Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “Agreed,” Greg said, then looked at Nig-Taak. “But what if—” He caught himself and mentally cringed. “What if after all this, they don’t leave, but don’t open fire either. They just sit there like nothing ever happened and call your bluff. You’re not really going to just start shooting at them, are you?”

  “No, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett,” Nig-Taak said. “We will not. We will do our best to convince them it was merely a bluff, resentfully resuming our normal contacts. Then, after the sun sets and their lights come on once more, we shall proceed with your ‘first option’ after all.”

  CHAPTER 14

  ////// USS Walker

  Grik City

  September 5, 1944

  It was a bright dawn beyond the harbor mouth, but the pall of smoke ended that as soon as USS Walker crept inside. Big Sal followed close behind, having steamed all night to join her, and the first two ships of her remaining P-1 squadron were poised on the catapult, ready to fly. Matt had initially been against the huge ship’s returning to the confining harbor—particularly after the damage reports started coming in. But Keje was right; the warehouses were hopelessly exposed to raids like the one the night before, and they had to transfer whatever naval ordnance had survived to her capacious storage. They had no choice. Nancys circled overhead, unseen through the smoke, but their engine sounds were clear as they kept watch to the west. Nobody really expected the Grik to return in daylight, but they had to be prepared.

  Fires burned everywhere, most from the crumbling remains of fallen zeppelins, all the way up to the base of the Celestial Palace itself, but the warehouses had been decimated as well. And the falling, burning zeppelins had probably caused at least as much damage as the bombs they’d dropped. The only good news was that relatively few of Safir’s troops had been killed, dispersed as they’d been, but more than a hundred had been killed or wounded in the trenches in front of the Grik holdouts. Who knew how many of them had burned?

  “Looks like Cavite after the Japs hit it,” Spanky said softly, leaning against the starboard bridgewing rail with Matt and Sandra. Bernie Sandison had the conn and was peering anxiously through the bridge windows, trying to spot the numerous navigation hazards that had joined those already choking the inner harbor that night. Lookouts called out nearly constant sightings. No one knew how many zeppelins had fallen in the water, but it had been quite a few. Some remained exposed, their rigid bamboo frames smoldering and hissing steam. The PT squadron and dozens of motor launches plied back and forth as well, fruitlessly searching the water for survivors of several ships that had burned to their waterlines, or shifting work and firefighting parties where they were needed most. Matt already knew they’d have to dock in a different place than they’d left. The fast oiler had somehow survived, scorched and leaking, but her damage had been caused by the complete destruction of her sister. Most of its high explosive ordnance had been off-loaded at least, or the oiler wouldn’t have made it. But enough black powder for the muzzleloaders on the DDs had remained aboard for a just slightly less cataclysmic explosion that gutted her completely and hammered her closest neighbors with debris—not to mention killing most of her crew.

  “Yeah, just like Cavite in a lot of ways. But this might be even worse,” Matt practically whispered.

  Sandra tore her horrified gaze from the destruction all around and looked at him in surprise, concerned by his tone. She hadn’t been at Cavite, but she’d heard their descriptions. How could this be worse?

  Spanky arched an eyebrow at him. “How do you figure, Skipper? Sure, it’s bad; we lost most of our harbor facilities last night, not to mention precious ordnance. But Safir’d already dispersed most of her ordnance to magazine bunkers around the city.”

  “But even some of those went up, according to reports,” Matt reminded. Walker’s aerial had been quickly repaired, and damage assessments had been streaming in all night. “Tikker lost five pilots and seven planes—more than a third of what he had to start with. And more’ll be down for repairs.” He waved around. “Tikker said they got forty zeps—about the same percentage as what he lost—but we can’t replace his planes, and I bet the Grik have a lot more zeps where these came from.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “What did they learn about the new guns on the Grik airships?” Sandra asked quietly. Matt startled her with a chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “Somebody wasn’t paying attention to Silva again. He found one after that first little raid and reported it, but apparently the word didn’t get around. Anyway, they’re not exactly new, but they’re damn effective at close range,” he said. “They load from the breech with a kind of preloaded jug, wedged in place. Old technology and pretty dangerous, but when they work, they do fire faster. Poking around the debris from last night, they found that a number of their gunships carried as many as a dozen of them.”

