“Lucky Tara still gots plenty o’ new tubes that stupid Lapsajik”—that’s how Isak pronounced Laap-Zol-Jeks’s name—“brought out from Baalkpan Boiler an’ Steam Engine Works. Even still have a couple of his monkeys to help put ’em in.”
“The brickwork inside is pretty shot, too,” Tabby added, blinking at Sonya. “She says it’s the same she had at Second Madraas, which got shook up when she was hit. They’ve done the best they could, but praactic’ly had to swipe everything they got from the yaard, includin’ the new number-one gun! That daamn Linnaa!”
“I wonder if we could get away with hangin’ him?” Spanky mused.
Matt grimaced. “Probably not.” He looked at Tabby, the gray fur on her face wrinkled around a thoughtful frown. “But Tara has plenty of firebrick, too.”
“Yah,” Tabby agreed. “We overhaul both boilers—might as well do it right—an’ it’ll take about a week.”
Matt nodded, then looked at Spanky, his decision made. “That’s the same week you’ll have to get Walker fit to float, but then you’re on your own.” Everyone was surprised by that, and the ’Cats blinked furiously. Matt regarded Tiaa. “You’ve done a remarkable job, getting Mahan here. Ensign Toos is your XO?”
“Ay, sur.”
“Hmm. I want him to stay here and help with Walker. I’m sure he’ll make a good first officer, with his experience with damage control! But both of you are lieutenant commanders now.”
Tiaa’s amber eyes, already large, grew wider. “Thaank you, Cap-i-taan Reddy!”
Matt frowned. “The part that’s going to be hard to take, and just as hard for me to dish out, is that I’m going to have to relieve you of your command.”
Tiaa blinked acceptance, mixed with disappointment. “Of course. I never expected to keep Ma-haan. I’ve never been in aaction, and in honesty, we were lucky to even make Zaan-zi-bar. Besides the engineerin’ issues, just findin’ here was haard! We don’t have a proper naavi-gator aboard.”
Matt’s eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Very well.” He looked around the table. “I’ll assume command of Mahan and Tiaa will be my XO—for now.”
“Me?” Tiaa murmured, astonished. “Cap-i-taan Reddy’s XO?”
Matt smiled at her. “If you don’t mind. I know it might be awkward, and you can request another assignment, but I’d really like to have you stay.”
“Mind? Aawk-ward? In honesty, I . . . do not feel quaal-i-fied for such an honor!”
“The honor’s mine, Commander Tiaa,” Matt replied earnestly. “This ship is more yours, as are the people you’ve commanded, than anyone else’s now. I have no doubt you’ll overcome any . . . inexperience you may have very quickly. I did,” he added cryptically, then looked back at the others. “In one week, Mahan will escort Tara to Mahe, where she’ll begin embarking troops and equipment for the full-scale invasion of Grik Africa.” He considered. “Tabby? You’ll come too, to assist Lieutenant Sonya in engineering.” He glanced at Spanky. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you don’t have to build a boiler to power a crane.” There were chuckles. “We’ll also take Paddy Rosen, who can help Mahan’s quartermasters get up to speed. Paddy and Tabby can share the duties of first officer. Is there a gunnery officer? Torpedo officer?”
“Aah, no, Cap-i-taan,” Tiaa said.
“Take Campeti and Bernie Sandison,” Spanky suggested glumly. He didn’t want Matt to leave but understood why he had to. If he did, Spanky wanted him to have the best.
“No, you’ll need them. And when Walker does come down, I want her power hitters on deck. I’ll take Pack Rat for gunnery, and Torpedoman First Fino-Saal. Who else do we need?”
“Does Mahan have a surgeon?” Sandra demanded.
“Yes, Lady Saandra,” Tiaa said. “We, ah, stole a good corps-’Caat from the Maa-reen contingent at Madraas. He was contemplating slow, painful poisons to try on Gener-aal Linnaa, an’ I thought it best to take him away. But he can’t compare with your skill!”
“Few can,” Matt agreed fondly, but looked squarely at Sandra. “I won’t try to make you stay behind this time, but you’ll have to go aboard Tarakaan Island. Mahan has even less space to spare than Walker.” Sandra started to object, and Matt raised his hand. “Or you can stay with Walker. I only ever promised not to throw you off her again. But those are your only choices.”
