Storm Surge

by Taylor Anderson

  The twin NELSECO diesels roared and the old boat began to move, but it was too little, too late. Laumer and Hardee were knocked off their feet when the knife-edge bow of the Grik dreadnaught slashed straight through S-19’s engine room, toppling the little funnel, and driving the three-inch gun and all its crew over the side. For a moment, S-19 was pushed along, jackknifed, the sea curling over her port beam and surging across the deck. Then, with a terrible screeching moan like a dying palka, she finally broke. More of Irvin’s precious crew was tossed into the savage sea when the forward half of S-19 lurched upward, buoyed by internal compartments. Irvin looked up and saw the monstrous Grik battleship rumble past, a mere dozen yards from his stricken vessel, the machinery noises inside almost deafening. It was huge and black, except where burning debris from the zeppelin still flickered, and it looked for all the world like a great moving island covered with the lights of little villages. High above, a few sparks rose amid the coal smoke from the funnels, but otherwise all the gunports were shut and it was completely blacked out. They never would’ve seen it in this dreary night at all if the zep hadn’t crashed on it, and it occurred to Laumer that it probably never saw S-19 either. With all the noise and accompanying vibration of the ships crude, monstrous engines, the Grik might still be unaware they’d just, accidentally, avenged three of their sister ships!

  What was left of S-19 had achieved an almost even keel, but was extremely low aft—and getting lower fast.

  “Control room bulkhead’s sprung, an’ water comin’ in fast!” the talker cried.

  “Tell ’em to evacuate forward!” Irvin yelled, struggling to his feet. He looked around, quickly taking in the hopelessness of the situation. S-19 had small boats, of course, but they’d been mounted on either side of the funnel. Even if they hadn’t been smashed in the collision, water was already past there. It was suicide to jump in the water, and there was no other way to get off the sinking ship. The Grik battleship finally passed them by, rocking them ruthlessly with its wake and churning screws. Surely Santa Catalina saw the damn thing, lit up like a Christmas tree! Irvin thought. Yes! Two of the protected cruiser’s 5.5-inchers flared and detonated against the aft port side of the battleship’s casemate. They were close enough that that had to hurt! Just north, from the direction the Grik came, the sea lit under the rolling broadside of another Grik battleship, then another! Phosphorescent splashes erupted around Santa Catalina amid terrible, metallic crashes. Even from this distance, Irvin heard the clattering rush of what could only be Santy Cat’s heavy anchor chain, and he wondered if it had been shot away or Mr. Chapelle had it released. Either way, whether Santa Catalina was about to join the fight in earnest or run away, S-19 was on her own and there remained only one, desperate possibility.

  “Danny!” Irvin screamed down to the chief of the boat, clinging to the 4"-50. “Get everybody below!”

  “Below? Are you nuts? The boat’s goin’ down!”

  “And we can’t get off, so we gotta get in. Remember S-Forty-Eight?”

  Danny blinked, then nodded. It really was the only choice, and he started yelling for everyone to “get down the hatch into the old forward berthing space!” The ’Cats must’ve thought he was nuts too, but every S-boat sailor remembered S-48. She’d been considered jinxed because of the string of accidents she’d endured, but the pertinent one was how she’d sunk in sixty feet of water back in ’21, but her crew managed to bring her bow to the surface and escape, every one, through a torpedo tube! She’d later been salvaged and recommissioned—only to be sort of “lost,” and returned to duty yet again. The last they heard, she was still afloat and probably fighting their Old War on that other earth. Irvin heard Danny yelling a condensed version of this tale to the scared ’Cats he was cramming down the hatch.

  Another thunderous broadside shattered the night, and Santa Catalina returned fire—but she was moving now, angling away. The second Grik battleship plowed toward them, but, mercifully, it would miss. Irvin scanned the sky for a moment, wishing the damn suiciders would swoop down and slam into the enemy, even if they got S-19 too, but by now there were quite a few explosions on the water near First Fleet—and not as many zeppelins were falling anymore. He prayed it was because they’d been swept from the skies, and not because the Fleashooters were out of ammo.

