“There will be two more!” Lange had called. He’d gone to the other side to supervise the same effort beyond the partition. Horn had wondered how he knew, then realized the German sailor probably remembered quite a lot about the specs, if not the operation, of this class of ship. From their old war. The Grik prisoner helped push the bags forward, then joined Brassey in rolling two more into place before returning to stand by the breech. That was when Brassey realized how close he’d just been to a Grik that would’ve shredded him without thought minutes before. Lawrence had told him that older, smarter, “technical” Grik would surrender if given time to think about it. They might even cooperate. They had no idea if “combat” Grik would do so. Still, despite what Brassey told Horn earlier, this had been his first up-close experience with the phenomenon. Hands suddenly shaking, he’d used the ram to push all four bags behind the shell.
“Secure everything!” Horn had shouted, heading back to the turret officer’s booth. With a sympathetic glance back at Brassey, he added, “Undo everything we just did.” With the ram retracted and the tray folded down, their Grik slammed the breech and locked it.
“We loaded them because we’re going to use them,” Captain Stuart Brassey now shouted into the gun pit. “And they won’t keep sending ammunition if we don’t.”
Lange and even Pokey were shouting over the comm in reply to strident calls from the bridge. Becher took his hand off the Press to Talk switch. “We cannot keep this up much longer. They demand to know why we’re not firing. First I told them our gun’s crews were frightened by the blast of the number one turret and we were trying to return them to their duty. Then I told them we haven’t received any instructions from fire control. That’s when they became mistrustful.” He hesitated. “There is no central fire control for the main battery! The secondaries have their own directors, but not us. Something has happened to it, and I—whoever Herr Chartier was—would’ve known we must fire in local control! I pretended to be flustered—not difficult—and Pokey, posing as my assistant, assured them all is now in order, I think, and we’d commence firing presently, bu—” He listened to the rant over the speaker a moment more. “Fire the guns at once, Mr. Horn,” he urged. “They are suspicious and suspect Chartier of cowardice, at least. They may send a party to relieve him. If they cannot enter, they will certainly cut off our electricity, and we can do nothing more. Miss your targets, but fire the guns. Only that will give us time to do what Mr. Brassey intends. I don’t think missing will earn greater reproach than is being heaped upon the crew of the forward turret. They’re not doing well either. But they are firing. So must we.”
“Okay, damn it,” Horn said, staring through the eyepiece. “Crap. I never actually did this part before!” He turned a knob until Ellie’s magnified shape became as clear as the haze would allow; that was how the range finder worked. Far beyond her, above the coast of Africa, dark clouds still loomed, laced with lightning. The wind had shifted and he wondered if the storm would return. He shook his head and checked the numbers. He wanted to make sure they missed over. “Okay,” he said in the voice tube to the gun pit. “Range is about six thousand yards. Make your elevation . . . hell, say five degrees. Belay that! Shit, this is all in meters, I guess. What the hell’s a meter? Uh, make it four degrees. That should be plenty.” Brassey looked at him anxiously, his self-assurance flagging slightly as the gunhouse rumbled when the huge, coarse-threaded screws under each breech turned. Horn continued. “Trainer, aim to hit behind our people. If you try to miss forward, you’re liable to lead them just enough to hit!”
“Okay,” came the doubtful reply, and the gunhouse lurched to port. “Whoa,” Horn yelled, watching Ellie edge out of his vision. “Not that far. They’ll know we missed on purpose!” He sighed. “Aim right at her. We can’t hit, then.” The huge steel contraption eased right a little, still tracking slightly, the crosshairs in Horn’s periscope bisecting the distant DDs stacks. “Okay, damn it. God help us. Fire!”
