Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

  Ben looked at Alan and Adar. “If all my P-Forties are going, I’m going too,” he stated forcefully.

  Alan shrugged, expression troubled. “I’ll update the movement order and start the wheels rolling to increase the planned support.”

  Silva eased over and whispered in Bernie’s ear. “Sounds like the whole damn war’s headin’ west for now. Any chance I can slip outta my little campin’ trip?”

  Bernie shook his head. “If I have to stay here, you still have to follow your orders too. The Skipper’s orders.”

  “Okay,” Dennis agreed, nodding at Herring. “But you keep an eye on that guy. Mr. Letts stood up to him, but I think he’s a little brass-blind, if you know what I mean. I ain’t famous for my noodle, but I’ve seen a ambitious politician or two on the stump and in the Navy both.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Eastern reaches of the Fil-pin Sea

  Three days out of Respite

  March 16, 1944

  The honeymoon was over-in every respect. USS Walker, DD-163, was steaming at twenty-five knots on all three remaining boilers beneath puffy clouds and a dazzling sun. The sea was mild and there would be little breeze if not for the ship’s speed, which kept the temperature bearable, at least above deck. Tabby had reported that it was nearing 130 degrees in the firerooms, and Matt had no idea how the furry cats could stand it. They took frequent breaks, drank a lot of water, and shed a lot, of course. Spanky’s allergies wouldn’t even allow him to go down there right now.

  Matt sat in his chair, trying not to brood. His time with Sandra had been amazing, and his heart still quickened at the thought of her. He hadn’t believed it was possible to feel such joy, even now while he tried to hide it, and his memories of the time they’d had were still glowing fresh. But then upon returning to the ship, he’d finally been briefed on all he’d missed. The crew, his officers, his friends had all conspired to keep him ignorant of the various developments; the battles in India, the situation in the east, even the attacks on Princess Rebecca and her family. It was still unknown if Rebecca was an orphan or not. A few survivors had been found in the rubble of the directors’ building, but hope was beginning to wane. And all that time, while all those momentous events were unfolding, he’d remained blissfully unaware.

  He’d actually ranted when he heard. He felt guilty that he’d been so happy while everything everywhere seemed to be falling apart, and he took it out on Spanky and the Bosun more than anyone. They’d been most responsible for keeping him informed, and they’d consciously decided not to. He trusted the people on the scene, but he was profoundly frustrated that he and his ship were so remote from everything that had occurred, thousands of miles from anywhere they could have been of assistance to anyone. That was bad enough. But by keeping him incommunicado, he hadn’t been involved at all! Spanky had assured him that if anything had come up that really needed his input or permission, he would have been told, but that didn’t make him feel any better-or better inclined toward the conspirators.

  Spanky had been somewhat contrite but defiant that he’d done the right thing. Matt had needed a real “liberty” more than anyone on the ship, he’d argued, particularly under the circumstances. And what could he, or any of them, have really done? Walker couldn’t go anywhere until her stopgap repairs were complete. She damn sure couldn’t tangle with Hidoiame until then! She needed the rest at least as much as her skipper. Even now, neither, in his view, was in top shape. Walker still needed a real yard and a dry dock. The snipes were back to using “baling wire and gum” to keep her at twenty-five knots!

  Chief Gray had listened to the harangue in silence, then finally shrugged.

  “So, bust me back to third class,” he’d growled defiantly. “Wouldn’t be the first time, and maybe I’d have more to do. Boats Bashear’s shaping into a good chief bosun, and mostly I just twiddle my thumbs.”

  Matt rounded on him then and promptly made him the assistant damage control officer. Damage control was the first officer’s job, but in addition to his other duties, Norm was so busy teaching navigation to the ’Cat QMs (and anyone else who cared to sit in on the arguably heretical-to some-sessions), that he’d been stretched by teaching and running the essential damage-control drills. If anybody knew every aspect of damage control, Chief Gray did.

