Iron Gray Sea d-7

by Taylor Anderson

  Kurokawa did care about the loss of many of his towed zeppelins, armed with Muriname’s special bombs, and he’d released them immediately-to make for the concealed aerodromes where Muriname himself had begun hoarding airships after his own arrival two weeks before. Sadly, there had not yet been enough of the special bombs completed for Muriname to bring more than a few at the time, and none had been sent since. Kurokawa had been bringing more himself and there was no way to know how many of the towed zeppelins survived. Hopefully, the enemy had been too focused on destroying the transports to chase fleeing airships, but he had to assume most were destroyed. The “specials” might now lack the punch of numbers he’d hoped for, but maybe there would be enough-and it was still possible he wouldn’t need them.

  What annoyed Kurokawa most were the losses of cruisers and battleships his fleet had endured-many before it ever came in contact with the enemy! The capital ships of his invincible fleet, ships that had taken almost two years to build, had dropped like flies before ever firing a shot. He’d been faced with the fact that regardless of how well constructed and mighty his navy was, his engines, all of them, were kuso. They were simply too crude and inefficient for reliable service-and, of course, when the machinery didn’t fail, the Grik engineers did. He had a sprinkling of Japanese engineers in his battleships, but even they were plagued by breakdowns. For once, no suspicion of treachery entered his mind; he felt secure that all his engineers were dedicated to him and the parts of his mission he’d revealed to them, but if the fundamental design of his engines wasn’t at fault, then shoddy, crude construction was to blame.

  He’d started with fifty Azuma — class cruisers and a dozen ArataAmagi- class battleships, but he’d lost half his battleships and almost thirty cruisers just getting here! Many of the damaged cruisers would be along eventually or make it home under sail power. His helpless battleships didn’t have that capability, however, and he’d been forced to send operational cruisers to take them under tow. Some would be repaired and would rejoin the fleet, but he smoldered. He’d taken consolation in the fact that he still had twenty-three cruisers and six battleships to destroy the enemy. More than enough, he’d thought.

  All his ships were lumbering, gawky-looking things, to his sensibilities, but they could all strain to accomplish ten knots and carried heavy batteries. The cruisers were virtual copies of Japan’s very first French-built ironclad ram, Kotetsu/Azuma. Designed to use sail and steam, and powered by double expansion engines, they’d taken almost as much effort-if not materials-to build as his battleships. He’d hoped their hundred-pounder smoothbores would make short work of the powerful American frigates.

  His battleships were his pride and joy, and resembled nothing more than monstrous, eight-hundred-foot, four-stack versions of one of the first ironclad warships that fought in the American Civil War. He couldn’t remember which side it was on-it was the one without a turret-but that didn’t matter, and the irony was amusing. His own ArataAmagi was the flagship, and all the others were essentially identical. ArataAmagi had an eighty-foot beam, two engines, and four boiler rooms. She mounted a four-hundred-foot sloping casemate amidships that protected 32 hundred-pounder guns behind three feet of hard, laminated timber and six inches of armor plate. Kurokawa would have preferred more armor, but when he first learned about the enemy aircraft, he’d been forced to add more sloping plates atop the originally flat upper deck, fo’c’sle, and fantail to protect against falling bombs. The ships were already somewhat top-heavy. He was glad he’d taken those precautions now, and they had worked to some degree. The overhead protection he’d added to his battleships kept bombs off exposed wooden decks, and the small, high-angle cannons loaded with grapeshot had accounted for a number of attacking aircraft. But the enemy had recognized the momentary vulnerability their use revealed and had managed to set barely containable fires in the upper casemates of two of his battleships. Much as he hated not being able to fight back, he’d been forced to order that his only air defenses not be used again.

  Still, the enemy could have nothing that would pierce his armor or they’d have used it already, and he’d steamed ahead, confident of victory.

  Unfortunately, so far, the enemy had not obliged him with a meeting engagement. Their air attacks were almost constant-so he knew he had to be close to their fleet-but it remained tantalizingly out of reach. He had to find it soon or retire to refuel-which would show enemy scouts where his primary coaling depot had been established on the west coast of India! Worse, his cruisers had proven sadly vulnerable to bombs from above, and he was down to nine fire-scorched survivors.

