“I’ll have no more of your outbursts, do you understand?” Kurokawa roared at him. “Can’t you see we’re busy here? How can we concentrate if you are always charging in, yelping about this or that? If you can’t control yourself, I will have you controlled. Is that clear?”
Riku gulped and lowered his eyes. “Yes, Lord.”
“What about mines?” Muriname asked forcefully, gazing intently as he adjusted the spectacles on his nose. Kurokawa glared at him but said nothing. They’d met in response to another air attack, accompanied by some kind of surface raid in the bay. They were trying to decide what the attacks meant and what to do about them. The air raid had been smaller than before—just a few planes—and accomplished little more than relighting fires along the dock and burning some empty jungle near the northern airfield. Muriname was convinced the airfield had been the target and even sortied planes in response, including two of Rizzo’s Macchi-Messerschmitts. The results were mixed, at best. Four of Muriname’s fighters had been lost in the air. Two collided in the dark and fell into the sea. Two more were shot down by either the bombers or friendly ground fire—both were equally possible. They’d learned the bombers had defensive machine guns, and the antiaircraft batteries around the city were much better at throwing a lot of metal in the air. Searchlights on the cruisers gave gunners brief glimpses of shapes to shoot at as well, but Savoie had been forbidden to light her own more powerful lights, for fear of drawing attention to herself. Finally, four more of Muriname’s fighters were damaged landing in the dark. After so many planes and pilots were lost in the attack on TF Alden, he was increasingly disturbed by the rate of attrition.
One of his engine factories had been destroyed in the first raid. He had another, and quite a few engines were already stockpiled, so he could still build planes, but it took time. And what of the Grik craftsmen he’d lost? What of the pilots? Training either took much longer than building the planes. He and his XO, Lieutenant of the Sky Iguri, had been pushed beyond endurance by that endeavor alone. Muriname smirked darkly. At least Iguri wasn’t quite as enamored with Kurokawa as he’d been. For that matter, despite their recent victory, a growing percentage of all the dwindling Japanese were finally losing faith in Kurokawa. Their impotence in the face of the Allied bombing and, frankly, Kurokawa’s inability to find them women after so long only added to their disillusionment. And the incident at the prison compound, whether most would’ve done the same or not, reinforced that issue. Lastly, despite all they’d done for him, all their suffering and sacrifice, it wasn’t lost on anyone that their leader was now constantly and exclusively surrounded by Grik guards.
Rizzo’s modern fighters managed to destroy one seaplane/bomber and possibly cripple another, but the ground fire prevented them from pressing their attack, and the enemy formation apparently split after its run. The one confirmed kill had been alone, flying low. And then even Rizzo’s planes were almost wrecked trying to land in the dark. They, however, gave the first warning of a small squadron of enemy ships approaching from the south.
“Four targets were identified as sailing steamers of the enemy’s latest class by searchlights on the cruisers that rushed to meet them,” Riku reported. “They’re normally heavily armed with large-bore guns and were a match for our cruisers—before we improved them. But their fire, while spirited, was not as heavy as we’ve seen in the past. And the searchlights allowed our commanders to observe objects splashing into the sea in the enemy’s wakes.”
“Fewer guns, to accommodate mines,” Muriname guessed.
“Apparently,” Riku agreed, “though this wasn’t understood at first. The enemy steamed up across the South Channel, trading effective fire with eight of our cruisers, making for the center isle and the North Channel.”
“What happened?” Kurokawa demanded. “We saw nothing from here because of the island, and only heard that the small force was repulsed.”
Riku gulped again. “It was, Lord, but as I said, their fire was effective, and some damage was sustained by our ships as they turned to pursue the enemy around the island. I should add that the new forward firing guns were quite effective at this point, destroying one enemy ship and likely damaging the rest—but, suddenly, one of ours just . . . exploded and sank. Moments later, another did the same. The enemy couldn’t fire directly astern, so our ships must’ve struck mines.”
“And then?” It was Contre-Amiral Laborde’s turn to demand. Riku looked at him resentfully, but continued to his lord. “The rest of our ships continued the pursuit, scoring multiple hits. Finally, making smoke, the enemy turned and fled to the west. Sadly, their vessels remain swifter than ours and the smoke choked the searchlights. They escaped.”
