Straits of Hell: Destroyermen

by Taylor Anderson

  “I’m fine!” she shouted back, scolding. “Near miss long! Near miss long!” she reported. He frowned, but nodded. Orders were not to automatically retarget a near miss since an explosion close alongside might do as much or more damage than a direct hit, but he still preferred a hit. All seven planes made it through and were climbing now, passing over the second line. More musket fire flared below, but they were out of range. The flight tightened up, still climbing, and Reddy ordered a turn. Finally, Fred could clearly see the effect of their strike. Two Dom ships were dead in the water, burning, and several more were bunched up, black smoke piling high from their stacks. He couldn’t tell whether they were damaged or if the shattered line was just the result of the confusion they’d sown. Either way, they’d slowed the advance.

  “Near line!” Kari called, relaying the order to attack the second line of ships they’d passed over. Fred’s target this time would be the lead enemy vessel and they’d be diving from a lower altitude, but that was fine with Fred. He could still make his forty-five-degree approach. The flight continued its careful, somewhat leisurely turn, and aimed back at the enemy.

  “Taall-ee ho!” Kari shouted, her voice high-pitched and tinny.

  “Roger that!” Fred replied, waiting a moment longer to get his angle before pushing forward on the stick. “Stand by!”

  The ship below looked identical to the first; three tall masts with taut red and gold sails drawing nicely. A tall funnel between the main and foremast belched black smoke. High, thin geysers marched toward the ship just aft of his target, and he remembered that Orrin’s plane had a .50-caliber machine gun in its nose, just as a great cloud of splinters exploded from the side of the Dom frigate. Wish I had one of those! Course, he doesn’t have any more bombs. . . . Refocusing his attention on the top of the mast before him, he mentally adjusted when to call for Kari to drop. They’d be shooting now, he knew, even if he couldn’t see them. Most of their shots would go wide, or pass beneath and behind, but he and Kari were doubtless rushing right toward a few that were rising to meet them. “Drop!” he yelled.

  “Bombs away!” Kari shouted, and the plane leaped again, just as a sustained thwack-thwack-thwack shivered through its frame.

  “Near miss short hit!” Kari cried, just as Fred began to realize the sound and vibration he heard and felt hadn’t gone away. “Big hit!” Kari crowed. “Maybe got the boiler!”

  “I think we’re hit too!” he shouted through clenched teeth, the stick between his legs starting to rattle violently in his hand.

  “Yeah? Oh!”

  “What’s ‘oh’?”

  “We fixin’ to lose the starboard ale-eron!”

  Fred risked a quick glance and saw that it was true. They’d taken a lot of hits, more than he’d have thought possible. Must’ve packed the best shots in the whole damn Dominion on that ship, he realized sickeningly when he saw that several balls had struck amazingly close together and shattered an area around the inboard hinge pin. The aileron, though still attached and still operating, was definitely loose and banging around. Instinctively, he reduced power and pulled the nose up a bit to slow the plane, then applied a little right rudder to throw it into a slip. The vibration eased slightly, and only then did he notice how fast and hard his heart was pounding. He took a deep breath. “Send that we’re all shot up and gonna try to make it back to Maaka-Kakja!” he instructed.

  “Okay,” Kari said. “We gonna make it?”

  Fred hesitated only an instant. “Sure, kid. Get the wing floats down, wilya?”

  “Sure,” came the uncertain reply. “But I’m getting oily. I turn around an’ my goggles got all fuzzed. I think they get us in the oil pan.”

  Fred swore, then looked at the oil pressure gauge. Sure enough, the needle was starting to bounce—and drop.

  “Shit!”

  “Why shit?”

  “Because we’ve just been shot down. Again!” He looked at distant Maaka-Kakja, looming large on the horizon and a good five miles beyond the advancing battle line, or about fifteen miles away. Then he looked around at the sea, barely a thousand feet below. They were getting close to TF-11 now, its eight battered ships doggedly churning to meet their friends. “Look, I’m still gonna try to make the Makky-Kat,” he said. “We could set down forward of TF Eleven and hope they pick us up as they pass—before we sink. But even if they do, we’ll be stuck in the same boat as them, with the whole Dom navy roarin’ down. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather do my fighting in the air from now on.”

  “Maybe they could pick us up an’ patch us up; then we go to Makky-Kat,” Kari suggested doubtfully.

