“They caatch us!” one hissed back, blinking something Sandra hadn’t seen before. These were the first Shee-Ree she’d ever met and she didn’t know anything about them.
“We’ll be killed if we stay here,” she said simply. “We have to find Chief Silva and tell him where Kurokawa is. My guess? He’ll see us before we see him, and we won’t be in sight for long.”
All three Shee-Ree nodded solemnly. “You right at thaat,” one said. “See-vaa see ever-teen, wit’ ony one eye! We go!”
Sandra was surprised by the quick change of heart and wondered what Silva had done to make these strange ’Cats trust him so much. “Fine,” she said. “Just one last thing. See that man out there?” She pointed at the Italian major. “We need to catch him first.”
Together, they squirmed through the fallen, blackened timbers, smearing charcoal all over themselves, until they emerged behind the building. It was deserted there, with nothing but jungle beyond. Big wooden cranes and other repair facilities, still undamaged, stood beside the ruined structure, and they gathered behind a great, cold boiler. Two ’Cats immediately bolted. “Wait!” Sandra called after them. The one that remained held her back. “You say ‘caatch ’eem.’ They caatch ’eem,” he said reasonably. “Us stay here. See-vaa skin us, you lay-dees hurt. He make us into furry haats!” The ’Cat shook his head. “Not waana be haat!” Even as he explained, to Sandra’s amazement, Maggiore Rizzo appeared around the boiler, pushed by the muzzles of two Blitzerbugs. Diania whipped out a bayonet and crouched, even as Rizzo’s perplexed expression turned to one of relief at the sight of them.
“Dear Signora Reddy! Signorina Diania!” he exclaimed over the sound of an explosion uncomfortably close to where they’d been hiding. “I’m so glad to see you both safe!”
“Why? So you can bargain for your life?” Sandra demanded harshly.
“Of course not! As always, I merely suggest reasons to others not to harm you.” He gestured around. “A most exciting day, and somewhat perilous, I admit. But I have my own plan to remove myself. I need not, nor would I ever, endanger you to that purpose.”
“Sure,” Sandra snorted. “So, you’re about to run? Not so fast.”
Rizzo spread his hands at his sides. “This is not my war, Signora, and I do not want to die.”
“It is your war!” Sandra growled. “You and that bastard Gravois helped make it what it’s become.” She nodded at the ’Cats behind him, and one roughly snatched his hands together while another bound them behind his back. “You’re my prisoner now, Maggiore, and you’re going to sing like a canary about your damned League when this is over. For now, if you make a peep”—she nodded at Diania—“I’ll let her gut you.”
“So dramatic,” Rizzo objected. “As I said, I’m neutral here. You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Sure. And those modern planes we saw were neutral too. Somebody shut him up.” Ruffy quickly made a gag and thrust it in Rizzo’s mouth, tying it around his head with a bandanna.
Lawrence suddenly appeared, followed by two Khonashi, who tried to herd them into a tighter circle behind the boiler. “Us seen you!” Lawrence snapped at Sandra, the first time he’d ever spoken harshly to her. “Others could. You su’osed to stay hidden!”
“We can’t,” Sandra retorted, waving at the ruins. They’d caught fire again. “Besides”—she glanced at Rizzo—“we have information Chief Silva needs.”
“Okay,” Lawrence agreed doubtfully. “Let’s go, try to locate he. I don’t know at, though.” He shook his head disapprovingly. “He’s al’ays running around on his own. Rags La’rence, I do it! Asshole!”
“Take us to Kurokawa’s compound,” Sandra ordered. “That’s probably where Silva and the others are, anyway. You’ll pretend to be our guards.”
“Are your guards,” Lawrence reminded forcefully. “I ask you hard to do as I say!” Sandra was amazed that someone as fearsome-looking as Lawrence, with all his razor-sharp teeth, could look so vulnerable.
“We will,” she assured, then looked at Rizzo. “And if he causes any trouble, feel free to tear his throat out.”