  Pacing back and forth in the heavily armored pilothouse of ArataAmagi, Kurokawa fumed. As before, with his old beloved Amagi, he had all the power in the world but was frustratingly unable to bring it to bear! He considered sending the cruisers away. They were fine ships for what they were designed to do (if one forgave the engines), and at this rate, they would all be destroyed sooner or later. Bachiatari aircraft! Nothing had really scratched his battleships, despite countless bombs hurled at them, and they could easily handle the enemy fleet alone-if they could catch it… He stopped pacing and stared ahead through the viewing slits in the armor. Or threaten something it has to protect!

  “Captain Akera,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. Akera had been a lowly ensign on Amagi, but came highly recommended, and he was loyal. All Kurokawa’s battleship commanders were Japanese, as were most of their officers.

  “Yes, General of the Sea?” Akera replied nervously.

  “We cannot continue like this,” Kurokawa said flatly. “We haven’t the fuel to chase the enemy forever when we don’t even know where he is! Our… reports…” He glanced around. Even though there were no Grik on the bridge, he was still hesitant to discuss radio or the wireless set and operators that Niwa had been given when Muriname arrived in India. “Our reports indicate that the enemy has established his base of operations at Madras. Do we have the fuel to achieve that port?”

  Akera considered. “To steam entirely around Ceylon and that far north… we would not make it back to our own coaling station.”

  “But we could make it to Madras?”

  “I believe so… but then what would we do?”

  Kurokawa ignored the impertinent question and smiled. “There is plenty of coal at Madras,” he assured Akera. “It was the primary export there, after all. Looking back, I do wish we had chosen oil to begin with, like the Americans, since the Grik possess such vast reserves of it, but when we refitted Amagi at Colombo, coal was all that was available. Now most of our coal reserves are under enemy control! We shall take it back!” He paused, peeking through the viewing slits. “We are not under attack at the moment. Rig the signal staff,” he said, using the euphemism for the wireless antennae, “and signal the other battleships-and General Niwa-that the fleet will make for Madras! We will drag the American monkeys into battle, if we must, and General Niwa will provide the troops we need to secure the port!”

  “Of… of course, General of the Sea,” Akera said, “but the enemy will see where we are going. They will have time to prepare!”

  “Excellent!” Kurokawa barked.

  Aboard USS Salissa (CV-1) “Big Sal”

  “So, what do you think?” asked Ahd-mi-raal Keje-Fris-Ar, CINCWEST, from a simple chair in the large ready room, or pilot’s wardroom, aboard Salissa. Captain Jis-Tikkar sat across from him, as did nearly two hundred pilots, OCs, and senior support personnel. Sandy Newman and Kathy McCoy were the only humans in the compartment. The ready room was still mostly illuminated by lamplight, but a single, globular, incandescent lightbulb dangled from a chain-reinforced socket in the center of the compartment, its glare harsh. Soon, all Salissa ’s lights would come from “bulbs”; they were safer and used the electricity the ship produced in abundance. But the light lacked the soft normalcy of lamps.

  Tikker was clearly exhausted, and if the “big board” hadn’t been there on the long bulkhead to remind
him, he wouldn’t remember how many sorties he’d flown. Lemurians usually wore as little as they could get away with, but the pilots had taken to wearing their flight suits all the time. Not only did they need them in the air, but it set them apart from “ordinary” People in ways perhaps similar to the old clan structure. Tikker’s flight suit was soiled and stained, and crackly with dried, foamy sweat.

  “I think they are licked in every respect but the one that matters most,” Tikker replied with a toothy yawn. “We have destroyed most of their smaller steamers and all the Indiaa-men we could find, but nothing we do seems to faze the iron-clad battleships.” He nodded at Sandy, who’d coined the term. “They alone, and six of their smaller steamers, continue on as if they have won, and they are no longer groping in the dark for us; they are clearly bound for south Saa-lon.”

  “They can’t find us, and have given up trying,” Keje surmised. “They cannot know we are faster than they, at any rate.” He considered. “They know we must have forces at Colombo, but do not make for there. They may know we have a base at Trin-com-lee, on east Saa-lon-but Colombo would be the closer, more logical objective. To me, this change of theirs can only mean they intend to round Saa-lon and threaten Maa-draas-or Andamaan!”