  Matt felt a little better now, sitting in his chair and sipping Juan’s monkey joe, but he couldn’t help brooding over the fact that he-and Walker — were vast, unsympathetic oceans away from anywhere he wished they were. The one consolation was that Walker was finally racing inexorably closer to one place she needed to be, however. Nancys from PatWing 7, newly stationed at Yokohama, had confirmed both Hidoiame and her tanker were on the move at last, apparently searching for a new nest, as they’d predicted. They’d been seen by the light of last night’s moon and their wildly phosphorescent wakes, steaming at about eight knots south-southwest toward the Korea Strait. Phosphorescent wakes, caused by blooming plankton and other tiny creatures, were not new to Matt’s human destroyermen, even if the brilliantly vivid and varying colors on this world were. Lemurians were familiar with the occasional and somewhat regional phenomenon as well, but they’d only recently seen the intensity evoked by the higher speeds and churning screws of modern ships, particularly from the air. The wakes made the enemy easy to spot, and the diminishing, miles-long trails led almost magically to the ships that left them. Such a small, unexpected bonus now gave Matt a huge advantage over Hidoiame, at least at night, and he hoped the enemy hadn’t recognized it.

  He suspected that the murderers would avoid the Fil-pin Lands, knowing by now they had enemies there. That left a possible run across the Yellow Sea, maybe to Tsingtao or somewhere in that vicinity, but Matt doubted it. A run down the coast of China would put them briefly closer to the Fil-pin Lands, but ultimately beyond what they must think was the center of activity for these new enemies of theirs. They couldn’t have any idea of the true scope of the Alliance… could they?

  Hidoiame ’s tanker was the key. If she limited the Japanese destroyer to eight knots, Matt could drive Walker at her best possible, groaning speed, and refuel at Chinakru’s Samaar, where he also expected Saan-Kakja to have another Nancy available for him. With his own scout plane, and those provided by the patrol wings on Formosa and in the Fil-pin-Lands, he hoped to catch Hidoiame in the vicinity of the Formosa Strait.

  “Permission to come on the bridge?” came a very welcome voice behind him. Sandra had never asked permission before, but things were… different now.

  “Um, sure,” said Chief Quartermaster Patrick “Paddy” Rosen, with a quick glance at Captain Reddy. He had the deck and the conn. “I mean, permission granted.” The redheaded kid had been S-19’s quartermaster and had assumed the chief’s spot on Walker when Norm became first lieutenant. He was a good navigator, and nearly as good a teacher as Norm.

  Matt turned and smiled. Sandra couldn’t help but brighten his mood. He raised an eyebrow when he saw Diania had followed her on the bridge and was walking as carefully and fearfully as if there were molten lava between the wooden strakes beneath her feet. The girl was listed as a carpenter’s mate, but she was still more Sandra’s stewardess than anything. She was learning to fight too. Chack had taught her a lot before he left the ship, and Stites and, increasingly, Gray were teaching her how to shoot. To Matt’s amazement, Gray had already suggested that Diania be included in the Captain’s Guard, so she could learn the ropes and be prepared to serve in an equivalent capacity for “Mrs. Minister” Sandra Reddy, or “Lady Sandra,” as the Imperials called her. Even among Matt’s human destroyermen, that title seemed to be gaining steam. He shook his head.

  “Sandra,” he said. “Miss Diania. Welcome to the bridge. Sandra, you’ll retain all the privileges you enjoyed… previously,” he assured her, “and are always welcome on the bridge except when you’re at your battle station. Miss Diania, you may accompany her. You”-he sighed-“may eventually even find yourself on the bridge-watch bill.
In the meantime, you’re welcome to look around, but please don’t touch anything or distract anyone.” Matt knew the last warning would be tough for her to avoid. She was a beauty, and Paddy couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her.

  “What have you got there, Captain?” Sandra asked, gesturing at the clipboard in his hand.

