He paused again, as the dark shapes of aircraft began to roar overhead. The clouds still blocked the rising sun, but they were breaking and occasional spears of light flashed across the small, deadly planes. Sometimes he saw hints of his beloved Hinomaru on the wings or fuselage, no longer defiled by the modifications Muriname once made to inspire their Grik allies. The Grik, as a whole, had actually adopted that version for several reasons. They’d never had a single flag before and it reflected their revered, imperial red. It had also come to symbolize strength. Strength I gave them, Kurokawa inwardly seethed, as I’ve always taken it from the proper Hinomaru. He knew part of him still tried to justify what he did here as service to his emperor on another world, though he rarely consciously considered it anymore. More and more, the red roundel had come to symbolize his will, his destiny. He took a long breath and coughed smoke. No matter what happened today, whether his appreciation of the balance of power was flawed or not, he believed, hoped, he still possessed a final, insurmountable advantage over Captain Reddy. “Has the detail I sent to bring Sandra Reddy returned?” he demanded suddenly.
“Not yet, Lord.”
“Ensure she is brought to me at once when it does.”
Muriname hesitated. He’d had his own . . . designs on Sandra and her servant, impossible though they might’ve been from the start, but he never would’ve physically harmed either one. Their mere existence as living proof there were still females on this terrible world had been enough to keep the worst of his madness in check. But the pretty servant would be dead now, at his Lord’s command, and there was no telling what Kurokawa meant to do with Captain Reddy’s wife. But what could he do? “Of course, Lord,” he said.
• • •
“Holy shit! There the sumbitch is!” Silva hissed, staring through his telescope. He, Sandra, Diania, Lawrence, the three Shee-Ree, the Repub ’Cat named Ruffy, and their five Khonashi had hidden in the jumbled, fire-scorched debris of a bombed-out warehouse halfway between where Savoie was edging away from her dock and where Kurokawa’s compound was. They were about a quarter mile apart, which meant Silva was trying to identify an individual he’d never seen at over two hundred yards, in the dark. But it wasn’t that dark. Dawn was near and the fires on the bay helped. Besides, it was as if his one good eye had taken up some of the slack and it was really good. “Least I think it’s him,” he corrected glumly. “Never saw the bastard before. But he’s actin’ the part, talkin’ to another Jap. Taller, skinnier.”
“Is he short? Round?” Sandra demanded.
“Yeah.”
“That’s him,” she said bitterly. “I haven’t seen another fat Jap on the island. Can you hit him from here?”
“Sure I could, with my ol’ Doom Stomper.” Silva raised the Thompson. “Prob’ly not with this.”
Sandra turned to the Khonashi troops. “Can any of you hit a man at two hundred paces?”
“Us all can, Lady Sandra,” their corporal stated confidently.
“Woah! So could Larry,” rebutted Silva sharply, “but nobody’s shootin’ that bastard now, from here.”
“I’m the senior officer, Chief Silva,” Sandra seethed, “and it’s my order that you take that man under fire at once!”
“No way.”
Sandra opened her mouth but couldn’t speak. Silva had never disobeyed a direct order from her, and to do so now, with such a chance . . . She simply couldn’t believe it.
“Here’s the deal,” Silva continued quickly before she could recover herself. “You know my rule: last, highest-up order. Well, the one I’m followin’ now came from hisself, your hubby, Cap’n the All-Powerful Reddy. Far as I’m concerned, Union or not, there ain’t no higher-up orders. Now, he told me I could have all the fun I want after I got you an’ the other pris’ners secured.” He shook his head. “I wadn’t quick enough for ol’ Adar, an’ that’s on me. If Horn an’ Lange wanna go play with Mr. Brassey, that’s on them. They can help, an’ they’re grown-up men.” Sandra formed an angry retort, but Silva cut her off. “I know yer a hellcat in a fight, both of ya, so don’t go on about that. It ain’t about what wimmen can or can’t do—except for the part about babies, I guess.” He nodded at Sandra’s abdomen. “I damn sure can’t do that. Even so, gen’rally pertective as I may be, I’d say, hell, let’s go play. We’ll kill that damn Jap, an’ you can pull the trigger. Poke his eyes out an’ pull his guts out his nose, for all I care. But you got that baby, see? The Skipper’s kid to worry about.” He pointed out to sea. “He’s out there now, fixin’ to fight. An’ you know what? He’ll know in his bones that I got you, an’ that’ll help him fight clear-headed. He’s gonna need that. But if Kurokawa’s goons get you back—which they will, dead or alive, if we take to shootin’ at ’em now—they can still use that against him, against ever’body out there!” He leaned back.