  “No way. They won’t stop that long, and I don’t blame them. We’d be lucky if they picked us up.”

  “What about the battle line?”

  Fred judged the distance, then glanced back at the Dom frigate column. Their last attack had hit it hard, but all the planes were headed back now, to rearm, and the two lines, minus five ships, were already shaking back out and pouring on the coal. They were faster than TF-11 and would likely get ahead of it—which meant they might be the first ones close enough to pick up Fred and Kari, if they went down short of the Second Fleet battle line. Fred would rather die than be back in the hands of the Doms, and he knew Kari would too.

  Suddenly, all their options evaporated when the starboard aileron tore away. Still attached by the outboard cable, it nearly jerked the stick out of Fred’s hand, slamming his knuckles painfully against his thigh. The Nancy rolled hard to the right even as Fred fought against it, the aileron banging and flapping and tearing itself into fluttering streamers of shredded fabric. With a heroic effort, knowing he was probably straining against a damaged cable pulley now as well, Fred managed to right the plane and keep it somewhat level, but he didn’t know how long he could. “Send the Mayday! Tell TF Eleven we’re gonna set this thing down on their nose after all. They can pick us up or run over us, their choice. But when that cable parts completely, I’m liable to lose horizontal control!”

  “I’m already sendin’!” Kari shouted.

  USS Simms

  “We’re about to have more guests,” Lieutenant Ruik-Sor-Raa told his executive officer, Lieutenant (jg) Gaal-Etkaa, when the latter joined him by the rail. USS Simms had already picked up the crews of two planes that day, a total of three battered aviators. One pilot had been lost when her plane sank before she could be hoisted clear, but she might’ve been dead already. Ruik hoped so. The rest were in the wardroom/sick bay being treated for injuries alongside Simms’s other wounded from the last two days. Currently, she was leading a “forlorn hope” squadron of four of the remaining TF-11 DDs, including Icarus, Achilles, and Tindal, in an effort to cut off the Dom frigates before they could squeeze Hibbs’s last liners and the two most heavily damaged DDs against the bleak, rocky monolith of Malpelo. The geometry of the chase was such that if Hibbs turned east to round the island, his pursuers would catch him more quickly. If the fifteen or so Dom frigates achieved their goal, the chase would end with the same result. Simms, Achilles, Icarus, and Tindal had to keep the choke point clear.

  “Yes,” Gaal said, “if they make it.” The Nancy fluttering down to the sea in Simms’s path was clearly in trouble, having difficulty staying level, and gray smoke was beginning to cough from her exhaust. As the plane drew closer, all could hear that its engine was laboring as well.

  Gaal gauged the double line of Dom frigates, edging up and closer to starboard, then glanced back at the Nancy. “We can’t stop for them,” he warned. “Even if they don’t wipe out.”

  “No,” Ruik agreed. “But we will recover those people. That’s Lieutenant Reynolds and Ensign Faask out there.”

  Gaal didn’t reply. He hadn’t met the two aviators himself, but they were well-known to all of Second Fleet by reputation, and few ’Cats or men, on land or sea, wouldn’t risk everything for them.

  “Send for them to try to land ahead of us, then match our speed as we come alongside. We’ll do
our best to snag them. Signal Achilles and the others behind us to try the same if we cannot.”

  “Ay, ay, sur,” Gaal said, pacing to the voice tube cluster by the helm, but Ruik eased farther forward as the battered plane clawed at the sky, trying to stay aloft long enough to meet his request. The smoke was thicker now, and he could hear the engine dying. “Quickly, Bosun!” he called. “Assemble line handlers with grappling hooks along the starboard rail. Stand by to pull that plane alongside, secure, and get its people out!”

  “Ay, sur!” Simms’s chief bosun turned and blew several blasts on his whistle, followed by bellowed commands.

  Close, close, Ruik thought. Even as Fred and Kari’s plane struggled to achieve just a few hundred more tails of flight, the battle line of Dom frigates was beginning to close. Without the waagons to slow us, we will reach position first, so they mean to slow us themselves. All but Icarus had heavier guns than the Doms, and the enemy would soon be in range to receive some serious discouragement—if they could be discouraged. He doubted it. Simms had survived heavier immediate odds at the battle off Saint Francis—but she’d been fresh then, and when that engagement ended, the battle had been over. Now she was battered, leaking, and her engine was beginning to wheeze after thirty-odd hard hours of sporadic combat and high-speed steaming. And even if she survived the coming action, she’d quickly face an even larger battle.

