Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  “Hi, Skip!” Jim said grinning, and Matt could see the wires holding his jaw clenched shut. He’d broken it in the Battle of Madras.

  Matt held up his cane. “We’re falling apart,” he laughed.

  “Nah.” It was surprising how well Jim had learned to talk without moving his jaw. His lip movement was extremely exaggerated, but he’d had plenty of practice by now.

  Matt pointed at the wires. “How much longer?”

  “Just another week or so,” Jim assured him, looking around at the ship. “God, it’s good to see the old girl!” He grinned again. “Hello, Mr. Bradford! Named any worms lately? Hiya, Campeti! Jeez, Juan, where’s the rest of you?”

  “I guess you saw Mahan?” Matt asked.

  “Sure,” Jim nodded, looking back at him. She’d been his first command, and he’d been at her helm during the death ride that sank her. “I never would’ve believed it,” he added. “She looks a little weird, though.”

  “Yeah. Brister’s got her.”

  “Good choice. I also saw that Laumer kid finally came up with something to do with his old S-boat. Will she be any good for anything?”

  “I think so. If the new torpedoes work.” Matt gestured at Sandison. “Bernie swears they will—if we can get inside two thousand yards.”

  Jim frowned. “That’s awful close, Skipper,” he warned, shaking Bernie’s hand. “Those Grik battlewagons have damn big guns. They blew completely through Dowden at nearly that range.”

  Matt nodded somberly. “We’ll just have to give them other things to worry about, won’t we?”

  Jim was looking down the dock at S-19. “Santy Cat sails tomorrow, to join First Fleet North,” he said, using the new nickname for his flagship. “If S-Nineteen’s ready to go, let me take her with us. I like the idea of having something that can shoot torpedoes, until Walker and Mahan join us. And if we mix it up, Santy Cat’s got the firepower to keep the Grik off her.”

  Matt considered. “Sure,” he said. “Laumer’s raring to go, and he didn’t report any casualties.” He scratched his chin. “Of course, he might not have either. Talk to him yourself, and if you’re sure he’s not hiding anything that might reflect poorly on his brainchild, take him with you. Walker, Mahan, and Big Sal’s battle group won’t be far behind.”

  The elements Matt described would soon constitute the core of First Fleet South, and they’d escort a small fleet of oilers, transports, and ammunition and supply ships to Trin-con-lee a few days later, after final alterations to Salissa were complete. She was being modified with the complicated arresting gear that would allow her to recover Fleashooters, if she had to, and was ferrying a squadron of the planes to beef up Ben Mallory’s 3rd Pursuit.

  “Swell,” Jim said. “I’ll give him the third degree—and who knows? Maybe we’ll get to find out how well the new torpedoes work before you do!”

  “Cap-i-taan Reddy!” Keje boomed, so all could hear. “As always, you and Waa-kur arrive just in time! We have already made most of the dispositions your plan described, and much of the fleet has already sailed. Soon the rest of us will sail to do our part and relieve Gener-aal Aalden at last. But tonight there is an . . . entertainment! A party! We will have fun! We will dance and drink beer and seep to celebrate our reunion”—he grinned—“and your long-delayed mating as well, Cap-i-taan! Where is the Lady Saan-dra?”

  Oh, Lord, Matt thought, he’s already calling her that too! I guess with wireless . . . He pointed at Mahan, and Keje blinked. “Oh yes,” he said, deeply serious. “The regulations. I suppose that if you write them, then you must surely follow them yourself. And perhaps it is best?” he speculated doubtfully. Then he laid his hands on Matt’s shoulders. “Come, let us meet Mahaan and your mate. We will speak of killing Grik,” he added with a snarl. “Soon, we shall leave to do it—together again!”

  * * *

  The Admiral’s Ball ranked fairly high on Dennis Silva’s “weirdest shit I’ve seen while sober” list, at least at first glance. But in his defense, he didn’t stay entirely sober long. Everybody was in Navy whites or Marine blues, even the ’Cats, and it was a stiffly formal affair. There was no division between officers and enlisted, but a shore patrol hovered along the fresh-cut walls of the long, wide hall, prepared to quickly usher any troublemakers away. Dennis had promised Pam not to be one of those, but they’d also agreed they probably needed to keep their makeup secret if they both wanted to be on Walker. That made it tough; watching Pam dance with Commodore Ellis, Campeti, even Keje. Gunny Horn tried a dance with her, but it was a quick tune and he was still sore from having a ship fall on him. That was his excuse, anyway, and the story was already getting around. He wound up bowing out and going to talk with some ’Cat Marines.