“Now, this here’s a pretty safe place, and it’s my intention to leave you with these Shee-Ree to watch over you. They can’t just run loose either once the sun comes up. They got Blitzers an’ ammo. You an’ Miss Diania got Blitzers too. If you keep quiet an’ don’t go blastin’ away, you should be fine till things get sorted out. Give your word to sit tight, an’ me, Larry, an’ these Khonashis can go raise a lotta hell that might save lives—might save the Skipper’s life—if we’re not worried about you. If you won’t stay put, I’ll stay here an’ sit on ya. Swear to God. So right here, right now, you gotta pick which is more important: you an’ that kid we all risked our asses for—doesn’t matter whether this fight was already comin’ or not; that’s why we came an’ done what we done—or your own personal revenge. Me an’ Larry’ll get that for you, in spades, I promise.”
Sandra’s glare was visible now, in the light seeping through the charred ceiling beams that had collapsed during a previous raid. The sound of airplane engines became more distinct, as did the patter of machine guns they were firing at one another.
“We can do a lot with this goin’ on,” Silva pleaded.
Sandra finally nodded. “All right, damn it. Go. And you better keep your promise!”
Silva and his companions were already weaving their way through the wreckage. He stopped and grinned back at her, the gap in his suddenly bright teeth telling her all she needed to know. “You bet,” he said. Then he was gone.
CHAPTER 23
////// The Seven Boat
Lizard Ass Bay
“Cease firing!” Nat yelled. “Our tracers are pointing right back at us.” The machine guns stopped and smoking oil streamed away from blistering hot water jackets. Except for the roaring engines and distant explosions, there was a skittish silence that seemed unreal after the last few minutes. “How’s Rini?”
“She’s gone,” came the simple, stark reply, and Nat’s heart felt like a stone wall had collapsed on it. Just then, through the smoke, about where the carrier ought to be, came a deep, wet blast—then another! A third! A fourth! The last was so intense that Nat felt it through the deck beneath his feet, even in his teeth. Abruptly, he eased the throttles back and craned his neck around. Through the thick smoke hanging over the entire bay, the night almost vanished as an enormous sheet of fire lit the haze. Seconds later, an ear-pounding wave of pressure slammed the boat hard enough to rock it. “Got her,” he grated, his voice like a stranger’s to his abused ears. He was relieved they’d succeeded, but amazed how little satisfaction he felt. Rini was dead, and for all he knew, so was every other crew in his squadron. “Keep a sharp lookout,” he added, easing the throttles down still more, diminishing their wake. “Secure from making smoke; there’s plenty already.” There was still a lot of shooting in the north end of the bay, but nothing came at them. The enemy might even be shooting at each other now in the confusion, he thought, turning to starboard just a bit. Slowly, engines idling down to a burbling rumble, the Seven boat crept toward the southern end of Island Number 1, a little more than a mile southeast of the shipyard
that had been repairing the carrier. Oddly, no shore batteries had been reported there, guarding the South Channel. The one on the outer Island Number 2 was better placed to cover that entrance to the bay, but with four miles of water between it and the main island, it was simpler to evade in darkness. Finally, uneasily, he steered toward land. That was when he realized he could actually see the black outline of the bow, the forward gun, and the ’Cats gathered around it.