  He looked back at Spanky with a sad smile. “And despite the apparent similarities—the isolated, exposed nature of the position, the difficulty of resupply—this is worse than Cavite. Worse than the whole situation we left behind in the Philippines, because, unlike MacArthur, Safir is just going to have to sit and take it. She can’t maneuver in the jungle to keep her troops safe, but has to stay here, under this,” he said, waving around too, “maybe every night.” He paused. “And from a purely selfish perspective, even as our air cover whittles away, this fleet isn’t going to leave her to fend for herself!”

  “What are we going to do?” Sandra asked, her tone frustrated.

  Matt looked at her. “You’re going to do what we agreed. Amerika’s on her way back in. When she ties up, she’ll take on the rest of the wounded, and you, Adar, and all the rest we discussed will get the hell out of here.”

  Sandra bit her lip but didn’t argue. “Courtney will be delighted that he missed the boat,” she pointed out instead. Bradford, Silva, Chack, and several others had left with Nat Hardee and the Seven boat only two days before to search for what they were calling the “Lost Lemurians.”

  “We still need him to find those people if he can,” Matt grumbled. “And Herring doesn’t want to go either.”

  “Why should he? He’s becoming a fair destroyerman,” Spanky pointed out, “and a decent navigator. We need more bridge officers.”

  Matt nodded. “I know, but I wanted him back in Baalkpan, running his snoop shop.”

  “You need ‘snoops’ out here too,” Sandra suggested.

  Matt rubbed his face. “Agreed. Okay. But there’s still just something about the guy. I mean, sure, he’s becoming a good officer and maybe it’s just his way, but I never can shake the feeling that he’s up to something.” He managed a rueful smile and shrugged. “Probably doesn’t matter as long as he’s on our side.” He frowned. “But that pal of his, that Corporal Miles. He’s trouble, and I want him gone. Back to Baalkpan or in a rifle company where he belongs. Keeping Herring’s probably the best way to separate them.”

  “Uh, Miles went with the Seven boat. Volunteered,” Spanky said.

  “Really?” Matt snorted. “Well, that long with Silva, he’ll either come back a new man or a corpse.”

  Sandra pursed her lips, but she had to agree.

  “Soo… ,” Spanky drawled. “What’re we gonna do?”

  Matt shrugged. “Stick to the plan—with a couple of modifications.” He glanced at the sky. “These new Grik bomber formations had mixed results, but the fact that any of their airships made it back at all will probably convince them to stick with them. Okay. It’s gonna be tough around here, but all tied together, they can only hit fixed, preselected targets. No way they can chase one on the move.” He sighed. “We’ll put more of Big Sal’s pursuit ships ashore to defend this place, and I’ll get Adar to order Baalkpan Bay to shift all her pursuit ships, crated if necessary, aboard Arracca when she and Santy Cat come down. Maybe they can get here faster than they think. Russ Chappelle and Tassanna will pull out all the stops, if I know them.” Russ commanded Santa Catalina, and Tassanna was commander—and still “Hig
h Chief”—of the USNRS (CV-2) Arracca. Matt brightened slightly. “And they can at least keep a trickle of planes coming down on fast transports from Madras. Baalkpan Bay should get more P-Ones before she escorts First and Third Corps down, but even if she doesn’t, the same thing that applies to Big Sal applies to her. The Grik have to know where she is to hit her from the air and her Nancys can handle any surface threat.” He considered. “It’s a long damn haul, but I think I’ll endorse the plan to risk a Clipper coming down after all. We need the recon, and after the pasting they took last night, maybe Hij Geerki really can talk to those starving Grik. We can’t afford to keep so many troops concentrated watching them. And who knows? If we feed ’em, maybe we can at least keep ’em busy cleaning up after their buddies.”

