“Second target turns to port,” Minnie relayed the word from the crow’s nest.
“I see it,” Matt acknowledged. “They’re going to try to close the distance and hammer us.” He looked at the ’Cat stationed at the lee helm. “All ahead flank! However much they’ve been taught to lead us, let’s throw ’em a curve. Signal Mahan to match our speed if she can, or fire her torpedoes as soon as Perry likes the range. Once she does, she’s to make smoke and zigzag the hell out of the line of fire. I don’t want anybody else hurt killing this last one, if we can help it.”
“I . . . I don’t know what the torpedoes’ll do if we launch them going that fast, Skipper.” Bernie warned apprehensively.
“Between us and Mahan, we’ll be pointing six fish at that damn thing. I bet at least one’ll hit, and since it doesn’t look like they spent much time worrying about compartmentalization, that should do the trick.”
Bernie took a deep breath. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He moved back to the director. “Stand by for torpedo action, starboard.”
Walker and Mahan lanced forward, closing the range on the last Grik dreadnaught. If Kurokawa hadn’t been on one of the others, he was certainly aboard this one, and it seemed like everyone on both destroyers knew this was more than just an attack to avenge the loss of friends and ice the cake on the Allied victory at the second Battle of Madras; it was a remorseless execution of a rabid beast. The Grik fired furiously, but just couldn’t cope with the near thirty knots Walker suddenly achieved, and the twenty-seven that Mahan somehow managed. At the same time, both destroyers punished the massive ironclad with rapid, accurate salvos that had to be doing damage at this range. Three yellow flashes pulsed at Mahan’s side, one after another, and she turned sharply away to starboard as soon as the torpedoes were clear. Brister probably hoped this would particularly confound the Grik gunners.
“Tubes one through five, in salvo!” Bernie cried. “Fire one . . . Fire three . . . Fire five!” He took a deep breath and stepped back from the director. “All torpedoes expended, Captain Reddy,” he said formally, as a near miss threw water on the bridgewing.
“Very well. Left full rudder, Mr. Rosen. Make smoke!”
“Left full rudder, aye!”
“Make smoke!” Minnie said in her mouthpiece. It was dark enough that they’d soon be invisible to the enemy, but the smoke should hide their wake. Matt also thought it could have the added psychological effect of making the enemy think they’d just vanished. At least for a few moments—long enough to get out of range and turn to see what happened. They didn’t quite make it.
“Hit! Hit!” Minnie screeched. “Lookout says two Mahan fishes is hits!”
“Secure from making smoke!” Matt ordered. “Rudder amidships. Slow to two-thirds!”
Walker had described a surprisingly tight circle for her hull shape, and the enemy was back off her port side, about three thousand yards away.
“Look at her blow!” Gray reveled. The Chief Bosun had finally appeared on the bridge. “We’ll never know if we hit her or not!”
It was true. Massive explosions racked the wreck, and any of Walker’s torpedo impacts would’ve been lost in the violence of the cataclysm. Everyone in the pilothouse was watching with binoculars or Imperial telescopes, and so many of the crew had raced to port to see, the ship was heeling slightly.
“We did it,” Matt whispered, his words lost in the tumult. He hadn’t doubted they could, and unlike so many before, this action had been largely voluntary. But he felt tremendous relief that they’d succeeded so well, with such small loss compared to what the rest of the fleet had suffered, and he was deeply satisfied that they had—most likely, he cautioned himself—finally destroyed that madman Kurokawa. He smiled as his ship and her people continued celebrating.
“Cap-i-taan Brister on Mahaan sends ‘Bless us all!’” Minnie shouted over the din.
Matt grinned wider and raised his glasses to find Walker’s truncated sister. There she was! Just north of the burning hulk, she was turning back toward them. Matt was watching her fondly when something—it had to have been one of Walker’s own torpedoes, thrown horribly off course—suddenly exploded without warning against Mahan’s thin steel and blew her bow completely off.
* * *
Hisashi Kurokawa slowly lowered his binoculars and stared at the distant, dying flares on the dark, moon-dappled sea, his heart surging with a rage like he’d never known before. It dwarfed the puny piques that once would’ve left him ranting homicidally. He’d tamed those comparatively whimsical things to the point that they barely changed his expression unless he just wanted to vent. But this! This fury was so profound that it vaulted him beyond the ability to rant, and actually struck him speechless.