CHAPTER 24
////// USS Walker
“They goin’ out!” Minnie cried, holding her earphones so they wouldn’t fall down. Her helmet made it hard to keep them in place. Matt looked at her. “Lookout in the crow’s nest says the Grik cruisers are paassin’ the point, headin’ troo the channel. Grik BBs are followin’ ’em out, with Saavoie bringin’ up the rear. Mr. Paal-mer says the Naancys’ve dropped all their bombs an’ Keje’s recalled ’em to Big Sal. They’ll rearm for strikes against the Grik fleet or to support Chack’s Brigade, as directed.”
“Very well,” Matt said. “If the fighters have the fuel, ask them to do a sweep around Ellie and the DDs to the west, for enemy torpedo bombers. But I think Big Sal and Tara need their protection more. I want rearmed Nancys at Chack’s disposal for close air support.” Matt almost wished he had some of the big Clippers, armed with torpedoes, but to use them against Savoie in daylight would be suicide. They’d all gone back to Mahe after the night raid, to linger until they knew whether they’d be needed again tonight. If they were, it would probably mean the plan had failed and saving Chack’s Brigade was all that remained. “Tell Ed to send ‘well done,’” he added, hoping it had been. They’d lost an awful lot of planes and the 3rd Pursuit, and their precious P-40s were used up. Ben and Shirley had survived their landing on the Grik airstrip, but there was no word about their planes. At least Kurokawa’s air force seems out of the fight, he thought. But was the Nancy attack worth the price? He straightened his shoulders. It kept the enemy occupied and their attention away from us. Now it’s up to Walker—and me—to make sure it was worth it, he realized.
He looked at Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen, who, as usual before a fight, had taken his place at the big brass wheel. His helmet was tilted back and sweaty red hair poked over his freckled forehead. Ensign Laar-Baa-Ra, a gray-and-brown-striped Lemurian, stood behind the lee helm, ready to transmit engine orders below. He was still training to become a bridge officer in addition to being a pilot for the ship’s Nancy. With the plane gone, he had nothing else to do. The pilothouse was fairly crowded, mostly by Lemurians, of course, but Commander Bernard Sandison was working on the port bridgewing, checking the torpedo director with his assistants.
’Catfish, Matt suddenly thought, amused. Bernie’s torpedomen are mostly ’Cats now. Torpedo-’Cats, fish-’Cats: ’Catfish. Like Silva, he often came up with nicknames in his mind but rarely voiced them, letting such things originate elsewhere. He might have to mention that one, though. He raised his binoculars again. Through patches of lighter smoke, he saw the Grik column steaming through the channel. Perry Brister was out there in USS James Ellis, with Walker’s number painted on her bow. He’d support the sail-steam DDs they’d raked up, then stand away, inviting the heavies to go for him. And Matt expected Perry had hoisted Ellie’s big Stars and Stripes battle flag on the foremast. Just another little barb to goad the enemy on. “Stand by,” Matt said, glancing at Ensign Laan and Paddy Rosen. “Try to keep us in the smoke of the burning carrier as long as you can, but don’t take us close enough to blister the paint. Besides, the damn thing’s liable to blow up.” He glanced at the sky, the leaning columns of smoke, the bandannas around the faces of the number-one gun crew. “The wind’s come around out of the west, northwest. The smoke should hide us long enough. Bernie?” he asked, looking at Sandison.
“The Seven boat’s torpedo reloads are complete. We tossed the other six fish over the side.” They’d hoped to reload three more boats, but as far as they could tell, only Nat’s Seven boat survived the PT attack. “Our fish are primed and ready in all respects, Skipper.”
“Good. Train the tubes out thirty degrees. I’ll give you straight shots if I can, but we might have to rely on internal guidance and shoot from the hip.”
&
nbsp; “It’ll be fine, Skipper,” Bernie assured confidently. “These new fish work. They’ll go where we tell ’em.” He grinned. “It’s so nice to have torpedoes we can count on, short legs or not!”