  There had been limited success at Baalkpan in turning captured Grik into—something less dangerous—and a few had even accompanied Abel Cook as bearers during his adventurous survey of North Borno. That only seemed to work after they’d experienced “Grik Rout” and been on their own for a while, but if the trapped Grik weren’t all warriors… Matt took off his hat and ran his fingers through sweaty hair. “I might ask Ben if he can spare Lieutenant Leedom down here too. Big Sal needs Tikker back, and his Exec, Lieutenant Faan, right? She got banged up pretty bad bringing in a crippled ship. Besides, we need somebody with plenty of experience fighting zeps in charge of our air defenses. Next to Tikker, I think Leedom’s probably got the most.”

  Sandra snorted. “Ben Mallory will throw a fit! He’s chomping at the bit to get back in action, and I think he’s starting to wish he never recovered those P-Forties from that Tjilatjap swamp, thinking his precious squadron is keeping him out of the war!”

  Matt sobered. “I know he’ll hate it, but Ben stays with his planes. They turned the tide for us once, big-time, and I suspect we’ll need them just as badly again someday.” He shrugged. “Maybe here—but not yet. They’d be too vulnerable on the ground, and they’re about the only ace we’ve got left up our sleeve,” he added glumly.

  Spanky grunted doubtfully, still contemplating Matt’s notion about Hij Geerki talking to the Grik. “That all sounds swell, but we’re still lookin’ at a couple of weeks before even Arracca and Santy Cat get here. We still gonna chase Grik in the strait?”

  Matt nodded firmly. “We have to. But we’ll also concentrate more on finding and hitting Grik airfields. Another reason we need the Clipper. It can fly higher than anything they can hit it with, and has the range to really search. Don’t you get it? The Grik can’t tie their zeps together in the air! They’ve got to mass them somewhere, somewhere big and clear, to do it before they lift. We find where they’re doing that, and we might burn the whole damn flock on the ground!”

  Spanky smiled through his teeth. “That’d be swell!”

  Jeek’s pipe screed, calling the special sea and anchor detail as Walker edged toward a relatively undamaged portion of the dock. Deck apes scampered to secure lines to throw to waiting hands ashore amid the usual controlled bustle of any docking procedure. The sheer, mundane normalcy of it all seemed to soothe the spirit of everyone on the bridge. “All stop!” Bernie ordered, and the lee helm signaled the engine room. Just then, there came a great gust of steam from the tops of the aft two funnels, and a heavy cloud of black soot drifted forward—and largely down upon the party gathered on the fo’c’sle, amid a growing chorus of indignant cries. Campeti’s outrage was audible as well, on the fire-control platform above the bridge. Some made it into the pilothouse. Sandra coughed delicately, and Spanky rolled his eyes before covering them with his hands. Matt actually laughed, amazed as always how in the face of everything, his people—human and Lemurian—could always manage to keep things… well, real.

  “It seems Chief Reuben is intent on reminding everyone of his displeasure over the loss of his pet,” he observed dryly. Blowing tubes was a time-honored way for the “snipes” in engineering to inconvenience the “deck apes.”

  “‘Everyone’ is right,” Spanky grumbled, waving a hand in front of his face to hide a lopsided grin. “I taught him that, you know, but Isak’s always been an artist at judging the wind just right to get the, um, best effect—but he never used to have the nerve to do it without…” He coughed and waved his hand again. “Well, I’m not sayin’ I’d ever condone such a thing.”

  “I think our little mouse has finally discovered the nerve for a lot of things,” Sandra reminded.

  “You want me to jump on him?” Spanky asked doubtfully.

