Devil's Due

by Taylor Anderson

  “What for?” Dennis interrupted.

  “I assume Captain Reddy intends to lure her out?” Horn asked. “Well, even if he has a plan to deal with her, she’s an iron bitch. Literally. She’ll kill a lot of our guys. I think in the confusion, with help from some of Captain Brassey’s Khonashis, I can get aboard.”

  “Then what?” Brassey demanded, suddenly intrigued.

  “Get in one of her gun houses. There’s no way they can pry us out.” Horn shrugged. “Then maybe blow her up.”

  “Shit!” Dennis grinned. “Sounds fun, if you can pull it off—then get off her.”

  “I agree,” Brassey said between breaths. “Horn and I can try to pass ourselves as Japanese. We’ll make the attempt, along with half the Khonashis, and perhaps Pokey. He speaks the language.”

  “And I,” Becher Lange said on a gasp, “have my own score to settle with Laborde. But we needn’t pass as Japanese. A few of her original crew remained, and I speak excellent French.”

  “Okay. Sounds like a good pre-consideration,” Dennis agreed.

  “What about us?” Sandra demanded.

  “You, Lady Sandra, an’ Miss Diania too, are gonna find a nice, safe, hidey-hole while me an’ Larry, our Shee-Ree kitties, an’ what Khonashis Cap’n Brassey leaves us, raise as much hell as we can.” He patted the satchel bouncing at his side. “I got a whole poke full o’ grenades—my very favorite kind o’ fun! Who knows? Maybe we’ll catch Kurokawwy before he boards Savoie.”

  “As good a plan as any, I suppose,” Sandra agreed. She was also starting to breathe heavily, weakened by lack of food and the unaccustomed weight she carried in her abdomen. “Except for one detail,” she added. “I’m not sitting this out.”

  “Nor I,” snapped Diania.

  “But . . .”

  “No buts, Chief Silva,” Sandra said. “I’ll let you and the rest do the heavy lifting, I promise.” She added quickly, “But don’t you see? That maniac meant to use me as a weapon against my husband, our cause. If in any way my presence helps you prevent that—and I can already think of several ways—I have to be there. Do you understand?”

  “Maybe,” Silva grudged, mashing his sweat-soggy eyepatch to drain it before its weight made it sag off his face. “But if I let anything happen to you, the Skipper’ll keelhaul me on Big Sal. An’ I’d have it comin’ too.”

  “Don’t worry, Chief Silva. I believe we have a couple of excellent plans, and we will make them work.”

  Breathing hard, but otherwise accompanied only by the rattle of weapons, the soft clatter of accoutrements and ammunition magazines, the dull clinking of .50-80 shells in cartridge boxes, and Silva’s incessant humming, the enlarged team hurried on with a more specific and deadly purpose.

  CHAPTER 22

  Lizard Ass Bay

  It was pitch-dark as eight PT boats of Lieutenant Nat Hardee’s MTB-Ron-1 thundered north at twenty-five knots, their light hulls planing and bouncing in the choppy sea between Island Number 3 to the west and Number 1 to the east. Occasional lightning still flashed from the overhanging clouds, providing some visibility, but also creating an ominous atmosphere that Nat found hard to ignore. By most definitions, even Lemurians’, he was still just a kid, but he’d seen and done a lot since arriving on this world aboard the old S-19. He’d been back aboard S-19 when she was rammed and sunk by a Grik dreadnaught and had to escape—almost straight up—through a torpedo tube with only a few feet of the sub’s bow remaining above the surface. He’d participated in a night torpedo attack at the Battle of Grik City, and experienced eerie combat on a jungle river against savage and rarely seen attackers. Still, tested as he was, he remained just a teenager and command of the entire squadron had been an unexpected—terrifying—thrill.

  He felt no terror now that the waiting was over, however, and he was leading his little “mosquito fleet” into battle. Perhaps a measure of anxiousness persisted about what lay ahead, and that was wholly understandable. They were charging full speed aboard frail little boats, into a stirred-up hornet’s nest with what was probably the highest concentration of overwhelming firepower any Allied force ever faced. What was more, his squadron was all alone.