Sandra bit her lip but finally nodded. There was no arguing with Matt’s logic. Mahan was very cramped. And at least she’d be near him. Matt finally looked at Spanky and took a deep breath. “As for you, get our girl fixed. When she’s ready for sea, I don’t know if you’ll be able to bring her straight down or have to take her to Madras and escort Sixth Corps.” He leaned back and snorted in frustration. He’d finally told Spanky more about what the League had in terms of ships and forces, sufficient to disturb anyone’s sleep. So far, only he, Ben Mallory, Keje, Safir Maraan, and Alan Letts and his staff of snoops, of course, were fully aware of the near impossible odds they faced beyond the Grik and Doms. Henry Stokes was trying to pry more intelligence from the Leaguers they’d sent to Baalkpan, but Matt only really trusted the information he’d received from another source. . . . “I don’t like anything that’s going on,” he continued, “and there’s still at least one League pigboat out there. If it comes nosing around, I want it hammered.” Belatedly, he turned back to Tiaa. “How’s Mahan’s sound gear, by the way?”
Tiaa shifted uncomfortably. “It’s the older style, best suited for frightening mountain fish. We were lucky Ma-haan didn’t lose her sound head with her bow. I doubt we could’ve scaa-venged another.” She brightened. “But we have a good sound-maan, with the very finest ear!”
CHAPTER 20
////// USS Santa Catalina
Zambezi River
Grik Africa
December 20, 1944
“Well, they’re at it again,” Silva fumed, feeling as much as hearing the airship bombs exploding in the river. The dull thump-thump! thump! was like an erratic external heartbeat pounding against Santa Catalina’s fractured ribs, and transmitting through her entire prostrate form. And since the ship’s own heart had been stilled entirely, Silva felt a brief stab of irrational, superstitious dread. Like a tomb robber hearin’ sounds or movement where there shouldn’t be none, he thought. He shook it off. He was less superstitious than most sailors, particularly the Asiatic Fleet variety, who’d been in constant contact with various extremely superstitious cultures, but that didn’t mean he was entirely immune to the creeps. He glanced at the Lemurians assigned to help him in the wrecked ship’s machine shop. I wonder how the ’Cat’s’re takin’ it, he thought. Some, especially those from land Homes, oddly enough, were extra sensitive to the willies. Prob’ly ’cause they live in cities, surrounded by dark, scary jungles.
“O’ course they’re at it again,” Lawrence agreed, snapping his jaws to catch a weary yawn. “It is night.” Petey said nothing, merely scrunching tighter to Silva’s neck and blinking his luminous eyes nervously at the overhead, as if expecting it to fall on them at any moment. Silva also sometimes wondered, very fleetingly, what Petey thought about all this—if he thought about anything at all besides food. His former life flitting from tree to tree on Yap Island couldn’t have prepared him for the confusing—and very loud—life he’d endured since leaving. Then again, Yap was a wildly dangerous place, and he might’ve already lived longer than he would have there.
The electric lights flickered when more bombs exploded closer, probably jostling the two semiportable generators tied into the ship’s circuits in the upper level of the engine room. They were powered by the same water-cooled four-cylinder engines developed for Nancy floatplanes. That made them pretty heavy and was the reason they were only semiportable. Only one was running now, making sufficient electricity for the machine shop. Hopefully, they’d isolated all the submerged circuits. They probably had, but you never knew, and even if the re
eking water of the river was just a few feet beneath the deck Silva stood on, it was unlikely to rise and threaten them with electrocution. It was already as high inside the ship’s torn hull as it was outside. That might change if they were still here—if they survived—for the rainy season, but for now the river was actually slowly dropping.
None of their light was visible to the enemy. Hatches were kept carefully shut and holes were stuffed or covered, rendering the dank, murky, rust-growing space even more stifling and disagreeable than it would otherwise have been. Unfortunately, the suffering Silva and his assistants endured might be for nothing. There was a bright new quarter moon, and with Chack unwilling to blatantly advertise the wreck’s position with muzzle flashes from her remaining dual-purpose guns, the Grik were flying lower and might see the ship, anyway. A few more planes from Arracca helped, and they could go after Grik zeppelins directly overhead without fear of friendly fire, but the enemy seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of airships, and pulverizing what was left of the old ship had apparently been their sole focus for almost two exhausting, hellish weeks. It was starting to feel like Santa Catalina had the attention of all the Grik in the world.