With a noise like God beating the armored turret top with a hammer the size of a truck, both guns recoiled inward. Horn watched though his optics, guts twisting, as the two shells converged toward Ellie, but then she edged away and it was clear they’d fall far behind and beyond. The muzzles gushed smoke as the guns were blown out, and they lowered themselves to their reload angle. “Reload!” Brassey yelled, slamming the brass tray in place after their Grik opened the breech and jumped over to join him. Horn glanced at Lange, who gave him a strained grin and an uncharacteristic thumbs-up sign. “Now they only complain that we did not hit,” the German said. “Apparently, this turret has the most advanced range finder and should have performed better. Possibly why they were so annoyed earlier.”
“They’ll be a great deal more upset in a moment!” Brassey swore.
In less than a minute, the reload was complete, and Horn found Ellie’s range again. She’d turned toward them, becoming a smaller target. The guns elevated and turned. Then, suddenly, Horn called his Khonashi trainer to center the turret. It rotated quickly, as if to engage the frigates now exchanging a furious fire with the Grik cruisers, but Horn settled his crosshairs on the Grik battleship directly in front of them, less than five hundred yards away. “Elevation, minus one!” he called. “Right a little . . . Stand clear! Fire!”
The two huge projectiles that spat from fiery brown clouds were HE (high-explosive) rounds, not armor piercing. HE was all Contre-Amiral Laborde had expected to need. Nothing facing them had any appreciable armor, certainly not the frustratingly agile little destroyer. A direct main battery hit almost anywhere might destroy her, and even near misses would cause hull damage and flooding. The only things on the water that day that might’ve been somewhat protected against such large HE shells—at a very great distance—were the Grik battleships. At a mere five hundred yards, however, though their improved armor would turn a hundred-pound roundshot with ease, it made no difference at all when two 13.4″ shells weighing about a thousand pounds apiece and traveling close to 3,000 feet per second struck the rear casemate of the battleship, close to the weather deck that was almost awash. The entire thing blew open like a pecan hull, and the weather deck over the fantail was shoved forcibly down. Even as the sea rushed up, over, and into the gaping chasm, the forward casemate bulged outward as boilers burst and exploding magazines blew what was left all over a square mile of choppy gray sea.
Through Horn’s range-finding periscope, the explosion of the Grik BB happened practically simultaneously with the gout of gunsmoke that momentarily blinded him, and it was several moments before he saw what they’d done. They all felt it, though; the underwater pressure slamming the ship, then the pieces, some huge, began raining down. Incredulous shrieking was already rattling the speaker from the bridge, and Kapitan Leutnant Becher Lange was yelling “Je suis desole!” over and over. He looked pale and weak but was grinning like an idiot, and his apology didn’t sound very sincere.
“Reload!” Stuart Brassey yelled. “As fast as we can before they shut us off!”
They could feel the ship turning to starboard, to avoid the sinking wreck ahead, and Horn tried to get the other BB in his sights. Smoke was everywhere, and something large and jagged was lying on top of the number one turret in front of them, but the last Grik BB was still steaming, apparently unconcerned, about 1,500 yards off the port bow. He tried to keep it in the crosshairs as the turn suddenly sharpened, and for a moment it was clear. “How’s the reload coming?” he shouted. Just then, three tall waterspouts, probably 150 feet high, marched down the length of the ironclad battleship, one after another. He blinked. “Jesus!” he roared. “Ellie just put three fish in the other heavy!” The eruption of cheers was cut off by a sudden, terrible jolt that slammed those in the gunhouse against the hard, unforgiving objects around them. Horn fell away from the eyepiece and smacked his head against the back of the booth; blood streamed down his face from a split brow. The lights dimmed but came back. “I t
hink we just collected a fish or two ourselves,” Horn said muzzily, leaning forward again. He wiped blood away, but still could hardly see.
“Lords!” shouted their pet Grik. “Look! Look!” He was staring down the barrel of the gun. Brassey jumped over to join him, looked up through the right-hand spiral of rifling, and turned to face Horn. “We’re pointing directly at one of the number-one turret’s guns,” he said simply. “It must’ve trained left as we turned but stopped, for now, possibly while it’s crew recovers from whatever landed on top of them, and then jolted us.”