  “C’mon!” Irvin shouted at the ’Cats in the pilothouse. “She’s going, and we have to get to that hatch before the water does. We don’t have the weight of the stern to drag us down, and the more air we keep in the pressure hull, the higher she’ll ride!” The Lemurians didn’t need any more encouragement and bolted down the stairs forward, all but the talker, who remained by Irvin and Hardee’s side.

  “I . . . I think my arm is broken,” said Nat Hardee through clenched teeth. He sounded like he was going into shock.

  “That’s okay. We’ve got you, Nat,” Irvin said as he and the talker helped the kid down the ladder. It was crowded by the hatch, but ’Cats were almost diving in the hole now as water crept closer and the angle grew more pronounced. There was still light below, and Laumer remembered they’d kept some of the boat’s batteries. Somebody must’ve rerouted the power since the main switchboard was probably on the bottom with the stern by now, but he feared the specter of chlorine gas if water made it into the berthing space.

  “Hurry up, damn it,” Danny said to the last five or six waiting ’Cats. “Mr. Hardee’s hurt. Stand by to grab him when you get below!”

  The water was coming faster as the bow rose, and suddenly there was only Irvin, Nat, Danny, and the talker.

  “Get your stripey tail down that hole, sailor!” Danny yelled at the ’Cat. “Take Mr. Hardee’s legs with you. I’ll lower the rest of him down.”

  “You go first,” Nat objected. “I’m perfectly able . . .”

  “We’ll be right along, Nat,” Irvin said softly, as boy and ’Cat disappeared down the hatch.

  “After you, Chief,” Irvin then said to Danny. He looked at the rushing water and shrugged. “I’ve gotta be last, you know.”

  Danny nodded reluctantly and started down. Just then, the boat groaned and the bow pitched farther up. Irvin’s feet fell out from under him and he started sliding backward, towards the deadly sea.

  “Shit!” Danny screamed, and launched himself back on deck.

  “Get below!” Irvin cried, voice high with terror. “That’s an order!” Danny ignored him and caught Laumer’s scrabbling arm.

  “Orders ain’t no good at times like this,” Danny gasped, slinging Irvin up the sloping deck. He’d always been wiry, but Irvin never thought he had the strength for something like that. He landed beside the hatch and turned with his hand outstretched for Danny to grab, but the chief slammed to the deck beside him and literally shoved him down the hatch headfirst. Danny started to jump in after him, but realized that at this angle, there was no way they could pull the hatch cover shut from below. Somebody had to lift the damn thing!

  “Oh, shit,” he murmured again. Squatting behind the heavy cover, he lifted it up until it balanced on the hinge, then tried to get around, still holding it, and put his leg inside. He groped desperately for the ladder rung with his foot and could hear the shouts of encouragement below, but there was just no possible way he could hold the hatch cover and squeeze through the narrowing gap at the same time!

  The first surge of water sloshed down the hole.

  With a terrible sense of dread, Danny Porter knew he was finished, but just then, to him, the most important thing in the world became that his shipmates never know how terrified he was. “So long, fellas!” he roared down into the berthing space as cheerfully as he could manage, then he slammed the hatch cover down and dogged it shut.

  Immediately, he tried to scurry forward, to get as far up the bow as possible in case it did stay afloat, but the angle was too great and the wet deck too slick. It was no use. He crouched by the hatch, water washing around his waist, watching as the bow rose ever higher. It’s gonna be hell down there
, he realized, with all that stuff breaking loose and falling all over the place. People too. There’ll probably be gas. Maybe they can climb into the torpedo room and get away from it, but the boat may not even stay above water, and they’ll all suffocate anyway. He looked east. Santy Cat’s still poundin’ ’em, but the last Grik ships are scooting past now, some of those cruiser things. Huh. Santy doesn’t look like she’s goin’ after ’em. I hope she’s not too chewed! In the distance, the attack was definitely tapering off. Several ships were burning, but no more glide bombs were hitting anymore. He hated not knowing how it would all turn out, but his certainty was growing that, of all S-19’s surviving crew, he was going to get off the easiest. At least that’s what he thought until the first flasher fish tore a baseball-size hunk out of his side. Another hit his left leg. Even as he flailed, screaming in the water, the hits became continuous and the water frothed around him. Oddly, he never really felt any pain; the attack was too fast, too traumatic. Flasher fish are greedy things, and very good at what they do.

