by Lars Teeney
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Captain McCann had learned that during the air battle, a modest force of Japanese bombers and torpedo planes had slipped through both the anti-aircraft screen and the American fighters sent to intercept them. These bombers and several fighters had launched strikes hastily against two American carriers the U.S.S. Wasp and the U.S.S. Bunker Hill. But the attack failed to make any hits. The surviving Japanese fighters and bombers broke off the attack and headed for Japanese bases on Guam. Most of these numbers were shot down when American Hellcats intercepted them while trying to land. The Japanese attacked with over three hundred aircraft, but only about thirty had made it back to their carriers; a loss of more that ninety percent.
The bridge staff of the Iowa began celebrating when they had heard the outcome of the battle. Only ten American planes had been lost in the first stages of the battle. Captain McCann was elated. His battleship picket had dropped roughly one-third of the enemy attack craft alone. It was a formidable barrage, and partially due to the fact that Japan had run out of experienced pilots over the course of the war, and so they had been fielding pilots with very little training. McCann recognized this much when he witnessed the Japanese attack wings flying overhead like flocks of geese.
McCann received orders from Admiral Spruance that the picket line was to move out in pursuit of the Japanese fleet. A submarine screen had already been deployed to locate and attack the Japanese fleet in advance of an American air counter attack.
“Full steam ahead—all ships in the battle line. Send the order,” McCann had commanded. The order was spread down the line and the ships moved out. Fresh scout planes had been launched for long range reconnaissance. Behind McCann’s battle line, followed the massive American capital ships, the carriers, and logistics craft. Overhead squadrons of fighters formed aerial pickets, which swept the perimeter of the formation.
It was now almost dark, and the fleet had been moving for several hours in pursuit of the Japanese fleet when the news hit the bridge of the Iowa. Captain McCann was informed that the Japanese fleet had been spotted, roughly two hundred and seventy miles to the west. The order was given by American Admiral Spruance for a massive attack wave of over two hundred American aircraft to be launched to attack the fleeing Japanese fleet. Captain McCann thought it was time for retribution against the enemy. He would soon get his wish.
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Toshihira Inoguchi had followed the developments of the battle with anticipation and heartbreak. His surface ships had been excluded from the battle entirely, and the Japanese aircraft were left on their own and paid the price: ninety percent losses. It was the disaster that Inoguchi had foretold. Now Inoguchi was anticipating that the Americans would not simply allow the fleet to limp away.
His picket line was screening Admiral Ozawa’s carrier, the Taihō. Ozawa seemed unscathed by the report of such massive losses. Inoguchi estimated that the fleet carriers retained about three hundred carrier aircraft for the remainder of the campaign, and they wouldn’t have the support of the island-based aircraft. The situation was grim for Inoguchi.
Inoguchi sat in his quarters, brooding, with a lit cigarette that he let burn. He was drinking old sake and crunching numbers in his head. His thoughts swerved back to religion. It seemed he now understood who his God favored, and it certainly wasn’t the Shintoists. Inoguchi also knew better than to let religious beliefs drive his strategic decisions, but something about these events urged Inoguchi to break down and submit completely to the Lord.
Inoguchi dashed his cigarette and made his way to the bridge of the Musashi. He looked out the observation bay window. In the distance, he could make out the misty profile of the Taihō. There was a light rain and a thick mist on the sea—overcast in the sky. Inoguchi took stock of the sight.
“Captain Inoguchi! The Taihō is reporting enemy submarine contact! Torpedoes in the water, sir! She is requesting immediate support!” an ensign on the bridge shouted.
Inoguchi rushed to the Conn, “Get us alongside the Taihō!”
The situation around the Taihō was grave: the American submarine had launched six torpedoes toward the vessel. Four of the torpedoes veered off the mark and hit nothing. A Japanese pilot on patrol caught site of the wake trail of one of the incoming torpedoes. He followed it, and flew low over the torpedo, interfering with its course, causing the torpedo to detonate prematurely. But one torpedo continued unabated, and found its mark, plowing into the hull of the carrier. The ensuing explosion did not cause grave damage, but unknown to the crew, gasoline fumes were escaping from the now sealed compartment.
