“She’s struck!” came a delirious screech.
Struck? Fred thought. Surrendered? Naw. Probably just had her flag shot away. He didn’t believe it. But when the now severely damaged enemy ship of the line all of a sudden frantically reversed her engine and still didn’t fire at anything, it began to dawn on him. It never before occurred to him that a Dom warship, any more than a Grik, might just… quit. But as the moments slipped by and no fire came, he realized it must be true.
“Damage report!” Ruik commanded.
“We’re losin’ her, Skipper,” the blood-soaked quartermaster at the helm stated simply, her ear close to the voice tube from engineering. “Those last shots, they was nothin’ left to stop ’em, an’ the boiler room’s floodin’ fast. No boilers, no pumps.”
Ruik closed his eyes to hide a pain worse than his arm. When he opened them again, they shone with an inner light. “Right standard rudder. Take us alongside that hulk.” He raised his voice. “All hands, draw small arms and prepare to board. No firing unless fired upon, but kill anyone who resists.”
“What then?” Fred asked, still a little stunned.
“Then, Lieu-ten-aant Reynolds, we will rejoin the fight from the captured ship!”
Their providential rescuers were none other than HIMS Mars and Admiral Hibbs himself, returned to the fight. His own prize crew joined the entire crews of Simms and Icarus as they gained the deck of the Dom ’wagon without resistance. There had been a struggle, however, because there were no officers left aboard. Having just witnessed the traumatic detonation of their consort, and helplessly facing certain destruction themselves, the crew had rioted and thrown their officers over the side. Fred knew that battles drew flashies—and other voracious denizens—into even tighter concentrations that they were usually found in this savage sea, and doubted the Dom officers had lasted long enough to rise to the surface for a final, panicked breath.
By the time the prize was secured and her trailing masts and sails hauled in or cut away, there was no fight for them to rejoin. The battle had moved farther away, largely clustered around Maaka-Kakja, and neither Mars nor the prize was in any condition to catch up with it. Besides, Maaka-Kakja already had help, drawing more and more Allied ships as well as enemies, and though she was clearly taking a beating in return, she’d left an amazing swath of devastation in her wake. Some of that devastation consisted of derelict but still floating ships, and Fred was surprised how many of the Dom variety had hauled down their colors. He had no doubt they’d still try to escape if they could, but for now, on the Allied side of the fight, they had no desire to draw the attention of the few orbiting Nancys that remained above. One of those flew close to the prize, with Mars and the two sinking DDs close alongside. Apparently satisfied with the situation, it waggled its wings, signaling its intent to set down alongside the Imperial battlewagon.
“Well done, Captain Ruik! Well done indeed,” Admiral Hibbs enthused, his puffy face ruddy with exertion as he came aboard the prize himself, joined by more sailors to augment the Marines he’d sent first. “I honestly never expected to see you again,” he added with a grimacing glance at the shattered Simms.
“Ahd-mi-raal Hibbs. Thank you, sir,” Ruik replied. “I never expected you to see me again either,” he added wryly.
“Tindal’s status?”
“Lost, sir,” Ruik answered more gravely, “defending Simms and Icarus while we rigged the tow. Achilles?” he asked in return.
“She made it out safe with us, but her Captain Grimsley took her back in behind High Admiral Jenks and Mithra.” He leaned his head toward the ever-more-distant battle, but had to grab his shako before it fell. “In the middle of that by now, no doubt. If she still swims. Wireless telegraphy is a marvel, to be sure, but like you, we’ve lost our aerial and have little notion now of what is what.” He stopped, his eyes widening. “My God, sir, have you lost that hand?”
Ruik glanced down. “Yes, Ahd-mi-raal. Earlier today.”
“You there!” Hibbs barked at a surgeon from his own ship kneeling nearby and inspecting the Dom wounded. “Leave off that and see to this officer at once!”
“I’m quite all right at the moment, Ahd-mi-raal,” Ruik protested vaguely, distracted by a low, collective moan along the starboard side where a number of ’Cats from Simms and men from Icarus were gathered. Without a word, he moved to join them, followed by Fred and Kari. “Cap-i-taan Parr,” he said to a young man standing by the rail, head swaddled in bloody bandages above a tear-streaked face.
“Captain Ruik,” the Imperial replied. “Glad you made it—and thank you, sir.” Ruik waved it away with his good hand. “It was my honor. All of it.”