  Oddly, there were plenty of women, but few had a clue how to dance. Dennis tried it with the few who were willing, but nearly destroyed them. He did have a whirl with Surgeon Commander Kathy McCoy, assigned to Santa Catalina for the impending operation, and then started a dance with that Diania gal, who still remained somewhat suspicious of him for some reason. But to Silva’s surprise, Chief Gray snatched her away with an angry glare and kept her to himself most of the night. Dennis gave up and took two mugs of beer and sat on a bench by the wall with Lawrence, pretending the beers were the two they’d been allowed—and the only two he’d had.

  “The sounds are strange,” Lawrence observed. “Kinda like at the Screw, just not on records.”

  “Yeah,” Silva grumped. “There’s a live band here, and I knew no good would ever come of mixin’ ’Cat music with ours.” Actually, though he wouldn’t admit it, the sound wasn’t really that bad. Lemurian music, at least what he’d heard, used strings, drums, and some kind of woodwind. ’Cats couldn’t do horns at all. Traditionally, it had a slow, jazzy thing going, and the melodies rarely repeated. That was giving way to the easier to learn, catchier American tunes—swing, mostly—and the idea of repeated melodies and a chorus was catching on. The result was still weird, but tolerable, and the band played a lot of songs Silva recognized. And there were horns tonight, and a fiddle brought by some of the guys who’d sometimes played at the Busted Screw and helped invent this new sound, but were now back with the fleet. Dennis started stamping his foot when the band struck up “Your Feets Too Big.” The old, pump organ they’d pulled out of S-19 was still back at the Screw in Baalkpan, but there was a well-tuned copy here—And God knows where else, now, Dennis thought. He started talk-singing a passable Fats Waller impression and realized he was enjoying himself.

  Walker and Mahan wouldn’t sail at dawn, but there was a lot of work still to do on Salissa, rigging the elaborate cable traps on her flight deck. Mahan needed a few more repairs as well, and all the crews were going to pitch in on both ships, so they’d taken their liberty by divisions. Silva hadn’t—exactly—reported aboard, but everyone knew he was there. Sooner or later somebody would realize that Ordnance had already rotated back to the ship. The music stopped, and he sighed.

  “C’mon, Larry. Let’s go see what all they screwed up on our ship while we was off a-heeroin’ again.” He turned—and there was Pam. The band started a slow waltz, and Dennis suddenly realized the tune was “Marchena,” one of his secret favorites. With a deep breath, he forgot Lawrence and moved toward the dark-haired nurse from Brooklyn.

  “Marchena” had been a great favorite of many Asiatic Fleet and China hands, and despite the weird instruments, unusual companions, and, frankly, the musty smell, Matt suddenly felt transported back to a dim dance floor in Manila, in the old Philippines. The sensation didn’t last because he’d never danced there with a woman he loved, and Sandra’s thrilling, delightful form in his arms brought him straight back to the present. But even though Sandra had never been to the Philippines, she seemed to catch the mood.

  “I wish they wouldn’t play it so slow,” she whispered against his neck. “It sounds so sad somehow.” Matt didn’t say anything, but held her closer. Over the top of his wife’s head he saw Gray leadi
ng Diania through the steps. Beyond him, Keje was dancing very carefully, very appropriately, with a stunning Lemurian Naval aviatrix who clearly knew the steps better than he. Matt turned Sandra and gazed around some more. He didn’t want to pay attention to anything but her, but the dancers, their steps, and some of the odd pairings were just so damn interesting. He almost did a double take when he saw a tall man with a black eye patch dancing very close to Pam Cross.

  “That damn Silva,” he muttered. “He never reported, unless he went to Spanky. Even then, he should’ve been aboard by now. And there he is, all over Lieutenant Cross like a peapod, after they were pretending to hate each other. He’s already scamming me again! I’ve got half a mind to ask Jim if I can swap Pam for Kathy.”