Silva flipped the power lever up on the engine lathe, and as it whirred to life, he murmured reflectively, “This poor sunk bucket is the most pulverized damn thing I ever saw.” No one heard him over the moan of the electric motor and roaring gears in the headstock, so he looked at Lawrence and raised his voice. “Chickenshit dark-sneakin’ zeps! Me an’ you flew right over ol’ Kuro-kawwy in one. In daylight!”
“They thought us on their side,” countered the Sa’aaran. Only he seemed comfortable in the humid heat of the workshop.
“Trivvy-allitees!” Silva proclaimed grandly, focusing his good eye back on his work and advancing the tool post toward a cylinder of spinning brass. Just before he touched the metal with the cutter, another pair of bombs exploded in the water close enough to shiver the ship and rake it with iron splinters.
“Daamn, them was close,” said one of the two ’Cat Marines detailed to help, who’d leaned over to watch. Silva didn’t mind the audience but could’ve used some real help, and wished they’d kept at least a couple of Santy Cat’s crew—a machinist’s mate, for instance. He could do the work himself easily enough but had other things to do. And he didn’t like being below while they were under attack.
“Yeah,” Silva grunted. “Been too many o’ those. Too many hits too,” he added darkly. That was certainly true. The ship had been directly struck several times, increasingly over the last few nights. In contrast, daylight had been a time of relative peace, with only a few rockets coming in. Maybe the flyboys in the clippers finally found where they make the damn things an’ flattened the joint, he thought. “Those last ones probably opened up some seams.” He snorted. Then he grinned. “Might’ve even sunk us. Good thing we’re already sunk, huh?”
“Not . . . hunny,” Lawrence griped, and Silva’s grin faded.
“No, it ain’t funny, really. This old ship never was much, but she was somethin’. An’ she had heart, y’know? So did all the ’Cats we’ve lost, before an’ since we got here,” he added. The attack that came five days before had cost them more than two hundred killed, with nearly three hundred wounded—mostly from burns. Many who weren’t too bad off had stayed aboard to fight, but for all intents and purposes, that single battle cut the 3rd Marine Regiment in half. They couldn’t sustain losses like that, and Chack wasn’t ready to call on his brigade for reinforcements that would be just as vulnerable. Silva agreed, and was trying to even the odds a bit. His first notion—actually Horn’s—was to pump fuel oil over the side and light it when the Grik got close. Satisfying as that might’ve been, they were in a river, and the enemy always came at them from upstream. Such an attempt would probably be futile, and more dangerous to them than the enemy. Silva seized on the notion, however, and was trying something else.
“Where’s Horn and that little monkey with the sprayers?” he demanded loudly, just as a naked man and Lemurian Marine, sopping wet, appeared in the hatchway. They’d been in the fireroom, diving in the mucky, dark, filthy water, feeling for the burner nozzles to retrieve. Diving was a profoundly unnatural act for any ’Cat, and Horn didn’t like it either, but he was too big to squirm in tight places. His main job was to be there to assist (and encourage) the ’Cat, and fish him out if he got in a jam. “There you are!” Silva said. “About damn time.” He glanced aside at Lawrence. “Guess we did cut out all the sunk circuits, since they didn’t get boiled alive!”
“Not funny,” Horn snapped, unknowingly echoing the Sa’aaran. “We got five. That enough?” he added, snatching at an old, worn mattress cover “fart bag” Lawrence tossed him for a towel.
“Nobody laughs at my jokes no more,” Silva lamented, shaking his head. The ’Cat handed the nozzles to Lawrence and accepted another towel. Lawrence held them up to the light, examining mostly black cylinders about the size of D-cell batteries with tiny holes in one end, then dropped them in a can of gasoline mixed with oil. “How do they look, Larry?” Silva asked.
“They’re rusty, and seen hard use.”
“They don’t have to be new er perfect for this, just not a ball o’ rust.”
“Then they’ll do,” Lawrence stated.
“That’s enough,” Silva informed Horn.