The Musashi closed with the submarine, which had submerged in an attempt to escape. Inoguchi ordered the release of depth charges, which sank into the water like unwanted cargo thrown overboard and exploded, sending lethal shock waves through the water. The pressure of the waves, slammed into the hull of the American submarine, causing rivets to pop and metal walls to buckle. Ocean water came rushing in and consigned the vessel to the bottom of the ocean.
Initially, the Taihō was in good working order and resumed the journey, but soon the crew was complaining of gas fumes throughout the ship. The inexperience of the crew was on display when the damage control team opened all outlets in the ventilation system in an effort to “air out the ship”. Admiral Ozawa and staff were transferred to another ship because the fumes now permeated the entire ship. All it took was one spark from an electrical generator on the hangar deck and the accumulated fumes ignited to flame. The resulting explosion tore through ammunition stores and refueling aircraft, causing a chain reaction that crippled the ship and tore bodies apart. The Taihō’s bow began to slip under the waves, slowly submitting to sea, thousands were lost.
Inoguchi received the news and didn’t take it well. The entire mission had turned into a fiasco, and the retreat was developing into a situation worse than the attack. Inoguchi ordered the picket line to rally around the remaining carriers, but before the Musashi could get there, reports of another American submarine attack on the carrier Shōkaku poured in. This attack was much more devastating than the last and did not rely on an inexperienced crew to do the damage. All torpedoes had struck home, causing the Shōkaku to roll over in the water, and slip under. Nearly a thousand men had perished; of those, three hundred were experienced pilots.
Inoguchi surmised that the Americans probably had an inbound air counterattack by this time as well. The sub attack had put two of their carriers out of action and the Americans were coming to claim the rest. There was nothing left to do now but steam back to safe waters and hope the vast distance between fleets was enough to save what was left the once mighty fleet.
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Private Burke entered the mess hall. After the events of the day he had worked up quite an appetite. He stepped up to the serving counter and grabbed a tray, but as usual, his appetite took a dive once he gazed upon what was on offer. The item of the day was a withered, dried beef and scallop potatoes that had been re-hydrated before serving. However, Burke preferred a full stomach to starvation, so he loaded his tray.
Burke brought his tray and beverage toward the seating area. He spied the aviator, Schrubb, sitting alone with his food. Burke decided to approach.
“Excuse me, sir, Mind if I join you?” Burke asked.
“Why, it’s the sailor who helped get me aboard! Sit right on down!” John Schrubb was unusually chipper, and he was laying into the substandard grub.
“Thank you, sir. That was one hell of a day, eh?” Burke made conversation.
“Yes, it was, sailor. Say, what’s your name?” Schrubb asked.
“Burke, sir. Private Burke. Mind if I ask your rank?” Burke inquired.
“Why, I’m an ensign in the United States Naval reserve. The youngest aviator yet, they told me,” Schrubb had gloated. He shoveled a spoonful of potatoes into his mouth.
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” Burke was curious.
“W
elp, I just turned nineteen. The other fly-boys call me “Slim”, ‘cause I’m so lanky,” he said. It appeared to Burke that this boy Schrubb was not plugged into the same reality that Burke walked in.
“So, what do you do when you’re not a flyboy?” Burke asked.
“Well, I’ll be going to college when I get back stateside. Then my father expects me to enter politics and further the family’s legacy,” Schrubb proudly announced, holding a fork above his head, like a torch that was handed to him by his father.
“Must be nice to have such a vision laid out for you?” Burke prodded.
“Once this business with the Japs is sewn up, our country will have a large role to fill in the New World Order. The European Empires will all be gone, and there ain’t gonna be any state in Asia strong enough to set policy. Some families are just born to lead, you know? My family is one of them. When I told you that you haven’t heard the last of the Schrubbs, I was telling the truth.” There was a certain brutal honesty to what he was saying, like soothsayer who knew what the future holds.