It was humid enough to mist and it wet his face and dripped from his helmet. Strange blue lightning still fluttered in the sky, but beyond the thick smoke and clouds, dawn was ending the long, hellish night. He wondered if the day would be any better, and squinted hard ahead. Who knows? he thought. Maybe it will be. Lying very near the island, right where she was supposed to be, was USS Walker. She’d snuck in the back door, right through the minefield they’d sown, from the one direction the enemy knew they couldn’t come. What they hadn’t known, and couldn’t without sweeping up the mines and examining them—far more difficult than blowing them in place—was that those dropped in the very center of the channel never had their safety pins removed. The passage must’ve still been somewhat unnerving, Nat thought, probably more than ours, beneath the shore batteries. But Walker never could’ve slipped through there, and every ship and gun in the harbor probably would’ve focused on her, exclusive of anything else. Instead, they had my squadron to focus on. But we had a chance, at least, and landed some very shrewd blows. I just hope my boat isn’t the only one left. Finally managing a bitter smile, he eased his battered Lucky Seven toward the old destroyer. Now, Walker—and Captain Reddy—can do their part. If those cruisers were surprised by my little attack, Nat thought, I wonder what Kurokawa will think when Walker comes steaming up, blasting away behind him.
Nat called down to the motor room to disengage the shafts as they drifted alongside, and one of the ’Cats on the foredeck caught a line thrown down from Walker’s quarterdeck. Climbing over the splintered coaming and stepping out on the foredeck, Nat watched a pilot ladder unroll down Walker’s side. He jumped across, grabbed the ropes, and scrambled up the wooden rungs. To his surprise, Captain Reddy himself was waiting by the entry port.
“Sorry, no side party,” Matt said, grabbing his hand and helping him the rest of the way up. “You deserve it after what you did, but since the ship’s at condition two, you’ll just have to settle for me.” He waved around, grinning. “And a few Marines.” Walker always had a contingent of ’Cat Marines now, every member rated to perform various shipboard duties, particularly in action, just as her entire crew was proficient with small arms, to assist the Marines when needed. For this operation, they’d embarked an extra two dozen Marines in case Chack—or Silva—needed a hand at an opportune moment or, God forbid, they had to repel boarders again. It had happened before.
“I’m honored, sir,” Nat said, saluting as soon as he had his hand back.
“The honor’s mine, Lieutenant,” Matt countered. “Your squadron did a fine job.”
Pam Cross appeared with a couple of assistants. “Wounded?” she demanded in her brusque way.
“Yes. Some splinter wounds, I think. My XO is dead,” he added miserably.
Pam nodded, and she and her party climbed down the pilot ladder.
“Could you see . . .” Nat began, but paused.
“We saw a gallant attack, carried home with determination,” Matt assured him, then waved around at his ship, “which not only got us in, but also took out its priority targets.” Visibility was quickly improving, and they saw the carrier burning and listing steeply to starboard about two and a half miles ahead. Across the bay, one of the ironclad BBs had sunk at its moorings. The other, a roaring inferno, would soon join it. The water around them blazed with burning fuel.
“My . . . my squadron?”
Matt frowned. “It was hard to tell, but the lookouts saw at least four destroyed. With any luck, the rest made it out, or, like us, hunkered down along the shore.”
“They might be seen,” Nat said. “We still might be seen.”
Matt glanced at his watch, then up at the brightening sky. “The enemy will have plenty to distract them again in a few minutes.”
Juan Marcos clomped up and thrust a cup of coffee—real coffee—into Nat Hardee’s hand. “Good morning, Mr. Hardee,” he said, his tone full of respect.
“Ah, you too, Juan,” Nat replied, as the Filipino turned and stumped toward the companionway leading down to the wardroom. He was muttering, “Earl Lanier has his nasty battle sammitches, if the lieutenant wants to poison himself, but there are real sandwiches below.” Nat looked dully down at the cup, savoring the aroma, afraid to trust it.
“It’s real,” Matt assured him.
“I, ah . . . What do we do now, sir?”