“Do for what?” Horn demanded, pulling on his skivvies, dungarees, and shoes. He’d wait before he put on the tie-dyed smock. It was too hot. More explosions shook them, and they glanced at the flickering lights again.
“I’m tryin’ to make caps that’ll screw down an’ hold ’em in place in a bigger fittin’ that’ll screw on the end of a pipe. Like a long, wizardy wand! Clamp a hose to the pipe an’—hopefully—we got somethin’ even better than Grik firebomb throwers at close range.”
With pumps no longer required to keep the water out, he intended to repurpose them to pump fuel oil through the wand at high pressure, either simulating a flamethrower or creating a mist of fuel over the enemy before lighting it. He wasn’t sure it would work like that and might have to enlarge the holes, but it was worth a try. The wand was for control, and also—if it failed—to make the things a little safer to operate. He’d already threaded the pipes and made the outside of the bases and all but one of the caps, but he’d needed the nozzles themselves for final measurements before boring the inside of the fittings.
“Hopefully?” Horn practically moaned. “Why don’t any of your ideas ever have ‘I’m damn sure this will work’ in there somewhere?”
“I’m damn sure this’ll . . . do somethin’,” Silva replied. “That make you feel better?”
Just then, a series of heavy detonations hammered the ship forward, and without the cushioning effect of water beneath her keel, the old Santa Catalina transmitted the jarring blows through her bones, knocking everyone in the shop off their feet.
“Hit the breaker!” Silva shouted, rising and flipping the lathe power handle down. He snatched his helmet and weapons belt and headed for the hatch. Lawrence lit a small fish-oil battle lantern just as the lights went out, and they all exited the compartment and clattered up the companionway. Before they emerged on the main deck, Lawrence raised the glass globe on the lantern so one of the ’Cats could blow it out. He needn’t have bothered. The moon was directly overhead, but that was the least of their worries. Met by shouts, running figures, and cries of pain, they looked forward and saw that the entire ship beyond the bridge structure was engulfed in flames. Hoses, also powered by gas-engine pumps, were already beginning to play on the roaring, thundering inferno, but it was so big. Worse, it was spreading on the water downstream.
“Goddamn!” Silva blurted. “They busted one of the fuel bunkers wide open!” All the bunkers were flooded to some degree, but fuel oil and water don’t mix, and oil floated on top. Now the very thing Dennis hoped to use against the Grik was threatening
to consume them. A harried-looking Major Gutfeld and a squad of Marines appeared, rushing forward. “Whatcha need, Simy?” Silva asked.
“Come with me, or stay the hell out of the way.”
“Fair enough,” Silva said. “C’mon, fellas. We’ll know pretty quick if we can put the fire out—or need to start gettin’ people off.”
“What if we have to abandon?’ Horn asked.
“Then the whole plan’s in the crapper an’ we’ll be lucky to survive. Like usual.”
There’s a science to fighting an oil fire on a ship with plenty of other flammables of its own. Unfortunately, the Marines occupying Santa Catalina knew nothing about that. Chack and Silva did, and they did their best to direct the hoses at the ship instead of the flames, actually trying to herd the fire back without spattering and spreading the burning oil. The idea was to isolate the fire and maybe even wash the burning oil out of the bunkers and cut off the surface flames from returning with the hoses. It was a different kind of battle from what the Marines were used to, but a battle nonetheless. And all the while, at least at first, more bombs continued to flail the ship and firefighters, with hot fragments of iron that mowed them down in rows. Then, after the last zep either expended its bombs or fled from the fighters, ready ammunition for the forward 4.7″ guns began to cook off, forcing them to retreat, and the fire gained again.
“Hey, Chackie,” Silva called when he got a glimpse of his friend through the roiling smoke to port. “Ain’t exactly how I’d planned to spend my evenin’. What’re the chances of a nice, long liberty when this is done?”
“You may get one sooner thaan you’d like,” Chack yelled back over the crackling roar. “Though the distraactions ashore here may not be as aa-musing as you’d prefer. Then again, in your case . . .” Chack returned his attention to the work at hand, pointing out some wounded Marines to the stretcher bearers. “Carry them aaft,” he ordered, “and have Surgeon Lieu-ten-aant Cross begin sending all the wounded up and aassembling them on the faantail. Tell her I’m not sure we can keep the fire in check, and her patients must be prepared to abaan-don.”
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