“Well, I guess it’s in our interest to have your family on our side.” Burke was taken aback by what he was insinuating: that the immediate future had already been determined behind closed doors, but he wasn’t surprised.
“What about you, Burke? What will you do when this is all over?” Ensign Schrubb asked with genuine interest.
“Good question. Gonna go get married,” Burke lied.
“Hey, there you go. Claim that woman. It’s gonna be a bright, new era for America. Get in on the ground floor,” Schrubb suggested, “Listen, Burke, when you get back to the States and you need anything, you look me up, you hear? I’ve got some connections. Anyway, I best be gettin’, there’s a transport coming to take me back to the Hornet. Gotta get back into the sky and take it to the Japs, ya know?” Schrubb got up and left the table, not bothering to clear his tray.
Burke looked at his food. He wondered why Schrubb had wholeheartedly enjoyed and consumed the terrible food, while Burke, himself, dreaded the slop? He figured that somewhere in this conundrum lay the key to understanding the difference between “men of destiny” and the common folk, but it alluded him.
He turned his thoughts to thinking about the reports of the American counter-attack on the Japanese fleet. The American attack of over two hundred aircraft had caught the Japanese fleet in the open. The American planes swarmed the Japanese carriers, laying into them with bombs and torpedoes. They had sunk the Hiyo, and considerably damaged the carriers Zuikaku, Junyō, and Chiyoda. The Americans had only lost twenty of their attacking planes. However, the Americans took the heaviest losses during the return trip to the carriers, because they had conducted their attack at night. Despite the best efforts of American aircrews to illuminate the carriers, returning planes crashed into the landing deck or into the sea. Eighty planes from the two hundred strong attacking force were lost during landing. However, most of the pilots had been rescued at sea.
Burke was amazed at the one-sidedness of the engagement this day. Why did the Japanese pay so dearly in lives and material, and the Americans so little? Was Schrubb right and that it was just “our time”? Did some unseen force favor us, or could it all be chalked up to superior skill, planning, ideology and economic system? Much of it could be chalked up to circumstance. It just so happened that as the dice were rolled, they landed in favor of the Americans.
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WANDERING THE DESERT
The Iowa and the ragtag Mothball fleet had set sail on the Pacific ocean off the California coast two days ago, en route to the Port of Long Beach. The Apostates had been given instructions to meet with allies that Graham Wynham had specified, except that Graham had dropped off the map. They had not been able to raise him for some time. Worry had start to set in. The group was now flying blind and would have no idea how to identify the individuals they were looking for.
The fleet was composed of five battleships, two destroyers, three cruisers and a number of cargo ships, passenger liners, and fuel ships; all in fairly rough, but working shape. Aesthetics weren’t important to the Apostates—the functionality was what they were interested in. These ships were cities at sea and provided food, shelter, medical attention, fuel, and protection to the wandering band in their watery desert.
Blaze-Scorch had operated on Aqua-Deluge for the better part of a day, to stablize her condition. She had to repair a nicked aorta and a lung that had filled with blood. Blaze-Scorch thought that if the Prelate had cut any deeper or jerked the blade in any manner to do more damage that Aqua would be dead. As it was, Blaze was shocked that she managed to save Aqua. Blaze changed the I.V. bag that fed into Aqua’s arm and took her vitals, then bedded her down for the night. Aqua had not been conscious since she had been wounded.
“Well, Aqua should be good for the night.” Blaze had thought about closing up the infirmary. She would monitor Aqua’s vitals through her neural implant, so there was that convenience.
“Hey, doc, how’s she doing?” Ravine-Gulch had stepped into the infirmary. He walked over to Aqua’s bedside.
“She’s stable. I’m kinda shocked that we were able to get her this far. Not going to lie, that wound should have been fatal,” Blaze confessed.
“Shit. I was so close, right there. I should have prevented this.” Ravine was all twisted up. He had a habit of being overly sensitive and blaming himself for things out of his control.