  “No,” Matt said. “I think he’s earned the right to”—he smirked—“blow off a little steam.” He turned. “Pass the word for Mr. Palmer,” he called to his talker. “And signal Chairman Adar, at the new HQ in the Cowflop.” (Hardly anyone could bring himself to call it a “palace,” and another one of Silva’s nicknames had stuck.) “I want him to start packing because I want him, the rest of the wounded”—he paused and looked at Sandra—“and you the hell out of here aboard Amerika before the sun sets and the Grik zeps come back.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ////// USS Donaghey

  Alex-aandra Harbor

  September 6, 1944

  “I still can’t hardly believe they bought it,” proclaimed Wendel “Smitty” Smith, staring at the mouth of the harbor over his shoulder; a harbor that had been finally, sullenly abandoned the evening before by the League’s dreadnaught, Savoie. “Figured we were goners. Warm meat, just waitin’ for the splash.” He looked apologetically at Greg. “Sorry, Skipper, but those were awful big guns, and I guess they were pointed at us long enough to kinda give me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “You don’t have to tell me, Smitty,” Greg said. Implied was a reminder that as Walker’s old gunnery officer, Greg knew perfectly well what Savoie’s big rifles would’ve done to Donaghey.

  Smitty brightened slightly. “Oh well, I suppose when push comes to shove, frogs’re frogs wherever they are, an’ they’ll always run when it comes to a fight.”

  “That’s bull and you know it,” Greg muttered. “There was nothing wrong with French fighting men even where we came from; just stupid leaders—a lot like we had.” He shook his head. “They didn’t run away because they were scared,” he considered. “And these aren’t the same Frenchies we used to know either.”

  Donaghey was in the process of shifting over to the dock so recently occupied by the intruder. Greg had been mightily concerned that Savoie might send at least a few parting salvos from her big guns, possibly even targeting his ship. The League had sunk Respite Island after all. But Greg had never brought that up with Morrisette, content to let him think the Allies didn’t know. Even if he’d raised a stink, Morrisette and his “League” would’ve probably disavowed the attack as the act of an isolated element, impossible to control, Greg reflected. Actually firing on Alex-aandra, or Greg’s ship while anchored there, would’ve been impossible to disavow, and apparently they didn’t want a “real” war after all. At least not yet.

  “Me neither,” Lieutenant Saama-Kera agreed. “I mean, I didn’t think it would work. I got no opinion about ‘frogs’ other than them ‘Frog-Grik’ critters at Chill-Chaap—and I know they’ll fight.” He shuddered at a memory he shared only with Bekiaa, of all those present. “Why you call the League folks ‘frogs’?”

  “Just skip it,” Greg said.

  “’Kay,” Saama-Kera replied, still confused, “but it did work, an’ maybe we should’a pulled this stunt a long time ago.”

  “How, Sammy?” Greg asked. “No way to coordinate anything with Nig-Taak until the other night.” He looked at Choon, who’d spent the night ashore in his own home for the first time in months, but had returned bright and early that morning. “That was good work, Inquisitor,” he said with genuine respect.

  Choon bowed. “I did nothing.”

  “But your organization did, and it was first rate. Maybe you ought to give pointers to Herring and our snoops.”

  “We have had much longer to establish our service, and
intrigue comes naturally to us. It was like mother’s milk to several of the cultures that settled here over time.”

  Sammy nodded curiously.

  “In any event, Savoie is gone,” Choon stated. “And we will immediately attempt to establish communications with your—our allies at Maada-gaascar.” Greg had tried himself, free at last of Savoie’s threats, but apparently the ring of mountains around the city had prevented Donaghey’s transmissions from getting through. Now he waited expectantly, but in contrast to his encouraging announcement, Choon blinked discomfort.

  “We are having some difficulty with that. As you know, our wireless equipment is situated in the mountains and can receive transmissions from vast distances, particularly when the conditions are right, but it has been a great while since we transmitted anything at all.” He blinked again. “We can still receive, have never stopped, in fact. But there appears to be a minor problem with our transmitter. Fear not,” he hurried to add. “We will soon sort it out. And the first thing we will do is inform the Grand Alliance, this ‘Union’ you serve, that you are here and safe, and explain why you were unable to report when you arrived. We will also describe Savoie and the people aboard her in great detail, as well as the bizarre circumstances that prevented us from launching the attack they desired. Assurances will be made that we will make up for lost time and you, Cap-i-taan Gaarrett, and your ship, will be commended for the part you played in expediting Savoie’s departure.”

  Greg shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t done anything but sit there. Maybe Nig-Taak and General Kim had appreciated his pep talk, but that was all he’d done.