He’d known his escaping squadron would have to fight its way past Trin-con-lee, at least, but didn’t think there could be much of anything there that might harm his remaining battleships. He had, in fact, intended to transfer aboard one before dawn so he could lead his force from a more powerful (and protected) platform. Doubtless, part of what stoked his rage to such a height was the realization that if he’d already been “safely” aboard one of his precious capital ships, he’d be dead. Only fate—or was it destiny?—had led him to board the cruiser Nachi during the breakout from Madras. He’d expected a fight then too, but the armor-piercing bombs didn’t worry him. He knew where the enemy got them, and they couldn’t have many. No doubt they’d make more, but if they already had, they’d have used more at Madras instead of reverting to the smaller weapons. Besides, even if they had all the big AP bombs in the world, their planes would have difficulty hitting his ships in the dark. No, what guided his decision most was the prospect of facing whatever enemy weapon had destroyed his battle line earlier that day, and he’d considered it only prudent to place himself aboard a less tempting target until he knew what that weapon was. Now he did.
What enraged him most, however, was that the torpedoes that demolished his squadron were delivered by none other than both the hated American destroyers that had plagued him from the very start of his odyssey! He already knew Walker still swam, but had believed her far to the east. He’d seen Mahan destroyed, though, at Baalkpan! How could they have possibly restored her? Ultimately, he realized with blinding clarity, all that had passed has boiled down to a test between me and Captain Reddy! Like chess masters, he has his pieces and I have mine, and if I am ever to be free to pursue my true destiny on this world, I must sweep him entirely from the board!
Destiny had not abandoned him, though. Why else had he decided to hug the coast aboard Nachi, in company with her sister Maya, remaining inshore of the rest of his squadron? He would’ve called any other commander who hid behind his fleet a coward—but he wasn’t just any other man, was he? Destiny had ruled his choice and would continue to guide him he was sure. Slowly, his fury waned and he raised his glasses again. All but one of the pyres of his distant cruisers had flickered out, and only burning debris marked where his final battleship had gone to the bottom. He focused more carefully. Yes! He rejoiced. One of the American destroyers has been badly damaged somehow! Perhaps it will even sink! Regardless, the other will stand by to aid it, and will give no further thought to me!
“My lord,” Signals Lieutenant Fukui said quietly, drawing near him on Nachi’s quarterdeck.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Lieutenant of the Sky Iguri has reached Bombay, and asks if he should remain there until we arrive to coal. He does not expect a response under the circumstances,” Fukui hastened to add, hoping Kurokawa would take the hint not to transmit, “but will linger a few days until you feel less constrained to send instructions.”
“We will coal at Cochin,” Kurokawa snapped, “and I will summon Iguri.” He caught Fukui’s surprised intake of breath. “We are not running away,” he growled sarcastically. “We still hold most of India, and it remains my regency! The enemy had Madras b
efore, and we took it from him. We will take it back! Our better warriors, my warriors that I designed, are just beginning to arrive in numbers, and we will soon have enough to annihilate the Americans and their apes.”
“But . . .” Fukui paused, gathering his nerve. “But what if the Grik—General Esshk—decides India is not your regency anymore?”
Kurokawa didn’t lash out as Fukui expected, but brooded in silence for a moment. Finally, he spoke. “The Grik here are mine,” he said. “As are those already in transit. Without our communications advantage, General Esshk cannot change that, and with such a force even he will hesitate to challenge me. In the meantime, our own projects on Zanzibar should soon be far enough along to establish our proper dominance over all the Grik!” He saw that Fukui wasn’t convinced, and forced a conciliatory tone. He still needed the man. “The crew, and perhaps even you, are not persuaded we will even reach Cochin?” he asked. “Never fear. There are several rivers nearby. We will enter one and conceal the ships against the shore throughout the day so any enemy aircraft passing overhead cannot see us. Then we will proceed again by night.” He stopped and looked back out to sea. The destroyers were still there, still motionless.