Horn wiped away more blood and nodded. “Then we better hurry before they shake it off.”
“We will shoot the other gun?” Lange asked, uncertain.
“Why not?” Horn looked through the range finder again, surprised he could see a little better. He was also surprised the ship was still turning as sharply as before and the shore of the peninsula was creeping into the right side of his field of view. “What the hell?” he murmured. The ram shoved a shell in the breech, then pushed four bags of powder after it. Just as their Grik slammed the breech shut, all power went out in the turret and near-total darkness descended.
“They shut us down,” Pokey said through the hatch to the other gunroom. Though still distinctive, his voice sounded amazingly human.
“And they no longer even rant at us,” Lange almost complained.
“I still shoot!” came their Grik’s triumphant shout. Just as it dawned on Horn that, like New York’s, Savoie’s primers had a backup percussion feature, the gun roared and recoiled inward with a blast louder than anything Horn ever heard, and a concussion that tossed him completely off his stool. There came another blast a few minutes later, possibly even worse, but Horn hardly noticed.
CHAPTER 25
////// USS Walker
The Grik battleship steaming a quarter mile in front of Savoie suddenly erupted like a volcano, blowing bits of itself, large and small, in all directions. To Matt, watching through his binoculars, it almost seemed as if Savoie herself . . . “Taar-git’s turnin’ to starboard!” Minnie cried.
“Bernie?” Matt called, knowing the target angle would change the torpedo solution.
“Just a few seconds, Skipper,” Bernie answered nervously. “One might still hit.”
The wait was agonizing. Walker was sprinting past Savoie now, directly astern, crossing her T at about two thousand yards. The fish weren’t much faster than she was and had farther to go; still, they should be there now. The salvo bell rang and bam! three shells converged on Savoie’s fantail. Just before they hit, two 13.4″ rifles fired back. Both projectiles splashed short and one exploded, throwing up a huge column of water. The other shell skipped and tumbled, clearly visible because of its size, regardless of how fast it came. Splash, splash, splash, the geysers got smaller, but closer—and drew a straight line at Walker. Unconsciously, Matt gripped the back of his chair. There was a terrible crash forward and the whole ship shook beneath his feet. Raaaa! Bam! Only two shells flew this time. The crew of the number one gun was scattered on the deck around it, trying to stand. “Damage report!”
“Waard-room reports, Skipper!” Minnie said, and Matt had a quick mental image of shredded wounded, and Pam Cross lying torn and bleeding on the deck. “Ever-body’s shook up,” Minnie said, to his relief, “but the shell must’a hit sideways, right at the waterline. Punched clear through both sides o’ the for-waard berthin’ spaces. We takin’ waater pretty faast.”
“Secure the watertight doors and rig pumps and hoses up through the fo’c’sle hatches.”
“Chief Jeek’s on it.”
“Left full rudder. Time to bring our starboard tubes to bear.” Matt glanced back at Savoie and saw her big guns fire again. She’d overcorrected and the shells rumbled high overhead. There was an impressive fire on her fantail now, the smoke slanting back at them, hopefully blocking the enemy’s sights. He’d already decided Savoie must be firing her main battery in local control, though he didn’t understand why. Splashes leaped up near the starboard bow, shore batteries this time. “Rudder amidships,” he called as his ship pointed right at the enemy, making her the smallest possible target. The number-one gun fired alone. “Stand by, starboard tubes!”
A tall jet of water spurted up alongside Savoie’s port quarter. An instant later, another rose high in the air almost directly under the aft flagstaff, tearing away the incongruous Rising Sun flag she flew.
“Yes!” Bernie cried. “Two hits!”
The ship was still turning and her starboard secondaries lashed at Walker. Another shell hit aft, knocking Walker’s mainmast and plane-handling boom over to crash across the starboard 25 mm mount.
“Auxiliary conn is out!” Minnie reported, “but the number-four gun’s still up.”