  The strait was only about four miles wide and Nat couldn’t see Island Number 3 at all. He barely saw Number 1 because it was highlighted by the dockyard fires left by the bombing raid. It was enough. His veteran Seven boat, Lucky Seven, had the best crew in the squadron, and her XO, Lieutenant (jg) Rini-Kanaar, was a wonder. She’d studied to become a Sky Priest before the war and still hoped to be one someday. She’d make a good one, with her uncanny memory of images and knack for mentally superimposing charts or scrolls she’d seen upon the sea around her, automatically calculating where their speed, course, leeway, sea conditions, even the currents (when they knew them) would put the boat at any given moment. Her dead reckoning was dead-on to a degree Nat hadn’t imagined possible. With her steering the Seven boat, the rest of the squadron had only to follow its frothy, phosphorescent wake exactly where they needed to be. And as soon as they rounded the north end of Island Number 1, they’d have a fine, fire-lit view of the anchorage beyond, while the same light marking the enemy should hide them as they approached. Nat reminded himself not to stare at the flames, to protect his night vision. But when we are seen . . . came the sudden, seditious thought.

  “I’m sure glaad we ain’t goin’ at that daamn Saavoie. Her big guns give me the creeps!” Rini shouted at him, probably talking to settle her nerves. That was fine. Nat’s nerves had spiked a bit, thinking about the ex-League battleship.

  “Me too,” he agreed. “And she doesn’t even need her biggest ones. Her secondaries can shred us farther away than our torpedoes will even go.”

  “Yaah. We still gotta get past all them kroozers, though,” Rini reminded.

  “We do,” Nat acknowledged. “But they’ll be surprised, trying to hit smaller, faster, surface targets than they’ve probably ever seen—with muzzle-loading cannon.” Nat didn’t think any Grik cruisers had ever faced Walker and survived, so sufficiently leading anything fast shouldn’t come naturally to any of their gunners. He might be wrong, he supposed, but they would be surprised—especially when only a few boats actually attacked them. The rest had other business.

  Finally, the mouth of the North Channel began to open before them. Rini eased her helm over and they roared through the entrance, little more than a mile wide. The question now was shore batteries, and the hairs on the back of Nat’s neck stood up. They knew the batteries were there, but would their crews see the little flotilla speeding between the peninsula and Island Number 1? Maybe they were still scanning the skies, watching for planes. The PTs would certainly sound like planes from shore. Even if the enemy spotted them, they wouldn’t see them well, and any hits they achieved would be pure luck. Probably catastrophic luck, given the size of their guns—and possibly catastrophic whether they hit or not, since the batteries would alert their targets.

  Maybe they’re distracted, Nat hoped. I don’t think they can see the fighting to the southeast—I can’t anymore, with the island blocking the view—but maybe they’ve received word? Perhaps they’re watching out to sea for another landing force? A wry smile touched his lips. No one would be insane enough to run a few little boats into a harbor full of powerful warships. “Steady as you go,” Nat told Rini as the bow aimed directly at the center of the channel. He took a step and turned the switch activating the clattering alarm bell for a few seconds, calling his crew to their battle stations. It wasn’t really necessary. Everyone had been in place since the shoal of MTBs spilled out of Tarakaan Island. A pair of ’Cats were forward, behind the new splinter shield protecting the water-cooled .30-caliber machine gun. Two were stationed at the torpedo tubes, one on either beam, and three stood behind Nat and Rini, ready to operate their second machine gun on whichever side of the cockpit they were directed. They’d also be ready to take Nat
’s or Rini’s place if either got hit. Finally, two ’Cats sweltered and shed fur in the hot motor room, between the big six-cylinder Sea Gypsy engines mounted side by side.

  I’m responsible for ten people on my boat, Nat thought. Eighty-seven in the squadron. He didn’t count himself. Lord, don’t let me make a hash of it! Without realizing it, he bared his teeth as the squadron passed through the narrowest part of the channel, where they were most likely to be noticed. The minutes ticked by and his white-knuckle grip on the coaming began to loosen. Before them lay the fire-lit upper end of Lizard Ass Bay, cluttered with a flock of moored Grik cruisers. They’re lethal-looking things, Nat conceded, even somewhat elegant; their bows sweeping up and aft, away from underwater rams. Silva was right about the top hamper and bulwarks as well. Those gave better protection for more guns amidships and sleeker, flusher lines. Anchored as they were, practically served up for him, it was tempting to have at them, despite his orders. But he had bigger frogs to gig. Beyond them, in the distance, a bright white spotlight flared to life and stabbed first at the shore battery on the peninsula, then swept outward, where the boats had been. It was Savoie, but even if she saw them now, she had no shot with the cruisers stacked between them.

  “Lucky Handy!” Nat shouted at Rini, referring to Lieutenant (jg) Haan-Dar, commanding the Four boat, leading 16, 20, and 21. Only they would attack the cruisers. His Seven boat, leading 13, 15, and 23, would soon veer off.

