t be doing much sprinting, though, and I’m not sure how much good she’d be in a fight. The main battery’s all right, but the fire-control wiring got shredded by that hit”—he nodded at the gutted charthouse behind the bridge—“and all we’ve got is local control. The EMs have been twisting wires like crazy, but there’s still a lot to do. Otherwise, as you know, we lost one of the twin twenty-five-millimeter mounts. No fixing that anytime soon.” All the 25 mm guns in the Alliance had been salvaged from Amagi, then Hidoiame. Most were going into new construction and there were no spares. New barrels were being made—since they were already making ammunition, it seemed sensible not to change the caliber—but the Baalkpan Arsenal was torn between copying the existing actions or trying to come up with something simpler. Both projects were underway, and trials would determine the outcome. “And the port torpedo mount is a total loss,” Perry continued. “I was hoping to get another one installed. Tara still has a couple.”
“Sure, if there’s time,” Matt agreed. “What else is left?”
“The forward fireroom is still trashed, and the number two boiler is finished . . .” He hesitated. Tara also carried a few entire boiler assemblies, but he didn’t even mention it. Replacing a complete boiler would take too long. “We’re trying to get the number-one boiler up, and probably will,” he said instead. “But the forward stack is a sieve. Right now all we have is the aft fireroom, and maybe eighteen knots, maximum. Other than that, the only major issue is the Nancy catapult. It’s wrecked.” He gestured aft. “In fact, it’s gone. Tara took it and the shredded torpedo mount off.”
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