“For just a little longer, you and I will watch and wait, Lieutenant. We’ll reload your torpedo tubes, if we have time. If not, the extra fish we brought go over the side. I can’t have them on deck when we fight.” Likewise, the ship’s Nancy floatplane had gone over to Big Sal, to get it off the ship as well. “Eventually, the Jap-Grik will sortie, what’s left of them, when we dangle the final bait. Kurokawa won’t be able to help himself. When they do . . .” He stopped and smiled, but his eyes had turned as remorseless as the sea. “Eat,” he said instead. “Call your guys aboard to eat something too. We’ll handle the reloads.” He stopped and cocked his head to the side, listening. The firing had finally stopped once the cruisers saw there was nothing left to shoot at, but a new sound was rising over the gentle roar of the blower and the nearby surf. Planes. The clouds were starting to dissipate overhead, the lightning moving east. The haze would thicken for a while as the rising sun cooked moisture out of the jungle, but then it would become another typical equatorial day: unbearably hot, humid, and mostly clear. Matt raised his binoculars and stared northwest, studying gaps in the columns of dark smoke blending with the sky. “Enemy planes, rising from the airfield on the peninsula.” He looked northeast. “Some coming up from the one east of Kurokawa’s compound, too. Look like those twin-engine jobs. But they’re too far away to hear.” He scanned southeast and bared his teeth. “More planes. Ours. Good old Keje. His strike’s right on time.” He looked at Nat. “We may be about to witness the first fairly evenly matched dogfight between prepared participants this world has ever seen.”
“I hope it’s not too evenly matched, sir.”
“I said ‘fairly.’ I fully expect Colonel Mallory and COFO Tikker to mop them up. Now go eat. You need to get back on your boat pretty quick, and I need to be on the bridge. We might be here for two hours or ten minutes, but when the time comes for us to move, things’ll happen in a hurry.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Good luck, Mr. Hardee,” Matt said, and shook the boy’s hand again. Then he bounded up the metal steps to the bridge.
• • •
“Cap-i-taan on the bridge!” Minnie shouted with her squeaky voice.
“As you were,” Matt said.
Spanky was waiting for him, watching through an Impie telescope. “Tikker’s Fleashooters’re goin’ for the enemy planes. Nancys are followin’ with bombs.”
“Any sign of Ben?”
“No, sir. But there wouldn’t be.”
Matt nodded. For several moments they watched the formation of thirty P-1C Mosquito Hawks off USNRS Salissa sweeping northwest toward the growing swarm of enemy planes. Even with a combined closing speed of somewhere around 450 mph, they seemed to creep toward one another. White puffs of smoke blossomed in the sky as antiaircraft batteries lit up, and some were washed in gold as beams of sunlight played across them. Dark brown puffs, almost black, joined in, probably rising from Savoie. Matt didn’t know how they’d keep from hitting their own planes. Maybe they won’t even try, he snorted. It’s been a long night for them too, and they’re bound to be on edge. But their day’s just going to get
worse and worse, if I have anything to say about it. He raised his binoculars to watch as well, noting the leading edges of the two formations were about to overlap. They’ll be shooting now, he thought, and just as he did, several enemy planes and at least two P-1s tumbled out of the sky. Some were smoking; others burning. One just fell, spinning out of control. And then, as the airborne enemies became enmeshed in a terrible embrace, he was stunned by how rapidly streams of smoke appeared, crisscrossing the sky, and aircraft started plummeting into the bay or impacting the shore with rising balls of fire. The furball—that was the only word for it—began to expand as pilots chased specific targets, their tracers, invisible from this dawn-lit distance, sawing at wings, engines, control surfaces, pilots. Greasy smears of fire erupted, drawing dark lines through the exploding shells. Most planes that caught fire fluttered apart before the fuselage, engine, and pilot hit the ground, leaving smoldering wing or tail fragments to tumble down behind them.
“Goddamn it!” Spanky grouched. “Beggin’ your pardon, Skipper, but I can’t tell what the hell’s goin’ on. Who’s winnin’? The planes look too much alike from here an’ I can’t see crap though this smoke.”
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