  CHAPTER

  36

  ////// USS Walker

  “S kipper!” Ed Palmer cried, scrambling up the stairs aft and dashing into the pilothouse. Spanky glared at him for his breach of propriety, but Ed didn’t notice. Instead, he rushed to where Matt was sitting in his Captain’s chair, bolted to the forward bridge bulkhead on the starboard side. Matt saw that Ed held a message form in his trembling hand, something Matt had learned to dread. He took it calmly enough, but his heart felt like lead. There’d been a lot of message forms that day, and the news was mostly good. He’d been frustrated that Walker and Mahan, two of the most formidable combatants in the Navy, had been on what turned out to be a wild-goose chase while a major battle was underway, but all early reports indicated First Fleet North had done well enough without them. But Ed’s behavior implied this message form contained seriously bad news. Reluctantly, Matt squinted at the dark page.

  “What the hell?” demanded Spanky.

  Matt looked up. “Yes, please, Mr. Palmer. Just spill it.”

  Ed hesitated, but Courtney Bradford stepped forward and put a soothing hand on the communications officer’s arm. “Indeed,” he urged. “I think Captain Reddy believes your distress indicates you bear news we all should hear.”

  Palmer gulped and looked at Matt, who nodded gravely. “Skipper,” he said, then glanced around. “Everybody.” He paused. “Commodore Ellis is dead.”

  There was only the dimmest lighting in the pilothouse, so no one saw Matt’s green eyes turn that frightening, icy shade, but there was no hiding the telltale stiffening of his spine and hardening of his features that signified a mounting rage. From an earlier report they’d known Jim was wounded, but the extent of his injuries hadn’t been disclosed. Maybe they just assumed however bad it might be, he’d heal eventually. The curative Lemurian polta paste they relied on so had instilled a subconscious conviction that if someone wasn’t killed outright, chances were they’d be okay. After all, nearly every living human destroyerman had been wounded at some point by now, often badly. Jim himself had just recovered from a serious injury. If he’d died from wounds he suffered that day, they must have been terrible indeed.

  A profound silence lingered on the bridge as Ed’s words sank in, the only sounds from the ship herself; the rumbling blower, and the rush of the beam sea leaning her slightly starboard as she pitched. But the rhythmic, vibrating groan of the steel transmitting the motion of machinery and turning shafts made it seem like USS Walker herself was reminding them that Jim Ellis once belonged to her as much as the rest of them, and she wanted her own say in how they’d avenge his loss.

  “What else?” Matt asked, his voice as brittle and hard and black as obsidian. He held up the message form in the gloom. “There’s more here.”

  “Yessir,” Ed acknowledged. “Apparently, the fighting’s mostly done ashore, but those last three Grik wagons, the ones everybody thought were knocked out or broke, steamed out of Madras in the dark with a covey of cruisers.” He shook his head. “Swarms of zeps attacked at the same time, so maybe that’s why nobody noticed. Baalkpan Bay’s pursuit planes slaughtered ’em, but the fleet got hurt. Two DDs, a transport, and an oiler are just gone. No survivors.” He let that sink in, then continued. “Arracca and Baalkpan Bay both took hits from suiciders, but they came out okay. Neither had planes on deck, and the new damage-control procedures worked pretty well. Baalkpan Bay should be back fully operational by morning. Arracca’ll take a little longer, but all her damage was aft. She can launch and recover Nancys already.”

  “What’s the worst?” Spanky demanded, knowing the comm officer was holding back.

  “Well.” Ed gestured outside the pilothouse windows. “It’s really dark, overcast, and there won’t be a moon for another hour or so. Add in all the smoke . . .”

  “What happened?” Matt insisted.

  Ed looked at him. “The Grik came out in line, pretty much invisible, and steamed straight through where Santa Catalina and S-19 were anchored. Santy Cat got hammered pretty bad by successive broadsides at close range. A round punched through and knocked out her main steam line. Her forward fireroom’s flooded and she’s got no power, even for her pumps. She’s dead in the water. DDs from the fleet rushed over when they saw the fight flare up and they’re standing by to do whatever they can to keep her afloat or take her people off.”

  “Shit!” Spanky breathed.

  “Yessir,” Ed agreed.

  “What about S-Nineteen?” Matt asked.