“But they didn’t mine the North Channel?” Kurokawa demanded.
“No, Lord. It is clear. The six cruisers reentered the bay in line abreast to make sure.”
Kurokawa made a pouting expression. “Very well. A good report, Commander. But do contain yourself better in the future.”
“Of course, Lord.”
Kurokawa looked at the others. “This practically confirms what we’ve surmised. Captain Reddy will concentrate on Sofesshk, for now. He pricks us with his bombers, and now attempts to contain us with mines. We’ll try to clear those in daylight, but for the present, we’ll focus our defenses on the North Channel. We can’t allow him to block that as well.”
“I understand your reasoning, General of the Sea,” Rizzo said, almost cautiously, “but Reddy’s actions do not necessarily preclude a serious attack here.”
Kurokawa slammed the desk, not as much in anger as frustration. “Of course they do! The mines prove it. They would prevent him from entering the bay just as surely as they’d keep us from leaving.” He sighed and looked at Laborde. “If Savoie was ready and had even the most rudimentary fire-control capability, and if Akagi’s repairs were complete, this would be the perfect time to break out and attack the Allies in the rear. As it stands, you will have a little longer to make my battleship ready for action. Use that time wisely, Contre-Amiral. When we do sortie, I want Savoie able to smash any Allied vessel from twenty kilometers away—is that understood?”
“It’s not possible!” Dupont objected. “To make a level/cross-level device, not to mention the necessary fire-control equipment, in mere days or weeks! Your machining capacity is impressive,” he allowed, “but we have no blueprints. Even then, it would take time.”
“You have manuals,” Kurokawa countered. “Make use of them. Extrapolate dimensions if you must, and use whatever and whoever you need. This project has priority over all others.” He sneered. “The enemy has employed an effective, if crude, fire-control system for his smoothbore muzzle-loaders!” he said, his voice rising to a rant. “We have now done the same, so do not tell me it can’t be done! With all my industry at your disposal and a well-equipped machine shop on your ship, you must not tell me you can’t contrive some way to coordinate Savoie’s main batteries! If that’s the case, what possible use do I have for you?”
“To lead the French crew who remained loyal to us, and are now her only experienced officers. And to fight Savoie, when the time comes,” Laborde said simply.
“All eleven Frenchmen!” Kurokawa chortled savagely. “Really, Contre-Amiral, the loyalty you inspire is staggering. And are you saying I cannot fight her?” he challenged, his face purpling. Muriname had noticed how easy it was to get him to lose his temper again. For a while, almost a year, he’d controlled it. Now, particularly since the first bombing—and he went to see the prisoners—it seemed always on the loose.
“Not at all,” Laborde appeased. “But you’re our General of the Sea, a fleet admiral. Why should you concern yourself with operating a single ship that others, Dupont and myself in particular, are more accustomed to, who know her every quirk, how she handles in any sea, and what her strengths—and limitations—are?”
Kurokawa fumed. “Indeed,�
�� he finally acknowledged. “But don’t disappoint me,” he warned.
“We will not,” Laborde assured. “Given enough time,” he qualified more quietly.
• • •
“Such a shame the mine layers couldn’t complete their task,” Captain Stuart Brassey murmured, lowering his telescope. He’d watched the whole thing with Silva from their hidey-hole, a patch of dense jungle east of the prison compound. From a blind they’d erected in a tall tree on a slight rise, they could see a great deal. They were able to watch the prison compound and confirm that Sandra, Diania, Lange, Horn, Adar, and two other ’Cats were indeed present, all together. They could see Savoie to the northeast and watch her preparations, and they’d made an exact count of enemy ships in the anchorage. Besides Savoie, there were still two unaltered ironclad BBs moored near her, and two more to the south, though they hadn’t seen much activity aboard them. They weren’t sure if that meant they’d been relegated to a secondary role or were ready in all respects for battle. A fifth had apparently been altered into an armored oiler. They guessed that by the number of ships that periodically went alongside it, and that, in the days they’d watched, three of the double-ended barge tugs arrived to replenish it.