  “I don’t see how they can even know about Andaman,” Newman objected. “They haven’t acted like it, anyway. Elements of their big bombing mission that sank Humfra-Dar off Colombo made it all the way to Aryaal and Baalkpan, but none of them even flew over Andaman.”

  “The sea is vast,” Keje said. “We cannot watch it all. They may have sneaked a scout ship past us. As for their failure to bomb Andamaan, that only means they either don’t know about our presence there or they don’t want us to know they know,” he groused.

  “Growing a bit paranoid?” Kathy asked with a small smile. Keje didn’t smile back.

  “As CINCWEST, do I have any choice? Perhaps General Aalden and his Second Corps would not be in the predicament they are now if others exercised a touch of paar-aa-noiaa now and then!” The statement was the first time he’d openly criticized Alden-even though Alden had already been criticizing himself almost daily. It showed how frustrated Keje was becoming. He glanced around, blinking apology.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “General Aalden is our greatest field commander. He planned his campaign based on what we know of the Grik. Unfortunately, what we ‘know’ is not always right and has shown a depressing capacity for change of late.” He sat straighter in his chair. “General Aalden will consolidate his force and rescue Second Corps-and General-Queen Maraan! In the meantime, we must deal with this other threat.” He sighed. “I agree that Andamaan is most likely safe. The defenses are well established and many ships are gathered there, preparing to come forward. In addition, the P-Fortys will soon arrive, able to carry a single, but heavier bomb. Maa-draas must be the enemy objective. But if those… battleships achieve it, they will block General Aalden’s line of supply. We must stop them.”

  Kathy looked around the room. “These guys have flown their hearts out and it seems clear there’s nothing more they can do. They’re beat, Admiral.”

  There were cries of protest, but Keje nodded. “Agreed. We have lost half a wing of aircraft, at any rate, between us and Arracca, and even though the enemy no longer shoots them down, the machines are failing. We will make for Maa-draas immediately. The aircraft based on Saa-lon can defend against any landings there. We will use the time to rest our aircrews and machines, then use them to help General Aalden.” He grinned. “Do not forget, my friends: We still have a powerful surface fleet of our own! We have Commodore Ellis and his DDs, in addition to our own, and Salissa and Arracca have mighty batteries! Perhaps we are not encased in iron, but I will match our stout sides against anything the Grik can build!” There were cheers and stamping feet. “Even if we have no further help by then,” Keje continued, “we will offload all aircraft and their necessary support, and clear our carriers for a surface action such as this world has never seen!”

  CHAPTER 22

  March 20, 1944

  USS Walker

  Northwest Fil-pin Sea

  “Hold on!” shouted Super Bosun Fitzhugh Gray as he grabbed the little anchor crane far forward on Walker ’s fo’c’sle. The bullnose and jackstaff disappeared as the knife-sharp bow-just a few paces away-pitched down beneath another gray-green roller. The torrent of seawater would have swept his repair detail away like crumbs on a plate without his warning, and even Gray felt his feet leave the deck as the flood cascaded past, erupting against the splinter shield of the number one gun and booming against the bridge structure beyond. He glanced quickly around at the ’Cats in his detail, making sure he hadn’t lost anyone. Like him, they’d been scrambled around a bit, but they were all there. “Hurry the hell up!” he roared, regaining his feet with the help of the cold iron crane.

  “We almost done!” cried Pack Rat, pounding a big, corklike plug into the hole in the deck where the starboard anchor chain vanished below. God knew what happened to the old cover; fell apart and washed away, most likely, but the chain locker was more than half-flooded and the pumps had more than enough to do.

  Gray turned around. “How ’bout you?” he asked Jeek, the flight-crew chief for the Special Air Division. Jeek had a new plane now, a day out of Samaar, where they’d taken it aboard and filled Walker ’s growling bunkers with oil. But with the plane carefully stowed aft, he was part of Gray’s damage-control division, and it wasn’t like they’d be flying that day!

  “This damn hatch cover leak no matter what I do,” Jeek said angrily. He was trying to seal the hatch over the forward companionway. “Them gals in chief’s quarters just gonna have to live with it. It ever not leak?”