  Sandra maneuvered to look. “Shush,” she said. “You won’t do any such thing. They’ve been through a lot together, and maybe Pam can straighten him out.” She didn’t add that they’d somehow contrived to destroy the dangerous, renegade ship that wounded her husband, but knew that thought wasn’t far from Matt’s mind when he nodded so quickly. She watched Pam and Dennis for a long time, then snuggled closer to Matt. “We did our best to scam everybody too, if you’ll recall,” she murmured. “Just leave them alone.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  ////// Mackey Field

  Trin-con-lee, Saa-lon

  June 1, 1944

  C olonel Ben Mallory, commanding the 3rd Pursuit Squadron, was dozing in the shade under the wing of his P-40E Warhawk, just inside the trees at the end of the grass strip constituting Mackey Field. They’d long ago burned through everything Garrett brought them, and his and Soupy’s ships were the only airworthy planes left—again—and they’d been up all morning, lashing another northbound Grik convoy. A Combat Air Patrol (CAP) of Nancys was up now—not that there were many of them left either—but they’d established a good early-warning system of coast watchers and spotters who’d report via wireless if any Grik zeps came snooping. If they did, the Nancys would have to handle them. The 3rd Pursuit had shot its bolt and barely had enough fuel to get one ship in the air, for maybe an hour, and there was no ammunition left at all. Not much to do but take a nap.

  Ben was dreaming about Pam Cross. She was yammering at him about something or other, and he was vaguely angry. Then he became aware that Pam had somehow vanished from his dream, gone into the jungle with that big ape Silva, and he didn’t know how he felt about that. He became aware that another woman was yammering at him though, and recognized her as that pretty little ex-pat Impie gal in Sergeant Dixon’s maintenance section. He hadn’t thought about her in quite a while and wondered why she was pestering him now. She’d stayed at Kaufman Field in Baalkpan with Jumbo, who now commanded there. Hadn’t she?

  “Colonel Mallory!” the voice persisted.

  “Go ’way. I’m beat.”

  Someone was shaking him, and his gluey eyes cracked open. He blinked.

  “Um. Wow. I was just thinking about you,” he croaked, recognizing the suddenly blushing girl. “Waddar you doin’ here?”

  “Ah, Lieutenant Soupy said I’d find ye here.” The woman quickly stood. “He sent me ta get ye as soon as we arrived.”

  “Arrived?”

  “Aye.” She gestured east. “The first supply column, up from Trin-con-lee. We got fuel butts on wagons, but we gotta get ’em stowed before the next column comes.”

  Ben sat up, still blinking. “Fuel? Here?”

  “Aye. An’ Sergeant Dixon’s comin’ up behind me, an’ if I ain’t outa his way when he gets here, he’ll chew me out.”

  Ben jumped to his feet. “Dixon’s finally here?”

  “Aye, he will be.”

  “What’s he got?” Ben demanded.

  “Ordnance, parts . . .”

  “And you’ve got fuel?”

  “Aye.”

  Ben snatched her and hugged her tight. “Gas and bullets—glory be! We’re back in the war! Get with Lieutenant Diebel. He’s at the headquarters shack.” He pointed. “He’ll show you where to park the fuel carts. We’ve got a buried ordnance bunker, not that there’s anything in it. He’ll show you that too, and you can send those carts over when they arrive.” He looked at her. “Dixon’s really here?”

  “He’s coming very shortly.”

  “From Trin-con-lee?”

  “Aye.”

  Ben released the girl, leaving her swaying, almost as disoriented as he’d been, and trotted away.

  * * *

  “Sergeant Cecil Dixon! It’s about damn time!”

  Dixon was atop a cart near the center of the next column, chewing yellowish tobacco. He’d replaced a lot of his weight since the last time Ben saw him, and seemed to have recovered—physically, at least—from his ordeal as a prisoner of the Japanese. He patted the ’Cat on the bench beside him, who pulled back on the reins, stopping the palka drawing the cart. The animal lowed mournfully.

  Dixon spat a yellow-brown stream and saluted. “Yessir, it is about damn time.”

  “What’ve you got for us?”

  “Brought a wrench,” he said with a modest smile. “I might even have a little baling wire. Just a little, though.”