That meant at least some refining was taking place on the continent, which stood to reason, since the Grik had been making a gasoline/ethanol mix for their zeppelins for quite some time. But oil barrels also went ashore, and Lawrence guessed they were going wherever more specialized aviation fuel was made. Frantic work continued on the damaged aircraft carrier, still lying inshore of the island in the middle of the bay, and it looked almost ready for action. Equally concerning, they’d counted a total of twenty of the formidable ironclad cruisers after a couple more arrived, probably from other harbors around the island. Eighteen, now, Silva reminded himself, all startin’ to bunch up in the vicinity of the North Channel, free of mines. They’ve worked on those cruisers, he thought. Reduced the sails, which means they must’ve improved their engines. They’re still not fast, but they’ve raised the armored bulwarks amidships. Maybe added some guns. They’d always been vulnerable from the air or to plunging fire, but were tough to crack at close range, from the surface. Even Walker’s guns had trouble punching through their armor and the heavy scantlings backing it. An’ maybe they’ve armored their decks now too, Silva speculated. They’ve got less weight in masts, so they’re more stable, but lie lower in the water, so they’re heavier.
“A shame, sure,” Dennis replied absently to Brassey’s statement.
“Just another mile and a half, and the mine layers could’ve sealed the North Channel as well! I hope Captain Reddy disciplines their commanders.”
“Not sure they deserve it. One went down,” Silva defended, inwardly shuddering at the fate of its crew. Even if their pursuers were inclined to rescue survivors, the voracious sea wouldn’t have left many—and their captivity would’ve probably been worse than the horrible but quick death the fish gave them. He glanced toward the compound, unseen in the dark. Or would it? Either way, it’s just as well none of ’em survived to blow. Prob’ly knew going in that they couldn’t let that happen. He shrugged. Just like us. “They were getting’ pretty beat up, Mr. Brassey,” he said. “I think they did enough. Quit worryin’ about it.”
Brassey regarded him curiously in the dark, wondering what Silva knew that he didn’t. Quite a bit, he suspected. For operational security, nobody but Silva, and maybe Lawrence, needed to know everything. They heard a hiss below, and Lawrence scrambled awkwardly up the tree. “Finally back, huh?” Dennis asked.
“As you see,” Lawrence replied dryly.
“Sneaky booger. Finally found somethin’ yer good at. Didja get the message off?”
“Aye. Ca’tain Reddy should soon know all us has learned.” A ship had appeared as scheduled, offshore from the burned-out zeppelin. They didn’t know if it participated in the mining or not, but it didn’t matter, and Lawrence flashed a rather lengthy report by Morse lamp. He and Brassey’s Khonashi had been roaming practically at will all over the southern part of the island. They’d been seen many times, but no alarm was ever raised and they hadn’t been forced to “eliminate” anyone. Apparently, just as it took the Allies too long to realize their enemies had learned Lemurian, compromising their communications, and that the Doms and League had spies in the Empire and Republic—probably everywhere—it hadn’t dawned on Kurokawa that the Allies could have Grik-like scouts ashore on Zanzibar. One group, led by Lawrence, had explored the harbor defenses and industrial sites. Sergeant Oolak, with Pokey posing as his superior to do any talking, had ventured east around the mountain called the Gut, toward Tailbone Bay. Together they’d assembled a remarkably good picture of what Chack’s Brigade would face. They’d ignored the north, beyond the Gut. There were a lot of Grik up there but no airfields, so it shouldn’t be an immediate factor in the coming action. There were plenty Grik in the south too, however, maybe twenty thousand or so. But many were laborers, sailors, dock and factory workers. Most were probably trained soldiers as well, but they were dispersed. It would take time to gather, arm, and organize them into an effective defense—if Chack’s Brigade ever made it to the beach in the first place.
“How much longer now?” Brassey suddenly asked, the slightest tension in his voice for the first time.