Matt grinned back as much at Bernie’s enthusiasm as anything. “Okay. Minnie, pass the word to the Seven boat to shove off. Mr. Hardee will follow in our wake.” When the confirmation returned that the Seven boat was clear, Matt sighed and clasped his hands behind him, willing his nerves to obey. “Here we go. All ahead one-third, Mr. Laan. Sound general quarters,” he added to Imperial Marine Corporal Neely, without looking at him. “And then run up our own battle flag, if you please.”
“Ay, ay, sur,” Laan replied, ringing up the engine-room repeater. “All ahead one-third.” Neely raised his bugle to his lips and turned the switch on the aft bulkhead to the shipwide circuit. It was possible, even likely, the Grik in the nearby shipyard aft of the drifting, burning carrier heard the piercing notes of Neely’s bugle, amplified around the ship. Many might’ve seen her for the first time then, as she surged away from the jungle-shrouded shore and gathered speed. A few of the shore batteries might’ve engaged her, but likely by the time their crews realized what she was and tried to bring their guns to bear, she was already plowing into the denser smoke of the burning ship. Even if they had wireless contact with their ships or Kurokawa’s headquarters, there’d be no time for a warning to be acted upon. Juan Marcos clomped up the stars aft, and in a ritual they’d repeated more times than either could remember, buckled Matt’s sword and pistol belt around his waist, then exchanged his hat for a helmet.
• • •
“Goddamn it!” Earl Lanier roared when the distinctive bugle call blared from the loudspeaker on the bulkhead. The cook’s voice was thunderous in the otherwise empty aft crew’s head. “Goddamn bugles. Goddamn war. Goddamn shitty flour they make me cook with! I stay bound up tighter’n a rubber on a jackass half the time, an’ whenever I finally settle down for a nice, satisfyin’ shit, somebody always decides to throw a goddamn battle!” He was acutely conscious of the fact many of the hands considered the head his “battle station” because, somehow, battles always seemed to catch him there. Not my fault, he brooded. My guts is sensitive. And the strangely pumpkin-flavored flour the Lemurians provided seemed to clog him up worse than anything. He tried frying everything he used it with, hoping honest grease would . . . smooth the process, but though that seemed to help, the crew complained and said he’d fry ice cubes from the freezer if he could get away with it. Chances were, he would. But the perception that he went to the head to escape danger actually stung. I ain’t afraid o’ nothin’! An’ it ain’t like it’s safe here. These thin walls wouldn’t stop a shell or bullet or anything much heavier than a spitwad. The overhead’s maybe a tad thicker, to support the number-four gun, but it damn sure won’t stop a bomb. I’m cursed, he thought bleakly as he quickly finished and drew his cavernous, greasy trousers up and buckled his belt over his expansive gut. A victim o’ circumstance . . . an’ not enough fried fish, he decided.
It never occurred to him that he was truly a victim of his abrasive tyranny over his division—and a certain peg-legged Filipino. One of the most closely guarded secrets in the entire Alliance was the tasteless laxative powder Juan Marcos hoarded, acquired in Baalkpan, and supplied to Lanier’s long-suffering assistants and mess attendants. Driven to distraction by Lanier’s petty nagging, complaints, and extra work details, the only justice they could enjoy—short of murder—was the occasional “doctoring” of his food to aggravate his condition. And they didn’t want to murder him; they didn’t even hate him. He was what he was. So they used the powder and kept mum.
“Gaad,” he said, choking on smoke as he stepped outside. ’Cats in the 25 mm gun tubs on either side of the empty Nancy catapult stared as he raised the bottom of his filthy T-shirt over his face to filter the smoke. His huge, hairy belly was marred by a crooked tattoo with some very respectable scars running through it. The tattoo was no longer identifiable; the scars saw to that. They also prove I’m no coward, he thought, glaring back at the inscrutable ’Cat eyes, blinking nothing and peering over bandannas that hid their noses and mouths.
“Look, fellaas,” one ’Cat yowled—it was impossible to tell which, with their faces covered. “This fight’s already over. Earl’s outa the head!”