  Ben grinned. He knew Dixon had far more than that. The reason it took him so long to get here was that he’d traveled by ship—with a complete ground crew, plenty of ammunition, and all the spares he knew from experience that a squadron in the field would require. Another ship had been supposed to carry fresh—better—fuel, and a third would be full of ordnance. Ben hesitated. “Did all the ships come through?”

  “Yeah,” Dixon confirmed to Ben’s relief. “We didn’t see any of those big island fishies, but jeez, there’s some whopper sharks around here!” Dixon turned serious. “Just two ships operational?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll sort that out,” Dixon stated confidently, “as soon as our gear arrives from the harbor. And we’ll do it fast.”

  Many ’Cats and a few men were gathering around. Most of the “stepchildren” were there, but other fliers from the Army and Navy Air Corps Training Center at Kaufman Field had also arrived. Ben nodded at those he recognized. “Hey!” he said. “How about this? We’ve got more pilots than planes!” There was laughter, but Dixon shook his head.

  “Not for long. What they’re calling First Fleet South is what dropped us off, and we’re gonna get Mosquito Hawks here, and at another grass strip south of town off Big Sal later today. We gotta jump.”

  “First Fleet South? What’s that? And Big Sal’s here?”

  “Right now First Fleet South is Big Sal and those two tin cans, Walker and Mahan,” he grimaced. “Call ’em a can and a half. And some wooden sailin’ steam cans. They escorted us here from Andaman double-quick—after we’d been coolin’ our heels there for who knows how long. Said that with what we were carryin’ we needed a proper escort.” He smirked. “You know, they took most of the guns off Big Sal—probably to keep Admiral Keje from usin’ her like a battleship anymore—and lightened her up. I swear the damn thing made fifteen knots!” He shook his head. “Anyway, they’ll fuel and tool and offload planes, like I said, for a day or two, then turn around and head north to join the rest of the fleet. My bet is, soon as they get there, the big show’s gonna kick off.”

  “That’s the word?” Ben asked. One of his greatest frustrations was that the receiver at Trin-con-lee was a piece of crap—or the ’Cats in charge of maintaining and operating it were less competent than others—and the only real news he got was when he was airborne. Even the radios in the planes weren’t much good on the ground because of the mountainous, jungle interference and weird, local atmospherics. Consequently, he knew less about the grand plan than he’d have liked.

  “That’s the word.” Dixon looked sly. “Days. It has to be. Everything’s stirring at Andaman and General Alden’s jam keeps getting tighter.”

  Ben nodded. “I was starting to think we’d miss it.”

  “Not a chance. We’re gonna win this one fo
r ’em!”

  Ben paused. “What did you bring me for those damn Grik battlewagons?”

  “More of what you carried to Andaman, but we didn’t send ’em on because we wanted to tweak ’em a bit. I’m afraid we would’a wasted ’em all like they were. There still ain’t a lot of ’em,” he cautioned, “and we brought all there is, but we tacked on some tails and taped on some fins so they’ll drop straighter and more consistent.”

  “And hit nose-first,” Mallory nodded. “Thanks.” He knew the improvements would be far better than tacked or taped on. “How many?”

  “Just thirty-six. Big Sal had some, and Santy Cat’s got maybe a hundred, plus some HE, but that’s absolutely all there was left to salvage, believe it or not. Those destroyer pukes said the Japs shot up most of ’em at Walker, by God!”

  “It’s true,” Ben confirmed more softly. They’d salvaged a fair number of high explosive shells out of Amagi’s sunken carcass, but he’d been there when the Japanese battle cruiser shot holes in Walker and Mahan with her 10-inch armor piercing shells as effortlessly as a.22 through empty beer cans. She’d used more later, probably saving her HE back, considering it more valuable on this world. Now, with fins to stabilize the five-hundred-odd-pound AP projectiles and his planes to carry them, they’d give them back to Captain Kurokawa and his iron-plated ships.

  “We brought some other stuff too, though,” Dixon continued.

  “Like what?”

  Dixon grinned. “We put tails on some of the new, heavier projectiles for the four-inch-fifties, making ’em into fifty-pound bombs. Even the Nancys can carry a couple of those, if they don’t carry anything else. Can’t put more than two under each wing of the Warhawks either, but you can give ’em a helluva lot faster start!”

  “What about the P-Ones?”