  “Well, the watch bill, for one thing.” He flipped the page. “This is another message from Baalkpan, via Maa-ni-la.” He scanned down it. “There’s some good news on top of the bad. Adar’s Torpedo Day bash went off pretty well. Ben didn’t crash any of his new pursuit planes into anything, and most of the small arms seemed to work okay. The torpedoes still need work, but they did work. Sort of.” He grinned. “On that note, Mahan still has two salvageable torpedo mounts, and she may even get four eventually. Lots of work still to do on her.” He raised his eyebrows and blinked. “I still can’t believe they raised the old girl, and we might get her back. She won’t look the same, they say, but that doesn’t matter as long as she’s back in the war!” He chuckled. “Speaking of not looking the same, Irvin’s finally settled on what to do with S-Nineteen. He means to keep her gun and bow tubes but gut everything else that makes her a sub. The conversion will take a while, but the increase in buoyancy and freeboard, as well as the extreme decrease in weight, should make her a lot quicker on her feet. No telling how she’ll handle-she’s liable to roll her guts out-but she ought to be at least as good a torpedo boat as anything we had in the Great War, with a lot longer legs.”

  “It sounds like Mahan and S-Nineteen are counting an awful lot on Bernie’s torpedoes,” Sandra observed.

  “Yeah, but Bernie’ll come through,” Matt agreed with certainty. Then he frowned. “I’m still not sure what to think of this Herring guy. I agreed with Alan and Adar that it was high time we had some snoops, and we need somebody who knows how to gather and compile intelligence on our enemies.” He shrugged. “Lord knows we haven’t done a good job at that. We probably already have a lot more information than we know what to do with, or how to apply. We need somebody to analyze it all.” He grunted. “He’s even already come up with some pretty good ideas. Sending Greg Garrett off exploring in Donaghey is brilliant, and I should have thought of that. Apparently even the Grik are starting to go to steam-I don’t like the sound of those big ships of theirs! — and Donaghey ’s days in a battle line are probably done. On the other hand, even though Greg’s the perfect choice to lead the expedition, he’s too damn good to lose! That kid ought to be an admiral!”

  “I know you’re close to Greg,” Sandra began.

  “I’m close to all my people,” Matt said sternly.

  “Of course. But you are a little closer to him.”

  Matt sighed. “Maybe so. He reminds me a little of myself at his age, I guess-not that I’d accomplished nearly as much as he has by then! I just… It’s an awful big world out there, and we still don’t know what might be over the very next hill!”

  Sandra looked at him. “Tell me the truth. If you were in his position and got an assignment like his, how would you feel?”

  “Ha! Thrilled, I guess.”

  “There you are. Now, what else about this Commander Herring bothers you?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t met him, and that’s part of it, I guess. Also, if you read Alan between the lines, I get the feeling he thinks Herring already has too much influence with Adar. Even that wouldn’t bother me too much if Saan-Kakja hadn’t tacked on that she doesn’t trust the ‘arrogant and rude’ Mr. Herring when they retransmitted from Maa-ni-la.”

  Sandra chuckled. “For us and Adar to receive! I do dearly love Saan-Kakja, though you may have created a monster when you helped break her out of her shell!”

  “She and Princess Rebecca are two of a kind, only one doesn’t have a tail!” Matt agreed. “About the same age, fearless, honest, and very quick to anger…” He paused. “God, I hope Governor-Emperor McDonald and his wife, Ruth, are all right! I think Courtney, Sean, and our forces in the New Britain Isles will help keep things together if… they’re not. But if Princess Rebecca winds up on top, a lot of heads will roll, and she may not be too particular whose they are!”

  “Courtney won’t let her become a monster,” Sandra said with conviction. “And don’t forget: something else Saan-Kakja and Princess Rebecca have in common is their devotion to you.”

  Matt shifted uncomfortably. “Well, the point is,” he said, skipping Sandra’s observation, “that Saan-Kakja thinks Herring’s a jerk. Alan doesn’t come right out and say it, but he does too.” He rubbed his nose, broken in the Battle of Baalkpan. “You know, we’ve always gotten along with the ’Cats, right from the start. Sure, we had differences-still do-but nothing we weren’t both willing to try to overcome. We’re more like them now, and they’re more like us-but we had a lot in common to start with… and it makes me wonder.”

  “What?”