  “No,” Gray admitted. “Just thought we might try somethin’ while we was out here. Leave it be.” The hatch had always leaked, leaving the deck in the Chief’s quarters slick when the sea was high. The swooping, elevator-ride experience of living under the fo’c’sle was unpleasant enough even without the damp, but you got used to it. The only thing was, Diania lived in there now with Tabby, so she could be close to Sandra. She hadn’t made a peep about the conditions, but Gray could tell just by looking at her that she’d been miserable ever since the sea kicked up. He could spot that “look” a mile away after all these years. He shook his head, almost angrily. He’d tried. He looked back at Pack Rat, who’d sealed the opening as best he could. “C’mon, Jeek. Damn sure ain’t worth losin’ nobody over. Let’s get out of here.”

  They waited until after the bow took another plunge, and then scampered aft across the fo’c’sle until they reached the starboard hatch below the bridge. One of Jeek’s ’Cats opened the hatch, and they all darted through. They barely had it shut before another surge slammed against it.

  “Whew!” said Gray. “We’re done, for now. You guys can relax, but hang here until you’re relieved.” It had been a very wet, busy watch, and they’d spent it plugging leaks all over the forward half of the tired old ship. The worst had been a sprung plate in the forward berthing space, which wasn’t that bad in and of itself-except all the females aboard would have damp racks now-but a lot of seams were opening as the ship worked in the heavy seas and the pumps were starting to strain to keep up. The water in the chain locker had been just the latest concern, and they’d handled that quickly enough. “I’ll go report to the Skipper,” Gray said, turning for the stairs.

  Captain Reddy was standing beside his chair when Gray entered the pilothouse. He’d obviously left it so Sandra and Diania would have something to hold on to while the ship pitched. They were the only humans on the bridge, and the rest of the watch was all Lemurian. That didn’t bother Gray at all. Just about everyone on Walker could stand a bridge watch now, and they’d had plenty of practice in all conditions.

  “The old girl oughta ride easier after we get that water out of the chain locker,” Gray said, and Matt and the two women turned. Everyone was a little damp-that was the nature of things, a
nd Walker ’s semiopen pilothouse didn’t help-but Gray was utterly drenched and dripping on the wooden strakes.

  “Thank you for trying to fix the leak down the forward companionway,” Sandra said with a smile. She didn’t even look at Diania, but Gray felt his face heat. “I’m sure the ladies quartered there appreciate it.”

  “Didn’t work,” Gray objected. “I think the goddamn hatch was designed to leak… if you’ll excuse my French.”

  “You’re probably right,” Matt admitted, “but it was thoughtful to try. The chain locker?”

  “Tight, but that’s the only thing.” Gray hesitated. “Ah, Skipper? Maybe we ought not chase this Jap tin can right away. The ship’s tired, real tired, and she needs that dry-dock pretty bad. We could probably do most of the work at Manila in just a couple of weeks. Just tighten up the hull. We could tear down engineering once we catch the Jap and get back to Baalkpan.”

  Matt nodded but turned back to face out the windows. From here, the sea looked like jagged, broken gray iron beneath a lighter gray sky. Sandra looked at Matt, and her expression… troubled Gray. He was glad she and the Skipper had finally taken the plunge, and their happiness had been an infectious thing for their first few days at sea, but the reports that continued coming in had turned the Skipper anxious and restless, kind of like he’d been when they were racing back to Baalkpan to face Amagi, but less focused. That had been a bad time, but now there was a lot more going on, and almost nothing Matt could personally do about most of it. The man was a born leader. Maybe not in a MacArthur sort of way, thank God, but the kind who inspired others to do their best because they knew he was doing his right alongside them. Regardless how worried he was about Keje, Rolak, Pete, Safir Maraan, and all of First Fleet, he wouldn’t give orders to Keje because Keje was on the spot and he wasn’t, but the situation had to be driving him nuts. Gray was suddenly glad the Skipper hadn’t left Sandra at Samaar to take an empty oiler back to Maa-ni-la, like he’d suggested. Sandra had refused, of course, as Walker ’s medical officer, and Matt hadn’t pressed. After all, they’d probably need her if they caught Hidoiame — and her just being around was good for the Skipper.