The last of the wounded were being hoisted aboard from the proud DDs, ’Cats and men grabbing lines and scampering up the high wooden sides of the prize—even as Simms’s stern dipped beneath the choppy sea. Icarus was already deserted and nearly as far gone herself, also low by the stern. Now a lone ’Cat remained on Simms, feverishly hauling down the Stars and Stripes, even as the water raced toward him. Wrapping the ragged flag around his torso, he made a knot and lunged for a dangling line. Even as he scrambled up, USS Simms disappeared beneath him with a rush and a swirling vortex of floating debris. Gaining the deck, the ’Cat glanced down, then quickly rushed to Ruik.
“Saved this for you, sur,” he said.
With tremendous force of will, Ruik managed to tear his eyes from where his ship had just gone down. “Should’ve left it with her,” he scolded huskily.
“But we’ll need it, sur, won’t we? Aboard here?” the ’Cat insisted. The mainmast still stood, and he gestured with the flag toward its top.
Ruik coughed. “No. If my understanding of the prize conventions is correct, we will all share in some measure of reward, but she is for Ahd-mi-raal Hibbs to dispose of.”
A sudden crash sounded from alongside, and they looked back to Icarus. They’d used her anchor cable for the tow, but the other end was still attached to Simms as she plunged to the distant bottom. The cable had torn a jagged gash from Icarus’s hawse hole to the waterline and gone impossibly tight—but there was little resistance now. The small Imperial DD’s stern was already gone, and now her bow simply vanished with a gush of air, her shot-torn funnel quickly slipping away with the slightest hiss and a wisp of steam.
“My God,” Parr gasped. Then he looked at Ruik. “My God,” he repeated, but straightened. “Sir,” he said. “After all our ships have been through together over the last several days—and before—it seems most fitting that they should remain linked forever when they come to rest at last.” He turned to Hibbs. “The same goes for our crews, Admiral. Together, we have sufficient numbers for the prize. Captain Ruik is senior to me—not to mention that I and my crew owe our lives to him and his. I would be honored to second him aboard here.”
Hibbs blinked and hesitated. “It won’t affect the distribution of the prize money either way,” he said speculatively, but Ruik doubted that was his main concern. Finally, he nodded. “By all means.” He looked at the ’Cat still holding the flag. “Run it up.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ruik and Parr both said.
“Yes. Well. We all owe a debt to the American Navy for this day, and others previous.” Hibbs nodded at Ruik’s arm. “Now please hold still long enough to have that tended.”
“Ay, ay, sur.”
“Hey!” came the rough call of an overused voice behind them.
Fred and Kari turned. “COFO Reddy!” they said.
“Hi, guys.” Orrin grinned at them. “Glad you’re okay.” He turned to Hibbs, his expression hardening. “I need gas and bombs,” he stated, “and your idiot captain on Mars says yours is for your own planes—which you’re fresh out of right now.” He waved at the distant battle. “Obviously, I can’t get any off Makky-Kat, and Admiral Lelaa’s orders were to replenish from whatever ships we could. You’re it.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “A drink of water would be nice too, if you can spare it.”
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Admiral Hibbs was taken aback by Orrin’s manner and sarcasm but managed to compose himself. “Water for the Commander of Flight Operations,” he called. “And of course you may replenish from Mars,” he told Orrin, glancing around. “Midshipman Varney, run along there and inform Captain de Spain that he will replenish COFO Reddy’s machine at once, or his next command will be of a piece of wreckage alongside. His choice.” He turned back to the now slightly mollified aviator. “Will that suffice?”
“Sure. Thanks, sir.”
“Here’s water, sir,” an Imperial Marine said, holding a large dripping ladle.
“Dom water? From this ship? No thanks, buster. It’s hard enough holding it in a plane when you don’t have the squirts.”
“Give him your bottle, fool!” Hibbs shouted, and several water bottles were offered. “Our water is properly grogged,” he assured, “with good New Britain rum.”
“Thanks,” Orrin gasped, taking the closest one to hand, pulling the cork, and draining the bottle with several deep gulps. Shoving the cork back in, he handed it back and started to turn.
“A moment, though, if you please,” Hibbs said. “Are you in wireless contact with the flagship?”