“Spanky?” Matt asked anxiously.
“He make the report,” Minnie assured. “He’s cut up a little. Lotsa guys are, but nobody killed.” Machine-gun fire raked the ship again, clattering off the battle shutters over the windows and the light armor they’d added to the front of the pilothouse.
“Starboard tubes?” Matt demanded.
“Ready in all respects,” Bernie reported, staring though his sights and flinching as bullet fragments and paint chips sprayed around him. “But . . . Skipper,” he shouted. “Look at Savoie!”
Matt did. “I’ll be damned,” he said. “Left standard rudder. Put us back on her tail.”
“Sir?” Paddy Rosen looked at him questioningly as he spun the wheel. There was blood on his face. A bullet had shattered the glass in front of him, through the slit in the shutter. Ensign Laar was down behind the lee helm, unmoving, and another ’Cat had taken his place, tail whipping back and forth. Later, Matt thought. I’ll think about Ensign Laar—and all the rest—when this is done. Walker’s bow came left slower than before, heavier. She was getting logy with the weight of water forward. “Savoie’s still turning,” Matt said simply. He swept his view to the white sandy beach of the peninsula, marred only by the scorched wreckage of a burned-out Grik zeppelin. “If she doesn’t pull out of it in the next couple minutes, she’ll run hard aground!” He stepped outside with Bernie, oblivious to the bullets still clattering around him, and looked through his binoculars.
“I don’t think she can turn, Skipper!” Bernie said excitedly. There was blood on his face too, from spattered lead and copper. He was lucky he hadn’t lost an eye. “I bet we jammed her rudder!”
Matt nodded. “I think you’re right,” he agreed, lowering his glasses. His eyes were hard, uncompromising. It was an expression Bernie had seen before, and always made him uneasy. “She’s going aground,” Matt said. “Nothing she can do.” He stared directly at Bernie now, his teeth bared in a feral, humorless grin. “Secure torpedoes,” he snapped. “Minnie, have Ed tell the Seven boat to belay her attack. Make sure Nat understands he’s to hold his fish! Mr. Campeti!” he shouted above at the fire-control platform. “Cease firing the main battery, but I want every machine gun on board mounted to starboard, hosing that bastard down. Concentrate on the secondary gun positions, then anything that moves. Marines’ll take small arms. Everybody but the bridge watch will take small arms!”
“Sir?” Campeti shouted back, voice confused. It also sounded unnaturally loud. That was when Matt realized the shooting had all but stopped. A great cloud of white gunsmoke and the darker smoke of burning ships roiled around the distant surface action between the Grik cruisers and Des-div 2, now joined by Ellie’s precision sniping that gutted one cruiser after another. A high, broad haze drifted away over Zanzibar from the middle of the smoldering shipyard where Chack’s Brigade had advanced, blasting its way forward with the little mountain howitzers and assisted by occasional dipping planes. But Savoie and the shore batteries had stopped shooting, and everything else was too distant to be more than a dull rumble over the wind and sea. It was like everyone was steeling themselves to watc
h the great battleship slam ashore. It was also Matt’s first real look at the big picture for a while, and for the first time he could think about something besides fighting his ship. He could consider the future.
“I want Savoie, Mr. Campeti!” Matt snarled. “We’re going to need her. And when she grounds, we’re going to take her!”
Near Nachi
“I wish they’d hurry the hell up,” Silva murmured, watching Lawrence and the Khonashi trooper move aboard the Grik cruiser tied to the dock. He was following them through the sights of Lawrence’s rifle, and Sergeant Oolak was doing the same. “They’ve singled up lines, fixin’ to get underway, an’ our guys’re just sankoin’ along. They need to quit walkin’ so slow, actin’ like they got nothin’ to do. Sure as shit, somebody’ll try to give ’em a chore. Then where’ll they be? An’ that Jap officer just went up the gangway. I bet he’s the skipper.”
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