“There is one other thing, my lord,” Fukui added hesitantly. “The, well, listeners that contacted us before with overtures of friendship have apparently continued to monitor a great deal of the radio traffic and have deduced that our battle did not proceed favorably.” He took a breath. “They have asked if they might be of assistance,” he added.
Kurokawa regarded him with distaste. He still knew nothing about the source of the offer, and frankly feared it. If those behind it considered themselves strong enough to help him, he might deeply regret that help one day.
“Indeed?” he considered. “Then perhaps once we reach Cochin we might endeavor to learn more about these strange folk. You will consider a dialogue that will discover as much about them as possible, without giving away too much about us.”
CHAPTER
38
////// June 9, 1944
It was early afternoon, two days after the Second Battle of Madras, when USS Walker slowly towed USS Mahan’s shattered hulk into the port of Madras. USNRS Salissa and her battle group had joined them the morning before, and they all came in together. They were just in time. The sea outside the harbor was rising and the sky was dark with heavy clouds. Mahan was actually a little low by the stern, having more trouble pumping water from her steering engine room than keeping it out forward. Jagged, twisted plates and frame fragments were all that remained of her bow forward of the bridge structure, but the heavily reinforced and improved Lemurian-inspired bracing of her bulkheads—particularly near where her new bow had been grafted on—had prevented serious flooding past the lost section. She had steam up and might’ve even made port on her own, but if that forward bulkhead did let go . . . Either way, she wouldn’t have survived a storm, and it was with great relief that she was delivered and received.
“There’s Santy Cat, over there,” Gray said, pointing past the helmsman, and Matt nodded. His eyes were red and he’d begun to wonder if Juan’s monkey joe might kill him after all, slowly, like arsenic poisoning. Santa Catalina looked almost as bad as Mahan, lashed to a dock that recently accommodated Grik battleships.
“I’m glad they saved her,” Matt said, “and most of her crew. S-Nineteen’s too.” The bow of the former submarine had been discovered at dawn, bobbing there like a finger pointing at the sky. The current had carried her dangerously close to Santa Catalina in the night, and it was amazing she hadn’t been rammed again by a rescue vessel. More than half her crew had been saved, crawling out her torpedo tubes, but two of her original crew—Danny Porter and Sandy Whitcomb—were lost. Opening the tubes had also let water in faster, and an hour after Irvin Laumer, the last out, emerged, blinking in the sunshine, the old S-19 finally slipped gracefully to the bottom forever.
“Yeah,” Gray agreed. “I hope Mr. Laumer doesn’t go into a funk. He’s been so obsessed with that damn boat so long, he’s liable to pine away.” He didn’t add like you did when Walker was sunk at Baalkpan, but didn’t have to.
“Get him back on a horse,” Courtney suggested. “Any horse—figuratively speaking, of course. That’s what he’ll need.” He chuckled. “The irony is, he was right all along. That ridiculous submarine came in quite handy, after all.”
“Yes, she did,” Matt agreed softly. “And she’ll be missed.” He was looking at the harbor and surrounding city. Smoke still towered over sections that had burned, blowing in the gust front of the storm, and portions of Grik ships protruded from the water where they had sunk at their moorings. Buoys already marked many hazards to navigation. It was a hard, dreary sight. Arracca and Baalkpan Bay were both tied at the docks as well, undergoing feverish repairs alongside other ships damaged by suiciders. God knows how many people we lost, Matt thought, and then there’s Alden’s casualties to consider. II Corps is shattered, and I Corps isn’t much better. And Jim Ellis . . .
Sensing his mood, Gray wanted to pat him on the shoulder, but that would never do. Instead he slapped Courtney on the back. “Well,” he said, cheerfully gruff. “It may not feel like it or even look like it right now, but this is the biggest win since Baalkpan Bay—and we did it in their livin’ room this time.”
Matt shook himself and managed a smile. “That’s right, Boats. It was a home run. Let’s put Mahan to bed, then we’ll go alongside Big Sal for fuel. After that, we’ll get with everybody and iron things out for the grand slam!”