  Something else flashed, reflecting off the spray sluicing back from the bow. Then, when a great, bright column of water erupted behind his boat and a huge roundshot bounded up over him, splashing again in the sea ahead, he realized they hadn’t completely fooled the shore batteries after all. They could’ve already fired several times, for all he knew, their reports drowned by the roar of engines. It was probably their shooting, in fact, that alerted a lookout on Savoie. “You’re too late!” he shouted backward. “Your nap lasted just a bit too long!” Several more waterspouts stitched their wakes, well back now. “Signal Handy to have his fun!” Nat told one of the ’Cats in the cockpit. A Morse lamp flashed and Haan-Dar’s section peeled off to the left and surged ahead, toward the brooding cruisers. “Come right to one two zero,” he told Rini.

  “One two seero, aye!” Rini spun the wheel, staring at the small, lamp-lit compass binnacle below the coaming in front of her. “My course’s one two seero,” she proclaimed. Nat glanced behind again to watch his consorts follow his turn. As planned, they were fanning out in line abreast on his port beam. Two miles ahead lay a pair of the huge, four-stack, ironclad battleships, secured to a pier, one in front of the other. Nobody knew if they were operational or Kurokawa was preparing them for conversion to something else, more carriers perhaps, but either way, they had to go. From Silva’s reports, there were two more in the harbor, and another converted to an oiler, recently shifted near Savoie, but they were a job for the Naval Air Corps. These two were in a unique position to prevent the final detail in Captain Reddy’s plan.

  At about 2,800 yards, Nat crouched slightly and glanced through the crude sights on the coaming. They aimed their torpedoes by aiming the boat—which could be difficult when the sights kept jumping around and the target was underway—but the Grik BBs were just sitting there, presenting an easy shot. In theory. Nat hadn’t used the new Mk-6 torpedoes yet. They were supposed to be good to 10,000 yards, but Bernie Sandison, burned so often by what torpedoes were supposed to do, told them to count on half that distance. Nat’s boats had only two tubes and no reloads. As long as they weren’t taking fire, he wanted to get close enough to stab the enemy in the gut. He’d use one fish on the BB to the right, as would the Twenty-three boat. The other two boats would launch at the one on the left. All were supposed to save their last fish for something else. “A point to the right!” he cried to Rini. “Steady! Ready number one!” he added louder to the torpedo crew to starboard.

  “Number one’s ready in aall respects!” came the response.

  A blossom of orange flame lashed out from the side of the behemoth ahead, removing any doubt about its operational status. Several more followed sporadically; then the whole side of the ship’s armored casemate erupted at once. Iron shrieked overhead, splashing far astern, and Nat was mightily tempted to shoot back at once, but wanted a few seconds more. Thirteen and Fifteen didn’t wait, and flashes lit their starboard sides as impulse charges hurled their brass-bodied fish into the sea and they creamed away, little faster than the boats that launched them. “Just a little closer,” Nat crooned. The other BB fired a full broadside of hundred-pound shot that churned the sea in front of the Thirteen and Fifteen boats before they could turn. All the massive iron balls may have skated, but one did for sure, opening the bow of the Thirteen boat like a banana. The boat bounced up, standing on its tail, pointing straight at the sky. It actually left the water and briefly flew through the air before slamming down on its side and cartwheeling across the waves in a shattering welter of ragged fragments and phosphorescent spray. It came to rest in seconds, upside down, torn apart, swiftly sinking. The Fifteen boat was turning frantically now, and Nat shouted at his torpedo crew. “Fire one!” He closed his eyes to the flash and with a loud thwump! the deck jolted beneath his feet. “Come right, thirty degrees! Make your course two one zero, and let’s shake our tails!”

  “Makin’ my course two one seero—an’ wavin’ so long!” Rini’s tail swished rapidly behind her. The Twenty-three boat matched their course, its fish on the way as well. Nat wondered if the torpedoes would hit before the Grik could reload their monstrous guns. “Look, Skipper!” one of the ’Cats on the foredeck shouted, pointing right. A heavy explosion rocked the bay as one of the cruisers arched its back amid a tall spear of foam, then settled, its bow and stern already rising independently. “Broke her baack!” Rini cried, satisfaction in her voice. Another cruiser was already burning, but several were firing now, stabbing the darkness with tongues of flame. Nat watched bitterly as a ball of fire rolled away from a low, swift shape, and it quickly wallowed to a stop, burning gasoline spreading fore and aft, lighting the sea around it. Another cruiser heeled hard over, pushed by a tall column of green-glowing water, but several were underway now, probably cutting their anchor cables. One smashed into the burning wreck with its underwater ram, lifting it until it came apart, its flickering wreckage swept aside by the bow wave, tossing and smoldering in the churning wake. Then they heard heavy detonations aft. Everyone but Rini turned to watch as two hundred-foot feathers of spume rose alongside the target that killed the Thirteen boat. Seconds later, one, then another, geysered up beside Nat’s target as well. “Four for four!” one of the machine gunners cried happily, almost hopping with glee. Fire broke out aboard Nat’s BB, glowing hungrily behind the open gunports. It might’ve been Nat’s imagination, but both ships already seemed to be listing toward them.