  Not far ahead, the Nancy dipped abruptly toward the freshening sea; then its nose came up and it stalled, dropping maybe three tails before pancaking down on top of a swell. Ruik held his breath for the instant that it seemed a wing would catch and flip the little plane over, but then it settled, bobbing upright, with gray-white smoke boiling up and away from the still-whirling prop. Even over the machinery sounds of his ship and the crash of the sea against her side, Ruik heard the death rattle of the Nancy’s engine.

  “Two points to port!” he called to the quartermaster at the wheel. “Steady as she goes!”

  “Our bow wave will push it away,” Gaal counselled.

  “The crew has done this twice already today,” Ruik replied. “They will succeed, whether Lieutenant Reynolds can control his plane or not.”

  Gaal grunted skeptically when they saw the smoldering plane crest the bow wave and quickly dip low, beginning to spin as helplessly as a leaf. With a stunningly loud, clattering roar, the Nancy’s prop raced, and the rudder nearly banged against the port elevator. Its spin arrested and the nose pointed at the ship, Reynolds practically aimed to ram—just as his abused engine finally seized and his prop slammed to a jarring stop. Almost instantly, the oil-streaked, superheated engine caught fire with a rush of orange flames.

  “Hey!” Fred cried. “Hey! Get us outa here!”

  “Heads up!” roared the bosun. “Now!” he added. Half a dozen grapnels arced into the air, trailing lines behind them. Three slammed through the fabric of the port wing, catching in the spars, and one splashed into the water just beyond Fred, narrowly missing him. Flames were licking greedily up around the fuel tank forward of the engine, and if there’d been a leak in that, it would already be too late. Still, they obviously couldn’t pull the burning plane toward the ship.

  “Cut a rope and grab on!” Ruik yelled. “We’ll pull you up!”

  “What about the damn flashies?” Fred demanded, his voice high.

  “Do it!”

  Kari didn’t wait. She was covered with oil and coughing uncontrollably, but with a seemingly effortless leap, she hopped up on the wing, cut a line attached to a grapnel with a knife in her hand, and dove into the sea.

  “Pull her in!” the bosun roared. “Lively now!” In seconds, Kari torpedoed through the water and came bumping and slapping up the side of the ship like an oily otter. Seeing his friend hadn’t been eaten, Fred snatched the rope draped behind his cockpit—but paused. He didn’t have a knife. Quickly, he pulled the grapnel up from the depths, snagging it momentarily on the hull of his plane. With a shouted curse, he yanked it clear. Then, with a final glance at the burning engine just behind him, he clutched the grapnel in both hands, closed his eyes, and plunged into the sea.

  He was coughing water when Simms’s ’Cat destroyermen laid him gently beside Kari, who’d gagged on the smoky, oily phlegm in her throat and vomited on the deck. Fred shook off restraining hands and jumped to his feet. “Gotta sink my plane!” he shouted.

  “No need, Lieuten-aant,” Ruik told him, gesturing aft. The Nancy was burning fiercely now, sinking already. Fred gulped water from a cup a ’Cat handed him, then nodded aft. “Good riddance. Piece o’ crap plane.” He appeared to gather himself and looked at Ruik, who seemed to be deciding whether to grab his arm and support him. “I didn’t mean that. Got us here, even shot to hell.” He looked at Kari. “How’d you know there wasn’t any flashies? I thought they’re always drawn to ships.”

  “We didn’t, not for sure,” Gaal supplied. “But we’re going fast, and they’re rarely in the bow wave.”

  Fred turned pale beneath the black smudges on his face, but then shrugged and managed a salute and a sheepish grin. “Oh well. I’ve been in the water before. Maybe flashies don’t like how I taste. And your ship was a fine sight bearing down, even when she almost ran over us! Request permission to come aboard, sir.”

  Ruik grinned back. “Delighted to have you both. Let’s get you down to the wardroom and checked out.” He nodded to starboard. “The Dom frigates are closing, and things will shortly get hot, I imagine.”