  Ed winced. “Nobody’s real sure yet, but there’s no sign of her except an oil slick and floating junk. Some ’Cats on Santy hollered across to the DDs that they think the lead Grik wagon rammed her amidships.”

  “Good God!” Courtney exclaimed.

  Matt sat silent for several moments, staring forward, then he looked at Ed. “Signal to Commander Brister on Mahan: ‘Maintain course three six zero.’ Ask him what’s the highest speed he can sustain.” He turned to Spanky. “Post extra lookouts when the watch changes, and have Bernie prep his torpedoes however he needs to. Sprinkle holy water on ’em, if that’s what it takes.” He stood and glared out at the darkness, his hands holding his cane behind his back. “Those ships—that’s got to be Kurokawa coming at us, trying to bail out of Madras and save his crazy, evil ass.” He shook his head. “Not this time, by God.” He stepped slowly out on the bridgewing and savagely flung the cane into Walker’s churning wake. When he returned to face the bridge watch, the meager light in the pilothouse finally glittered off the ice in his eyes. “This time we kill him.”

  Through the remainder of the first dog watch, the last dog watch, and into the first watch, Walker and Mahan steamed north-northwest, making turns for twenty-five knots. How Mahan did it, slowing Walker only slightly, Matt had no idea. But he accepted that if Perry Brister thought his ship was about to come unwrapped, he’d let him know. Or maybe he wouldn’t? Perry had to be equally convinced that Kurokawa was, if not Jim’s, then certainly S-19’s murderer. He’d cost them—and the whole Alliance—an awful lot of lives ever since they first met the bastard, and he’d prolonged and immeasurably raised the price of the ongoing war by aiding the Grik. Kurokawa was a legitimate military target, but killing him would fetch the Alliance in general, and Matt’s old destroyermen in particular, a tremendous measure of satisfaction. Matt was determined that that night would see the end of their chief collective nemesis, embodied by Hisashi Kurokawa, once and for all.

  The wind was rising and so was the sea, still hitting Walker on the port beam, but now sending sheets of water over the fo’c’sle. The sky had cleared to reveal a rising crescent moon, however. There seemed no way Kurokawa’s squadron could escape the keen-eyed Lemurian lookouts who changed every hour, but anxiously hoped they’d be the ones to spot the dark silhouettes of massive ships and telltale sparks of coal-fired boilers. There was little talk on the bridge throughout the grim sprint and Matt remained in his chair or paced the bridgewing
s the entire time, drinking cup after cup of Juan’s monkey joe. Occasionally he peered at the chart spread on the table, beneath the scuffed sheet of Plexiglas, and consulted his watch.

  He’d calculated their quarry had two choices: a straight shot, hugging the coastline and making all possible speed, or a southeasterly course that would give them a bigger ocean to hide in. The first would take them the farthest, but leave them vulnerable to air attack from Trin-con-lee with the morning. It would also, incidentally, land them in Walker’s and Mahan’s laps before much longer. The second might seem more attractive, but wouldn’t do them any good because Big Sal was still plodding up from astern. Her planes would find the big Grik ships quickly enough, and would call Matt’s little squadron to the fight.

  Personally, Matt figured he was on the right trail, and Kurokawa would try to bull straight through. Those Grik BB’s will eat a lot of coal, he thought, and Kurokawa can’t have enough to throw too wide a loop in his course. He’ll have figured out what we used to sink his wagons at Madras, and knows we don’t have many more, if any. He’ll come straight on. Matt was sure. He’ll expect to lose his cruisers to our air, but there’s not much air, particularly our planes at Trin-con-lee, can do against underway battleships. Ben’s P-40s’ll shoot their fifty cal dry, and the Nancys and Fleashooters’ll rain fifty-pound bombs all over him—but they had a hard enough time hitting the few vulnerable spots on stationary targets at Madras. Otherwise, all they have is incendiaries—which don’t do squat—and he knows it. Matt nodded, satisfied. Kurokawa will come straight on, thinking he’s got all the aces—but he doesn’t—can’t—know Walker and Mahan will be waiting for him! He glanced at his watch again, considering the closure rate based on his ships’ speed and what he thought the Grik dreadnaughts could make. “Soon,” he whispered.