  “Taar-git ahead! Mebbe . . . four thousand tails!” Rini shouted, snatching their attention back to what they were really after. Barely visible in the gloom was another huge, dark shape, not as tall, but just as long as the Grik battleship it once was. The higher freeboard and elevated deck made it seem even bigger. Washed by distant flames and the lightning still rippling in the clouds, no doubt fully alert and preparing every defense, was their primary target: Kurokawa’s last aircraft carrier. Nat looked to his right and saw that the Fifteen boat had rejoined the line as they roared southwest, perhaps fifty yards apart. “We oughta shoot now—we in range,” Rini prompted.

  “We only have three fish left between us,” Nat reminded, “and I think the target’s moving.” He was right. Like the cruisers, still shooting at the rest of the squadron zooming between them, the dark apparition was gathering way. A firing solution now, with no idea how fast the thing could accelerate, would be nothing but a guess. At 2,500 yards, a pair of searchlights snapped on aboard the carrier, probing at the darkness, sweeping back and forth. One swung across them, blinding bright, then fastened o
n the approaching boats. The other light joined it, glaring like a pair of small suns.

  “Shoot them out!” Nat yelled at his gunners, and tracers immediately arced away, reaching for the lights. More tracers from the other boats joined in, but then, at 2,000 yards, so did those of the enemy.

  “Maa-sheen guns!” Rini cried indignantly, as if it wasn’t fair that the enemy had made their own.

  “Their planes have them. Why not their ships?” Nat ground out. “Two points to starboard!” The enemy tracers were still wild, falling sharply as they neared, but they could reach. They felt and heard occasional thumps and clatters as bullets hit the boat. Nat tried to concentrate on his sights as two streams of bullets converged on them and one of the ’Cats on the foredeck tumbled back amid sleeting splinters and rolled over the side with a silent splash. The torpedo-’Cat on the starboard side raced to replace him, but sprawled facedown on the deck. The two Lemurians at the gun kept up a relentless fire as bullets hammered the shield, shattering on impact and cutting their exposed legs and feet with tiny, scything shards of lead and copper. The gunners in the cockpit watched in frustration. There was nothing they could shoot at until the boat turned away.

  “The Fifteen boat’s fired!” Rini shouted over the gunfire, roaring engines, and pounding sea. Nat glanced to the right. The Fifteen boat was roaring away to the north, chased by a searchlight and two strings of tracers. A great waterspout—from something—erupted in her wake; then another landed in front of her, swamping her with foam. Even as the bullets settled down to the terrible work of chopping her to bits, another shell of some kind punched through her side and exploded against an engine. The boat disintegrated in a shower of flaming fragments, just as tracers from the Twenty-three boat snuffed out one of the searchlights. The sea heaved and tossed, rising in great stalks around the last two PTs, drenching the ’Cats at their stations. Explosions began ripping the air above them as well, spattering the sea with hot shards of iron. Nat stared through his sights, trying to keep the picture clear enough to estimate his lead, loudly calling corrections to Rini. At barely more than a thousand yards, bullets slammed through the coaming, and Rini reeled back. Without a thought, Nat took the wheel and shouted over the din, “Fire two!” The portside fish coughed into the sea, and Nat turned hard left. “Make smoke!” he yelled. Two of the ’Cats behind him had mounted their machine gun on the starboard side of the cockpit and began firing at the last light, even as the third twisted a lever feeding light oil into the fuel line. Almost immediately, thick, blue-white smoke gushed from the exhaust stacks and started piling up in their wake. Possibly thinking they were finished, all the fire now concentrated on the Twenty-three boat, which had also launched and turned to follow. A glare lit up behind them like a flare on the water and slowly died away. They couldn’t tell through the smoke whether it signaled the end of the Twenty-three boat or not.