  Fred stared out at the double column. Twenty-five heavy frigates, all leaning slightly in the stiffening westerly wind, their bright sails and bronze guns gleaming even at this distance. “COFO Reddy’ll be back, whittle ’em down some more. Sorry we couldn’t lend a bigger hand earlier, but things are a little different in the air these days.”

  Ruik waved around, and for the first time Fred realized just how battered Simms and her people already were. Some damage had apparently come from Grikbird bombs, but the shot holes in her sails and funnel, spliced cordage, and brightly splintered wood beneath the black-painted rails indicated she’d been in the running surface action as well. Then there was her crew, almost all Lemurians, many lounging tiredly on her dirty fifty-pounders. Most wore peacoats, which surprised Fred. He was used to ’Cats wearing as little as they possibly could, but the wind had a bite to it and the ’Cats, sweat-foamed from battle, had probably been cold. The muzzles of the guns themselves and the normally bright deck and carriage wood were spattered black with fouled water from sponges and buckets, and the area around the vents was a dingy gray. “So we have noted,” Ruik agreed.

  Fred waved out at the Doms. “So, you trying to get past those guys? Join the rest of the fleet?”

  Ruik shook his head. “No, Lieutenant Reynolds. We will soon engage them, as a matter of fact. We must keep them back while Mars, Centurion, and their remaining escorts ‘get past’ them. Once they do, we will proceed along behind them, if we can.”

  Kari had managed to stand, and was looking at Ruik with wide eyes. “But what about this ship, and those other three behind?”

  “They are all DDs, and we are destroyermen,” Ruik said simply, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “We do our job. Mars and Centurion are sound in their machinery, but both have been the focus of a great deal of fire. In addition to just their two crews being as large as those aboard all my ships combined, they also bear a great many wounded transferred from other ships we were forced to leave behind.” He shrugged. “We must clear the way.”

  Down in the moaning, bloody charnel house of the wardroom, seated on a bench near the hatchway, Fred began to fidget. “Right out of the frying pan,” he murmured, staring at Kari to avoid looking at the suffering ’Cats around them. “Maybe we should’ve run off when we could, looking for Captain Anson.”

  “No,” Kari said firmly. “There’s a baattle. Runnin’ off then would’ve really been ‘runnin’ off.’ Can’t do that. If we go, we go after the fight.”

  F
red nodded. “Yeah. If we make it.” Still squirming uncomfortably on the bench, he flinched at the muffled sound of shouted orders from above. A sudden, creaking rumble of the guns being shifted made it clear that the action was about to commence. He finally stood up. “And I can’t stay down here.”

  “Cap’n Ruik said to get us looked at,” Kari objected without much conviction, glancing guiltily at the harried surgeon, pharmacist’s mates, and SBAs going about their grisly work. None had attended them when they arrived. They’d brought themselves down, after all, and obviously weren’t emergency cases.

  “I’m fine, and I’m not staying down here,” Fred stated sharply.

  Kari’s gaze fell on a ’Cat, seeped to unconsciousness, lying peacefully while his ruined arm was taken off, and she slowly stood beside her friend. She was no stranger to suffering. She’d endured a great deal herself. And the memories of what she’d been through, now flooding sympathetically back, made her short of breath. “I’m fine too,” she gasped. “Let’s get outa here.”

  Together, they climbed the companionway ladder and peeked up over the coaming. The gun’s crews along the starboard side were poised by their pieces, waiting for commands, electric igniters ready to be inserted into vents. Shot garlands stood like three-sided pyramids, stacked with seven-inch solid shot. The exploding case shot was dangerous to leave lying about and would be brought up by youngling “powder monkeys” when called for. It was lighter and shorter ranged, even atop the ten-pound charge of powder the big guns gulped, and generally reserved for more confident ranges in any case. Through the closest gunports, they saw that the Doms were a lot closer now, and Simms and her tiny battle line, now steaming almost due west with all square sails furled, had won the race to cross the Doms’ “T.” Fred stepped up on the deck and looked northeast. Admiral Hibbs’s two wagons and pair of DDs hadn’t quite made it clear, but they’d formed a battle line of their own and should be able to keep the Doms at arm’s reach with their heavier guns while Ruik’s little squadron punched them in the nose. If Hibbs’s strategy failed, however, his whole force was in danger of being caught between Malpelo and the whole Dom fleet, still rushing up behind, before the rest of Second Fleet could come to its aid.