* * *
Walker already reverberated with the racket of repair parties banging on warped and dented plates, and torch sparks spattered brightly and hissed on the damp deck as the first line of thunderstorms eased a bit. Sandra and Keje came aboard while Matt, Spanky, and Gray were itemizing repair priorities and assembling details. With that complete, Matt, Sandra, Courtney, Keje, Commander Herring—and Silva and Lawrence, “in case there’s lizards hidin’ in the ruins”—trooped through the dockside debris back to Big Sal, where a command-staff meeting was gathering.
Once in Keje’s “ahd-mi-raal’s” quarters, there was a reunion of sorts, and many present hadn’t seen each other in a very long time. Pete Alden and Rolak were there, looking thin and haggard. Safir had remained behind, but would come to Madras after Pete returned to the army. Captain Jis-Tikkar, COFO of Big Sal’s First Air Wing, fussed over Lieutenant Leedom, who looked like a cadaver raised from the dead. Irvin Laumer and Russ Chapelle sat side by side with haunted looks, discussing their shared battle in quiet tones. Ben Mallory had arrived from Trin-con-lee on a Clipper flight with Soupy, and they looked pretty ragged too. Beside Keje and Adar sat Tassana, Arracca’s young commander, and next to her was Baalkpan Bay’s exec. Finally arriving, drenched by renewed rain, were Commander Perry Brister and Chief Bashear from Mahan, looking even worse than the rest. Gray and Silva maneuvered them to a punch bowl of seep-laced nectar.
Perhaps more notable than those attending were the absent, either tending wounds to their commands or being tended themselves. Most conspicuous of all were those who’d never join them again. Matt and Sandra sat closely together on one of the lounging cushions that served as a sofa. They held hands and touched often, and, as usual, Matt seemed to regain lost strength with Sandra’s proximity, but his wife’s expression was guarded when he wasn’t looking at her. She knew Jim had been Matt’s best friend and worried how the loss would affect him. More refreshments came, and after brief, heartfelt greetings, they all tried to relax. There’d be plenty of time later for everyone to become intimately acquainted with every aspect of the battle. What they wanted to know just then was, what next?
“I have a few things to say,” spoke Adar, then he paused as if searching for the right words. “But I don’t quite know how,” he confessed. Finally, he merely blinked his deepest appreciation. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you all. This
was the greatest battle in the history of our people, in terms of sacrifice, duration, and perhaps even straa-tee-jic significance. There can be no question in any mind, ours or the Grik, that we achieved the victory, painful as it was. But we must consider how the Grik will react.” He looked at Pete. “You made no vow of a lasting truce with this Halik creature, I am sure?”
Pete shook his head. “Nope. We agreed to quit killin’ each other long enough to get both our asses out of the jam we were in. That’s it. I might’ve implied we wouldn’t come after him if he stayed on his side of the cease-fire line, but I didn’t promise anything past the cease-fire itself—oh, except we’d swap prisoners. You could’ve knocked me over with a willow switch when he agreed. That’s a promise I’ll keep if he does no matter what.” His face turned thoughtful. “Halik could’ve wiped us out, but he knew he’d be screwed. I even sort of suggested we finish it, knowing he’d be easy meat for Sixth and Seventh Corps, but he didn’t take the bait. Can’t say I’m sorry. My boys an’ girls were in constant combat for months, and there ain’t any tougher veteran troops in the world. In my opinion, sacrificing ’em wouldn’t have been balanced by rubbin’ Halik out.” He frowned. “Besides, there’s somethin’ odd about the bastard. Maybe bein’ around that Jap so long did it to him. He’s smart and dangerous as hell, but I’m kind’a curious to see what pops with him. I’m not sure he even knows which way he’ll jump just yet.”
“What about the Jap?” Herring asked. “Will he live? I’d like to interrogate him.”
Pete held out his hand and waggled it. “Touch and go. Who knows?” He looked back at Adar. “Yeah, that was another promise, to try to save the guy, but that’s absolutely all.”
“You did right and well,” Adar assured. “We can ponder this Halik and his motives later.”
“One thing you need to sort out pretty quick is that, uh, weird cavalry force that showed up yesterday morning,” Pete told Adar, and Matt and Sandra leaned forward, curious. They hadn’t heard anything about that. “They nearly queered the whole deal, pitchin’ into the Grik that were gatherin’ up in the north, getting ready to march around us and cross the Tacos River.”
B00BPJL400 EBOK Page 50