“Yeah? The hell with you!” Earl snapped. “You come for a battle sammitch, just think o’ me usin’ your bread to wipe my ass!” Fuming, he stalked past the searchlight tower and between the new quad-tube torpedo mounts, their crews already turning the big wheels that trained them out over the side. Spanky went by at a jog, heading for the auxiliary conn aft. He saw Lanier but didn’t stop. He only rolled his eyes and shook his head. Earl made a gesture at his back but continued on, passing the number four funnel and looking up at the gun’s crews on the deck above his galley. They were training out as well, probably reporting to Sonny Campeti on the fire-control platform over the bridge that the number-two and -three guns were “maaned an’ ready.” He looked to port before stepping under the open end of the galley deckhouse. The big Jap/Grik carrier was lying almost on its side, flames shooting up through collapsing sections, close enough, it seemed, to blister his flesh with the searing heat. A huddle of Grik clutched the sloping flight deck aft, trying to keep from sliding into the terrible sea. Others dangled lifelessly over the rails of the conn tower, or “island.” They’d all probably cooked or suffocated. “Serves ’em right,” he mumbled, but the image stuck in his mind. Back home, if your ship’s done, you can always jump in the water. You take your chances with drowning and sharks, but there’s a chance. Here, if you can’t get in a boat or raft, you might as well cook or choke. The water might be a quicker death, but nobody wants to get ate. In the shadow of the deckhouse, his eyes settled on a large, red rectangular object that shouldn’t be there: his beloved Coke machine.
“What the hell’s that doin’ here! It should’a been struck down below!” he bellowed. Two ’Cat heads popped out of the galley over the battered stainless-steel counter.
“Aaaw, c’mon, Earl!” one said. “Is busted agaan, anyway. Even when it’s runnin’, you don’t put nothin’ in it! Why you keep it for?”
Earl summoned his resources to continue his rant, but stopped. Then he removed his filthy hat and scratched his head. “You know? Damned if I know. I used to, but not anymore.” He shrugged. “The hell with it. Leave it. Let it take its chances with the rest of us.” The two ’Cats looked at each other, their pose and rapid blinking so hilarious that he laughed out loud. Just then, they heard the deep roar of mighty guns. Of the three, only Earl had ever heard anything so big go off. He quickly waddled into the galley, snatched a sandwich, and stuck it in his mouth. “Savoie’s opened up, fellas,” he mumbled around it. “C’mon, we got work to do.” He nodded at the platter of sandwiches for the crew. “Not near enough there. Let’s get stackin’.”
USS James Ellis
“Savoie has opened fire!” announced Lieutenant Jeff Brooks. Ordinarily Ellie’s sound man, he’d relieved the bridge talker so he could see what was going on for a change. He wouldn’t be able to hear anything underwater for a while, in any event.
“Hard not to see it,” replied Commander Perry Brister in his rough, scratchy voice, raised over the roaring blower, shooshing sea, and the wind whipping in from the bridgewings, as his ship sprinted at thirty-two knots. He still looked like a kid, but ever since the Battle of Baalkpan he’d sounded like a seventy-year-old chain smoker. Two huge splashes spewed skyward back near the ten DDs and AVDs of Des-Rons 6 and 10, currently steaming in line of battle as Des-div 2, under Captain—acting Commodore—Jarrik-Fas in USS Tassat. Two more fell in the same general area but were surprisingly haphazard, and it seemed as if only one of Savoie’s turrets was firing. Perry wondered why. Ellie was racing down to lay a smoke screen between Des-div 2 and the equal number of armored Grik cruisers making for th
em.
Ellie was out of range of the Grik, but everything Savoie had could reach her. The first two salvos, though wild, missed long, and her secondaries would soon come to bear. Ellie could hit back, but probably couldn’t hurt her. All she had that might do that were eight torpedoes, and they were for the Grik BBs. Hopefully Walker would take care of Savoie. For now, Ellie could at least try to hide Des-div 2 from the heavies until the battle lines embraced, and maybe she could do a little more. “Tell Mr. Stites to commence firing the main battery to port, targeting the cruisers,” he rasped. “We’ll start with the first and work our way back. A salvo of AP into each. Let’s try to beat ’em all up a little before we turn ’em over to Commodore Jarrik.”
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