“Well, don’t wish too hard. That could have been you in her place.” Blaze tried to make him see the bright side.
“Yeah, Blaze, I just keep failing. Fucking it all up,” Ravine lamented.
“Aqua had no choice but to fight, as we all did.” Blaze consoled him and tried to make him see he was not responsible. She laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks for doing all you have been doing for her, Blaze. If she had died I’d be a wreck right now,” Ravine had confessed, turning toward her to return the embrace.
“You mean, more of a wreck than usual? You big wuss!” she said to him playfully.
“You know it.” Ravine pushed his head toward her face and began kissing her. She didn’t hesitate and reciprocated for a split second, but then pulled away, giving him a push then punched him in the gut. It wasn’t full force but enough to make him grab his mid-section and wrench back.
“What the fuck?” Ravine protested.
“Yeah! What the fuck? You mope around the ship all day, bitchin’ about how Gale won’t talk to you and won’t forgive you. How do you think that’s going to happen if you try to get at me?” Blaze didn’t want a baby of a man, stuck on an old flame.
“Shit, Blaze. Sorry, you know. I’m just lonely, working on electronics all day. I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Ravine apologized.
“Why don’t you give it more time? It’s barely been weeks since she came aboard with us. You’re impatient, Christ!” Blaze spoke plainly.
“You’re right. Semiconductors and vacuum tubes are all the love I’ll be getting for quite a while,” Ravine joked.
“Hey, why don’t we grab a keg of ale from the stores and drink on the weather deck?” Blaze suggested, with a friendly smile.
“That sounds like a fantastic, fucking idea!” Ravine agreed.
“Just keep it on an even keel, dude!” she threatened. Gesturing a finger across her throat.
“Hey, don’t worry about this guy. I’ve already been chewed up and spit out enough for several resurrections,” he said.
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Gale-Whirlwind sat alone at the cantina, playing with her drink. She had fixed herself a Screwdriver with some orange juice that had been squeezed right before the shove off. The drink was now room temperature. Gale thought back to how Head Ranger Frank had exploded. His bits had showered her after she just barely jumped out of the way of being blown up too. Gale hadn’t failed to notice that the supposedly elite agent of the Regime were incompetent. Even she saw that an operation the Rangers should have succe
eded with was compromised due to poor planning and in-fighting. Not that she wanted them to have succeeded, although she would have left out the part about being covered in body parts.
Gale figured that the Regime was getting desperate. She had also thought about Ravine—she did love him, but she felt it was because he represented something familiar; something safe. They were no longer in a safe world. They were living in a high stakes; all or nothing world. Then her thoughts turned to Hades-Perdition. She thought him silent, deadly, brutally efficient, and single-minded on the mission. She wondered what drove the man. Gale was drawn to him, and couldn’t fight it. He made her want to drink, so she took a swig. It was lukewarm, but she didn’t care. Gale wondered if he was perched up in some high spot on the ship, scanning the horizon with that big gun of his.
“No rest for the wicked,” Gale thought and took another drink.
“Gale, how are you doing after that fight we had?” The voice was familiar: Hades. It was a solid yet soulful voice, and it made her want to take another sip.
“Hades! How are you? Me, I’m just glad to be at sea,” Gale responded, turning on the barstool face his direction.
“Tell, me about it. It’s nice to be underway. But, I’m worried. I haven’t heard from Graham, so I’m not exactly sure what the hell we’re supposed to do once we get to Long Beach,” Hades confessed.
“Do you want a drink?” she offered.
“Oh, sure. I’ll just take a cider or beer,” Hades said. She pulled him a pint of apple cider and set it in front of him.
“So, are you sure you can trust Graham?” Gale asked, sitting back down beside him.
“When I was being hunted by the Rangers, wounded and alone, Graham had sought me out. That man saved me and gave me a new purpose; to be an instrument of destruction against a corrupt and zealous Regime. I trust the man more than I trust you—no offense.” Hades had made it clear where his loyalties lie.