Orrin shrugged. Seepy could oversee the replenishment. “Not Mithra. She’s taken a beating, and her wireless is out. I’m still in contact with Makky-Kat, some other ships, and what planes I’ve got left.”
“Then tell me, from what you’ve heard and your… elevated vantage, how does the battle progress?”
Orrin rubbed his eyes, red where they’d been protected by his goggles, but sunken into a soot-blackened face. “I’m kind of short on polite ways to describe it, Admiral, but I’d say we’re winning—will win—as long as Makky-Kat hangs in there.” He shook his head. “Lelaa’s one crazy ’Cat broad, taking a carrier into a brawl like that, but I guess it worked. The whole damn fight turned into an old-fashioned, hull-to-hull smashup, which I guess you saw here. Not exactly the best way to beat somebody with bigger ships and more guns…” He stopped, looking back at Hibbs and realizing he’d let his mouth run away with him. “But yeah, I think we’ve got this fight in the bag, if you threw half a dozen cats, dogs, and scorpions in it. It’ll keep wiggling for a while,” he prompted when he saw Hibbs’s uncomprehending expression. “Some of the Doms that weren’t engaged have already started to peel off, though. Heading northeast, back where they came from. Too many, if you ask me.” He sighed. “So I’m not sure exactly what the hell we accomplished here.”
“The enemy is fleeing?” Hibbs demanded.
“Some of it.”
“Will there be a chase?”
Orrin barked a laugh, but caught himself. It wasn’t funny. “Don’t ask me. I’m not in charge. But based on what I’ve seen, I have to ask ‘what with’? We’ve slammed their fleet around but have taken a serious beating ourselves. Worse, even if Makky-Kat doesn’t take any more damage than she already has, she might be able to operate Nancys over the side, the old-fashioned way, but she won’t be flying any Fleashooters for a while—or anything else off her deck. Honestly, it looks like all our fleets did here was pretty much destroy one another. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I can still get back in it, so that’s what I’m going to do.”
“What about us?” Fred demanded.
“What about you?” Orrin asked in return, his voice harsh but his expression slightly amused. “I don’t have any spare planes in my pocket. Besides, haven’t you already broken enough of ’em for the day? Stay here, rest, relax. I expect what’s left of Second Fleet will try to re-form once the shooting stops and you can get back over to Makky-Kat somehow. So long, guys.”
USS Maaka-Kakja
The sun had finally set on what some were already calling the Battle of Maalpelo, and the fighting was all but done. Furious flashes of gunfire erupted now and then, far to the northeast, when some of the least damaged ships that had sped the Doms on their way happened upon a cripple with some fight left in her, but they’d have to call them all back soon. A pair of fast Filpin-built DDs, undamaged in the fighting, would keep after them through the night, at least, reporting what they saw, but they couldn’t let anyone else get too far away or they might run into an undiscovered reserve force and wind up in the same situation that started this mess in the first place—with nothing left to send to their aid. Maaka-Kakja had stopped her engines, rolling ever so slightly in a rising sea, sheltering and helping with emergency repairs to several heavily damaged ships in her lee. Compared to them, we are in fine shape, Lelaa realized bitterly, but we’re not a carrier anymore. Not right now. The Grikbirds, apparently expended at the beginning of the fight, had missed their chance at Maaka-Kakja, but much of her flight deck had been chewed up by shot from the Doms that had crowded alongside. Firing upward at their maximum elevation, they’d blown through the largely open hangar deck and exited the flight deck in a blizzard of splinters. Unlike the new “fleet” carriers, her flight deck was her weakest feature, and an amazing amount of the planking and structural framing below would have to be replaced. The hull was in pretty good shape; nothing that couldn’t be repaired at sea. But they simply didn’t have enough timber to repair the flight deck, and the closest place with sufficient stockpiles was the Enchanted Isles.