“Not long,” Silva replied thoughtfully. “The Jap-Griks may not have mine sweepers, but it won’t take ’em more’n a few days to clear the South Channel if they get on it. They may not try, figurin’ they’re safe from that direction, an’ preferrin’ ta’ wad up an’ defend the North Channel against another mine layin’.”
“So . . . just a few more days?”
“I expect.”
“Then why not free our people now?” Brassey pleaded. “They’ve suffered enough, and I want them under our protection. Who knows what might happen to them if we wait too long? We could bring them here and hide them. Their escape might even cause confusion, and a useful diversion among the enemy.”
Silva frowned in the dark. “I’m sure you’re right about the diversion, an’ I know how you feel, believe me. But the ruckus we’d kick up ain’t the kind we need. For one, what if it ain’t just days? What if it’s a week? Two weeks? I know our friends look scrawny as hell, but they are bein’ fed. We can’t feed ’em that long. We’ll be outa rations before then ourselves. An’ I don’t think we could hide ’em anywhere after we poked that ant bed. The only reason we ain’t been found is ’cause nobody’s lookin’ for us. We swipe our people back an’ Kurokawa’ll have ever’body combin’ the whole joint for ’em. Yeah, that’d cause a helluva distraction, but crazy as he is, Kurokawwy ain’t a idiot. He’d know somebody helped ’em, which means somebody’s runnin’ around spyin’ on him too.”
“Which means he might change his entire disposition, all his plans, right when we need him most complacent,” Brassey completed Silva’s point with resignation in his voice.
“Aye,” Lawrence agreed, reaching out to touch the boy with his fully clawed left hand. He knew how he felt as well. Sentimentality had once been a great mystery to him, particularly directed at things. He’d pretended to be excited when Walker was raised after the Battle of Baalkpan, because everyone else seemed to be and he’d been desperate to fit in. But he’d already been devoted to certain people: Rebecca Anne McDonald first, then (oddly) Silva, who shot him on sight. Ultimately, many others—hundreds—had joined the list of people he esteemed. And even as the concept of friendship, family, matured in his heart, he eventually caught himself experiencing attachments to things, such as Walker and weapons, which had served them well. Finally, ideas—such as honor, duty, even country, so influential to his friends—became important to him as he began to understand how large a part they played in making his friends, and, by association, himself, who they were.
Dennis Silva hadn’t always been a patient teacher, or even a clear-cut example for him
to follow. But Captain Reddy—and Lady Sandra—had. To him, to his heart, as his friends referred to the sentimental part of his being, rescuing Lady Sandra and the rest was the most vital part of their mission. But they couldn’t succeed without victory, and a premature rescue might shatter any chance for that. He patted Brassey’s arm. “As Dennis says, Ca’tain ’Rassey, quit ’orrying. In days, or a little longer, us are going to get they out.”
CHAPTER 19
////// USS Walker
USS Walker, DD-163, bounded through the wind-whipped, white-capped sea north of Mahe with an exuberance she hadn’t shown for a long time. Gray smoke from her aft three funnels quickly vanished and pure white foam sluiced across her fo’c’sle, parting beneath her bridge, when she knifed through the waves at fifteen knots. Each time, she rose to expose the round curve of her bow beneath the boot topping like a soggy greyhound shaking itself off. The fresh wooden deck strakes in the pilothouse creaked snugly against their new fasteners, and the machinery rumble they transmitted to Matt Reddy’s feet was . . . tighter, less labored, than he thought he’d ever felt. He was sitting on his captain’s chair, drinking real coffee from a small supply that Juan had triumphantly secured on his own—and even he hadn’t managed to destroy—as he contemplated the frenzied, relatively brief overhaul.
It hadn’t been the most comprehensive refit she’d undergone by any means, but it might’ve been the best. Her first rebuild after the Battle of Baalkpan saved her, but had also been a scratch learning experience for yard workers who’d never had anything like her in their hands. The same was true, to a lesser degree, of her refit in Maa-ni-la. Steel hulls and complicated machinery had been as alien to Lemurians as their diagonally laminated wooden hulls had been to Matt’s human destroyermen. But Lemurians were quick learners, and with the plans they’d drawn during her rebuild, they’d almost immediately begun copying Walker.
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