  “Well, we both saw it before the war back home. There were a lot of different navies within the United States Navy that didn’t even think the same way. The rivalry, the different cultures, of the deck apes and snipes are just the tiniest example. Destroyermen might almost be a different species from submariners, and the battleship boys are something else.” He rolled his eyes. “Then you’ve got the tenders and oilers! It… was like different tribes! To make it even more confusing, crews attached to the different fleets for a while were different too. I had to make some big adjustments when I came from the Pacific Fleet to the Asiatic Fleet, and it took me a while. The Pacific Fleet was always more spit and polish, with newer ships and better gear.” He shrugged. “Maybe it was even more professional in some ways, but the guys in the Asiatic Fleet did what they could with what they had, and the Philippines felt more like home than home did, to some. They were more laid-back, more tolerant, I guess, and more used to people who didn’t look and act like ‘us.’ I’ve always believed that’s why we hit it off so well with the ’Cats, and I’m not so sure a ship from the Pacific Fleet, even another destroyer, would’ve had it so easy”-he snorted-“in that respect, at least.”

  “I think I understand where you’re headed,” Sandra said thoughtfully. “Herring’s not Asiatic Fleet. He’s not even a fleet officer. On top of that, he’s very recently suffered terrible mistreatment from the Japanese-people who are ‘different.’ Do you think that’s why he rubbed Saan-Kakja the wrong way? Just his attitude?”

  “I hope so. Like Letts said, Adar seems to trust him, and Adar’s a good judge of character, I think…”

  “But?”

  “But,” Matt agreed, “he’s also-understandably-obsessed with exterminating the Grik, and with things heating up in the west, he might lose some of his objectivity.” Matt shook his head as if to clear it. “I trust Adar’s judgment,” he repeated, “but I also trust Saan-Kakja’s instincts. She’s been stampeded before and knows what it feels like.” He smiled at his wife. “I guess we’ll see when we get there.”

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie said behind them. “Lookout says ‘pleezy-sores bearing seero tree seero, relaa-tive! Two t’ousand yaards! Many pleezy-sores!’”

  Matt left his chair and stepped out on the starboard bridgewing, raising his binoculars. “Wow,” he muttered. “What a pack!” It looked like hundreds of the things were swimming along, blowing on the calm surface of the sea. Their backs rising and falling like whales. He handed the binoculars to Sandra. “I’ve never seen so many before.”

  “What are they doing?” Sandra asked, adjusting the glasses. Then she saw. “Why, they’re like dolphins!” she exclaimed. “Maybe they’re not leaping at our bow, but they do seem to be pacing us from a distance!”

  “Better they stay at a distance! They’re a lot bigger than dolphins,” Paddy said.

  “What’re daw-fins, if ye please?” Diania asked hesitantly.

  “Cap-i-taan,” Minnie said. “Lieutenant Campeti requests permission to test the new ordnance again, an’ shoot at them devils.”

  Matt shook his h
ead. “Permission denied. I thought he was happy with what he learned last night against that mountain fish?” The new shells worked much better than they’d expected, almost perfectly tuned to the gun director-as a distant mountain fish discovered to its mortal confusion under the light of a bright, clear moon. The trajectories were good and consistent and the tracers worked-even if the color was a little off. The explosive force was better as well, even though the bursting charge was the same. They were simply better projectiles in all respects than anything they’d had since they ran out of those they’d brought to this world.

  “No,” Matt confirmed. “If those things keep their distance, we’ll leave ’em alone.” He took a deep breath. “No sense wasting ammunition we might need very badly soon.”

  Spanky climbed the skeletal iron stairs to the upper-level catwalk in the aft fireroom. Heat shimmered off the top of the massive, roaring number three boiler. It was absolute hell here in the highest reaches of the fireroom where, contrary to physics, the heat seemed almost to compress itself into a physical, oppressive presence. He wore a bandanna over his mouth and nose to protect him from the ’Cat fuzz that hung in the space like a fog, but it was already soaked with sweat and plastered to his face. His eyes watered, and seemed to float in little pools of salty, caustic acid.

  “There you are!” he hollered over the thundering boiler and the blower that forced air into the contained inferno. Tabby shot a grinning, sopping glance at him before returning her attention to a pair of ’Cats wielding a massive wrench.

  “Hi, Spaanky,” she shouted over her shoulder, intent on the work she was supervising.