“What’s the plan?” Tex Sheider asked, surprising her in the silence that prevailed on Lelaa’s bridge. It was anything but silent throughout the rest of the ship, with noisy repairs underway from the fire-control platform to the engine room, but none of the bridge watch had spoken for some time, recognizing that she was deep in thought. Her executive officer harbored no reluctance to kick-start her mind, however. She almost giggled. As usual, he actually expects me to answer the question that is foremost in my own mind! She had to concede that normally, his tactic worked amazingly well, but just then she simply didn’t know. She mentally inventoried what she did, beginning with what was most important to her. My engineering plant is sound, and Maaka-Kakja’s stout hull turned all but the heaviest shot. Every leak of note is under control and she, at least, can still fight. Otherwise, what little remains of Task Force Eleven is unfit for further combat. She mentally snorted. As for the rest of Second Fleet, not a single ship of the line could survive another day of battle similar to what they endured today, and several wouldn’t last ten minutes. Some may yet succumb, she added grimly. We took a number of prizes, she consoled herself, and this Dom fleet was composed of ships roughly equal to anything the Imperials had, but none have been fully surveyed. Whether or not any may yet be used, I must assume they were all gravely damaged before they surrendered.
“For now, I want one of the fast transports we left with the oilers to collect every aviator in the fleet that we cannot put in the air and stand by to take them to Puerto Viejo. There should shortly be more planes than pilots there, when they get them all put together. That much I can do.” Jenks may not agree, she realized wryly. Maaka-Kakja could still operate Nancys alongside—slowly—but not many more than the half dozen or so that still remained airworthy. Still, as much as she admired Jenks and would—usually—obey him for the good of the Alliance, Captain Matthew Reddy remained her High Chief, and she absolutely knew what he would want her to do with her pilots. “High Ahd-mi-raal Jenks will be aboard shortly,” she temporized. Thoughts of Jenks reminded her how relieved she was that he was okay. Mithra had returned to Maaka-Kakja’s side shortly before, confirming by Morse lamp that she was seaworthy—and that Jenks was well. “He will have further orders then.”
“He can order away all he wants,” came another distinctive, creaky voice that Lelaa enjoyed—and despised at times like this. “I don’t give a damn what he says,” Chief Gilbert Yeager proclaimed in what amounted to, from him, a petulant whine. “I quit.”
As one of Walker’s “original” Mice, who’d lurked in her firerooms like an immovable, monosyllabic troll, Gilbert had been introverted to a point of apparent near insanity, but as his responsibilities swelled, so had his personality. Now M
aaka-Kakja’s chief engineer and de facto engineering officer (whether he liked it or not), and basking in the reflected glow of what his half brother Isak Reuben had accomplished in the West, he’d grown downright insufferable at times. This was despite his having used the precedent Orrin Reddy had set to flatly refuse a promotion to lieutenant.
“You can’t quit, you weird little creep,” Tex snorted.
“Can so,” Gilbert sneered at him. “I’m volunteered aboard here as actin’ chief o’ Makky-Kat’s engineerin’ division. She’s s’posed to be a carrier, which should make that a purty cushy berth. But ’cept for a few o’ the new guys you gave me from the other ships, my division’s still full o’ jugheads an’ loafers that don’t know live steam from a hot fart. I was wore to a frazzle even before we got shot up. Now, if yer gonna use the ship for a go… al danged battleship, I want a transfer back west to my real home on Walker!” His lip curled. “If I’m gonna get shot at, an’ hafta fix busted crap that’s getting’ shot at, I’d sooner do it where I nat’rally b’long!”
Tex rolled his eyes. “Of all the… Look, genius, since you’re chief engineer, if your people don’t know their jobs, that’s at least as much your fault as theirs. You’ve got to learn to teach people what to do! And even if we could ship you off, which I’d personally love, you can’t just pick and choose where to fight this war. You go—or stay—where you’re needed, and God help us, we need you here!”
Lelaa held up a hand and gave Tex a short, secret blink of assurance, but she spoke in a tone of mock severity. “Enough, Mr. Sheider. No wonder poor Mr. Yeager feels aggrieved!” She looked at Gilbert. “I will forward your transfer request along,” she soothed, blinking regretfully now, “as soon as the current situation has resolved itself. Under the circumstances, I cannot promise it will be acted upon as quickly as you might wish, but I will do it. In the meantime, think of the people who appreciate and rely on you; the engines that need you. Your engines and boilers, Mr. Yeager,” she stressed. “Lieuten-aant Tab-At commands Walker’s engineering division now, and Isaak Reuben is her chief. Your expertise would not be wasted there, but your contributions would be infinitely less profound.” She paused. “You may certainly go if you wish, when the time is right. But until then, I would consider it a personal favor if you continue the work aboard here that you do so well.”
Straits of Hell: Destroyermen Page 32